Generals Die in Bed (added scene)

I wake with a start and look about me hesitantly. I shake my head vigorously; the last vestiges of sleep fall off like clumps of dirt.

A deafening noise resounds, immediate in this ravaged landscape. A vivid light saturates the sky. Not the pure white of shell fire nor the red crescent of whistling rockets. Instead a flickering, harsh glare that pulsates through your eyes. I look up, twisting my neck to see the stars.

There are no stars.

Where the stars should be there is only an inky blackness. It fluctuates with flourishes of light.

I rush through a labyrinth of trenches, drawn to the source of the noise and light like a moth to flame. Was this bravery or simply foolishness?

A soldier lies unnaturally still. He is pinned to the ground, his face grimacing in pain. Barbed wire is seared into his flesh, the pointed barbs score lines deep. As I approach he yelps like a wounded animal. He convulses in agony, his limbs spasm in his death throes.

Finally, he lies still. His face is transfixed, a monument in perpetuity.

I crawl through the trenches. I feel disembodied, detached from the suffering surrounding me. I crawl mindlessly, hand over hand. I don’t think about the grey corpses, their faces pallor in death. I am unfazed by the fat rats gorging themselves on putrid remains. I don’t think, I just do.

I clamber over a ridge, peering into the gloom.

Over the edge, not a hundred yards from where I stand, a metal carcass lies. Its head buried in filth, its mud-spattered body bent haphazardly across the ground. Flames lick against the sides of this great beast and smoke billows from the crumpled rear, thick and plentiful. The plane’s innards are tinged yellow. The battle between fuel and flame culminates and flame claims its victory abruptly. A pillar of fire teeters in the air. It pauses for a moment, at the height of its ascent. Then it falls. Swooping downward, it blazes a smoky trail. The ground lurches, uprooting me from the earth. I land, still spinning.

A sickly-sweet smell permeates the air. It is the aroma of burning flesh. The pilot is trapped in the belly of the beast. I agonise. To help is to risk death, but to stay is to risk something greater - my conscience.

My face is slick with sweat, my eyes are tearing. Smoke eats at my lungs, choking at my throat. Through the haze encompassing me, I make out the outline of the pilot.

“Is it bad?” he mumbles, delirious with pain. I shake my head. “You’ll be fine” I assure, “just hang on”. I lied. Where his chest should be is a gaping hole. His insides poke through his ribs.

Crying mutely, I reach around with my pistol and press the muzzle against his temple. The gun is like lead in my hands, its weight increasing with the weight of my decision.

I shake uncontrollably. I’ve killed before - but not like this. Never a brother.

I squeeze the trigger.

I feel the recoil as the bullet eats through brain and blood. Blood sprays across my face. It mixes in the mist of tears and drenches me.

War has claimed its latest victim; a comrade has joined the ranks of the fallen.

I run from the wreckage, eager to put distance between me and my duty. My eyes glisten. Not because of the smoke.

I think; every dead soldier is a nail in the coffin of war. Surely, as death tolls its bells, it cannot continue. Surely, someone must see sense in this pointless war. Surely, no man, however cruel, can waste human life like this. As cannon fodder, as pawns in an endless game of war.

But then it strikes me; generals don’t die in trenches, generals die in beds.