World War One: A Short Story

It seemed like ages before he was free. He ran back towards the British line, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet rip through him. Then, out of the blue, a single shot rumbled across the dormant battlefield. Ed spun around just in time to see the German commander’s pistol smoking. The machine gunner who had spared his life was slumped over, motionless.

The air is cluttered from the blasting of cannons, and it is hard to see with the darkness all around us. Piercing sounds of gunshots and pain come from all angles, making France seem like the perfect setting for a nightmare. The ground beneath me shakes like an earthquake every time a cannon is blasted, and it is difficult to keep my balance. The fear that I feel at this moment must only be a portion of what the soldiers are feeling on the battlefield. Smells of dirt and dust linger in the air, and I can’t breathe quite right. There is nothing but terror on this battlefield, and lives are being lost at every moment. I can hear the soldiers yelling at the top of their lungs, “Fire! Fire! Charge!” The British and German soldiers are both yelling commands from all angles, and even horses are understanding. I see horses leaping over barbed wire, dodging bullets, and doing everything they can to keep their soldiers on their backs. Everyone involved in this war, whether German or British, is courageous. German soldiers are dragging their wounded soldiers through the thick mud to try to save their lives. Horses are taking bullets for their soldiers. This is a bloody battle, and the pouring rain is only making this battle harder to

During this time, as wounded and deceased soldiers arrived at the hospital in England, Joe was forever affected by what he saw, smelled, and heard. The deceased were charred lumps. The smell of burned flesh filled the nostrils of the medical staff. The painful wailing of the injured, suffering from horrific burns, was heart wrenching. Joe had never seen such devastation and destruction before.

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

World War I differed from previous wars in the essence that technological sophistication of weaponry such as artillery, poison gas and machine-guns created a vehement war with a massive number of casualties. In the novel All Quiet on the Western Front, German World War I veteran Erich Maria Remarque delineates the experiences that German soldiers face on the restless front, and the toll that the physical conditions and the mental stress take on the deterioration of the youth of each soldier battling on the terrain. Remarque’s war novel strays away from the romantic and glorifying thought of war in order to emphasize the hardships war forced upon the men who fought for their country. The weapons that are in the hands of the men on the front lines become their livelihood, and the terrain of the battle are the only things separating a common man and a man marked by the scars of war. At some point, war no longer becomes a fight between enemies from two different countries, it becomes a battle between one’s self and the urge to resist barbaric and animalistic acts when in dire situations.

He woke up sweating and breathing roughly; it has been forty-eight years since the war, but every night, his nightmares take him back to the forest again. He’s scared of closing his eyes, because the darkness allows the images of bloody limbs, empty eye sockets, of death to fill his mind. I’ve never seen my father as helpless as he looks after waking up screaming, and to help ease his suffering, I decided to read the entries of a diary that he kept during and after the war:

Gunshots were fired every time he breathed and people around him groaned in the agony of the bullet embedded in their flesh. They were killing the enemy one by one and the enemy was doing the same. Boat by boat soldiers were dying. That’s when he took his last breath as the german bullet met his head!

He could speak both French and Russian. He hoped this would save him from No Man’s Land and he quietly prayed it would be radioed down that he was needed elsewhere. His prayers were never answered. The day came where he William had to go topside. He trembled like his mates, his mud-covered fingers fumbling as he loaded his rifle. A soldier named Bland playfully slapped William’s helmet, chuckling, “come on lad, snap out of it!”, “For England!” William said, trying to warm his hands with his cool crisp breathe. Machine guns started to echo in the distance, hot iron showering the edge of the trenches. They quickly got down holding their weapons for dear

“Stop!” he thunders, but it’s too late. The enemy, seeing you stand and run, has opened fire. You sprint for your trenches, forgetting the others exist, but you feel something smash through the back of your skull. There is a flash of fiery agony, then everything blazes white. But you still have time to see your friends fall around you. Dead, because you tried to

Swords crashed against shields like a field of doors slamming shut in the wind. Arrows whistled through the air; a murder of tiny crows swarming above us vulnerable soldiers. The grunts of men impaled by hafts and sliced open by steel join the cacophony of a battle raging into dusk. Wet warmness would splash across me in response to the dying cries of my comrades as one after another of those we battle would push our shields apart and break the line. The ground was wet and sloppy, dried earth had been turned to slush by a rain that did not fall from the sky. The ground was rendered difficult to manoeuvre through, encumbered by the lifeless figures of soldiers now without the allegiance that lead them to a face in the dirt.

Bullets whizzed over their heads, spat out from the german machine gun.James sat crouched with his back pressed against the sludgy wall of the trench.The clouds covered the sky like a dark blanket, not a single sunray to be seen.James forcefully ripped a grenade off the coughing corpse next to him, he pitied the poor soul choking on gas, noticing the crimson puddle his head was surrounded by. He cocked the hammer of his revolver, took aim and abolished his misery He threw explosive holding on to the ring. A few moments passed and silence filled the air.

Tank despised the stench, whether it was the reek of the dead, the unwashed bodies of allied soldiers, or the ever drifting faint scent of gunpowder. Then there was the ground. The landscape was naturally beautiful before the war. However, the digging of trenches, the explosive detonations, the hidden landmines, and the piles of bodies made you learn real quick to watch your step.

He shouts opening fire on the unsuspecting Germans. A silent pulse and four soldiers lie on the ground every living cell shut down dead. Headlights and more soldiers are coming up the road. A brilliant spotlight struck his face,

Entente. As you can guess there were three countries on the two sides. On the Alliance side there was Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy. On the Entente side there was France, Russia, and Great Britain. After the spark that started World War One the two powers were immediately at each other’s

A bitter coldness whips around your face in the harshness of the battered war. A snap of wind turning your already paled and dirt splattered face a frozen, cold red. Battered men bid to live on to the next battle.Vital blood that once was contained in a soldier’s body, now lingers, dryly splattered across your dull green colored uniform. Smiles of your once alive brother drills itself into your head. Their memory hitches onto your brain like a remora catching a ride with a shark.