War Stories

War has a tendency to produce the most terrible of stories. Stories of killing and survival. Stories of heroic bravery and depraved barbarism. Here is my story. The story of how I survived the Massacre at Mercia.

The house was dark and quiet like it usually was. We didn’t burn candles. The small stash we did have had been slowly dwindling for months. Only for the most special of occasions did father dig up a candle and light it for the briefest of moments. Father and mother kept it dark and quiet so we wouldn’t be discovered by the soldiers. It didn’t matter if it was an “enemy” soldier or one of ours. They treated us the same either way.

I remember playing outside when I was younger. My brother Mishka had been too young to run with me. He didn’t understand why I got so sad whenever I talked about the games I used to play with my friends. We were forced to hide in our own home, hoping that no one would come knocking. We lived on an abandoned block so patrols liked to skip us on their daily routes. Father had to be careful when he went to collect rations. We lived in relative peace for a while. That all changed one day when father came home from a ration run, empty handed and out of breath.

“We have to leave,” he said.

“Father, what is the matter?” I asked, but he ignored our questions and begged us to hurry as he grabbed some sacks for us to stuff belongings in.

“Have they found us?” I remember my mother asking.

“They are shooting people in the streets! We need to leave,” my father said. The distant sound of gunfire that we had grown so accustomed to started getting closer. “It is a full blown purge. They are leaving no one alive.”

We packed quickly, stuffing whatever was within reach into the sacks. My mother tried to fill her sack with photos and other memorabilia, but there was not enough room for it all and my mother started crying, saying that she was losing so much. Father admonished her, saying we would lose everything if we didn’t hurry. The streets in our neighborhood were deafeningly silent and still. The feeling was like walking through a color photograph. Down the side streets and alleys we went, father, mother, Mishka and I.  Mishka would ask in that overly loud whisper of his where we were going and father would tell him that we were headed to the country before telling him to shut his trap.

There was naught to greet us but the gaping holes that used to be store fronts. Stray dogs scurried about, chewing on things I did not want to contemplate. I was a stew pot of emotions. When we reached what used to be the main square, my father warned us that the “enemy” had been spotted close and to keep our eyes open. It was exhilarating to be outside for the first time in so long, yet I was filled with apprehension for I had a feeling that I would never see my home again.

“Halt!” came a terrible shout.

“Don’t shoot! We are civilians,” my father said.

“Stay where you are!”

I had my hands in the air, but I could turn my head enough to see the voice’s owner. It was a soldier wearing the tattered remains of a beige uniform with red and yellow trim and pointing a musket right at us. Two other soldiers joined the first.

“Please, we only want to escape,” my mother pleaded.

“Drop your bags,” the soldier said.

“We have no food or valuables. This is only our life possessions,” my father said.

“Drop it or I kill you!” the soldier shouted.

We all complied. Except for Mishka. He refused to give up his toys. Father hit him upside the head and told him our lives were more important than some stupid toys. A shot rang out. We all froze at the sound. One of the soldiers fell down, dead. The other two turned and fired at the building where the shot had come from. Suddenly more shots from the avenue behind the building and more and more. A group of “enemy” soldiers had found a group of friendly soldiers. Father grabbed us and ran.

All I remember after that was a blur of war torn streets, bullet riddled buildings, and death. So much death. No, actually I also remember a song. Yes, an anthem was playing over the city’s public announcement speakers. I remember it vaguely but I remember it all the same.

Let there be blood in the streets.

Let there be warmth in our hearts.

Let there be Victory at the end of the sword,

And let there be songs! Sung! War!

 

It was so long ago, I thought I’d forgotten. It was a bloody purge. We were the few that escaped, my family and I. All of our friends and family perished. To this day I still recall the name of the soldier that led us to freedom. The “enemy” soldier named Brooks. The only man with mercy at the Massacre at Mercia.

Author's Note

A short little diddy, me trying a different style.

Reviews

[Kay/Hayden]

Amazing! You are very good at this style of writing, a very descriptive holocaust story. Could totally be turned into a book! -Kay

[StarNinja]

Well thanks so much for the review K/H. I had tried a different kind of writing style when I wrote this and its sort of turned into one of my primary styles since then. I'm glad you think it's book worthy :)

[De-personalize Yourself]

F**k yes! This was so awesome! I was drawn in right from the beginning and couldn't look away until the end. The decription was perfect- not so gruesome that I wanted to puke, but vivid enough that the image painted in my mind was one of fear, sadness, loss... and death... lots of death. Really really groovy story, good work xox

[StarNinja]

Thanks for the kind words. I'm glad this different writing style ended up entertaining someone at least. I think it still needs some refinement but glad to know the effort was not wasted. I see you've been busy since last I read your stuff. I'll have to take another look at it.

[De-personalize Yourself]

Not too busy, really. I've only added a few new pieces, a lot less than I should d: