text: I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy. Prologue: Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. Chapter 1: 2 days earlier... "The front line?" "Yep." "But we've only been here for a couple days!" "Well, you won't miss it then." I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show. "So, Alan, how long for?" "2 weeks, then they rotate us out" "Only 2 weeks?" "Yep. Pack your things." Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack. Chapter 2: The front line... Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets. Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches. About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour". Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge. "Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!" Chapter 3: The next day... Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is- "Sam?" I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast? "Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now. "Yeah, Alan?" "We're moving up-trench" "Really? Why?" "Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight." That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked. "Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds" I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?" These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting. Final Chapter: The next day, I had had an epiphany. I was that man, now. I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by. I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand. Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend. It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander. These men would follow me to hell and back. Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us. The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go. 18. 15. 11. Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped. Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same. Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping. I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner. And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.