War der Feierlichen Soldat

So, thought I might share this. Y'all already know that I am of course still in school, and so obviously I have to do projects and all. Well thankfully, for once in all of my time in school I get to write a story freely, with the exception being that it has to be based on conflict. Otherwise, I'm free to do whatever the hell I want to do with it. So, anyway, with this story or better said short story. My piece of work is based on the Ostheer, the German Eastern Front from WWII. Following a small platoon on their journey back to Berlin and their "betrayal" by their commanding officers, as well as the effects on the soldiers brought by the marching Soviets. Enjoy it if you wish to.

War der Feierlichen Soldat - War of the Solemn Soldier
The guns only fall silent in the late morning, the only hour of the day that we get to even close our eyes and slumber. I cannot sleep, however, and I stand vigilant every day waiting for my death to come. The Soviets are relentless, they march on and on and no matter how far we march back they come up metres behind us the very next day. I expect my death to come soon, and I wish for it to do so. I ask myself, and my brother; Why. Why did we think it was smart to sign up, to go fighting the world for pride and honour. But what of that remains now. Because of our idiocy, my brother lies dead in the streets of Stalingrad and I'm left to solemnly lumber onwards towards my home. I do not believe I can call it home any longer.

I regret my choice. I regret everything. I regret ever marching towards the dreaded Soviet steppe because I thought that what the Fuhrer claimed was true. How moronic, I was. My brother had thought the idea was smart as well, and that got him killed. He now lays there, dead somewhere in the solemn streets of Stalingrad because of me. I wish this had not happened, and that I never got into this mess. The recruiters back home, their lies and their fake propaganda kills many men. They do not experience what we do. I stand here, freezing to my bone and my fingers unable to pull the trigger of my rifle. We all do. Most of what we once used has had to be left behind, and we just try to march back to our lines and meet with the relief force. But I doubt that to ever happen. Day by day, another man falls and many more join him. However, we trudge on.

I expect my death to come soon, I want my death to come soon. What pride and honour do I retain if I couldn't even protect my own brother. What man like myself could be regarded a soldier. I have to ask. Is surrender that bad? I do not see it to be as bad as it is said to be. To be honest, it seems a better way to die than be shot for trying to flee from the horrors of war. As we march home, more and more of our failures come to meet us. Am I supposed to show remorse when I see the charred corpses of dead soldiers lying aside their tanks? Am I supposed to feel remorse when I see the youngest member of my platoon die at the hands of a savage dog? Am I supposed to wish for death to take my hand, and drag me off?

Fin.