No Man's Land

A World War I tale that demonstrates the cruelty of war, and how those killing don't much want to kill.

No man's land was silent. It had been so for about three days, now, and though that was not a rare occurrence, the air was filled with a rather awkward silence. The Germans had just been given new guns, which were imported into their trench, and they were quite eager to put them to use. It was like…Christmas time for them. The Russians trembled at the thought, for their weapons, gear, and tactics were as outdated as whatever they ate the previous night, which was probably why half of them felt queasy on top of every other emotion running through their minds, making them even more crazy than when they enlisted in the war in the first place. The main emotion all experienced was fear, for the air is filled with fear whenever you're being shot at and the people around you are being picked off one by one. Happiness, for it was near the time to rotate from the front-lines to the reserve trench, where maybe they could get some sleep, or write home. Sadness, for the last over-the-top presented to be more deadly than usual, even though it was days previous. Pride, for wasn't that why they continued to fight? To prove their country the greatest. Loyalty, for Russia couldn't back out on Serbia now, and the same went for the Germans who pledged to have Austria-Hungary's back. There was also anger and hostility, obviously, caused by the situation, taken out on anything that moves. The Eastern Front was not a very pleasant place to be, especially if you're a sixteen year old boy that is supposed to be going places.

The sixteen year old boy afore mentioned, the focus of our story, has or, rather, had, that promising future most could only dream of obtaining. His hazel eyes made him seem all the more young, all the more boyish. His mouse brown hair lay naturally a style that most of his other fellow students spent hours trying to prefect. His handsome, long face had been full of life. His healthy, slender frame would be a common sight around town, for the male had been extremely social. Though, that George Johnson was left back in his home town of Petrograd, along with his hopes and dreams. In fact, through time, even his imagination had slipped back home, leaving him to face the deadly reality that lay before him. His eyes were now glazed with fear. His hair was now disheveled and filled with debris. His face now looks frightened, smudges of dirt hiding the colorless skin. His frame had shrunk from much exercise and lack of food. This, apparently, was the life of a soldier.

George emitted a long, mournful sigh as he placed his head in his hands. The heat was unbearable…how he could've stood this for so long was beyond him. He hadn't looked around him for what seemed like ever. He had looked downward, up, and straight ahead, but whatever was to his left or right, well, he was too afraid to think about. Though, the overwhelming urge struck him, and he slowly turned his head to left, only to recoil slightly and snap his eyes forward once more. A dead body was what repulsed him so, the deceased's hand devoured by a handful of rats that were going to be able to feast for days and days on end. Disgusting. How could anybody stand war? Nasty habit the countries seemed to get themselves into, these days. Sheesh.

An explosion and a scream. Well, that was one way to wake a person up. George stood and adjusted his head gear, peering around to see which direction the commotion had come from. His left…dear lord, he didn't wish to lay eyes on the body again. Another explosion. Ah, well, he'd have to bear it or else he could end up like that dead guy himself. Couldn't have that.

George whipped out his gun and walked over to Sam, or the 'elder hand', if you will. George raised his eyebrows, and Sam's response was a simple quizzical expression that crossed his face.

"S'bout time, George. We can't just stare at each other, and they're obviously not attackin' us first. Not, er…a whole lot, anyways." Sam shrugged, giving George a pat on the back as he glared in the direction of the smoke settling in the distance.

"Ugh. Why can't we just stare at each other? Saves more lives." George replied, folding his arms across his chest.

"Boy, we'd all die just from starvation. Man, I just want to get home and get a decent shower…" Sam rolled his eyes, ruffling the few strands of gray hair that poked out from underneath his helmet.

"You would think this would be our war. I mean, they are on Russian land…" George sighed, mainly to himself.

"We're fighting over a half mile of land. There's not much for the Germans to map. I suppose…" Sam began, before being reminded, "Oh! Hey. Zimmer had his leg amputated yesterday."

"What? But…he wasn't wounded on the last over-the-top…" George said, confusion coating his voice.

"Yeah, but the idiot decided it'd be clever to battle Chester with his gun. I mean, they were just kinda…doing this sword fight thing, but Chester, of course, forgot to unload his gun, and well…obviously…" Sam sighed, shaking his head.

