Short Story: Jacob's Home

The storm clouds were dark, gloomy and grim like a graveyard. They were near the surface of the earth. It was going to rain. They were lingering on. The soldiers’ uniforms were repeatedly buffeted by the howling gale. The sky was as black as a devil’s soul. A large boom echoed across the crimson battlefield as the lighting returned the thunder’s call. Endless calls for help could be heard. Then, the rain started pouring down, filling up the battle field, like a flood, as the constant sound of the rain pounding on the metal could be heard. Heavy boots pressed down on the wet mud, which would not be dry for the next week, due to the trenches. The trenches were six-foot-deep and reeked of dead bodies and human excrement.

Don’t leave me here alone.’ The narrator simply shakes him off and moves on. The soldiers have been trained like beasts and they have been dehumanised; they have been taught that no life is to be spared. Death is now the norm and they have been desensitized to it. The narrator relates an incident where he volunteers for a raid on the German trenches. He experiences much trauma; he kills a soldier, Karl. Karl’s death is terrible- the bayonet is trapped in Karl and eventually the narrator has to shoot him. When he returns to the trenches with two German prisoners he tries to suppress what has happened: ‘It is better not to think’. The narrator knows that he would indubitably go insane if he thinks about his action. Karl’s death epitomizes the fact that soldiers on both sides are killed in horrific way for no discernible reason. There is definitely nothing glorious or heroic about war.

Comparatively Lindsay Murdoch presents an article, They were only 19 ... and some were even younger published by the Sydney Morning Herald on the 16th of February 2012. It explores the non-fictional sorrowful memories of the Australian veterans of WWII stationed at “Singapore, the Fortress of the Empire” before being captured. The visual is of the five men along with their evocative but accurate comment drawn from memories of an absolute reality. Ultimately, these texts provide the individual histories of men and women that were captured by the Japanese during WWII. Thus displaying their joint suffering on and off the battlefield as that is the reality of their situation.

The psychological effects, the mentality of fighting and killing another human, and the sheer decimation of human values is what makes war atrocious. War is not only fought on the battlefield though. This book also describes the feelings of a soldier fighting his own demons that war has brought on. The battle that the soldier has with himself, is almost if not more damaging than the physical battle of war. He will never forget his experience with battle, no matter how hard he tries the memories of artillery, blood, and death cannot be erased. “I prayed like you to survive, but look at me now. It is over for us who are dead, but you must struggle, and will carry the memories all your life. People back home will wonder why you can't forget.” (Sledge). This struggle still happens to soldiers today. Sledge’s words of the struggles still captures the effects of warfare that lingers today. The other effects that war has on the men is the instability that surrounds them at every hour of the day. They are either engaged in battle having bullets and artillery fired at them, or waiting for battle just so they can be deposited back in the pressure cooker of survival. “Lying in a foxhole sweating out an enemy artillery or mortar barrage or waiting to dash across open ground under machine-gun or artillery fire defied any concept of time.”

Beginning my love of reading an early age, I was never the type of child who was drawn to fictional stories. As an 8 year-old child in West Virginia, I was recognized by the local library for my love of biographies, autobiographies and recollections of world events. This love has continued throughout my adult life, desiring to read novels such as “We Were Soldiers Once…and Young” by Lt. Gen. Harold G. Moore rather than watch the major motion picture “We Were Soldiers” starring Mel Gibson. Even though the motion picture received multiple awards, when reading the recollection of Mr. Moore’s accounts, the feeling of loss, distress, anxiety and fear can be felt in each word that he has written while reliving this horrendous war.

The soldier hears a quiet whistle blowing in the distance but the sun hasn't risen. He hears people running and shouting “GOING OVER!”, before he knows it all the soldiers are all lining up against the wall of the trench and then he hears a voice shouting, but couldn't make it out what the voice was saying and then before he could even blink his eyes everyone suddenly started running over, all he can see is his friends getting mowed down like blades of grass by the enemy's machine guns. As he runs across, charring the enemy head on, he can't help but think that above the trench makes hell look like a picnic. As he gets to the enemy trench, silence falls across the war zone and then seconds later a gunshot breaks the silence, but the soldier is life less on the ground with the gun in his mouth. No one never knew what was in that trench to make him do what he did that day and no one

