With a click, the maxim was rendered empty, but the damage had been done, over thirty men just died by my hands. As the final rounds of ammunition were expended from the machine gun, the deafening roar of gunfire gave way to an eerie silence. Smoke hung in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of gunpowder and death. The battlefield lay littered with the lifeless bodies of enemy soldiers, a haunting testament to the devastation wrought by the relentless hail of bullets.

 

I knelt there, my heart heavy with a mix of triumph and sorrow. The enemy had been vanquished, but at a tremendous cost. The realization of the lives I had taken settled upon me like a crushing weight, overwhelming me with a sense of grief and remorse.

 

Thirty men—thirty lives—snuffed out in an instant. Each fallen soldier had their own hopes, dreams, and loved ones waiting for them back home. They were sons, brothers, fathers, and friends. And now, they lay motionless, their futures stolen away on the battlefield.

 

This is not the first time I have taken a human life. I had a home intruder a few years back, the robber broke in with a knife and a lust for treasure. Instead of riches, I introduced his face to buckshot. I still remember the bloodied open hole on the left side of his otherwise youthful face. Bones were turned to mush leaving skin to hang loosely over the wound. Blood pooled over tile as viscera and grey matter leaked out the exit wound.

 

As I stared into the remainder eye, I felt nothing. He had willingly chosen to break into my place of dwelling with intent to harm or threaten me. I had long come to the conclusion that I could take a human life, and so I did for a good reason.

 

This however, many of these men were drafted and sent off to fight for a cause they didn’t start. As the weight of their deaths bore down on me, the realization that these soldiers were conscripted and thrust into a war they did not choose gnawed at my conscience. They were caught in the crossfire of political agendas and power struggles, their lives sacrificed for the ambitions of others.

 

I couldn't help but question the morality of it all. How could I justify their deaths as collateral damage in a conflict they had no control over? These were not the enemies I sought vengeance against; they were victims of circumstance, just like me.

 

The scene before me, with its haunting stillness and the lifeless bodies, became a stark reminder of the futility of war. The trenches, once filled with camaraderie and hope, were now transformed into a graveyard. The echoes of gunshots lingered in the air, mingling with the heavy silence, as a testament to the tragedy that had unfolded.

 

I spied one of the fallen soldiers, his face frozen in an expression of fear and pain. I traced the contours of his lifeless features with my gaze, feeling a deep sorrow well up within me. He was someone's son, perhaps a brother or a husband. His dreams and aspirations were forever extinguished, lost in the chaos of battle.

 

Guilt washed over me as I grappled with the consequences of my actions. I had become a killer, an agent of death, but I had never signed up for this. Like many others, I was drawn into the war against my will, forced to take up arms and face the horrors of the battlefield.

 

I tried to shake these thoughts out of my weary mind. As soon as you saw the enemy as man, the sooner you will die. This was something my grandfather taught me. I will dwell on my actions during piece, not when hesitation will get me killed.

 

I turned my gaze away from the battlefield and turned to the Mk.1 Maxim gun in my grip. Instantly I realized that I had not run out of ammo, the belt had simply got turned and then cut by the feeding mechanism. It was no wonder that these things required a second man to help feed the bullets.

 

Realizing the situation with the ammunition, a mix of relief and frustration washed over me. Relief that I still had rounds left to defend myself if needed, and frustration that a simple mechanical error had prevented me from making the most of the situation. But dwelling on these thoughts would do me no good in the present moment.

 

I took a deep breath, steadying myself amidst the aftermath of the battle. The enemy had been dealt a heavy blow, but I knew this was just one small victory in a much larger conflict. There was still work to be done, and the war raged on.

 

With renewed determination, I assessed my surroundings. The battlefield stretched out before me, scarred by the violence that had unfolded. The smoke was beginning to dissipate, revealing a landscape marred by trenches, craters, and the remnants of war. The silence that had settled was haunting, a stark contrast to the chaos and carnage that had unfolded just moments ago.

 

I worked on reloading the belt into the feeding mechanism, but the fog in my mind and quaking hands made it nigh impossible. It felt like I could never quite get a full breath of air, and my skin exposed skin began to itch uncontrollably.

 

As I struggled with the task at hand, the physical and emotional toll of the battle began to weigh heavily on me. The adrenaline that had fueled my actions now gave way to exhaustion, my body and mind yearning for respite from the horrors that surrounded me.

 

I paused for a moment, leaning against the trench wall, and closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The itchiness on my skin grew more intense, a constant reminder of the toxic environment I had been exposed to. The gas had permeated my senses, leaving a lingering discomfort that refused to dissipate.

 

I needed to get out of this toxic environment but getting out of the trench meant death by sniper from the enemy trench. So all I could do was suck it up and wait for reinforcements. Leaving my post could also net me a punishment or get me branded as a deserter. Id rather not get shot by my own country after surviving all this.

