Saturday, March 11, 2006

Trenches, PG-13

Wrote this for a Social Studies assignment who knows how long ago. Had to include words that the teacher had listed(World War I, Zimmerman Telegram, Wilson, the Allies, u-boats, Franz Ferdinand, Lusitania) on the board for us. Figured I'd share it. Still needs a little work, but everyone who's read it so far has enjoyed it. "TRENCHES" by Kayla 1. The mire was our first problem. Miles of trenches dug through France and all were filled with mire, some of it waist deep. The mire wasn’t our only problem though, merely the first. The trenches were infested with rats, lice and, if not the most abundant and largest problem, the most obvious one: dead bodies. I hadn’t noticed as my comrades fell to their deaths in the trench beside me. The only thing on my mind had been to mow down the opposing forces and allow ours, the Allies, to advance. My trusty machine gun laid in my hands, still warm from the recent firefight. An American, panting as he sloshed through the mire, sank beside me in one of the nearly mire-less areas of the trench. “Hello, my friend,” he greeted, a cheery demeanor about him, truly a man who enjoyed a good fight. “Apologies. My English . . . not so good, da?” I replied, smiling half-heartedly at the American. The American grinned and began speaking in my native tongue. “Do not worry, comrade. I happen to speak fluent Russian. My father’s idea, of course. He wished for me to become well-read and educated. What better way than by learning a new language, yes?” “My own father felt the same way. English, however, is a language I have yet to master, I am afraid. Though, this war has severely helped in my conquering of various other languages I am proud to say. . . .” The educated American nodded but did not continue the conversation. He eyed the still bodies lying in the mire nearby. “Friends of yours?” he finally questioned, noting the Cyrillic lettering on each man’s uniform. “Men I met and had fought beside for many days. We became close. Friends, possibly. No relationship transcends one formed on the battlefield. The fight for life and the trust you must place in your comrades.” The conversation, again, lapsed. The sound of more soldiers slogging through the mire brought the American and I’s attention to our left. Four soldiers, each holding onto one part of a makeshift stretcher, were carrying a groaning soldier to receive medical treatment. “The nearest medic . . . where can we find one?” the nearest soldier questioned in French. “I have not seen a medic through here in days. My apologies,” I answered, giving them a sorrowful look. The American inclined his head to his right. “If I’m not mistaken, I passed a medic on my way here. Probably eight hundred yards that way,” he jerked his head, “near a fork. There was some kind of explosion. It’s a real mess . . . but I wish your friend the best of luck.” The four soldiers and the makeshift stretcher continued on their way. A fifth soldier, trailing the other four, came to rest opposite the American and myself. “How ‘bout that Wilson, huh? Sendin’ us out here all a’cause of a telegram and some u-boats,” grumbled the soldier, a southern United States drawl slurring his words in certain places. Either that or he was drunk. “Telegram?” I asked, not familiar with the United States reasons for entering the war. Mr. Bilingual responded. “The Zimmerman Telegram.” “Ah, yes. I understand now. I am familiar with the document.” “Hey,” intruded Mr. Drawl, “you two mind speakin’ in English?” Bilingual apologized. “Sorry. Our Russian friend here cannot speak English very well.” “Righ’. ‘Course ‘e don’. What’s the chance I kin run inter summin’ from ‘round here who does speak English?” “Small possibility, I’m afraid. I suggest you take up learning some French or German while you’re here.” Drawl laughed. “Nah. I don’ think I’ll be ‘round all too much longer. Not here in these God damn trenches. Not too worried ‘bout it.” “All Wilson’s doing, I suppose?” “Tha’s righ’. If it weren’ fer him, I’d be home with my wife an’ kids righ’ now. Not havin’ ta worry ‘bout no Central Powers or carin’ ‘bout the death o’ some ‘archduke’ or whatever . . .” “Franz Ferdinand,” I added, though I was paying more attention to my machine gun than to Drawl. “Righ’, righ’,” Drawl continued, nodding absently. “Sure, the Lusitania was a loss, but nothin’ to join a war o’er.” Shouting from across the battlefield. Returned shouting from the mire filled trenches. The sound of bullets whizzing overhead brought the three of us to attention, myself and Bilingual quicker to the punch than Drawl. A soft plop in the mire below us brought about a sense of underlying panic. A grenade lay by Drawl’s foot. “Shit, you two go on! Run!” Bilingual and I didn’t argue. Through the mire, the muck, the dead bodies, we ran, never looking back, afraid of what we’d see. Drawl stood and kicked the grenade as his comrades escaped in the opposite direction. “Everybody down—” The explosion that followed was only one of many that day in the trenches. Drawl fell to the ground, half his right leg now missing. The mire had absorbed most of the explosion and spared Drawl’s life. As his vision faded, unconsciousness coming for him, Bilingual and I returned to his side, lifted him up and began carrying him to the nearest medic. If he had the guts to gamble his life to a grenade and emerge victorious, we would not leave him to bleed to death. World War I would not be taking any more casualties. Not on our watch. Not today. I am writing a second chapter but it's on the backburner right now. *shrug*

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