Here's a new story
Part I The Old Wound
Fatigue was routine. Cupping the lower-most hollow of his ribs he eased the familiar pain away and trudged on. The air was damp and heavy with the jaded breaths of a hundred other uniformed veterans, wearing the youth of age on their faces, flaunting the maturity of martyrdom under their focused brows. He was the kid of the lot, but nevertheless a fraction of the whole. Glancing behind, he reinstalled confidence upon sight of the grin of the Nazi flag, secured his grip on his weapon, and proceeded to take the boldest step he had in about fifty. The rest then gradually slipped into a stupor of hesitation once more.
The barren lands echoed with the rhythm of a ruthless march. Small, makeshift huts that lined the pedestrian inlets were completely vacated; their tin roofs seemed to clatter and tremble at the sound of impending death, though they housed no life. Unlike the others, the soldier still preserved fragments of a conscience, but he was careful not to show it. His eyes wandered to a finger that had started bleeding again and motioned to tighten the already taut bandage clasping the digit stiff. It became even more pallid, but he shut his eyes and deeply inhaled the sweet stench of sweat and blood nonchalantly; he enjoyed the numbness.
Then there was a swift movement of flesh and metal. He took less than a second to absorb the gliding action between his palm and the hand-grip, but it was too late. The rifle met the earth with the loudest possible clash, and the damage was done. He panicked like never before, as if a thousand shadows were devouring his core, and with a fleeting movement he recovered his weapon and his stance, immediately encircled by piercing stares and raised barrels. He wished he could run at the speed of his heart.
His adjacent comrade didn’t let out the slightest cry. With a feverish glimpse at his new wound square in the chest, his legs collapsed and he fell to the ground, eyes wide shut.
“Damned traitor!” bellowed a voice in the vicinity.
“Bastard!”
“Kill him! Now!”
The soldier heard a sickening crunch. Colonel Leurc’s massive knuckles sank deep into the jaws of a man whose fingers were about to make resonant another gunshot.
“Sir we have a turncoat! Right here, right now!”
“Silence, McCain.” Leurc’s voice was deep and imperious. “Lower your weapons.”
“But sir! He-”
His eyes were equally commanding, and there was a shifting sound of relinquishment.
“Who did this?” He inquired.
The soldier knew there was no escape. Perhaps death would be a better reality. Meekly, he raised his quivering arm. “Sir!”
Leurc moved towards the fallen body and with a sharp stroke ripped apart its owner’s uniform with bare hands. Blemishing the otherwise well-defined sinews were numerous cuts and shallow stabs, as well as the most recent wound in his chest, which appeared to be a small rotting cavern of charcoal flesh, all a grotesque mosaic of red and yellow. A crimson patch was visible towards the left side of the right thigh, another gash.
“Well executed.” Leurc turned to meet the frozen expression of the jolted soldier, flabbergasted with mounting relief.
“Men,” Leurc spoke. “All he did was to end the suffering of a fellow soldier mercifully. Realistically. Learn from this. Now resume the march, the other companies are growing impatient round the bend. Move it!”
“Sir the body-”
“Leave it.”
“Yes sir.”
The soldier re-marshalled his medley of feelings and hastened his pace to catch up. His skin was still ice with fear. Everyone else had shrugged it off in a matter of seconds, leaving him to digest, once again, with whom, for whom and for what he was fighting this war for. There was no turning back; there was no room for tears and such.
Gratsburg inched closer with the decline of daylight. Soon, it crept into sight. The soldier examined his uniform soiled with blood, dirt and grease, and wondered if his soul was comparable. Eyes ahead, he marched towards the city with bittersweet remorse.
~tc©