 

As I leaned against the trench wall, feeling the weight of exhaustion and the persistent itchiness on my skin. As I leaned against the trench wall, feeling the weight of exhaustion and the persistent itchiness on my skin, a sense of vulnerability washed over me. The realization that I was trapped in this toxic environment, unable to escape without risking my life or facing severe consequences, filled me with frustration and helplessness.

 

The war had taken its toll on me, both physically and mentally. The horrors I had witnessed, the lives I had taken, and the moral ambiguity of it all had left an indelible mark on my soul. I yearned for a respite from the constant state of alertness, the fear that permeated every moment of my existence.

 

But in the midst of this turmoil, a glimmer of hope emerged. A voice called out from a nearby trench, a comrade who had weathered the storm alongside me. "Hold on, help is on the way!" they shouted, their words carrying a mix of exhaustion and determination.

 

Reinforcements were coming. It was a small comfort, but one that offered a spark of optimism in the darkness. I realized that I was not alone in this fight, that there were others who understood the sacrifices and hardships we endured.

 

 

With renewed resolve, I focused on the task at hand. I continued my efforts to reload the belt into the feeding mechanism, pushing past the fog in my mind and the trembling in my hands. The process was slow and arduous, but I refused to give up.

 

As I struggled with the reloading, my thoughts drifted back to the fallen soldiers, the victims of this senseless war. I silently vowed to carry their memory with me, to honor their lives by seeking an end to the cycle of violence and destruction.

 

Time seemed to stretch on as I worked, the sounds of distant gunfire and the occasional explosion serving as a stark reminder of the ongoing battle. But I remained focused, determined to fulfill my duty until reinforcements arrived.

 

Finally, with a sense of relief, I successfully reloaded the ammunition belt into the feeding mechanism. The Maxim gun was once again ready to unleash its deadly hail of bullets, should the need arise. But now, in this moment of temporary respite, I hoped for a lull in the fighting, a chance to catch my breath and regain some semblance of composure.

 

With a sigh of relief, that caused another brutal coughing fit, I laid my head down and tried to clear my head. My helmet shifted uncomfortably to the side. With my adrenaline fading, so did my consciousness. As I laid my head down, the exhaustion and toll of the battle finally caught up with me. Before I could even realize it, darkness had consumed me.

 

In the darkness, my mind became a swirl of fragmented memories and haunting images. I was transported back to my home, to that fateful encounter with the intruder. The blood, the violence, the feeling of power and justification—it all came rushing back with a vengeance. I was trapped within the nightmares of my own making.

 

…

 

I regained consciousness but found myself enveloped in darkness. Panic gripped me as I tried to move, but my body felt heavy and unresponsive. I called out for help, my voice strained and filled with desperation.

 

A gentle, reassuring voice broke through the darkness, soothing my fears. "It's alright, soldier. You're safe now," the voice said. I felt a comforting touch on my arm, and the nurse's presence offered a glimmer of solace in the midst of my confusion.

 

The nurse explained that I had suffered temporary blindness due to the exposure to the toxic gas on the battlefield. She assured me that my vision would return in time, but I needed to be patient. Her words offered a sliver of hope, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of vulnerability and frustration at my current condition.

 

Days turned into nights as I lay in the tent, relying on the nurse's care and guidance. She provided comfort and support, sharing stories of resilience and survival that helped alleviate my anxiety. Her presence became a beacon of light in my darkest moments.

 

…

 

As I lay in the tent, enveloped in darkness, the nurse's soothing presence provided a much-needed source of comfort. Her gentle words and reassuring touch eased my fears and helped me navigate the uncertainty of my temporary blindness.

 

In the midst of my recovery, an officer entered the tent, breaking the silence. He congratulated me on my actions during the battle, commending my bravery and resilience. His words were unexpected, and a mix of surprise and gratitude welled up within me.

 

The officer informed me that my actions had not gone unnoticed, and I had been nominated for a medal in recognition of my courage and the sacrifices I had made on the battlefield. The news struck me with a mix of emotions—pride for being acknowledged, yet humbled by the weight of the lives lost and the toll the war had taken on me.

 

I expressed my gratitude to the officer, thanking him for the recognition. However, I couldn't help but feel conflicted. The medal, while a symbol of honor, seemed like a bitter reminder of the price that had been paid. The fallen soldiers, the lives lost, and the haunting memories would forever be etched in my mind.

 

In the midst of this internal turmoil, the officer assured me that the medal was not just a recognition of my individual actions, but a tribute to all those who had sacrificed in the name of duty and justice. He emphasized that it was a symbol of hope and resilience—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, acts of bravery and compassion could make a difference.

 

The news of the nomination provided a glimmer of positivity amidst the darkness. It served as a reminder that even in the face of tragedy and moral ambiguity, there were moments of valor and selflessness that could shine through.