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December 14th, 1915

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It was a cold and dark morning. The clouds were covering the sun as it rose over the battlefield. My soldiers and I had just finished building our section of the trench. The trench now ran over a mile to a safe distance to relay and receive orders from command. Some of it was above ground and some of it was underground in bomb shelters. We had just finished due to the rain collapsing it and forcing us to get out of move unprotected. The trench was already flowing with rivers of blood and pools of tears. Most of my soldiers didn’t even have shoes, those who where unlucky were subjected to the horrible pain of trench foot or suffer amputation.


We had sent out a scout two hours ago, and still no reply, we presumed they had either been captured or killed. It was too quiet and I didn’t like it. Just then my corporal stood up exposing his head saying, “If your going to come at us, then come get us,” he yelled to the Germans. And as he finished his last word, his last breath, I could here the distant sound of a machine gun handle being pulled back and chambering a round. The gun opened fire on the corporal. He was hit in the throat. He fell to the floor gushing out blood from his vein and artery. “Medic” someone yelled, but it was no use, he was going to die. He grabbed my hand and tried to speak, but all that came out was his blood and mumbles. A tear came to his eye, and then he was dead. His grip wrecked, and then let go of my hand.


“Captain, it’s an attack,” a soldier yelled, and sure enough the Germans were going for a full out bayonet charge. “I’ll man the machine gun,” I said moving to my position. The barrel became over heated many times and burnt my hands to the point were I could smell flesh burning. The shells of the rifleman’s bolt-action rifle next to me would occasionally hit me in the face, but I endured it as long as I could.

Just then I realized that there was a low engine noise behind me. I turned around and there, about twenty feet away was a Mark V tank, slowly moving its way to the battlefield. As it approached the field it started to open fire on the enemy. Shells were landing by the feet of them and launching them into the air, even decapitating some.

“Were sure to win this guys,” my sergeant yelled in a victory screech. The enemy was retreating and we were sure to win. The sergeant then started walking toward me to shake my hand, but then we heard a whistling noise traveling through the air. It landed on the tank and blow it up. It was an artillery shell. The hatch opened to the burning tank and out came two burnt to charcoal bodies. The screamed in pain and fell to the snow floor.

More artillery shells landed close to us, but didn’t detonate. “Ha, these German shells are duds.” sergeant Frank said. Only they went duds. A yellow cloud began to pour out of them. “Mustard gas, run” Frank yelled. But the gas was too fast and caught up to us. My lung felt like they were on fire. I could not breath. I covered my nose with a piece of cloth, but it did no good, the gas was too fine. I watched as the rest of my crew died, not being able to breath. How could the Germans use such a terrible weapon? Are they really that desperate? The only reason that I could think is that the victor gets to write how battles happened. To them this never happened. As I begin to lose conscious of my self I think of my family, my wife, and how I survived to this point.
Captain Muller then closed his eye and died.
To The Victor Goes The Spoils.




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