He Ran

He ran.

He ran because he knew that if he didn't get to the other side the others would die. And if the others died, he would die.

Bullets whistled over his head. The ground erupted around him showering him with earth. He stumbled and fell to the dirt. He lay dazed watching the smoke swirl upward. The smoke had no right to be so peaceful, he thought, picking himself up.

And he ran.

Coming up to a nest, he threw himself over the low wall – and into a group of three wearing enemy colours. Landing with a roll, he tripped the first man with a sweep of his rifle, pulling it back in a swift thrust ramming the butt into the gut of the second man, winding him! In a whirlwind of death, steel and wood, he spun the rifle around once more, cutting down the last man with his bayonet!

He trained his rifle on the first man and pulled the trigger. Then the second. Then the third.

“It's just what needed doing,” he thought as he looked up at the field piece. He pulled out his satchel charge and planted it.

Then he started to run.