The Last Days (short story)

The Frenchman

  [Inspired by All Quiet on The Western Front]

11-9-1918

I opened my eyes and turned my head towards the sky that once was blue with clouds and birds. Now it was grey with flying shells and smog. I sat up and looked around. I could see my friend Peter on top of a French soldier. He had his hands tightly wrapped around his neck. The man kicked and swatted at him, but Peter kept his death grip on him. Peter hated the French with all his being ever since they killed his brother with their terrible flamethrowers. I'll never forget the poor lads cries and screaming as he slowly burnt to death. I'll surely never forget the sound of his limp body hitting the frozen dirt. That was a sound that I've heard more than once. I sat with my eyes glued to the scene that played out in front of me. It was almost as though I couldn't move, like I was being held in the same place by some unseen force.
   The Frenchman's struggle to hold onto his life began to slowly end. His kicking and swatting stopped all together, and his face turned pasty white. Peter let go of him and watched with hateful eyes as he collapsed onto the ground. Peter looked to me,
"He almost got you, Otto," he said, reaching out a hand to help me up. I grabbed his hand and pulled myself off the dirt. Peter and I stood in silence as we watched the rest of the men around us. The struggle and bloodshed was truly horrible, but we were used to it by now. Peter and I had joined back in 15', we were promised glory and adventure if we signed up to fight. But that glory and adventure faded away as we reached the front. We were told that we would march on Paris within a week, but Paris still stands miles away from us.
  I turned my attention back to the sky. It was impossible to believe that it was once blue. I had stared at the same gloomy sky for years that I began to forget what it really looked like. I would give anything to see the blue in the sky again. To see green grass. To know peace. I wish I could shake hands with all the Englishmen I've killed. I with I could exchange jokes with all the Frenchmen I've attacked. But I most of all wish I could turn back time to when I killed my first. He was my age, fearful as could be. We stood with our bayonets at ready, no one daring to make the first move. But I realized that he was after my life just as I was after his, and so I shoved my ballade through his stomach. He dropped to the ground, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. I will never forget the look he gave me. Instantly overwhelmed with guilt, I dropped my gun and ripped my handkerchief out of my pocket. I held his head in my hands and tried to stop the bleeding so that I may save his life.
"Es tut mir leid, es tut mir leid," I sobbed to him.
He smiled at me, blood dripping from his wound into my hands.
"Merci," he whispered to me as his short life slipped away. I tried to lift him up so that I could take him to a medic. But it was far too late. I sat over his lifeless body, crying like a newborn.
"Es tut mir leid, Kamerad" I cried.
If I could change anything about that day, I would have lowered my weapon, and shook hands with the boy, and we would have been the best of friends. But this was war, and making friends with the enemy wasn't a choice, but I wish it was. I didn't want to fight these men, and they didn't want to fight us.