Whether Right is Right...

Chapter 1 - Introduction

We were in a living hell. My comrade Peter was screaming in agony as the shrapnel of a grenade splintered his right leg and arm. Blood splattered around, bones flew off into the heavens but my gaze nonchalantly returned to my objective. Too many deaths, one more gruesome than the other, have dulled me. I no longer see death as the cruel and horrible thing that it is but just as a steady part of the day, just like lunch or the writing of a report. I had received orders to lead the storm towards Fort Hbandaha. I was just recently appointed to the rank of lieutenant but I already hated it.

For several reasons that is but to simplify it, it was mainly the additional burden. Responsibility, Idolism, and Courage were all too much for a young man like myself. And then there were the expectations which demotivated me. Life as an infantry man had been far easier but obviously deadlier. The prospect of a grieving family which buries their own son would seem disturbing to a civilian. But I didn't care all that much about dying despite my youth. I was in my early twenties which meant that I had left school and joined the military immediately afterwards. I have to confess that I was no good student. I hardly learned, often disturbed the lessons and was disrespectful towards my teachers. All of this combined paved the way for a seemingly easy and good-paying job in the military which demanded few abilities apart from physical talents. As it turned out it was everything aside from easy.

A year after my enlistment, the nation of Dystop declared war on our homeland, the Kingdom of Mizri. My family was devastated by this announcement as was I. With just 19 years of age, I'd face a war between the two greatest powers of our world. The chances of winning this war were slim and the chances of my survival neared impossible. It was a hard time where I fought with depression and constant anxiety since I feared death and the loss of my family. By this point in time my will to live proved enough determination to take the whole ordeal seriously. At least far more serious than some of my peers who had also volunteered for the military. There was this guy called Asander in my class who bullied me constantly for whatever reason. Does a bully need a reason? Thanks to my fortune, he was assigned to the same unit as I and despite fighting for the same cause, the bullying continued, simply in a more severe way since the army proved to be a breeding ground for people with the same mindset as Asander. Something in my mind told me that it had to be a divine warning or an ill omen. These thoughts developed into suicidal thoughts which concerned my family. This in turn plagued me with guilt and the symptoms only worsened.

Fortunately for me the training phase began and many of those thoughts perished, to a major extent thanks to Armani, my best friend for more than 10 years who decided to join me in the ranks of the military. Armani was a great guy. Tall, handsome, darkish hair and a charming smile which had melted many women's hearts during our time back home and inspired many people to gather around him. Although he never admitted it, he was a born leader, both charismatic and dutiful, which made my appointment as lieutenant even stranger and more unjust. I had cursed myself for stealing his place but didn't have the balls to speak to him. He didn't deserve to be burdened with guilt. If I had to describe him some more I'd point out his beautiful face. His face had been very symmetrical, tanned in a bronze tone from the time we spent outside playing soldiers and scarless. In our "games of honor" as we called them he'd often win and shoot me with a wooden bolt. I, for my part, played my role extremely well and died in the most theatrical way imaginable.

These had been great times, the best I remember at least. Unfortunately over the course of the war, I've forgotten my face. It sounds stupid and I feel ashamed of myself to lose the thing that identified me. But the reason was a more practical one but I nonetheless neglected my mental health and sanity and the "loss" of my individuality only worsened my state of mind. Our general preached rather unorthodox methods and forbade us from shaving to look more intimidating. Armani and our comrades surely did. Whether I did or not, I didn't know nor did I want to know. Besides, I couldn't. Due to our far advance into enemy territory and the consequential supply problems, there weren't any mirrors. But as I've said, I didn't want to look at myself. Maybe subconsciously I feared what I had become during the war or that my perceived self differed from my real self. In my opinion I was just another faceless soldier, sentenced to die by our leaders but sent to the frontline to somewhat give our death a meaning. But who was I to change this disgusting world? I was just a regular soldier and soldiers abided by orders. That was General Honoris' top demand, absolute, iron discipline and unquestioned obedience.

We complied. If we didn't, we'd be regarded as deserters, as traitors, worse even than the treacherous Dystopians who broke a formal treaty which prohibited the declaration of war on the other. Of course, traitors had to be adequately punished. Death was one of the more merciful treatments. In the early stages of the war there were more deserters, people fearing the enemy, fearing death or simply fearing the unknown. Their cries and agonised screams quickly turned me into who I am today. But I'm drifting off. Armani has also lost his beauty and more importantly his cheerful nature. For as long as I know him, he had been the extroverted, happy optimist but all these traits vanished after our first real battle.

That day, half of our company was wiped out. It was the first day that I saw people die. Not just any people, during our joint time in training, we had become friends, brothers even. Those brothers died right before my eyes, their intestines splattering everywhere from a grenade, their limbs being torn apart by an enemy soldier on a horse in the frequent cavalry charges or their bones breaking due to traps where we fell deep down. Those traps were sneaky, nearly undetectable during a charge. And once they snapped, the person standing on it was sucked into the ground. It looked as if something supernatural was consuming us as food and dragged us into the cold earth. We feared them and thus jokingly gave them the nickname"Shitholes" since we, the shit, were simply sucked in, erased from the very face of this crumbling planet. During the assault on Fort Hbandaha we were luckily spared from encountering those manslayers. Nonetheless we were heavily under fire the whole time.

I rushed forward, the passing gunshots whizzing past my ears, hurting every time they passed but who am I to complain, I was alive. The same couldn't be said for the hundreds of thousands of men who had added to the casualty list of this apocalypse. Some occasional sound of iron meeting iron would indicate to me and the medics that a soldier had been hit and needed aid. Another indicator were buttons which we got which erupted a shrill short sound once pushed. Finally I reached the small natural shield, an abandoned cannon. It was natural for me. I hadn't seen much of nature in this past year, only scorched earth and death. I panted heavily and tried my best to calm myself down and regain some breath which I had used to dash across the open ground to my current position. I turned my back to the cannon and slowly slid down, watching my comrades' way. Sight was the only thing that remained. My ears were strained from the hundreds of shrill emergency signals and the thundering cannons and artillery which roared throughout the sky. I felt myself shiver when the barrages sounded like they were coming from all directions. I, in the middle of them all, small, insignificant. Just like a bug to us. Maybe I was a bug in the eyes of the enemy. A bug which was a plague, which needed to be eradicated from the surface of this planet. To be honest I also felt like one, fully covered with dirt, blood and shit. It hasn't rained for some days which helped our assault and prevented the formation of mud which slowed us down and would add to my dehumanisation. Luckily this feeling of inferiority was dispersed by my sight which showed me that indeed, the missiles were only arriving from one direction, the Fort. Why does my brain worsen my situation? The only thing you can rely on in war is yourself and when yourself fails you, you die. As I wasn't fully trusting my ears, I sneaked a peak above the cannon towards the heavily fortified Fort and the iron gates blocking our entrance. The entrance which decided if we'd live or die...