"So that's what I heard last night. I just thought Andrews wet the bed again…" George allowed an expression that suggested deep thought to come across him.

"Nah, random act of stupidity." Sam said simply.

"And you'd think people would have more sense…" George was interrupted by the sounding of two shrill whistles, causing a large groan to fill the otherwise silent day.

George and Sam both climbed overtop of the trench, gun and bayonet pointing in the direction of the enemy. Those few lucky ones with wire cutters led the way through the barbed wire, climbing through, overtop, and underneath, injuries striking many Russians. Sam and George successfully passed, however, but it couldn't be considered…'lucky' for them, exactly. Both ran alongside the others towards the enemy, who seemed to have a sneer across their faces. The heads of new, deadly guns pointed at Russia, ready to fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, George noticed Sam was no longer with him. A surge of panic swept over him as he, rather stupidly, doubled back to see if he could find Sam. He was unable to spot the male standing up, and though he didn't wish to look down (the Germans had begun their fire, and if you weren't alert you were as good as dead), he felt compelled to search for his friend. Sure enough, Sam's helmet lay at his feet, Sam himself about three yards away, face down. A wave of emotions ran through George…grief, fear, anger. What were people's problems, obsessions with killing? This whole war was out of control.

Of course, if George had just kept going instead of searching for the man, he might have been safe. Or he might have died quickly.

A gun shot, rather distinctly heard in George's ear ran throughout the day, a piercing pain shooting through his leg. He let out a painful scream, his hand immediately reaching down to cover the bleeding wound. He stumbled back, the unbearable feeling not allowing him to think clearly, and he went down. Down into a ditch, if you wish to be specific, a ditch filled with nothing but dirt and insects. But George didn't care…the pain, hard to manage. Tears filled his eyes…at least Sam's death was quick. The ditch was in the middle of No Man's land, though extremely close to the German's trench…nobody would find him. He was doomed…going to suffer to death. He was sure of it.

A moan to his right calmed him down slightly. He slowly turned his head to find who it was. Panic struck him as he saw a man in a German uniform, laying five feet away. George's face relaxed, however, when he saw the man clutching his knee…this guy was wounded too. And, by the looks of it, his gun was dropped somewhere. Or stolen.

Hours passed where both men lay in the ditch, moaning with pain. George's pain was letting up only slightly, just to be replaced with a feeling of numbness. Though it was much more welcome than the pain, the numbness seemed just as bad. He noticed the other man's moans had softened slightly as well, and he slowly turned his head to look at him once more.

"Stupid…" the German whispered, almost painfully, his eyes closed.

"What?" George responded, startled that the man spoke.

"This war. Its stupid." he explained, looking at George.

"I agree…" George said, his voice trailing off at the end.

"I thought Germany was so great. This doesn't seem so great…this war. It's stupid." It was like the only word the man could describe the war was with 'stupid'. Not that George minded…it was the truth. Anytime someone died for no reason was stupid.

"I agree." George said once more.

"I'm Charlie." the man said, trying his hardest to be friendly.

"George." He was puzzled by this man's act of kindness.

"I don't think we're going to see our family's again, George." Charlie said, waving a weak hand over at George's leg and then at his own wound.

"I agree. I don't think we're going to see anybody again, actually." George sighed, looking away from the man and up at the sky, not minding that the sun was blinding him. He hadn't seen sun for ever, it seemed…it had just rained for days on end. He couldn't count the number of men who had their foot amputated from Trench Foot. Stupid mud.

"I agree." Charlie mocked, giving George a weak smile.

George looked back over, taking in the man's face, finally. It was hard to read a man's face when it was twisted in pain, but when there was even the faintest trace of a smile, it was easier to judge. Charlie appeared to be young…couldn't be over twenty, but surely wasn't as young as sixteen-year-old George. He was clearly handsome; war hadn't taken that from him. Charlie reminded George of his younger brother, Max, still back at home in Petrograd, safe, finishing his schooling years. George desperately hoped this thing would be over before Max could come enlist. Max…in the war. It was actually a humorous, though frightening thought. Max, the boy who never really matured, whose boyish nature stuck with him like superglue sticks to…well…practically anything.

"I still don't understand why we're shooting at one another…" Charlie gasped, obviously being slapped by another wave of pain. "I mean, me and you aren't yelling profanities at one another."

