Things I Wrote at One Time or Another

"In the middle of a Bullet Shower"

A/N: when I was younger I really wanted to write a story set during WWII.

In the middle of a bullet shower

He woke up and found himself in 1944.

The first thing he heard was the sigh he released once he was conscious, and gradually: his heartbeat, and then the sound of gunfire exploding along with the breakneck footfall of the men around him. They shouted, screamed, fired and aimed. Bodies falling to the floor, elbows digging into the dirt and shoes kicking around. Someone was kicking his thigh, vociferating for him to get up and aim. Florence could barely find the face of his overseer before he was dragged up to his feet and pushed ahead. He noticed something at the edge of his foot, a Springfield rifle. The sounds resonating in his ears urged him to pick it up, so he did. Once it was in his hands, he realized something very important: He didn't know how he was supposed to tell the enemy apart among the crowds of soldiers shooting and shouting at each other. Most of them were practically in rags and covered in mud-- he didn't even know where he was, let alone how to fire the actual weapon.

And then, with a sudden blow to the head, he spiraled back into unconsciousness.

-

Flashing memories of deserted streets and boarded windows dripped into his mind like watercolour, the whispers of a German capture echoing through the voices of ghost civilians and his feet throbbed against the gravel. The summer heat pelted down on their dying bodies as they marched one by one through the town of Stargard and into their camp.

Many murmured their hatred for the Deutschland, others cried internally for their mothers while bearing a stoic expression, and the rest remained frozen in shock and dismay. The American soldiers were guided into a farm filled with barracks by nightfall, lined up like stables. The scene reminded Florence of the documentaries he used to binge watch, but nothing was in black and white or being narrated by a man with a deep, boring voice.

The last conscious thing he could remember was the orders spouted out in German and a terrible translation being issued throughout the corridor of bunks he was assigned to. Once it was over, he watched as others climbed into their rickety beds and followed in suit-- passing out face first into a dusty cot.

When he came to, he was already being bellowed at by an officer, his big hands grasping at Florence and pulling him out of bed to join the rest of his peers outside in the field where they were lined up in rows. The young man staggered his way forward, starving and utterly lost. He trailed towards the back row, positioning himself in the corner as their captors began their announcement. A man beside them translated in a thick German accent, but the attention remained on the giant at front. A whip was respectively pressed against his own soldier as he walked from one end of the front row to another. He looked like the stationary officer he would often see in cartoons or movies.

"From here on out . . . You will be residing in this labour camp as punishment for your terrorism on our country. You will be stripped of any rank and degraded down to private . . . I will be your general, and and you will be my dogs . . . . Your work will begin in the field at 600 hours and end at 1900 hours . . . Understood?"

Scattered "yessir"s echoed throughout the crowd, the general roared something threatening that the translator found no need to repeat. Immediately, the whip lashed out against the face of one of the soldiers in the front row. He shouted again, "You must address me as General Schafer, nothing less," the translator stated, the general smirked as the man he hit touched his burning cheek, whipping him again until he fell to his knees. "Now repeat." The general's words floated from the translator. The crowd stood up as straight at they could and shouted, "Yes, General Schafer!"

Beside him someone said, "Yes, General Cocksucker." as neutral as possible. Florence turned his head to find a scrawny but tall man with dark stubble and hair, and matching dark eyes. Beside him a well-built man who reminded Florence fondly of Alfredo glanced at the dark haired soldier and grinned just quickly enough to be unseen by any officers.