Vernem Nidahen ° Jikook | ENGLISH

Wish we hadn't ended up like this.

September 1914 - near Marne River, France.

The weather was bleak, as bleak as my soul.

What was the difference that distinguishes today from others, why was I carrying such a terrible feeling which was bloomed and not fading since the night. Or how come new darkness advened to my inner world even when I thought there would be no more darkness, believe me, not until I heard from a soldier who was working under my command, did I know?

We were in a war. A war which was maybe the bloodiest, the most unfair yet defended its necessariness, which I didn't know who was I fighting against or why was I fighting, a fierce war. Furthermore, it was an unnecessary and immoral war of which people were dying; people had to be dying. I was foreseeing the consequences of this war, which I wasn't sure if I could predict. I was noticing that every new day of which the mothers were feeling the grief of losing their child and lovers who were left behind killing themselves, or pure children who were waking up with the hope of seeing their fathers, was bringing another destruction.

But I couldn't stop myself. And I mustn't because I was a soldier. I was a soldier who must wear the given German military uniform and defend his country even though his eyes were pointing out that he wasn't from 'the pure German race.' My hands were just as dirty as the others. Or maybe there was much more blood on this little, fat fingers than the others.

I was rubbing the pencil that I was holding with my ugly hands, which were covered with occult blood to parchment, to write my intentions about getting rid of a nation. I was recognizing my father's words, which was saying, "Defeat in Marne is out of the question," while my head was full of the thoughts about breaking the resistance of French as soon as possible.

"We are fallen behind as for that plan. You have to be victorious in this battle within the shortest time. Here I am giving you one week. One week at most."

My father was a general.

And he had a plan in his mind that he gave his last name which he didn't even give me. About which battles he had foreseen, and victories which had to ben won that fit in irrational meantime. He was ignoring the fact insistently that it was impossible to make them happen.

Schlieffen Plan.

According to the plan, we were going to act like we were going through Alsace-Lorraine. After drawing their attention, we were going to send our soldiers over Belgium and the Netherlands. Afterwards, we were going to take charge of Paris and defeat them. The plan was good, yet there were happen to be some malfunctions and lack of precautions in practical terms that could madden my father like Belgium's not allowing our soldiers to access France with their fierce resistance.

I was sending new plans or adding new ones on his to whom, my dad, I knew he couldn't handle one more defeat. We were in a real war with French. However, I wasn't sure how close we were to succeed in the battle which we had started. It was like we were about to lose. It's fear, and the darkness of my thoughts began to make my little fingers tremble.

I flinched when someone called my name.

"Lieutenant Park."

I raised my head from the dirty parchment which the souls I took them away from their bodies wandering and looked up to the soldier whom I can see his face thanks to the gas lamp.

When he clung to his gun, which was hanging on his shoulder, he moved his head forward to salute and started to look into my eyes with a decisive victory. Before I tried to understand what was happening, the soldier whose name I couldn't remember looked like he was about to laugh. He told me sentences that caused my heart to ache, and these sentences even caused my breath to stop for a while.

"We have our best card to break the resistance of French. We caught a soldier, but as far as we understand from his dog card, he is not an ordinary soldier. He is the French General's son, I guess. He was injured, our doctors treated him. He was sleeping before I came here. I made a soldier stand by his side before I received an order from you, but you have to come and confirm. You know him, do you?"

It felt like an intense hurricane was arising in my heart now. I was surrounded by a weird ache that was in a bit above my belly. And I was also surrounded by a warm yet annoying feeling in my throat.

Even before I heard his name, the thought of someone who resembles being nearby made me forget all the melancholy and made me excited.

I thought I could never see him again; I could never hear his voice, could never reach his hands, could never get lost in his black pearls. I thought I could never feel his existence near me, but that was the thing that the soldier was saying. The son of the French General is here.

Was he, for real, three tents away from me?

"T-take me," When my voice quavered weirdly, I closed my eyes tightly and cleared my throat. After that, I continued hardly. "Take me to him."

His existence was enough to make my harsh, never-doubting voice to quiver. I was so excited that my knees were knocking together. I was surprised to see how one can be all done in by just a few simple words. I walked to the soldier who was trying to understand, but I didn't care. For that moment, the only thing I cared for was the son of the general.

I was struggling with my thoughts while I was leaving the tent, which generally general's use. The soldier was leading me to him.

I was fighting with the ugly truth with a part of me that he was our enemy, and one of my soldiers shot him with my order.

I wasn't sure how many tents we had passed or how much whimper we had heard full of pain. But finally, when the soldier stopped, he said:

"There, sir."

As I was looking at where he was pointing, even though my heart was beating as it could burst, I told the soldier that he could leave while trying to rule myself.

I wasn't ready for what I might see. I didn't want the soldier to see this, or I wasn't approving him to be there because I wasn't sure what I could do when I see him.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled when I was on my own and wiped away my sweats on my hands to my uniform. I was waiting for my heartbeat to slow down, but it was beating as it could burst insistingly.

The more I waited, the more I felt excited. When I noticed this, I got into the tent. The room was dim because there were only a few lamps, but surprisingly it was full of his carnation scent.

When I got into the tent, I saw a few beds on the left side. And on one of those beds, my lover was lying with his tired eyes closed, his naked chest wrapped with a bloody bandage. His beautiful hands were on both sides; my lover was sleeping.

I thought my heart was going to stop. I was gasping for breath already. I was willing to walk to him while my legs were trembling. I wanted to kiss him, bundle him up even though I had no right to do so, or scold him and ask him why did he include himself to these dirty games. But instead, I stood there and watched the splendid scene without being able to move. I was close enough to hold his hands if I moved, but when I saw him on this state, then I was able to figure out the case and my distance to him. That melancholy showed itself to me again.

We were enemies.

For me, there was no probability of him being among the French whom I was using my bullets against, whom I was fighting. I had never thought that his blood might also drip onto the papers in which I was writing and trying to fix my plans. I had never dreamt of fighting against a little child. Yet the truth which was standing right there and showing itself was this.

We, the two of us, were enemies.