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| In the Frontline: A short story |
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| Written by Jeannie Hamilton | The Insti-Gator | |
| Wednesday, 16 July 2008 | |
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My muscles were tense as I crouched in the ditch. As I sat there, surrounded by war, I tried to think of home. Of my family. But no images would come. The noise around me drowned them out. The sounds of men screaming, of machine guns discharging, of artillery in the distance. This was the frontlines, in France. It was hell on earth. Every day, thousands of men were being sent to their deaths because of this war — a war I didn’t believe in. I was forced to become a soldier because my father believed in Nazi socialism. I hated him for that. I hated Hitler. I was ashamed of my race. My home was so close to France that many of my friends were French. And I could not help but think that I was killing my brothers on the battlefield. All this is because of my father. I hate him. In a few minutes, I will be sent on a suicide mission across a flat meadow straight at the French trenches. It’s madness. I will die for a cause I don’t believe in. For a cause that will die one day. I’m dying for nothing. As I listen to my sergeant scream orders, I pray to God to have mercy on me, to let me die quick with no pain. The order is given. I jump out of the trench and run toward my inevitable death. I hear machine guns discharge from the French lines. And just before everything goes black, I curse my father.
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