Short Stories from my High School Days

Story 1: The Doe

This is one of the first short stories I ever wrote. It takes place during the Seven Years War, I believe. It's slightly graphic...
I wrote this for my History class, and had a lot of fun doing so. Often with these stories I try and find an image like the one above, and a whole story spins out in front of me.
This story is generally unedited... this is it in it's original (probably cringey) glory. Let me know what you guys think of these stories! If you like any of the stories I will share with you, maybe I could write a novel based off of it in the future :)

*I acknowledge that this story was not written on/for Wattpad, and that having submitted these stories for marks makes them partially property of my teachers (even though they didn't write them... plagiarism statement bois)*

Enjoy 'The Doe'!

*****

The Doe

The stench of blood is rank through the trees. I hold a cloth up to my face, silently rejoicing in the slight relief I get from it. The sun beats down upon me, and I feel the overbearing urge to tear off my weighty red coat and cast my hat aside, and leap into the mud, just for the momentary cool I'll feel from it. My younger self might've feared the tinge of blood in all its depths; but after what I've seen, after all these years, I couldn't care less about it. Nevertheless, I compose myself, and continue to check the seemingly endless stretch of bodies ahead of me for signs of life.
I come across a boy; he can't be any older than 15. I hold my fingers to his neck, hoping to find a pulse.
Hope.
The only hope one has in war is to accept the fact that they're already dead, to accept that one's fellow soldiers are already dead; 'tis the only way to stay sane.
I sling the boy's body over my shoulder, and allow myself to wonder what his last moments could've been like.
He'd probably joined the army in a flurry of emotions; what could they have been? Fear was at least one emotion, that's what I'll guess, for any of these boys. As for me, I've somewhat made my peace with being forced into this.
I'm sure he thought he'd die bravely. Maybe he thought himself immortal, and boasted to his friends about how he'd killed a hundred Frenchmen in the battle of Louisbourg.
Lies.
A soldier like that simply doesn't exist. And if they do, they don't go and get themselves killed by bayonet.
A stab wound through the calf, too. Boy'd probably gone into shock and died right there in the mud. Judging on his now exaggerated pale complexion, he was wounded not long after the siege began.
How long will this go on for?
I suppose, for a very long time; I've lost track of it. I hardly even know what day it is anymore. I know it's 1759, but that's as far as my warped mind can go at this hour.
I'm tempted to think, maybe, Quebec is progress for us. After all, we did win.
But at what cost?

*****

"How many did you come across?"
Jerked back to the here-and-now, I drop the boy in line of the assembly of bodies we have collected.
I hear a celebration far off. What song is this?
"Do you bid me?"
I stare into the dumb, narrowed eyes of the man addressing me. Can't he see I've come back with only a cadaver?
Idiot.
"None. We've already found all there is."
My voice aches as I say these words.
I need water.
"Why did you leave the men in your care, then?"
He's new, definitely a replacement. Who gives him the God***n right to question me?
"I entrusted them into the care of my peers. You understand, the other doctors? Or are you a man with no more brains than a stone, who dares to accuse me of the abandonment of my men and the wounded?"
I remove my hat, and dab at my forehead with cloth. The man wrings his hands, his pudgy face contorting into what appears to be anger, or frustration with me.
I don't care.
"That's not what I was- I just- I had a comrade out there. I checked the wounded, and I was unable to find him." The man begins to fumble with the large bag strapped over his shoulder. I half expect him to pull out a large portrait of this 'comrade', and beg me to search the dead once more. I've heard of that happening before, with a rich woman attempting to find her dead son. Quite extreme, really.
But this man just ran his hands along the strap, and reduced his hands to fists at his sides.
"I asked your 'peers' if they had seen a man come through, Thomas Smith. He's a replacement with me, and he was sent into battle without me. And he was afraid, sir, very afraid, and I fear-"
"How old are you?" I interrupt.
"22, sir," responds the man.
No, he's not a man. He's a boy himself. Based on looks alone I'd've said he was around 20.
Based on his attitude, he's 16.
But he has a presence about him that makes him seem a few years older than 16.
So, he's 19; a young fellow.
"How long have you been in the British army?" I inquire further, a mix of curiosity and impatience rumbling about inside me.
"Well, sir, Tom and I just joined. There were some paperwork issues, so it took us awhile-"
"Your friend's dead, boy," I stated plainly.
His eyes widen at this.
"Probably been shot, or stabbed. Maybe he even drowned, somehow. Went into shock and fell facedown in mud, hell, this child I brought back with me died like that. I've seen everything, boy. And until you get some real combat experience, you shouldn't go around asking stupid questions. Even if he is alive, then he's failed to report back to camp. That means he's a deserter. I ought to go to the 'charge to have him shot. What do you think about that? Might I indulge in this fantasy of yours, of your comrade being alive?"
I need a drink.
"Tom wouldn't do such a thing. Please, you know where you're goin', here. Help me find him, before it gets dark out," whines the boy.
"What's your name, boy?"
Boy, I must repeat. It makes me feel good, to see myself as superior to him. Lord knows I answer to too many people, most of whom die quite soon after they call upon me. Then, I feel superior to them, for they have died, and I am alive; it's rare that a man would have the nerve to shoot a doctor. I feel superior; I am safe on the battlefield.
Relatively. There's always stray bullets.
Don't get me wrong, I mourn the deaths of my fellow soldiers the same as any man would. I've lost countless 'comrades', and each death has haunted me, shot my nerves, however you'll put it; it's the overpowering relief that gets me. I wasn't shot; and because I'm not being shot at intentionally, I don't have to retaliate. I am freed of any charge of manslaughter in God's eyes. Doctors just save.
What must it be like, to kill a man?
"Williams. John Williams, sir," he at last chokes out.
He extends his hand. I don't know why I accept it. My humanity seems to have died with my men.
"Maybe I can help you," I sigh, surrendering to the will to better myself, giving up the chance to have a drink with the rest of the men whilst they celebrate. "I'll take you around the territory, where your comrade must've been, but only until it starts to get dark. It's been too long a day to not spend the night fall-over drunk."
Williams heaves a breath of relief. His eyes show the startings of tearing up.
"But I can't help you if you cry, Williams," I scoff.
He apologizes. Then he directly contradicts himself by saying the sun got into his eyes. I wish I could just abandon him here.
Unfortunately, I'm a man of my word.

