Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Men in red jackets pointed their muskets at my fellow soldiers and fired. Many fell to their knees and toppled over as the bullets pierced the bodies. The smell of gun powder lingered in the air. Smoke from the cannons made it difficult to see the enemy; all I could do was stand on the battlefield with my gun by my side. A few yards away, I saw I man wiggling on the ground. Terrified as I was, my curiosity took control and I trotted over to the fallen soldier. I knelt next to him and realized he wasn’t wiggling, but writhing. Writhing in pain I could not invoke the courage to imagine. My jaw dropped as I noticed the blood seeping through his clothes and onto my hands. He coughed and a familiar metallic taste gathered on my tongue; the blood of a dying comrade. The man reached up and grabbed my shirt. He tried to speak, and I quicker closed my mouth, trying to avoid another bitter mishap. Before he had time to take another breath, a bullet whizzed through the air and entered his chest. His eyes grew dark, his hands became clammy, and I watched as his life was slowly sucked away. My hands trembled around the smooth barrel of my musket, of which I had been leaning upon. I muttered a short prayer for the man who lay before me. As I stood, a cannon let out a final blast. Moments later, the ground beneath my feet exploded and I was sent to the crimson stained grass. All I felt was pain. A searing, wretched pain, so unthinkable, so unbearable, I questioned my reason for survival. Suddenly, a red coat passed by me, then stopped. The figure knelt over me and an evil grin spread across his demonic face. He raised the barrel of his gun to my head and I pleaded for mercy. Yet I received no such mercy from the red coated devil, just a loud bang and eternal darkness.
The Young Soldier
July 13, 2009