Short Story : A Very Short Stories By Me

The soldiers in the field had no mothers or sisters or girlfriends to look after then when in need, they only had the other men in the field who were just as scared. The only place they could look for comfort was in the arms of other soldiers. The support included comfort in the eyes of death, simple conversation and/ or

On the first day of battle, many soldiers were sent in to the area between our land and our enemy’s land, what we call “no man’s land”. It was muddy and the tanks were unable to make it through, leaving our men vulnerable. So many men died that I began to lose hope that I could ever return back home alive.

I could see men falling in all sorts of strange ways and I couldn’t help but think about what jack had said. Then all an artillery shell from big Bertha fell between me and jack. As the world around my swirled in a storm of fire and shrapnel I knew that I wouldn’t see jack alive again and as the mud fell from the sky I found his broken body. After paying my respects to him I decided it was no time to start grieving so I started my mad as hell sprinting back up and charged into the dogged enemy lines. I dodged around the shell holes, jumped over the fallen, jinked and jived to dodge the bullets that were flying towards me, throwing myself flat whenever I heard the whine of big berthas shells and cringing at the screams of the injured. When I was 100 meters away from the German lines I fired my rifle blindly at them, after I ran out of ammo I slammed a new magazine in and charged once again. I raced over the top of the trench and felt hot blood spay on me as my bayonet dug deep into a Germans chest. I pulled it out and started fighting them alongside the rest of my battalion. By the time we had defeated al the Germans I was covered head to toe in their blood I thought “at least the rains will wash it out.” While I steadied myself against the trench walls I started crying all the horror of this battle and losing jack had left me torn on the inside as the reality of all that had happened dawned upon me. I was so upset I didn’t even notice the pig of a sergeant come up to me, “Oi soldier” he said in his pommy accent “go down that dugout and look for some supplies” so I did as I was told. Halfway into the dugout I felt the earth shake and heard a horrific BOOOOOOOM and as everything went black I couldn’t help but think “will I be joining jack up there in

War can be considered a tragedy, but war can also signify bravery. So many men and women die fighting for their country daily. What really happens behind enemy lines? In “The Things They Carried,” a short story by Tim O’Brien, he uses various rhetorical devices to explain to his readers to help them truly understand what it is like to be in war.

When traveling we were growing hungry over the lack of food we had, some people even starved for days. As winter came the weather became colder and colder. We were all freezing, some soldiers even went back home. When we reached Pennsylvania we only had about a few thousand men. We were all cold, our clothes were ripped and some had barely any clothing on them. Washington reported the remaining of the troops. Washington had also reported for more troops Otherwise, Washington said “I think the game will be pretty well up.”

“War is Hell!” These three words have stood the test of time and numerous wars. These words uttered by General William Sherman, a unionist Civil War Veteran, perfectly describe the hardships faced by all soldiers, from the American Revolutionist to the modern day soldier in Afghanistan. Tim O’Brien served in the Vietnam Conflict from 1968 to 1970, (O’Brien 1131) during some of the most intense fighting known as the Tet Offensive (Durkin). During the conflict 58,202 Americans were killed in action (Durkin) and hundreds of thousands, more were left with not only the physical scars of war but the emotional ones too. In the short story “The Things They Carried,” Tim O’Brien uses symbolism and conflict to show that soldiers often carry more weight than what is on their backs.

I remember the smell, the sounds, the taste of blood. I remember seeing my comrades fall beside me, the sting of the cuts. The numbness as I fell alongside them, the sadness, the tears. The price of war, I believe my father said that to me before he died. I remember being lifted and carried, I remember a laugh. Then I felt my mind slowly becoming numb, and soon my mind was consumed by the darkness. Like a wildfire it spread from the farthest of places, destroying everything in its’ path. It was over, the war was lost, hope gone; at least until today….

We all sleep and rest and eat in the trenches, but it’s not paradise. One night, the sound of loud booms woke us up. We were being attacked by some very dangerous artillery. We could feel every boom and every crack in the dirt above us. Many soldiers were not prepared for this and got sick. The attack come out of nowhere and frightened all of us.

Shadowy clouds hover over No Man’s Land, they were all fed up with the war, the lives it had already claimed, the unburied dead and the smell, oh my god, the smell. Life in the trenches was unbearable, cold, muddy, vermin and parasites that consume your skin for food. Every man entombed in the trenches dreaded the day they would hear the whistle, the whistle to move forward into No Man’s Land.

Blind to the truth of what really happens. It’s times like this where I am forever grateful for the experience I have already been faced with gruesome events. Yet that hateful feeling of dread continues to tower over me each and every day. It’s challenging to recall what it was like for me the first I set foot on the battle field, as it seems like a lifetime ago. I suppose that I have lived a lifetime in these trenches. I wish that with every enemy I shoot it shall not say with me. A constant reminder of our sacrifices, I’m on edge as it feels like a continuous want for death. Bewildered as to when it will strike again shaken by the fact that it could be me carried away, or left in the barbarous

Against the bitter front lines, men hold onto their rifles like it is the only thing left in their life. Their boots slosh and stick against the broken down earth: mud. Eyes are drained of life, their sockets deepening and sinking into their face as if they were the living dead. Some men get the blessed time of sleep, a holy pull into the deep and sugar coated dreams. Life amongst the trenches is no easy task.

Shells exploded all around us, peppering us with shrapnel. Over the past months, I’d watched friends, enemies, and innocent bystanders die. Every time someone fell, I felt the briefest flicker of guilt. Had it been my bullet? Was more blood on my hands? Some nights I yelled, hoping more than just God and the stars would hear me; some nights I cried, praying no one was listening. Around me, I saw grown men falling to bits, their nightmares screaming them back to reality as they echoed through the trenches. Reality was no better than their nightmares.

Smoke and fire is all I can see. The hot air is thick with dust that burns your eyes, creating a stinging sensation that won’t go away no matter how much I rub them. Gunshots from both sides resonate even over the flat terrain. Mud is splattered all over my face, and I’m so thirsty. This is war, I tell myself. You shoot, you live. This is what I tell myself everyday. I woke up this morning on a steel bunk expecting more training, but instead got called out to the front lines of battle. You’re a soldier, you’re strong, you don’t back down, you show no fear. Every day, over and over, a million times, out on the battlefield, this is what I tell myself, because all I want, is to survive. I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want to be responsible for taking someone away from

I turned to James who was the man who helped me survive this treacherous place as he was a server whenever we had food. We stood there looking at each other until the soldiers told us to move. We marched with guns pointed at our backs you could hear the buzz of the electric fences that stopped us from escaping this perilous place that I have known as home for such a long time. BANG. The sound of a gunshot made my ears ring. I couldn't tell what happened until we were told to continue and I stood over the body of a man who tried to escape reality.

They looked like lepers, not heroic forward scouts. Their faces looked moss-grown, hatched and sorrowful without hope. It was a stinking life” When you are a part of a war you are out to fight for your country leaving everything behind, and your life is unpredictable as you are not aware of what might happen. You may die or you may be one of those lucky few people who survive the war and get to tell people stories about it. But the scars never fade. It’s a carving engraved in your brain that creates a picture you simply cannot erase no matter how hard you try. Some people pride in being soldiers while some think of it as a burden. But just because you are in a dejected atmosphere doesn’t mean you become the atmosphere itself. You should not forget who you