*****

Now we walk amongst the trees. I can barely breathe. I hate this place.
We call out for Smith, rifles in hand, should any beast or Frenchman cross our path.
"Sir-" starts Williams.
"Don't call me sir. I'm just a doctor, at the same level as you."
"Oh, sorry, sir- I mean- all I wanted was to know your name."
Strange, the way he stutters. He doesn't even have the sound of canonfire ringing in his ears, in his dreams, thrown into all his waking hours.

*****

My first battle, - against the cliche - I forgot the name of. I would say it was the famous Louisbourg, but I've been in this war for years now, since 1756. I believe my first battle was just a skirmish; I remember every moment of it. I remember when Stephen and I wanted to be first in line to kill Frenchmen. We wanted to be war heroes, despite myself being just a doctor, unarmed at the time. I remember when Peter and Alexander held a rebellious jousting tournament with their horses, called all of us but the generals to watch. We were excited to fight for Britain, for the colonies; a fantastic way to spread the Empire, my father'd bragged.
No wonder I was forced into this.
When it began, Peter was shot through the eye. His skull was practically unsalvageable.
Alexander ran away in the midst of the chaos. To this day I'm convinced I was the only one to have seen him run. I remember feeling an air of confusion and disbelief, my brave and rambunctious friend, running away. A coward.
That's when I saw Stephen.
He was grappling with a French soldier, a large man; it was a fight Stephen never would've won.
All I could do was watch as the Frenchman slowly beat Stephen to death, finishing him off with a rifle blow to the chest.
And all Alexander did was run.
I found him later, in the fields. He had apparently tripped over himself, accidentally impaling his abdomen with his bayonet. He must have suffered greatly. A cowardly death for a mouse of a man. All I could do was stare. Am I a coward now, too?
I lost all of myself and what I used to be, while I stood there, staring at Alexander's river of blood.

*****

"Rowan. And that's my last, and all you need to know, boy," I grumble.
He nods.
He holds his rifle like he's a scared child looking for a bear. I can see the white trim of his hat trembling. I don't think I was ever like that, even at my most vulnerable.
Something moves, in the bushes.
Williams cries out, pointing his rifle in that direction. He fires it.
I expect it to be a lost Frenchman, a deserter, who fled into the woods during the siege.
I also expect it to be Thomas Smith, wounded in action, or a lost deserter as well, accidentally shot by Williams. I would fix him up, I would. Maybe that's why I'm here, that's why Williams came to me; in case his dear friend was injured, and I could heal him with my magical doctor hands.
But what comes out is a doe.
She's beautiful, minus the bullet wound embedded in her flank. She stumbles around, collapsing at last in a bloody heap.
She's screaming.
It's getting dark out. The wolves, if there even are wolves out here, will come for her soon.
She's screaming.
It's so loud.
I put my hand on Williams's shoulder. He waits a moment before shoving me away.
"Tom's dead, isn't he?" he whispers.
I don't answer. I instead watch the spectacle before me.
She's screaming louder now.
Kicking weakly in all directions.
Williams walks away from me, back to camp. I'll join him, in a minute.

I shoot the doe, putting it out of its misery. A river of blood follows.