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I remember that humidity hit me. Reality. Me I stood on that beach. Waiting. A village, waiting. Time was going so slowly, a second felt like a minute; a minute felt like an hour. We were in silence, I was frozen. Then I felt the warm gasp of the major's breath ripple on my cheek. Major was watching, his beady eye stared, his mouth began to open.
'Go, go, go!'
The roar pierced me.
A rush of wind gushed across my startled face, I had to do good I had to do this. I pelted forwards into the village; it was then when an innocent woman stood in front of me weeping screaming something, something in German, this pitch, that tone of that young innocent woman still stabs me in the back of my mind. My arms trembling I raised the gun, loaded, and then I fought my fuming fear, I pulled the trigger. Everything was as if it was in slow motion the bullet went so slowly through the polluted air, I wanted someone just too fast forward it. Then hit. This women was dead, she fell with grace, so slowly.
My insides were pleading from the noise to get out, to get out of this disgusting polluted death trap. But no. I glared, up, down, to my left to my right. I couldn't leave now; the little village was now interred with a carpet of tragically killed families. As I stepped through the river of blood I saw hundreds of people pleading mercy. What could I do? Nothing, nothing but to do my duty, I raised up my gun, too horrifically shaken to aim, I pulled the trigger. Again I was killing, this time a herd of startled families. Everyone was held at gun point. Waiting for their wistful lives to end.
This was a surreal scene that not even a grown man like me, should have had to witness. I looked around, my thoughts at this moment were disgusted, was I really here was I really doing this. Back at my loving, warm, comforting home, soldiers had described this dangerous mind-numbing experience to me. But me, I didn't think that if I ever got home, I would have been able to ever speak of this vile duty I had to take part in, if this was how I am supposed to take pride in my country, I guess I had been very much mistaken. I was nothing but enraged and infuriated with my own country, I had lost all my dignity. Throughout the duration of my distraught moments of thought, I had never noticed, but had been ignoring a furious major bellowing, roaring in my face. Commands. Was I really in the correct state of mind? No but I had to do my duty, other wise I would have been one of those traumatized victims, that where now either pleading for there wistful lives or lying dead.
'That building now, raid it, kill every last German being left?'
These were the specifically horrifying words that rolled off Major's bitter tongue.
'Yes, sir' I replied with great terror.
And hurled myself to the left with pure bitterness and outrage, I couldn't even glance at the horrendous death we had caused to this poor lifeless village. My focus was now on this building, which surroundings where now piles, heaps, masses of disastrously killed children. I then did something I shouldn't have, I scanned their naive harmless faces, this was when I became emotionally urged, tears were pouring down my mentally scared face, I wasn't a man. A coward.
I entered the building, a breeze of fierce atmosphere hit me, pictures on the walls drawn by young children, one large room full of beds, it was an orphanage. If I found a child here I would be taking away the second chance it was given in life. I had to prove I wasn't a coward; I was a courageous committed soldier. I stepped forwards into this empty room, it was echoing with sorrow and pity. I stared down into the empty corner. He looked about five, he was sobbing his heart out, I raised my gun. Aimed. Finger on the trigger. Hit. The noise of the gun landing on the floor, joined the echoing of the sorrow. The young boy looked up. Needy, poor, innocent he was. Our naked eyes stared intensely at each other. Was it Thomas, my son, the button nose, brown freckles, big brown eyes? No, but the thought of killing my own son made me feel a pitiful guilt. How could I have even let that despicable thought of harming a needy poor little boy cross my mind?
I marched over to him, his hands pushing the air with great force; this was what it was really like when a child pleads mercy. I grabbed his wrists, as thick as my thumb; I pulled him into my chest. We hugged, with an enormous amount of passion, if this was what a coward was, then the coward I was.
I carried this young child; he was going to fulfil his second chance in life. In my arms he lay there bawling his eyes out, weeping, whining, and all I could do was comfort. I took out him of the backdoor. We had to stay low. I looked at the blood smothered road we had to cross to get to safety. Fires were being thrown at anyone who dared to try and cross this death trap. It was my chance now I hid him under my coat, and pelted forwards. Suddenly a roar across the road hit me.
'Coward, you are a Coward.'
Why did I look back? I held the child under my coat. A bullet was coming for me. I was frozen, locked. My last memory of this terrifyingly mind-blowing experience was a child's yell. A piercing scream.