Daemon Inter Homines

The title means: A Demon Among Men

They masscred them. My brothers falling left and right, some refusing to charge forward at the request of the Commissar, to face certain death for the Glorious Motherland. I can't believe that I find myself in the god forsaken hell-hole, bullets wizzing all around and losing my countrymen. They are my neighbors, my collegues, my friends, and some, like Dimitri, are my family.

The Commissar forces my brothers and I forward, to the gates of the old square. We were met by a platoon of Nazis and a hail of gun and mortar fire just over the ridge. Some hide in buildings, some stand out like idiots in the streets, my heart races, will I be the next lamb to the slaughter? No. I must fight on. Must... clear them out. Building by building, room by room, one soul at a time. My heart races as my brothers and I flank to the right to clear the building of a group of Nazi foot soldiers raining hell from above. I lunge forward with my foot and kick the door open. Time slows and tunnel vision sets in as I see my target preparing loading his weapon. I close my eyes tighter than any mortal man can pry apart and blindly fire into the room. My brothers fall in behind me, and clear the room. Those fathers and husbands fall to the ground in a hail of flash and fire, but we did not care, nor think of it at the time, we had a job to do.

The bodies fell, and the gunfire blazed through the night as we pushed the Nazi forces out of the city, and into the countryside. My job was done. We all collapsed around the campfire and talked amongst ourselves. The young ones merrily proclaimed how after they defeat the Germans, they will have a Hero's welcome into Russia. The experienced talked about home and their families, and then there was us, the expendables. Those who went to war to escape Stalin's Purges and the gulags alike. We, who were deemed fit to fight by our leaders, are given the dirty work of taking the brunt of Nazi assaults, and the clean-up detail, where we piled and burned decaying bodies of both our brothers and the enemy. After our work was done, we sat amongst the general population of soldiers, our "elder" brothers, our superiors, and more "hardened" combat veterans discussing the horrors of the recent conflict in the city square.

I, Vasili Caushev, a vodka drinking, expendable, devout Communist, and convicted thief has tasted the blood of the enemy, and it is sour. Sour as the stalest of vodka, and as bitter as the morning gruel those fools serve us as rations. I destroyed a possible father, husband, friend, family member, and student. Maybe, I could have been friends with this Nazi, and maybe, he felt the same as I did upon his first kill. But good Communists have no say in these matters. We have a job to do, for Stalin, for the Motherland. For the bloody Motherland. 

Author's Note

My first writing on here, would like some reviews.