The long hike

A truck pulls up alongside the line I look up from the dark brown mud I am marching on and see an injured hitch hiker being huddled into the open rear of the mud-stained truck. My boots slap the soft mud in rhythm with the others ahead and behind me the rain pours out of the sky like a shower, a cold, harsh shower. The rumble of guns fills the air dimming slowly every hundred metres or so. This what retreat feels like. Hundreds of rag-tag conscripts and a few hard veterans from the first few years of this godforsaken war. My father’s war was supposed to be the end to all wars but now, now that seems too naive to come true. A man stumbles of the road and rolls down into the mud as if suddenly pulled into a deep sleep, I crouch beside him and check for a pulse water slides off my helmet and onto his face and uniform the German eagle still shines brightly on his chest the pulse is there, he must have collapsed due to exhaustion. I look up from the road for the second time today and see the lush forest of the Ardennes the road we are treading is nothing but mud and hard rocks that jab into the thin soles of our boots. Men pass me, the men’s clothes are nothing but rags the same as my own the heavy canvas weighs down our bodies as we walk our shoulders droop and sag the look of despair shows its mark on all our faces. An officer walks by, his batman holds an ambarella over the officer’s head while leaving himself out in the rain. The officers’ boots shine brightly with only small specs of mud visible he looks at the man at my feet, nods, and gestures for the stretcher bearer behind him to look after the man, that is my cue to leave. I look down to my boots the mud seems to have fused with the leather and one’s sole flaps when I walk but I carry on.

Our officers tell us that when we reach the river Rhine, we will find trenches and bunkers ready to be manned. However, when we reach the river the only trenches visible where the roadside diches used to drain water that were now full to the brim with the continues rain. A unified groan sounds through the remaining conscripts the officers order us to dig trenches on the other side of the river to defend it from the attack that crippled us weeks ago. I help dig the slit trenches throughout the night and finally settle down for the rest I so very much needed. I awake with the bitter cold of a winter night bighting at my skin, clutching the rifle that Karl gave me in his last moments its better than the improvised rifles that the army was giving out now. My old rifle failed to fire every second shot on a good day. While jamming on every other motion but Hans’ rifle had been with him since the start of the war and was made of the best steel Germany had in 1939. Karl looked after my five friends Gunter, Hans, Jürgen, Steffen, and Walter as well as looking after me Karl was the most experienced man in our platoon. However, experience means nothing to an artillery shell. Tears well in my eyes as I remember that terrible day.

The day my friends died started all to normally we were waiting of an attack from the enemy and we were cleaning our rifles my rifle as well as my friends’ were made of something like ply wood for the stock and had rough metal for the barrel. Karl’s however had polished oak for the stock as with ripples flowing like water through the wood the glaze though applied over five years ago shone bright like the smooth metal of the barrel. I was called up for the duty of getting the food from the mess Karl and my friends took their positions in our wooden bunker ready to cover me if I came under fire. I left the safety of our bunker and crouched low in the mud, fallen trees acted as cover as I moved. There was the occasional bunker and trench but often they were to crowded and the best way to survive on a place like this was to move fast. By the time I got to the kitchen I was caked in a thick layer of mud that weighed me down. As I trudged towards the mess a slow high pitched whistle filled the air before the ground in front of me exploded I was thrown violently backwards a senseless ringing filled my ears men were shouting and screaming but their words of torture were unheard , I unslung my rifle but found the tip of the barrel bent with a piece of shrapnel the size of my palm wedged into the barrel. I wrap my gloved hands around the lumpy piece of singed metal, the heat radiated off it, but I knew I had to have it, to remind myself of my death that never came. The piece gave way easily and I pocketed it. The whistle faded and the sounds of shots crept back into my ears like a ship slinking through thick fog. My thoughts came rushing back not the single dazed thought of the shrapnel, hundreds of thoughts filled my head, but one was the most prevalent, ‘Run’. So, I did I ran to the only place I thought would be safe, our bunker. Shells screamed overhead men were running alongside me, a shell would land close by, and we would throw ourselves to the ground. The air was thick with the scent of death and the acidy smell of fumes emitted from the explosions around us. Every few metres a man would be flung in the dance of death some simply spun around and quietly collapsed others clutched their wounds and tried to stagger away in vain crying for their mothers. When I got to the bunker I stopped dead, the wood was splintered painted in something red and warm. Red twisted objects sat around the bunker, a hand grabbed my leg and I looked down Karl’s face stared up at me his eyes were full of sadness and pain his clothes were tattered ribbons and I could not see his legs there were only stumps where they should have been. Blood spilled out of Karl’s stumps and spread slowly down the crater where the bunker was, the though of what those red twisted things were made my stomach turn. I look back onto Karl’s eyes and crouch down he nods slightly letting out a gasp of pain as he does something moves from beside him. His rife. Karl places his rife in my hands as he does through unspoken words, he tells me to look after it and keep it safe, Karl’s eyes go glassy, and his final breath exits his lips…

