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logansrogueThe smell is unbearable. I can't take the smell. I want to be sick, but I can't be sick, not with all the fellows around me. The gun in my hand is shaking. The bayonet blade is glinting in the sick light - the light here is different somehow - and the dirt all around me is choking. I'm sweating, I can't stop sweating. I remember waking up that morning bathed in it. I woke up and I was afraid. I am so afraid. I can't help the fear, and I don't want to show it. I'm supposed to be a hero, I want my parents to be proud of me. But I know I'm going to die if I step up there. My friends are dead. Fellows I talked to on the way here, fellows I smoked with and laughed with. We had no idea... no idea. It's oddly quiet, and we're all getting ready. It's going to be very noisy soon, and then it's going to be my turn.
But as I said, I'm afraid. Am I a bad soldier because of that? I feel like a bad soldier, because the brave ones they talk about aren't, right? He died with his gun in his hand and with the love of his country in his heart - that's what they say about the brave ones that die. Oh God I can't take this smell. Tears are in my eyes. I am trying to hide them. Men are starting to stick their momentos in the trench walls. "For my mother" some say. That is what mine says. As I put my things in the wall (A stop-watch? No... something with a chain), I say goodbye to mother. Fellows next to me shake too. I don't notice them. Some of them are saying goodbye to girlfriends today. I know I leave this world never knowing what it is to love a woman. For some reason that bothers me. I'm suddenly very homesick. I wanna be back home (Bostwick?) walking on on that hard wood floor, boots thudding and echoing off high plaster walls. I remember the smell there too - wood polish and tweed, the faint smell of a ladies perfume. Sparsely decorated place, but warm for me in some way.
The sound of the bugle call was loud in my ears that morning. I hate that sound. That sound is the call of death. It brings alive my fear, and again I am a bad soldier. I can't even remember it all properly.
I remember the end though, and the stupid mess I made. My - my seargent? Or - what was he? I don't remember what rank he was, staunch bugger nonetheless (but a very good man), I remember his voice ringing out the call to charge.
Then came the shouting. All the men were shouting. They were leaping up the side of the trenches so bloody fearlessly. I, however, froze. I couldn't move. Sobs were caught in my throat - my friends died all around me, tumbling, raining back into the trench like the others, and they were going to bloody well stink too. I can't hear the seargent, but I - I have to go. I have to go now. Up. Up.
I jump up - bang! Bang bang! A cry of pain. I jump back down, tears streaming down my face - I am terrified! I do this again and again - it feels like I am taking forever, though it is only a few moments in reality. With one last cry I leap up, and I run forward. The air is stifling. The gun is in my hand and I didn't even get to use it. My chest was a thudding of pain - it was like the most terrible of punches over and over. That pain was only for an instant.
A bullet to the head made sure of that.
But as I said, I'm afraid. Am I a bad soldier because of that? I feel like a bad soldier, because the brave ones they talk about aren't, right? He died with his gun in his hand and with the love of his country in his heart - that's what they say about the brave ones that die. Oh God I can't take this smell. Tears are in my eyes. I am trying to hide them. Men are starting to stick their momentos in the trench walls. "For my mother" some say. That is what mine says. As I put my things in the wall (A stop-watch? No... something with a chain), I say goodbye to mother. Fellows next to me shake too. I don't notice them. Some of them are saying goodbye to girlfriends today. I know I leave this world never knowing what it is to love a woman. For some reason that bothers me. I'm suddenly very homesick. I wanna be back home (Bostwick?) walking on on that hard wood floor, boots thudding and echoing off high plaster walls. I remember the smell there too - wood polish and tweed, the faint smell of a ladies perfume. Sparsely decorated place, but warm for me in some way.
The sound of the bugle call was loud in my ears that morning. I hate that sound. That sound is the call of death. It brings alive my fear, and again I am a bad soldier. I can't even remember it all properly.
I remember the end though, and the stupid mess I made. My - my seargent? Or - what was he? I don't remember what rank he was, staunch bugger nonetheless (but a very good man), I remember his voice ringing out the call to charge.
Then came the shouting. All the men were shouting. They were leaping up the side of the trenches so bloody fearlessly. I, however, froze. I couldn't move. Sobs were caught in my throat - my friends died all around me, tumbling, raining back into the trench like the others, and they were going to bloody well stink too. I can't hear the seargent, but I - I have to go. I have to go now. Up. Up.
I jump up - bang! Bang bang! A cry of pain. I jump back down, tears streaming down my face - I am terrified! I do this again and again - it feels like I am taking forever, though it is only a few moments in reality. With one last cry I leap up, and I run forward. The air is stifling. The gun is in my hand and I didn't even get to use it. My chest was a thudding of pain - it was like the most terrible of punches over and over. That pain was only for an instant.
A bullet to the head made sure of that.