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Aftermath & the Dying Man
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Short Stories AFTERMATH
He wriggled further into the bottom corner of the trench, pushing the headset tight against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear the pathetic screams of the dying man.
He was somewhere out in the darkness, lost, alone. He cried to his God, and for his mother.
The only answer he got was from the unsympathetic toms. They had listened to him crying for the last 6 hours.
We knew he was going to die .He knew he was going to die.
He just wouldn’t do it quietly. Now he was getting on everybody’s tits.
We all silently willed him to die. Darkness cloaked the battlefield; the fighting for the moment was over. We didn’t need reminding of the previous day’s events.
The silence became deafening. It had been 40 minutes or so and no cries from the Argy.
He tried to relax and go to sleep. Though none came.
One ear was tuned in to the radio, one for the weakened enemy’s cries.
Then it started to snow.
THE DYING MAN.
Cold.
Afraid and alone.
Lost in the blankets of darkness.
Life slowly seeps from the wounds.
Where now were my comrades?
Who would now comfort me?
I see my mother’s face
Smell her sweet fragrance.
Her tender embrace,
Brings brief warmth.
But not for my body
Only my soul.
My life is nearly over
Before it has scant begun.
My hopes and aspirations
Ended on this dammed hill.
May 82.
