The soldiers mind.

In such deep slumber as I had never known, my evil thoughts collected, gathered together, to pitch the images they formed to me in horrid nightmares. Blood, god, it always had to be blood. My pail, shaking hands were stained with it, crimson droplets passing like thick water through my fingers. Vision became a blur as my gaze shifted past my hands, to the limp body lying before me. I was on my knees in the mud, the dirt moist with not only water, but also with the horrid blood. I was painfully aware my pant legs were soaked with the muck, and flies swarmed overhead, just waiting for the flesh of the dead to rot deliciously. The buzz agitated me, as did the smell, but for a familiarity, it seemed I had been here before.

The man before me was a soldier, Australian by the uniform, the same, I realized, as the one I wore. His gun lay in his loose grasp, and I pried it from his dead fingers, groaning in pain as I leant over him, pain through my stomach. A broken rib I guessed. I compared our weapons, yes, the same. He was in my battalion. More sounds filled my ears as the block out of shock slowly fell away, once again opening my ears to my surroundings. Gun fire, cannon fire, burning fire that crackled. Dirt was spraying everywhere, my distant gaze observed, dying wails of men falling to my ears. Blood splattering, the poor unlucky souls, as painfully, they choked to death. An advance call and a courageous roar of voices echoed about me, as if I were in a cave, and many were talking in the hollow tunnels. Thundering steps pounded past me as I stared bewildered as they ran to meet their foe. My foe. Two boots stopped before my lowered gaze, before I was hauled to my feet. “We need you son.” The encouraging voice told me sternly, “Leave Paul, there is nothing you can do for him now. We need you.” He repeated, slightly more urgently. I looked down upon the man called Paul, and soldier, no older than I. Did I know him? Perhaps, and now that mate was gone. The man clapped me on the shoulder again, bringing me back to the present matter at hand. He turned and followed the rest of the men, running forward to what I presumed were enemy lines, guns ready and raised, courage at it’s peaks. I gripped the gun in my hand angrily before grabbing Paul’s and slinging the strap over my shoulder, running forward with the determined roar of voices.

Gunshot whistled past me, enemy fire. The more men that faltered and fell wounded or dead, the more was I determined to do my duty.

One man beside me fell into my path, and I stumbled to crawl into the trench, to shield myself from the endless return fire and possible death awaiting me. I was shivering in the hole, along with a few other men, as we crouched in knee-deep muck, of blood, water, and gruesomely, body parts. Then came a sound I have never heard before, a sort of whistling you might say, like a bullet, but, to big to be a bullet. “Shell!” One man yelled, scrambling to haul himself out of the trench, as did a few others. Several men and myself hesitated, confused or unsure. I felt like I went deaf, such a thunderous noise upon impact, and the pain, terrible, terrible pain. I, I can remember flying. I don’t remember the fall.

Pray for me, I thought as I watched my world crumble around me, my vision a blur once again. Tears? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell if it was my eyes failing or liquid drops standing in them. I couldn’t tell if is was tears rolling down my cheeks to sink down to the dirt, or whether it was blood, trickling in rivulets down the same trails, from some numb wound or gash on my face. I could not even tell if what I was seeing, was actually what I was seeing, or just another trick of the mind in a hallucinating state, while the body was in shock.

It was confusing me, terrifying me, so much that my body shook. Ah, so my muscles still worked. I tried to move my arms. I found out I was lying on them, the way my left arm was bent out of joint startled me, but I soon found it was a trick of light, and eyesight. Rolling over I tried again. My arms had gone numb, but by the way my shoulder muscles heaved the limp limb about and the pins and needles in my fingers, I was glad to find both still attached to my body. My legs next, I reminded myself. I had to wiggle my toes.

Forcing my eyes to focus I hauled myself into a sitting position, propped again a mound of dirt, possibly a body aswell. Now if I could just focus my vision.

I let out a wail, the horrid screaming kind, like a child who cowers before a monster, praying for their mother. I was sure it was tears that fell from my eyes as I sobbed muffled whimpers. The pain, like burning fire shot up my thigh. For it was all I had left of both of my legs. A bloody, blistered, burnt stub of a right thigh, oozing my blood. I had never imagined my blood spilt on this ground, this foreign soil. I felt faint, the loss of blood surely getting to me. I heard a handgun cock from behind me, the cold metal barrel pushed to my temple. “This one is still alive.” The voice sounded strangely distant. The language, I knew that I understood it, but what was it? Surely it was not English, for no one would kill someone on their own side. Or were they to put me out of my misery. I whined for my legs, and the pain I wanted to end. The gun wielder made some sort of murmur of agreement and then gun was lifted away. A sigh of relief passed my lips, before the gun cracked, and I felt such searing stings in my stomach. The bastard had shot me! I groaned, my eyes rolling back as I fell to my side, lying still.

Who started this war? Not I. Who wanted this war? Not I. Who died for this war? Not them. Those poor mothers who watched their young lads march proudly away, proud men in uniform. Those other souls who cheered them on in good cause, children saluting, girls waving, the men cheering, the mother weeping. Men no older than eighteen, walking off to find bloody adventures in a far off land, to hold peace for our small nation. Proud men, in uniform. I watched them fall, I watched them die around me, fall like raindrops from the sky, and in as many numbers, all for some kind of cause, that we believed strongly in just. I remember such horrors in my dreams, in which my mind cannot escape. I remember, the last of a dead hero’s line. You knew them as sons, brothers, fathers, cousins, uncles, and nephews alike. I knew them as mates, someone who will watch your back as you guard theirs. A new kind of family, away from your family. And now wheel chair bound and old, forever cold and alone, now all I can see now of my friends, is names carved in marble, and plaques on trees.