Generals Die in Bed (retelling of 'Over the Top')

My heart clamours loudly in my chest as I await the signal anxiously. The men in my trench murmur amongst themselves. They too are impatient.

Silence now. It is close.

The sky flares bright as shells strafe the heavens. As the din reaches a crescendo Clark gestures vigorously with his hands. We move out. We clamber through burn-out husks of trenches. Slowly and laboriously. I take care where I place my footing.

If you fall, you die. If you pause, even for a moment, you die.

There is no turning back.

A curtain of fire mows down men unforgivingly. My palms are wet, and my neck is suffused in sweat.

We reach the line.

A shadow peels itself from the corner of a trench. The “shadow” is on fire, black soot mixes with red flame. Agony in written into his face. He collapses at my feet, eyes begging silently for relief. I jump back, putting distance between me and his disfigured features - his harrowing eyes.

I stumble on, choking back vomit. My mouth is bitter - metallic. I have bitten my tongue.

Something lurks in the corner of my eye. I pivot suddenly. Something collides with the back of my head. I sway unsteadily, clutching my skull. It feels like it will split in two.

I scream helplessly, but no sound comes out. Everything feels distant - eerie. I collapse, my knees give way.

I drag myself by my hands through the mud and keel over into a corner.

The throbbing is back. It has migrated from my heart to my head. My mind is awash with pain and fear. Awful, intoxicating, debilitating fear. I feel helpless. I struggle to take in my surroundings. Lights flicker above. Mud squelches beneath. The Earth turns round and I’m on my back.

I’m no longer in pain. I think I’m delirious. I curl into a foetus. My heart pounds, my skin smarts and my chest feels like lead. I can’t breath, I try drawing in air, and I feel like I’m drowning.

The world goes dark. Everything is black.

I come to. Clark stands over me. His mouth is moving, but his lips aren’t forming words. I black out again.

I come to again, Clark’s voice is more distinct. He’s berating me. “You cowardly scum, you treacherous pig.” I stare at him with glassy eyes. I roll over and stare at the wall.

I feel ashamed, I’ve let down my men. I was thrust into a war I did not ask for, left to fend for myself amidst an unending barrage of fire and torrent of abuse. I damn Fry and his godforsaken war, I damn God who placed me in this hell, I damn Anderson and his contemptible preaching.

The staccato drumming fills my head again, and I feel the onset of another attack. I become inert.

I’m no longer even capable of tears.