PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

         I had always hated the rain. It was always an omen for some form of horror, a harbinger of choas. The driving rain and vengeful gusts had a way of taking it's toll on the men; stirring the deep cauldron of loathing we'd forged in the firey crucible of combat, pain, and death. It was that hatred that had sustained us throughout the years of trench warfare, gas attacks, and endless marches. It was the deep dark warmth that had drove our ragged band of naive boys with delusions of glory upon the battlefield, grizzled men who's eyes had seen the worst of mankind for far too long, and the poor damned souls who lie in between the two.

         It was that warmth that drove our crew of banner-waving vagabonds. Now, that warmth drains from the men, as the bleed on top of me after being ripped asunder by MG's and artillery. Those who survived the barrage were claimed by the gases, their organs failing slowly. 

         Blood mixed with the stagnant puddles that my face lay submerged in, a morbid cocktail that slithered through my gasmask and threated to choke me with it viscous consistancy as it charmed out whatever bile remained within me. I threw my face upward as if to be greeted by some divine entity. Air began to slide through the syrupy concoction, burning my lungs with firey acceptence. The gas hadn't killed me, but it made sure to leave him a loving reminder of that he had danced with death once, and she is furious about being stood up. After savoring this blissful pain for a moment, I try to rise onto my feet.

          'Something is weighing me down. A fallen tree? One of the horses?' 

          I look around to see three corpses stacked upon me; Yorick, Otto, and Wilhelm.

          I knew these men for many years, fighting shoulder to shoulder with them since we foolishly began our decent into hell on earth as the only surviving members of the original crew. He could still see Wilhelm's prison tattoos covering his torso and neck, albeit harder to distigush them from his viscera draped upon the ground. It had taken a moment to recognize Yorick, for all that was left of the quick-witted little shyster was the upper portion of his chest, the bloody remnents of his left arm, and a blood streaked mop of golden hair. Finally, I inspected Otto, the jolly giant of a man who struck fear into the souls of men when he brandished his Ida, his faithful .30 Cal. His eyes had rolled back into his head as the blood oozed from his mouth and nose, his hands locked in death around his throat as formless fire devoured him.

          I knew these men for many years. It would only be fitting that we were all supposed to die together. However, fate had to make one small adjustment. Someone had to serve as the undertaker; and I had performed my macabre task in utter silence. Having aligned my brethren into as straight of a line as I could manage, I whispered a few words as a final farewell before shuting their eyes for the last time. Surveying the surrounding area, I could make out small details of the surrounding through the fog and rain.

           I couldn't decide what disturbed me more; The eerie calm that had decended upon the forest, the rivers of gore and blood that lay stagnant in the mud, or the earth turning red as it greedily drank from the muck. Even the trees, most of which were damaged by the artillery barrage, seemed to have been contorted as it graciously claimed it's blood tariff. It seemed the whole world wanted the death of my men.

          My Men. Gone. Having suffered for the failures of their leader.

          Their broken corpses littered the ground, weapons in hands. Most of the horses had fallen in the crossfire as well, crushing the wounded underfoot with their sinewy bodies. 

           My toughts beat within my skull. 'This was my fault. 

           They deserved better.

           This was MY fault...'

            I fell to my knees, devoid of emotion. I had surpassed grief and anger. All that was left was the hollow shell of myself. A fractured carapace that had at one point housed a soul. I was supposed to lead them, to guide them home once the war had ended.

            How could this have befallen the men? How could I have been so blind?

            How can I live with myself?

            My eyes locked on the loaded rifle in the nearby, still being clutched by Hanz as he bleed from the shrapnel embeded in his chest. Unable to stand, I crawled on my hands and knees toward the fallen man's gun. I would not...could not... live with this kind of guilt and responsibility. No, I would be with my men once more. With heavy hands, I grasped the rifle from the deadman's hands.

             I was mortified when the deadman's hands grasped back. And through the blood and gas, choked out the words.

             "W...Werner... We must...warn the p-people..." Hanz croaked through this broken gasmask. He began to cough violently, blood spattering out. His empty eyes locked on mine.

             I was speechless for a solid minute. Regaining my composure, I looked back into Hanz's eyes. He wasn't a day over 24 when he joined us. Now, 4 years later, I no longer see the young man with a loving wife and daughter. All that lay before me was the very pinnacle of all that is wrong within humanity.

             "I will Hanz. I promise you this." It was all I could manage as I pried his stiffened fingers off of his weapon.

             "We...must warn...the people. Warn...my family..."

              I could feel my heart grow heavier. Even as he laid dying amongst his fallen comrades, his final thoughts rest upon his home.

             "Werner...it hurts. P-Please ma..." Hanz never did finish his sentence, as his words slurred and became incoherent. I couldn't bear to witness his pain any longer. Bringing the rifle to my shoulder, he looked up and locked eyes with me once more.

             "I-I'm ready..."

             The shot echoed throughout the forest as well as my mind, and with it the last of my ilk slumped over into the mud. I was actually thankful for the rain. It helped hide the tears that streamed down my face. Tucking his guilt into his back pocket, I scavenged what I could from the dead. I knew where I'd have to go from the slaughter in order to get anywhere near a friendly place, let alone home. 237 miles west towards his homeland, I looked back once more at the field of the fallen.

              These were better men then I ever will be. And someone deserves to know their fate.