About the Author: This author is 13, and in his free time plays video games. He likes to read and likes to spend time with his family.
“War does not determine who is right - only who is left.”-Bertrand Russell. Right now I feel this quote perfectly depicts my strife and my entire squad’s.
“We must’ve pulled the short straw,” piped Private Mondy.
“Mmf,” grunted Sergeant Carver in agreement, packing up the deceased soldiers belongings and taking what was useful.
“I can’t believe he got caught in a trap, second one this mission already,” I said.
“Well, it isn’t uncommon for those damned rats to play dirty,” rasped the Sergeant, well bent over the pit with the mangled corpse many feet below.
“Does this happen often?” questioned Mondy in a flat voice as if his previous excitement was sucked out of him at the realization of this war.
“I wish I could say no, but it is all too common,” I said, almost hating the fact that I was right. This wasn’t the first time one of our men was killed in a trap and this was far from the last time it would happen. All across the front, traps are set up by the капкан squad. Whether the traps are meant to kill like the pitfall trap in front of us, slow down like a tripline, or immobilize like bear traps; the war is riddled with them.
“A war is normally fought with guns, right?” asked Mondy in a confused voice.
“I would be grateful. You don’t have to deal with those blasted contraptions as much as normal soldiers,” spat Sergeant Carver in his gruff voice. Mondy jumped in conformation.
“The Sergeant doesn’t like guns because they finish the fight ‘unfairly’.” I said in a voice reminiscent of mocking.
Every few hours, almost on queue, one of the 10 remaining soldiers, excluding me, would find and or set off a trap. However, no deaths ensued. This remained the same for the next day until they reached the clearing in between the enemies main line and the woods that separate the two opposing sides.
“We turn back here,” grunted the Sergeant in a quiet voice as we started to angle the squad to trudge back through the dense forest.
Mondy turned and pointed at a tall, skinny man about 50 yards away with what appeared to be a gruesome grin gallivanting across his face. It was then that I noticed them. Nine more men lurked in the shadows behind the knotted trees, eyeing them.
“The trap squad,” I spat as they watched us from afar.
Under normal circumstances we would hold our ground, but in this scenario, so close to the enemy line with parts of our squad missing, there was no way. Sergeant Carver must have realised the same thing as he started barking orders.
“All units retreat. Me and corporal Alaric will guard your retreat!” the Sergeant barked orders as I dropped to one knee to steady my aim and pulled my rifle out, and made all the necessary preparations to shoot in a fraction of a second before opening fire.
Two men fell before they could understand what was happening. One bullet from me and one from Sergeant Carver. I remained there on one knee like a sentry for a couple more seconds before deciding they would remain in cover, and so I started a mad dash in the direction of the dirt, along with the Sergeant.
As we ran, we noticed the corpses of many others, whether their death was caused by bullet holes in their back or caught in recently deployed traps, each person had a look of desperation scribed across their faces.
After what felt like many miles, filled with the smell of blood and sweat, and shedding equipment to have enough energy to make it a little bit further, we could run no longer. We then dug into a giant uprooted tree and made camp. Out of the nine people who had been left in the 13 man squad, only three remained.
“All dead or missing but us?!” exclaimed Mondy, in a voice that left a tinge of fear in the air.
“Yes,” I said with the same fear lingering after the words rolled out my mouth.
“Well, either we stay here and fight or run and are hunted like dogs,” the Sergeant let the thought diffuse into the air, and let us ponder it. I was the first to say the only answer that was plausible
“We might as well run. We don't have enough people or supplies to sustain a fight lasting more than a couple of seconds. Remember, we only have our sidearms, barely enough ammo for one reload, and one knife.”
We decided our only option was to flee back to the remnants of our camp from the night prior to collect the excess supplies, and from there we’d go straight to the front held by our regiment.
“This plan is by no means perfect. However there is one large flaw,” Sergeant Carver said in a lowered voice, as to not be heard
“What might that flaw be?” I asked, in a similarly low voice.
“We are not the only recon unit scouting these woods, and it is most likely that they won't be very friendly,” the Sergeant said.
We all had issues realising that our fate was almost certainly sealed to death in these woods one way or another, in the almost complete silence that ensued I blurted,
“We Should give ‘em hell to our last breath.” This was purely meant to reassure me, however it seemed to have sparked a semblance of hope in the two weary soldiers sitting next to me. Over the next few hours we decided one of us would keep watch as the other two slept, and we would rotate watch shifts as to not be exhausted for the hard day to come.
During my shift it was so dark I started to hallucinate the images of our dead comrades, some of which I knew their families, and as much as it pained me, I knew that I could do nothing to fix the fact that they were dead and would never come back. I also knew that in the grand scheme of this war 10 dead soldiers means about as much as losing a couple rifles, and in the end we don’t mean very much. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands just like us doing the exact same things as us. Eating the same food, drilling the same way, and dying the same ways.
“Last night was very nerve racking, keeping watch by yourself,” Mondy said, while setting and hiding various simple but some deadly traps to cover our escape.
“True as that may be, it is necessary and you’ll need that skill when we get back to the safety of what we call home.” Sergeant Carver said
“We should be leaving now,” I said, slightly fearing that the traps wouldn’t hold, or a rabbit or other creature would somehow trip one of the traps alerting our hunters of their existence.
The rest of the day was spent traipsing through the woods, our only rest was when we stopped to set up one more tripline or one more mine. It was just passed mid day when we heard the detonation of a mine we had set up only about one hundred yards behind us, the blood instantly drained from my face and my tongue tasted like iron as I realised just how much ground we had lost. Only one hour later we could hear the sound of the brush snapping under the weight of a grown man's stride merely 50 feet behind us. Five seconds after, starting the mad sprint into the forest, I heard a gunshot and someone a good distance behind me fall, another five seconds I heard another shot and thought I could make out Sergeant Carvers hoarse cry of pain. Three minutes from then I stopped behind a nearby knotted and ground down stump of a long dead tree, I waited and watched for what felt like hours every second felt like a minute and every minute felt like an eternity. It felt like the more time passed, the closer I was to my death.
I woke from my fear induced dreams to the sound of gunfire. It sounded like it was a safe distance behind me, but I decided it would probably be best to move away from the sounds of imminent death. About a mile from my resting spot the night before, I felt a burning trickle in my abdomen. At first, I ignored the pain and the bullet lodged somewhere deep inside of my stomach but after another ten yards I fell to my my knees, and then my face landed in the blood soaked dirt. It took all of my leftover strength to drag myself to a bullet ridden tree. I looked around at the remnants of various squads that I hadn’t noticed from my pain induced madness. Every corpse there was just like mine; torn and tattered from days of pain and despair,
“This is a place for the broken to come die. Including me,” I announced to my limp audience. Even if one or two of the bodies lying there had tried to kill me, I still somewhat understood their strife and pain. Among the dead, I picked out private Mondy and some of the Russians, who had tried to kill me only a couple of hours before. I watched the bodies and their stagnant expressions, whether of glee or dread they all had the same fate in the end and nothing could change that fact.
“In the end us infantry are fated to die and be replaced. We are but mere cattle in this war. We mean nothing. And no glory is found in war.” I came to that realisation as my executioner’s footsteps grew near and his own butcher not far behind him.