I wrote a couple of stories this week for school, and I kind of want to share them with you guys. One's about a man who loses his wife and child in an accident and how he copes with it. The other is a "diary" of a soldier in World War I. Both are about 5 and a 1/2 pages on Word 2007, so hopefully they won't be as long here. Yikes. If anything, I can just post one now, and one next week.
Entry 1-August 16, 1915
I enlisted in the war, thinking that everything would be fun and great, like I wouldn’t have worries. I wouldn’t feel pain, and I’d kill some of the Devil’s spawn at the same time. Little did I know, three weeks later, that people were dying, my friends more specifically. My name’s Jean Lacroix, and I’m a French soldier in World War I. I got involved in the war after a few friends of mine convinced me to enlist with them, telling me that we would have a great time. I foolishly believed them, and now I’m stuck, scared to breathe without being shot down by German troops. I want nothing more right now than to leave and go back home where I know that I am safe, and free from all burdens. Nothing is scary or frightening compared to this experience.
On the train ride over to the barracks, I met a man named Zackary. His path was similar to mine, enlisting in the war for a grand adventure through foreign land. Little did he know the risk he was taking, nor the lives he would see crudely taken right before his eyes. Zackary is my only friend as of late, and hope we can both make it out of the war together. He’s a good man who’s beliefs and morals remind me of my own. He’s a man that I can trust, and that I will know will be there for me in times of trouble and grief. For him I am thankful.
Entry 2-August 21, 1915
Our barracks are particularly clean, with no dust or dirt on, under, or around them. For this, we can thank our drill sergeant for that, Sergeant Blanc. Every morning at 5 exactly, we are abruptly woken up and told to get dressed and make our beds within a 7 minute time slot. From there we do 20 push-ups, 50 push-ups, and 3 laps around the camp. We do training exercises all morning, and have lunch at noon. From one to three, we do more exercises, and from three to seven, we must do work and have an opportunity to send letters home to wives, girlfriends, family, and children. I feel blessed to have an understanding Sergeant like Blanc, but sometimes wish I didn’t have to wake up so early to clean and exercise.
Tomorrow, they send a new group into battle, with me being a part of it. I’m very scared, and not able to sleep. I’ve heard many stories from returning soldiers, and it seems like nothing I’ve ever had to encounter in my life. If I’m lucky, this will not be my last entry. I ask those who read this whilst I am gone to pray for me, for I will need it now more than ever.
Entry 3-August 24, 1915
I have just returned from the Battle Of the Frontiers, and I’m lucky to have come back with my life, let alone in one piece. The horrors I have just witnessed, I do not wish to record, but I know I must. Civilians have a right to know what is going on.
From the moment I got there, all of the new soldiers were carelessly thrown into the trenches, and told to go at the blow of the whistle. One of the men was so scared he actually urinated in his pants and refused to go. Two extremely long minutes later, the whistle was blown, and the soiled soldier refused to go, while the rest of us ran. I looked back and saw the man pushed against the trench wall and shot in the head, his brain matter spraying all over the dirt.
As soon as I made it over the wall of the first hill, I witnessed mass carnage. Not knowing who was who at this point, and ran in full speed, surrounded by what I hoped were my allies. Every enemy I could see, I tried to shoot at. I looked around, seeing the constant flow of blood. It made me somewhat sick to my stomach. There was a particular shot that rang in my ears more than the others, and I quickly turned around to see what it was. The man next to me, my friend Zackary, was shot right in the heart, with his throat slit. He lay on the floor gasping for air. I didn’t quite know what to do, but I saw his killer running in the opposite direction. I took aim, and fired an entire magazine of bullets on this man. The bullets hit and he fell to the ground, a small spray of blood coming out of his back.
I snapped back to reality, reloaded, and went into the middle of the battlefield. I began to shoot aimlessly, realizing I was hitting nothing but air. I finally decided to take aim at something and fired. Men dropped at the sound of my bullets, not getting back up. In shock, I clumsily dropped my gun. Realizing the mistake I made, I quickly picked it up and took cover. I noticed a sniper on the north side of the field, but knew he was too far for my bullets to reach.
The horses that were ridden in by French soldiers were used as a decoy to distract my allies. After a few minutes of carelessness, the horses were pushed down by their riders and gutted as a form of shielding from the barrage of bullets surrounding them. Their screams were like nothing I’ve ever heard, and haunted me more than any man’s screams could.
Before I knew it, night had fallen, and it was time for me to go back into the trenches to try and get some sleep. I was sent to the back of the lines and told to get some rest. This seemed impossible due to the non-stop barrage of bullets invading my hearing. The constant screams of dying men didn’t help either.
The next day, less than five minutes of being on the frontlines, I was pinned by a bullet in the ankle. I crawled back to the trenches, where I was picked up by stretcher boys and taken back to the barracks. The bullet barely pinned by skin, being mostly stopped by my boots. I should be back on my feet in no more than a week or two.
Entry 4-September 3, 1915
Today during battle, one of our allies, not a friend of ours, but nonetheless a soldier, was shot in the stomach today. It was obvious that he was not going to live, and wanted us to put him out of his misery. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, knowing that there may be a small chance that he would make it. As time went on, the hours passed and his condition worsened. By late afternoon, he was no longer talking, barely breathing, and I knew what I had to do. I took out my rifle, and shot him in the head. It slammed to the floor, his eyes wide open, and a small grin on his face.
In retrospect, I know what I did was right, but I can’t bring myself to think of reasons why. If the man had made it, he’d be a psychological mess. A vegetable, or recipient of extreme shellshock, not to mention the physical condition that he’d be in. Probably drinking everything through a straw, no stomach lining left to work with. Who knows, better to let it go than to wonder. What’s done is done.
Entry 5-September 30, 1915
Today in battle, my life was almost taken in an instant. If I had been a mere foot to the left, I wouldn’t be here right now, writing about it. Unbeknownst to me, a French soldier threw a bomb next to my feet, and by mere chance, I stepped barely out of its range before it exploded in the dirt. If I hadn’t decided to move, I know for a fact that I’d be dead.
This event has forever made me believe in the true power of fate. I know that God planned my survival today, giving me another chance to save myself from foolish decisions such as this one. For that, I thank the Lord for forgiveness. Never again will I make a foolish choice like this. I know now my place in this war, and what I must do to survive. The next time I turn my back to the enemy, I know that there will be consequence.
Entry 6-October 15, 1915
I’ve just returned from more than two weeks straight in the trenches. This time spent in the trenches, very few experiences compare. Since the rations aren’t near enough for us, we’ve been trying to store as much food as we possibly could without dying of malnutrition. Water is somewhat plentiful, not always being totally clean though.
One of the men in the trenches with us died of food poisoning. He ate bad meat infected with dirt, and it, in simple terms, ate away at his stomach. The body was put on a large pile of other bodies that we used as shields from the French troops. We just hope that they don’t cough the infections onto us.
We spend most of our hours playing cards, talking about our homes, making plans for when we do get home, and things of that nature. Every so often, some French troops try and sneak up on us, rarely with any real damage done. Only once did one of the troops actually get into the trench, killing one of the men in front of me. I caught him as I was falling, using his body as a shield as I shot down my enemy in front of me. As I dropped my dead comrade to the floor, my heart rate more accelerated than ever, I sat down, reflecting on what had just happened.
The smell in the trenches is that of dead bodies and cow manure, with nothing but the cigarette smoke to possibly drown it out. I taste nothing in the air but death. For those who have no idea what death may taste like, it’s nothing pleasant or desirable. The taste of decaying body matter fills the air. I must live with the fact that the dead man in front of me may be a man I had once talked to, had once gotten to know, only to find him here now, staring at me blankly. He’s asking for help, but he doesn’t know how. He’s trying to speak but he can’t move his lips.
I had an interesting conversation with a man named Friedrich Müller. He was a writer from Germany who decided to enlist in the war to learn more about the outside world around him. He said that after this experience, he’d be content staying in his living room for the rest of his life. I laughed, agreeing with him, to hungry to think of something clever to say in return.
The day after next I was brought back to the barracks where I was allowed to sleep a full 24 hours, which still seemed like a small amount.
Entry 7-October 31, 1915
I’ve returned to the barracks, arriving in time for our Halloween “celebration”, but have many other things on my mind. No less than 7 hours ago, 7 hours before my trench time was up, a French troop had the opportunity to drop into the trench. I had nothing on me but a small knife. He ran out of bullets, and came running after me with fury. I grabbed him by the arm, snapped it like a twig, and stabbed the man in the heart. He fell to the floor as quickly as he had run after me, and began gurgling his last few breaths.