"Well, for one thing, we're both dying. And I've yelled my fair share of profanities in my life. Plus, you weren't the one who shot me." George shrugged.

"True, true." Charlie said, engaging himself in deep thought. Or it seemed so, at least, to George, who was still studying his face.

Charlie slowly turned his head and met George's eyes. Charlie stared for a moment before letting out a large (well, as large as a dying man possibly could) laugh, breaking the silence, causing George to jump.

"What?!" George snapped, breathing heavily.

"Will you stop staring at me? It's funny how you keep looking at me." Charlie responded, the smile back upon his face.

George narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Sorry." he grumbled, returning his gaze to the sky. Another shooting pain shot through his leg like a rocket, causing him to wince and moan.

Luckily, Charlie didn't respond to that. Instead, he shakily rose from his lying position, propping himself up by his hands. "You know, George, you're not so bad." Charlie said absentmindedly, not looking at him.

"What? You expected that because I'm Russian, I'm an evil killer? I hate this just as much as you!" George snapped angrily, his head shooting back at Charlie.

"Now, don't get all defensive. I didn't mean it like that." Charlie responded, eerily calm.

"Then how did you mean it?" George asked, feeling awkward still sprawled out on the ground. He hesitated a moment and then struggled to prop up his upper torso, leaning on his elbows, his legs straight out in front of him.

"I mean…this is war, George. You don't have friends in war…not good ones, at any rate. It's either an ally or an enemy. It was nice to laugh." Charlie shrugged, almost sheepish. "I enjoy your company, even though we've only just met and we're both dying."

George sighed. "Yeah. This must be the highlight of this whole thing. I blame it on government…the war. I mean, let's face it. It's their battle, and we're fighting it…and dying in the process. Who knows, me and you could be like…second cousins five times removed or something. But it doesn't matter…we're just here to kill."

Charlie gave a chuckle at that. "Exactly, George…It's a wonder…" But Charlie was cut off by the sound of footsteps, which attracted both of their attentions to the top of the ditch. Two Germans were approaching with a stretcher. They must have heard Charlie's laughter.

George stared in disbelief. The chances of being saved had been slim to none…but there they were, ready to take at least Charlie away. Not that the chances were good at any rate, but if he survived amputation…maybe Charlie was wrong. Maybe he could see his family again.

"Hey, fellas." Charlie said calmly, not seeming to care that help was coming. "Any chance you could take care of my buddy, George, while you're at it?"

The two soldiers looked over at George. They scanned his uniform, then his leg, before looking back at Charlie, now lying upon the stretcher. One nodded to the other and took out his gun. George responded by allowing a look of horror sweep over him, which then caught Charlie.

"No…guys…George is…don't…" he pleaded, eyes wide.

There was nothing that could be done. George would've died anyways. George swallowed hard as he stared the gun in the face.

This was war. The killing of innocent people. And for what? An issue solved that could have easily been done peacefully by negotiations between Austria-Hungry and Serbia.

A gun shot pierced the air and the sixteen year old's previous leg wound no longer mattered.

Author's Note

Written for a school project a year ago. I don't believe I captured the emotional trauma as well as I would have liked, though.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

There is a great deal I like in this piece--the plot is quite well-developed, and you have a very nice feel for dialogue. There are also things that don't work as well for me. Your main character is from Petrograd, so I'm guessing we're observing Russian soldiers here; if that is the case, there shouldn't be George and Sam and Chester--it should be Dmitri, Ivan, and Nikita. It also seems that you're a little unsure of what you want from your characters--sometimes what they say is very much normal and conversational, sometimes they seem like vessels for your thoughts and opinions (and this is something that even very good writers slip into from time to time); you need to make a clear decision whether you want to present a situation as it actually happens, or if you want the story to be a parable of sorts.

I want to emphasize that, even though I seem to be dwelling on the negative aspects of the piece, I like it a great deal--it's an excellent idea, and it could work nicely as either a realistic portrait of life on the front or as a morality tale. There are bunches and bunches of people who would sell their mothers to the gypsies to write this well.

[Kevin Vorshak]

Actually, you caught the trauma extremely well. This is one mature piece of writing. If I might make any suggestions, look at making the paragraphs a little less passive, but the storyline itself is written beautifully.