The Bunker

Chapter I: A Normal Life Is Boring

George stared at Michael, as Michael at George.
The sun had began it's journey past the horizon, beyond what the eye could see, and nightfall made claim to the sky. After the blitz of bullets, and bombs, the surroundings had stood down, becoming mere witnesses to the onslaught challenging the lives of a few insignificant - "few" being quite the understatement. Old friends, and new enemies, scattered aimlessly on the narrow streets of France, disrespected, now lay as nothing more than broken opportunities. Once on opposite sides of the narrative, prideful, some by nature, some by force, now resting as one, irrespective of the world's decisions. An inevitable end to an avoidable beginning: consequently the dead were just the dead to flies, and to the few significant, who sat as instigators in the comfort of their offices. Buildings, products of the greatest architecture ever seen by man, innocent bystanders, crumbled to their knees, not at the mercy of tanks, nor fighter jets, but men dressed in suits and ties, the greatest architects of them all, who were never seen by man, not on the battlefield.

George stared at Michael, as Michael at George - a thousand words were exchanged in the confrontation.
Michael steadily rose to his feet, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a metal hip flask, twirled off the cap, and took a swig. As he removed the bottle from his lips, he extended his arm out, offering George the last draughts of whiskey.
George glared up at his last standing friend towering over him, and a simple shake of the head was enough to express his bodily, and mental pains.
Michael put the flask on the ground, now extending his open hand.
"You can't just sit there all night," insisted Michael, "we have to keep moving."
George reasoned with his psyche for a moment, until a simple nod of the head was enough to put both men in agreement. He took up the offer of support, and stood. Michael picked up his flask, and handed it to him.
"It'll make you feel better mate." added Michael,
"For now you mean." replied George, managing a half-smile. "How did we get here ay Mikey?"
"When did the world get so dark?"
          "I can't even recognise myself anymore." said George with his eyes fixed on the stars, "I remember when we used to run around as children, in the fields around the corner from your house."
          "Or play marbles out on the road when my father was home because he didn't want us running off and getting lost somewhere," replied Michael "and then we'd go inside, and eat dinner that my mother had cooked for us all"
          "Better days," responded George "days which I look back on now, and cherish the most"

There was a momentary pause. The realisation that life had changed, not only for them, but entire nations intertwined in this warfare. George would often think back to when he was happier, to a time where teenagers like himself wouldn't have to carry arms, or their deceased family members in their arms for that matter. He had lost his father, an early sacrifice of the First World War, to three gunshot wounds in the chest, bringing his heartbeat to a premature halt. However, much to his father's obliviousness, it was at this very time where his wife was pregnant, and this child she was carrying was later to be named none other than George. For this reason, George had never known his father, he was just a man spoken of every so often, but discretely in the Stanley household, as his mother couldn't bear the pain of hearing a name belonging to a person she loved so dearly, who no longer walked the earth. The Stanley Family were blessed with a birth certificate, and cursed with a death letter. He couldn't relate to all the other children either, who were tucked away into bed by both their parents, and told bedtime stories. As a matter of fact, he had to tuck himself into bed on most nights, as his mother was probably busy, either washing the dishes, ironing clothes, or something of that sort. Life really turned miserable for George, not at the start of the war like most people would have thought, but towards the end. A few days before his fourth birthday, another death letter, this time the name read of a 17 year old: Alfred Stanley, who was a victim of an explosion, leaving him dying alone, painfully, up against the trench wall. A family ruined; a birthday ruined. He had lost every single man in his life, and as for his mother, no different.

Michael on the other hand, he had enlisted into the army. He had nothing to prove like George did. No love lost, no battle scars, no hatred fuelled, no suffering nor torment, no aim of revenge. The sole purpose of his choice was to fight for his country, and bring back at least a medal to show for his efforts. A true patriot, with the burning ambition to make his family proud, to raise the ranks of the Browne Family.
          "Come on George," whispered Michael "come on!", a little louder this time, "I feel like they're on to us."
                    "What's happening?" asked George
"They're around that corner, a whole wave of them, and I think they have spotted their dead comrades, ours too," explained Michael
          "and it won't be long until they find us"
                    "Alright, but where are we heading?" asked George "What if we run into another battalion?"
                              "Well, we can run, but we can't hide," replied Michael "and we're running in the opposite direction of certain death mate, so follow my lead"
The pair crouched, and ran, staying behind cover at all times, until they had completely fled the scene. One wrong move, and that could have gone much worse. That was a close call.