The
whistles blew. The young man climbed the ladder with urgency. Like all the
others. Once beyond the relative safety of the trench, he ran. He knew he was
screaming even though he couldn't hear the sound, lost, as it was, amidst the
cacophony of hell. He realised that, so loud was the sound of battle that he
couldn't actually hear anything. He could feel it though, pounding his body
with its shocks. He felt his heart beating with such force that it was like a
pulsar - still to be discovered.
The first
phase had been told to stroll across to the enemy lines. Now he clambered over
the soft lumps of their bodies, trying not to be caught in their unbelieving
eyes. He ran on towards the Germans, sitting behind their machine guns, fresh
from their deep burrows.
It felt
as though he'd been punched but when he glanced down, he saw the hole in his
shoulder. He was punched again, and then a third time. Everything stopped. He
was floating, hanging in the air. All was silence. He felt no pain, only
relief. Relief from the terror. He saw the ground coming up to meet him and
closed his eyes before the impact.
He opened
them. He stared up at the white sky, at the dim sun hanging from a cord. He
heard men wailing, whimpering, shouting out in pain. He heard angels; they
talked softly, gently, reassuringly. They were the voices of mothers, sisters,
sweethearts.
He looked
at the sun that wasn't the sun but an electric lightbulb and considered its
brilliance. Man had created light. Such inventiveness, he thought, was due to
scientific progress but what of human progress? Why, he wondered, did humanity,
with all our potential to create paradise, choose instead to unleash hell?
He stared
at the sun and wept.
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