I stand up and vomit the warm, sour liquid flows out of the back of my throat ‘I am here, he is not’ my mind reminds me I look across the Rhine and flares twinkle in the night sky. Karl’s rife, my rife is leaning against the side of the hole, they are really gone the reality of this sinks in, I feel for the lump of metal in my pocket and think of how silly it is, this war men like Karl die and yet people like me, hesitant of joining the army as well as never doing anything good in my life get to live. I know this war must end and who cares who wins it’s the same outcome. Just some battle to gain a few kilometers and when this is all over there will be another war, I might not be around to see it but the same people will profit, the generals who will win glory and fame no matter what side they are on they will profit the same way. What about me, us, my company who was decimated in a forest people in a hundred years will have picnics in and laugh, enjoy themselves while walking over the shallow graves of my friends the ones who will never get a tombstone who will never see their families again. Yes, my friends will be remembered by their families and their country, but they won’t be them. They won’t be remembered as the young men who were marched off to a senseless battle with the promise of glory only to find their last moments on this earth alone with tears rolling down their cheeks screaming for their mother. They will be remembered as steel-faced fighters winning glory for their families and accepting their death nobly and without argument, bowing to their generals who stood with them all the way and lead their troops from the front like the kings and their knights. I never saw anything like that the generals were kilometers behind the line drinking red wine and giving orders to unseen troops. When I come to my senses, I am sitting in my dugout gripping Karl’s rifle and my piece of shrapnel I release it and a trickle of blood oozes out of a small cut on my hand carving a trail through the mud that has fused to my skin. Whistling fills the air and I prepare myself for the attack as the shells begin to fall…

The rumble of tanks fills the air as a platoon of our tanks advance to meet that of the enemy. One of our anti-tank guns fires one single shot that easily glances off the armour the turret swings around to meet it and fires a high explosive shell that rips both gun and crew apart like paper. One of our tanks fires and meets the same fate one enemy tank is knocked out but the crew gets out. Ours are less lucky. I look beside me and see that the company is retreating. Rifle shots ring out catching my escaping comrades in the crossfire dozens stumble and fall but the rest keep running I look back and see the wood butt of a rifle I hear a sickening crunch and my vision goes black…

The memory fades to darkness as a bright light pierces through my closed eyes. I sit bolt upright in bed beads of sweat trickle down my face the room is dark with light pink floral patterns on the curtains. I start to remember where I am, the wedding ring on my finger, the portrait of my family smiling happily, my wife who was once considered an enemy, my daughter, born in a country that was once considered my enemy as well, and my youngest child, Karl who is named after the man I have aspired to become, who’s smile makes all the memories of those dark year fade into nothing but mere stories. Every time I see my family The images, I have run from for over ten years soften and I am filled with hope that one day I might be able to stop running and stop returning to that mud path retreating from an unseen enemy.  I still remember my prediction ten years ago about how we soldiers would be forgotten yet the generals who never felt the feeling of battle were idolised and so far, that prediction seems to be true. Voices come from down the hallway the other side of my bed is empty with the covers pulled back. I slip out of my bed and pull on my slippers. I slowly trudge through the open doorway passing my uniform, while doing this I glance at myself in the mirror a long scar branches across my nose were the soldier struck me years ago. My faithful shrapnel piece sits proudly in a large glass holder. I slowly trudge out to the dining room where the hubbub of voices grows louder. I investigate the dining room and see my family sitting down to start their breakfast My youngest child, Karl, spots me first and his face fills with joy, letting out a squeal of delight as he escapes his new highchair and plops himself onto the floor before getting up and waddling over to me as fast as is small chubby legs can carry him. I bend down and wrap his small, warm body in my arms, the dark clouds of my thoughts disappear as he starts babbling about the adventures, he has had in the morning so far that range from exploring the living room and helping his mother with the cooking. I walk to my wife who is busy making pancakes except they are sweet, not savory like the ones in Germany. Karl contently sits on my hip telling me what pancakes are and that they are “yummy” I kiss my wife on the cheek, Karl and my daughter, Margret both show disgust at this and scream with laughter as I chase them around the house trying to catch them. Watching those two-run fills me with joy as Margret carries Karl away from me, both howling with laughter. As I watch them run Karl stumbles and the images flashback, Men running explosions erupting like the volcanoes in children’s books, mud flying everywhere limbs sitting lifeless in the mud their owners nowhere to be seen suddenly it flickers and I am back outside the bunker except it is different the red shapes were my friends but they are whole and screaming for me to help but I am unable to move I look down and see Karl, not the old one, my sone “you did this” they all say, a cold had is placed on my shoulder, I turn and see Karl the real Karl floating there, his bloody stumps hanging limp "are you ok, dark" comes my wife's voice through Karl's closed lips then it is gone.