As I Lay Dying

Thirty five

10:09 am, 11th November, 1918

~~~

"Less than an hour Harry." Jimmy shouts over the heavy artillery.

I nod, as if I too am not counting down the minutes. As if every man here doesn't know exactly how long there is left until the treaty is signed.

"I can't believe they're bloody sending us over now!"

It's insanity, madness. Just an hour to go and they're making us go up there, making us kill more men when in less than an hour the war will be over and their deaths would be counted as murder.

Rumour reached us this morning that many other battalions haven't fought at all for the past week. Not us though, we've been at it as though it's the middle of the war. To my disgust, last night our side launched a gas attack on the Germans opposite us, knowing all the while that they are just counting down the hours until the surrender, until they can just go home.

The countdown begins, the last I'll ever hear. I can feel the unwillingness of all the men, none of us wants to do this when the end is so close.

With a barely discernible amount of energy we rush over the top and scramble through the wire.

The eerie stillness of no-mans land envelopes us once more, one last time.

I have never, in all my years, got used to the otherworldly aura of this patch of land. Death has it's own sickly sweet stench and it pervades the very air here. It reeks of death and sorrow.

For the first time ever there is no row of grey Germans to greet us. They are holding back, unwilling to face us one last time, to die when the end is so close.

"Where are they?" Sergeant Marks hisses. "Are they expecting us to invade their bloody trench?"

We are halfway towards their trench when we see them. Not running towards us, but stood silently, waiting, grey clad figures watching us through the mist.

As one we point our guns. There's no rushing forwards. It's tense as we wait for Sergeant Marks to urge us on.

He doesn't.

A long beat passes and it becomes apparent that neither side is going to make the first move.

"Sir," a young solider the other side of Marks speaks, "shouldn't we...?"

"If you've got the heart for it then be my guest." Marks mutters. The solider makes to step forwards then falls back into ranks.

"But... Sir, we've got orders-"

His voice trails off. No one moves.

For the first time in four years I stare into the faces of the enemy without running towards them. I see men and boys of all ages, utterly indistinguishable from us except by their uniforms.

They look exhausted. More so than us, for they have lost and we have won, although quite what we have won I'm unsure. They don't move, they just stare at us, utterly crushed and defeated.

A old German solider stands at the front of the ranks with tears pouring silently down his face and I know that the image of him will be my lasting memory of this war. Although he is front of me, he haunts me already.

Further away we can hear the distant sounds of battle, but right here, not one of the hundreds of men on either side has heart for it. No one moves.

Suddenly a tall German sergeant steps forward. A few of his men make to move with them but he waves them back, despite the fact we all point our guns in his direction. To our astonishment he walks to the middle of the gathering and lays his gun at his feet as he looks towards Marks.