A jumble of limbs and skin, not that I knew it, was just another tiny fragment of the ravaged landscape. A surface of khaki and blood, surrounding the shore, where a ship sat deserted and alone clouded in the pink air. Sand gatherings were sleek as they followed the wind and flustering specs as sharp as glass, deciding where to settle, inspecting every body, join it for a while, but would soon be gone. Eagles swooping down to feast on the corpses that littered the ground, my former comrades, soldiers who had marched with me in our divisions, now having their guts plucked out.
I could feel no longer the excruciating pain of the bullet that had ripped apart my arteries, no more did my eyes burn of the stinging chlorine, all I could feel was a general ache, the fact that I was still breathing, was itself a crime. A gunshot so neat that it can rip through your body; like a mole burrowing itself within the depths of flesh, blood and bone, stopping at nothing to pass out of the body, a gunshot so fatal, that can within a fraction of a second, puncture your heart, suck the air from your lungs and make the blood empty your veins, minute after minute.
For once in 2 years, northern France was quiet and calm, yet no one would call it serene. The most catastrophic bloodshed, between brothers, between people who didn’t even know why they were gunning down the advancing enemy. What was war?
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