I'm sitting next to a young man. He looks to no older than nineteen, still a child. He has a look of fear on his face, knowing what awaits him, but not knowing when it will come. We are in a complex system of trenches, about thirty miles outside of the nearest town. There are men yelling a few meters away, but John, for that's what he says his name is, doesn't seem to notice. He looks around, but doesn't seem to see anything. I ask him again, this time he seems to snap out of his thousand meter stare.
"How long have you been here? The Wagner Defensive line, that is? (This is the main defense against the Alliance).
"I'm not sure anymore. It seems like it's been years, but that can't be right."
"OK, next question then. Where did you come from?" (For the readers who have been under a rock for the last five years, there are multiple countries in the Multi-National Defense Force).
"I was in Canada, I think. At least that's where I was when I was called into service. But as to where I was born, I'm not sure."
"You're... not sure? I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"And you never will." He starts to get defensive. "The war destroyed my home and we fled to North America before we were killed by the men who were called the police. Then the MDF called on everyone to join up, so I did. What choice did I have?" He starts to yell. "You don't know what it's like. You're a reporter, you don't fight. You just write about it." He looks down, the anger draining from his voice. "Sorry. What's the next question?"
We continue for ten more minutes, when an air raid siren sounds. John gets a look of fear on his face. Before I can ask him anymore, he sits up and runs down the trench. He knows what's about to happen. I can hear a low buzzing sound now. In a few seconds it turns into a scream. I hear a man holler, "Incoming! Get your heads down!"
Before he can get the word "heads" out, a formation of three planes come falling out of the sky, and let loose their deadly cargo. The bombs hit the ground, an explosion throws dirt into the air. Men scream, and the cry of "medic!" echos all around. Now rifles start to fire, their quick staccato sound makes my ears ring. The sharp crack of the more powerful rifles punctuate the symphony of the battle. A machine gun opens up, adding even more noise a chaos to the battle. The burning smell of gunpowder fills my nose.
As I write this, dear readers, hell on earth surrounds me. I walk through the trenches in a daze, seeing the horror, but strangely not hearing anything. I look down to my left. Laying on the ground, is a man, missing his right leg, and a gaping hole in his stomach. I read the name on his uniform. PFC DOUGLASS. I don't recognize the name, but as I stand there, staring, he makes a noise, a gurgling sound. I see his face, burned and covered in black, his face partially charred away. I don't see anything at first, but then I realize I've seen his face before. It's John.
I can now tell what he is mouthing. Water. I look around for a canteen, in not finding one I try my best to convey my regret that I cannot grant his dying wish. I bend over, and grasp his hand. It's covered in blood. He smiles, and closes his eyes forever. I let his hand fall, but in my hand is a picture. It is somehow only partially burned. I looks like a young woman. On the back it says something, but I cannot tell what. My hearing comes back to me, a man is shouting at me to get down and crawl over to him. To safety. I do, and now I sit in a reinforced bunker, safe from the hellfire that consumes the ground above me.
This is war. This is what happens. This is what is happening now, as you sit on your couch, or eat your lunch, or watch t.v. Young men die in the thousands on the bloody fields of Hades. This is the pure, unadulterated truth. Remember the boys who keep you safe. Don't forget their names. Remember the sacrifice they made for you, and the freedom that you enjoy.
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