I began to feel pity for the man, as he would not stop persisting, trying to live. Finally, I gave in, walking over to him to give him some water. He looked fearful, as if my intention was to harm him in some way. I had no logical way to comfort him, except for feeding him the water available to me. I tried to ask his name, but nothing came out of his mouth but blood and mumbles. I reached into his pocket, digging for his wallet, and finally found it. I read the man’s information, and saw his wife. She was very beautiful, and as I looked back at him to tell him that, he was dead; eyes staring aimlessly into the sky, his chest unmoved.
When I came to this realization, I sat down next to him, afraid to touch or move his body. I spent the next four hours of my rotation creating a fake back story for the man. Who he may have been, where he may have worked. What he may have done. The friends he may have had. The family. The children he and his wife may have been expecting. I was so caught up in this dream lifestyle, that I almost missed my name being called when my shift in the rotation was over. I quickly stood up, and climbed out of the trenches as fast as I could, happy to be back in a bed soon.
Entry 8-November 24, 1915
I have been relieved of my duties as a German soldier in the war, but at a costly price to pay. During battle, I had my back turned. I was pinned by a bullet that lodged itself into my spine, paralyzing me from the waist down. I’m going home with a medal and a wheelchair, never to walk again. If only I had stayed where I was supposed, done what I had vowed to do. Always be aware of my surroundings.
I am not the only one, veterans I mean. There are many of us walking the streets, some rolling in my case. Some are more apparent than others. We’re not all psychos you know? Mind you, many of us hold it in; refusing to admit that there’s more out there than we care to admit. More evil, more carnage, more destruction than we thought human hands could ever commit. There’s an animalistic instinct that is released when a man must choose between life or death. When the black hooded demon himself is staring you in the eyes, luring you even, all you want to do is run in the opposite direction. But as soldiers, we cannot run, all we can do is hope and pray that death will be distracted for a moment, to give us a chance to escape His clutches.
When a soldier comes home, nothing is ever the same. All the food tastes bland, colors are dulled, dreams are invaded by the darkness that is memory. No more do we smile at the children running and playing, we fear the life that they may have to live. The problems that they may have to face, even worse, the wars that they may have to fight.
All I can hope for, is that we, as a nation, have learned our lesson. Learned that nothing good can come from this, only bad, me being the proof. The real thing. The vision of war. The face of war. The blood, sweat, and tears of all those who have fallen before me. May their memory live on forever.
I hope that I can soon find work suitable enough for my condition. Nothing too strenuous or heavy. All of the strength and ambition I had when I left has now been stripped from me with my uniform and gun. I can now only live in the past, never the future, or the gift that we call the present. All I can do now, is ask God for forgiveness, and hope that one day I can wake up, my mind cleared of all burdens. But for that, I’d have to sell my soul to the Devil, because no such thing exists.
I refuse to partake in physical therapy for veterans, as it will do no use. If the bullet lodged in my spine were to be pulled out, my entire spine would collapse, rendering me lifeless.
Enclosed with this diary are 5 artifacts in memoriam of the fallen angels that served this war so well. They will never be forgotten, if not by society, then by me. For these are the men who, although they escaped the shells, were destroyed by the war.
So there it is, I hope you enjoy it guys. I really did love writing it a lot. Now, let me tell another story. My friend Aubreya got off the lightrail yesterday so we could hang out, and she had a band-aid on her head. This struck me as a little odd, so the first thing I did to her when I saw her was pull off the band-aid. I really wish I hadn't. Her face had like an extra face on it. Her forehead looked like Megamind. Sorry, Aubreya.
Now onto a couple movie reviews: Love & Other Drugs, How Do You Know, and Tangled.
Love & Other Drugs-Jake Gyllenhal and Anne Hathaway star in this extra raunchy, very funny, very sad, romantic dramedy. I really enjoyed it, contrary to most critics, but whatever. I think it's a good film. B+
Tangled-NPR said that Tangled was the best film of the year. I hate to say it, but they were right. Tangled is pretty much a perfect movie. Original, hilarious, sweet, and with some great action, Tangled is about as good as it gets at the movies. A
How Do You Know-James L. Brooks' new romantic comedy is very good, with Paul Rudd stealing the show (as always). But he's got some competition in Jack Nicholson who is also very good. How Do You Know is the perfect holiday romantic comedy. B
Also, last night was my good friend Alana's party. I'm not going to publish everything that happened, because it's a long, long story, so just ask me.
That's all for now, thanks for reading :)
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