Ronan and the Soldier

Rain and snow splashed down in torrents from the black sky as shouts of “fire” rang across the trenches. Faint cries of pain and yells for help floated across no-man’s land. 

Ronan ducked down into the trenches just before a bullet whizzed by and lodged in the dirt above his head. He hated war and all that came with it. Not knowing if you were going to come home. Ordered to kill someone’s son, brother, or friend. Fighting someone else’s wars was something he hated above all else. They coaxed you into thinking war was honorable and filled with triumph and glory. That it was right to murder soldiers who were forced to fight against each other. “Lies” he thought as he leaped up out of his temporary hiding place. He aimed randomly and fired, then ducked again. Silence. An eerie silence covered the war torn land, and suddenly he felt a wave of dread come over him. 

Something had happened. No screams, gunshots, or orders from his captain to shoot someone’s dad. Ronan leaned heavily on the barrier as he sat down upon the mud and garbage littering the trench. A weathered hand wiped the dirt from his tanned forehead, and he ran his fingers through his damp brown hair. He didn’t know what was going on. He risked a peek over the edge and what he saw made his shoulders sag in relief. A small, white flag fluttered and whipped in the wind. Battered and torn by the elements, it was a sign of retreat.                                          

  His brow furrowed in thought, ‘But why? Why would they surrender now? It doesn’t make sense!’ He thought to himself, his ice-blue eyes clouded with suspicion and confusion. He looked around him; his comrades were confused and suspicious too. Ronan’s head whipped forward as he saw something moving in no-man’s land. ‘Impossible! But it is?’ he mumbled incredulously to himself.  He stood with difficulty knowing he could die any second.                         

      His childhood friend from Dublin hissed at him, “Ronan! What are ye thinkin’ lad, ye’ll be shot!”                                                                                                                                                    “Shut it Seamus, he might be shot out too!” Ronan whispered back to his friend as he pointed to the Unknown Soldier in no-man’s land. “I can’t just stand here and watch someone die! That is murder, he can’t even get up!” he added as he jumped past the trench walls.                              

He looked for the easiest and safest way to the unidentified soldier. Finally amidst the rubble and garbage he made his way to the boy. Jumping over piles of mud and deep puddles of brackish watery slush. There was mist everywhere making it hard to see. He tripped and fell in a pile of torn up trees, feeling a burning pain rip up his arm. ‘Fantastic!’ he muttered angrily. He pulled himself up slowly, his now bad arm hanging limply at his side. Then he spotted the soldier crawling slowly through the mud looking terrified and determined. The soldier saw Ronan and said “Please don’t shoot me, I don’t want to be here! My name is Charlie Keisbeck, and I’m from Poland, I was forced to be here! I just wanna go home.” The soldier named Charlie looked pale with fright and seemed strangely calm, as if waiting for death to occur. Ronan looked in his green eyes and knew he was telling the truth.

“I believe you. Let’s get you out of here.” Ronan quietly replied.                                                    

“You do? You aren’t going to kill? I escaped while I could. I did not know they were surrendering, I swear.” Charlie tossed back with accented English.                                        

“I don’t know about my commanding officer believing you, though. I’ll try my best.” Ronan murmured stubbornly.

Charlie quickly leaped up, not injured like Ronan. He helped Ronan get up from the mud sucking his feet down and slowly trudged through the garbage and smoking piles of rubbish. They were quiet the whole way. They finally reached the trench and Ronan flipped himself over the barrier and with determination showing on his handsome face told Charlie to wait where he landed.  Ronan was immediately swarmed by friends and his commanding officer, who looked very angry.  

    “What’s wrong with you lad, running out there risking your life for a German soldier?! You could’ve been killed, and for a Nazi no less!” the officer yelled.                                                        

“All due respect sir, but he’s human. He makes mistakes too. His name is Charlie; he was forced to be in the war! I know he’s telling the truth! You have my word that he’s innocent. Just let him go!” Ronan nearly shouted at his officer. The officer had few favorites among the lower ranks, but Ronan made the cut.  

“Are you 100% positive? Because if he’s lying you’re in a lot of trouble my boy!” the officer asked curiously and threateningly. 

“I know” Ronan replied fiercely. “Bring him here!”  Charlie walked up to the officer, nervously flattening his pale blonde hair.   

“You are coming with me. Where is your family, boy?” the officer inquired.              

“They’re back in Poland, sir. My ma and dad and my older brothers lived there when I was taken. I don’t know if they are still there. I’m 19 years old.” Charlie replied, every word ringing with honesty, and a little sadness.                                                                                                       

   “Get out of here then, lad. Go home. Don’t die on the way home now.” The officer replied gruffly, watching Charlie turn around and run, disappearing into the mist.

“Ronan!” 

“Yes sir?” He replied curiously.             

“No more of that nonsense of saving soldiers not from your side. Next time the other guy might not be so, friendly.”

“Understood.” Ronan quipped. The people crowding around him soon dispersed as they went after the retreating Germans from the other side. He collapsed against the side of the trench, once again. Sometimes you had to risk everything to save someone else. His blue eyes drooped with exhaustion as he fell into a dreamless sleep in a trench somewhere in France on a cold, misty November day with 1918 nearing a close.