Worse than Hell

Faith. It was all we had as we climbed onto the plane and flew into the night without a clue what awaited us. My heart raced as I hooked myself to the line. The red light so bright it washed over each of us like the reapers cape. I brushed my sweaty palms over my clean uniform and clasped my straps for dear life as another burst of fire peaked through the door. The aircraft shook with the impact, and it was time to fly. 

In seconds my booted toes were at the door, and pray to the man upstairs, I took my turn into the sky. Jumping as a large object flew past me within inches and smashed hard into the plane. There was one final shout from my commanding officer before everything exploded, and I was propelled through the air. 

My hearing seemed gone as I helplessly floated towards the ground. Hot licks of machine-gun fire danced across my path. Unable to catch my breath, I’d decided calming was in my best interest. With my eyes closed, and my hearing silent, I was able to pretend for a moment I was floating in Kitty’s pool at home with the sun beating down on my face. 

Hitting the ground as my hearing returned, I opened my eyes. All you could see in the darkness were shots of fire, exploded debris, and all you could hear were screams of the already dead. It was chaos, bedlam, a frenzy of horrors. I cut my parachute and reached for my bag or weapon. Both were gone, so grabbing my knife from my belt loop, I proceeded to find someone else from my platoon. Seemingly alone and without knowing where I was, the fear I’d once had was doubled. I walked, cautiously, into the pitch-black woods and mumbled softly under my breath---hoping someone, anyone, was listening. 

My luck would hold out once more as I came upon another soldier from my company. He was stuck in a tree branch but thankfully still alive. I cut his straps, and he hit the ground with some force. I didn’t know who he was, and it didn’t matter at that moment; we were the only ones against the enemy. 

“You got a weapon?” I asked him as I pulled him to stand. 

“Yes, Sir. You don’t?”

I shook my head. “Lost it. Just have this knife. We have to get out of here. I don’t think we landed in the drop zone.”

The two of us snuck carefully and quietly through the woods as the sound of gunfire and explosions echoed through the night. We came to a crossroads and were able to gather more men from my platoon. 

“Sergeant, we have to get to the rally point. We’re dead if we get trapped here.”

“Aye, Sir. As far as I can tell, it’s back this way. We are about three klicks off our original target. Maybe four.” 

“Not too bad. You got any spare weapons?”

“Yes, Sir. A few. I ran into a group of unlucky bastards.” He handed me a rifle, and before we set out towards our rendezvous point, I made sure that it was loaded. 

We had to walk back through the woods from which we’d come, and it was, thankfully, no less uneventful this time. As we breached the tree line, a single shot loud enough to echo in my mind for all eternity but silent enough to sneak up on us smashed into the head of the sergeant who’d taken the lead, and he dropped like a rag doll to the ground. 

“Get down! Fireback!” I shouted as I crawled towards the sergeant. All around me, gunfire rang louder than fireworks on the Fourth of July, but the sergeant made no sound. He was younger than I was by almost three years, a child who’d lied about his age to fight for his country—a kid who’d never take another breath. 

“Sir! Sir!” 

Roughly shaken out of the sergeant’s sightless eyes and back into the horrors of battle by a private who continued to shout at me. 

“We have to get out of here, Sir!”

“Right. Right!” Quickly, I looked around. There had to be a way out. No one was coming to save us this night. Seeing an opening, I took it. “Follow me and stay hidden in the trees.” 

We followed that line all the way to the outer edge. With my heart pounding, I gripped my gun tighter to avoid shaking and clenched my jaw tight so my innermost screams wouldn’t escape before taking a step into a quiet clearing. Positive to my core that every step would be my last, I eased my platoon out of the relative protection of the woods and closer towards our end goal. 

We stepped over the body of a soldier who hadn’t been lucky enough to make it out of the heavenly shooting gallery and onto terra firma. Finally, we spotted our Company and temporary base camp. All but running, we made it to the rendezvous, and after giving my report to my new commanding officer, I took a much-needed break with a cup of hot black sludge and a hunk of two-day-old bread.  

My rest wasn’t to last as I took my final sip of coffee, the CO called for me, and I answered as was my duty. A large gun was firing on our planes and men that needed to be taken out before the second wave would be able to come through. And if this massive rescue plan was going to work, we needed that second wave to make it safer to Earth than we had. 

Grabbing new weapons, a group of soldiers, and whatever courage we could muster, we made our way away from the false security of the base and back out into the heat of a black-lit battle. Using only hand signals, I instructed the men to their positions as we surrounded the operated gun as it continued to fire at our men in the sky. 

If you’d had asked me, before the war, what kind of man I was, I’d have told you a fair, understanding, easy-going man. I’d tried to live my life well, never judging those who were different from me and always protecting the sanctity of every life. But only an hour into a bloody battle, and I could feel myself changing like the devil's chameleon, powerless to stop it from happening. 

The enemy spoke a language I’d never heard before in real life, and when they laughed as they shot another helpless soldier, a tidal wave of hatred washed over me. With a shout, we opened fire and watched as we killed our first of many men in that damned war. Lucky again, we got to complete our mission with zero casualties.  

I wish I could say that about the rest of the war. Over the next eleven months, my men and I fought some of the most challenging and bloody battles of a great war. And those who didn’t come home were the true heroes. In truth, none of us were ever the same after what we’d seen, what we’d done. Those of us who made it through the sky, the trenches, and the bullets came home with an unerasable shadow. Living nightmares flashed behind our eyes when we least expected it—an undeniable sense of guilt for being the one who got to step boots on our homeland again. 

Even now, I get angry as I try to make sense of why. Why was it necessary for us to fight in a land not our own? Why did they even need to start a war they were doomed to fail? Why waste all those lives---ours, theirs, and innocent? Why did I have to give up my peaceful ways to fly halfway around the world to kill humans that had families who loved them? Why did I get to live, to sleep safely in my bed, while my friends rot in cold ground thousands of miles from home?

“War isn’t Hell. It’s worse than Hell. People in Hell are thankful they aren’t fighting in a Godless war and bleeding to death while crying for their home or their mama.”

*Dedicated to my Grandfather.  WW2 Veteran.