When Jeff returned, the army broke camp and started the long march to Springfield, Missouri. The sergeant was Millholland, who Jeff liked much more than Clardy. The next evening they camped 25 miles away from Springfield. When Jeff shot his gun to clean it, he got arrested and was taken before Clardy. As his punishment, he got all-night sentry duty. The battle was going to be at Wilson's Creek, Missouri. The north planed to attack the rebels at dawn and by surprise. They failed to surprise the rebels, lost hundreds of men and the battle. The day after the battle, Jeff had to report for ambulance duty. The field hospital was 2 large gray tents thrown together in a clump of trees. When Jeff was scanning the field of people, he saw lots of dangerously injured people, none of them looked happy

The sun has risen and a young boy jumps out of bed with excitement, as he knows today he gets to go to his first professional baseball game. His father had bought him the tickets for his birthday months ago, and the boy had been counting down the days ever since. He put on his favorite ‘Cleveland Indians’ shirt, and ran downstairs to eat his yogurt and waffles for breakfast. As he ate, his mother saw him happily drawing Jacob’s Field, using his brown crayon to put the finishing touches on the base paths. The boy had a penchant attitude for baseball, as it was the first game his father ever taught him to play, and because of that, he would play whenever he could; with rocks and a stick, with his friends in the yard, and in his head when he

John had 3 kids with her that he had watched by his parents while he went off to war. His main objective now is to not end up like his other squad mates and die at the hands of the germans. The desire became stronger as he stared at the bodies of his dead squad mates. The blood flowing out like a river. The cold dead look on their faces. The men find an abandoned house to try and radio call for help. As they were trying to make the call they heard men speaking in german again. The voices were near by. John went to look out the window and counted ten men armed with rifles and submachine guns. The three men froze upon seeing the sight of the angry germans. John’s mind turned blank and he was unable to think of a plan to get the three of them out of this if they were discovered by the germans. But just then an M2 Sherman tank came mowing down any trees that came in its path and shot down the germans with machine gun fire. Tears of joy stream down John’s face at the sight of seeing a friendly tank with a bright yellow sun behind it. The nightmare was over and the darkness from the night has fallen. The three men have survived and are fortunate enough to return home to their families. John will get to see his kids once again in a happy and safe

I'm forty-three years old, and a writer now, and the war has been over for a long while. Much of it is hard to remember. I sit at this typewriter and stare through my words and watch Kiowa sinking into the deep muck of a shit field, or Curt Lemon hanging in pieces from a tree, and as I write about these things, the remembering is turned into a kind of rehappening. Kiowa yells at me. Curt Lemon steps from the shade into bright sunlight, his face brown and shining, and then he soars into a tree. The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over. (O’Brien 31)

All bullets were counted, beds made, uniforms cleaned, this occurred until suddenly 03:45 arrived. “Men, the time is nearly here,” my words choked as self-hatred flooded my body, “What we do here today will be remembered for generations to come, we fight today not only for ourselves, but all who we know. All our mates and family who live back home!” A faint cheer followed my speech as I steadied myself for what was to come. “We charge in 5 minutes. We charge not only for our freedom but for the freedom of our country. For the freedom of the world!” Spit filled the air from the cheer which erupted from my unit this time. A unity formed over the men, a cold malevolent sweat captured me. Who was I to send these boys to their death? A resolve set inside me, I would fight alongside my men, their lives are worth the same as mine. 04:00 “THIS IS IT MEN! WE FIGHT FOR THE WORLD!” I screamed as I led the charge. Vaulting out of the trench I saw no man’s land clearly for the first time. Death was everywhere, flies swarming the pools of blood. The land so barren of life no greenery was seen. A cold resolution set over me, it was the Germans fault, they caused

When people think of the military, they often think about the time they spend over in another country, hoping they make it back alive. No one has ever considered the possibility that they may have died inside. Soldiers are reborn through war, often seeing through the eyes of someone else. In “Soldier’s home” by Ernest Hemingway, the author illustrates how a person who has been through war can change dramatically if enough time has passed. This story tells of a man named Harold (nick name: Krebs) who joined the marines and has finally come back after two years. Krebs is a lost man who feels it’s too complicated to adjust to the normal way of living and is pressured by his parents.

This “support” from his mother, working as the removed hand of God, is what allows Jacob to survive.

Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the curtain; the flowers in the jar shift.

The soldier felt the tug on his left boot, yelped while attempting to jump back. The skeletal hand remained clutched to the leather clad foot. All his weight was on his right foot as he leaned back away from his attacker. That was when he realized that his rifle was still in the car. The only thing the young