Notches

Notches

Erle

12/13/17

Day by day, week by week, and month by month. Seasons go by, snow, falling leaves, greening trees, just to do it all over again. Mindless, numbing, and lifeless. That is who we are. My name is meaningless. The year is 1915. The war has been in full swing and the time of running back and forth has grown old. This is no place for heroics, and there are no heroes to speak of. Just chances that have died before they’ve had a breath of life between our trench and theirs. No Mans Land is filled with the lost souls of our fallen brethren, who died in the name of freedom. My rifle, once clean and shiny, not marred with blood and rust. I took care of it and I was prepared for the worst each day. But like me, it has dulled with time. Only now I realise that the worst isn't being shot or wounded, not even watching your friends bleed out as the life drains from their bodies and you lose another piece of yourself to the war’s cruel plays of havoc. The endless days are tolling on the mind and we cease to exist as we did. Each day, every engagement is the same, with the occasional yell for a gas attack. Again, it was once black and scrubbed clean after every use, but my mask has become muddied with the blood of my fallen brothers. It is forever wretched into the fabric around the eye sockets as if to keep us from forgetting that we are still alive, and not the lucky ones whom death has embraced.. This is no way to exist, stuck in a rut, knee deep in mud and blood, filled with suffering and misery. Pain and cries of despair are a daily occurance in our trench. The only item that is recognisable as it was when I enlisted all those months ago is my service pistol. Never once has it ever fired. Some would call that good luck and good fortune, but I know otherwise. When you feel like we do, you realise the only salvation is through death's door, and with the pistol it meant close combat and death was only a heartbeat away. I had never been out of the trench and never recorded any kills. I peered at the helmets and rifles of my fellow companions, all notched with lines or tallies of kills. Or fallen brothers… And it is right there in that sobering thought, you are reminded you are not even just a name or a number. Not even a thing… you’re just there, a puppet, a marionette, whatever you please. So whether those notches were deaths or kills, ask yourself, is one really better than the other?