On the Western Front
By Harvey Mulliins | Posted: Thursday August 13, 2020
The men trudged forward, wading through the vast expanse of mud and death. Once majestic trees lay still amongst the mutilated bodies of man and beast alike. Murky pools containing God knows what, reflected the morning sun like grimy mirrors, the whistling sound of shells indicating an incoming rainstorm of death.
One man stood out amongst the rest. His once clean boots squelched through the thick gloop underfoot. His feet constantly tried to avoid the limbs of dead and wounded comrades. Putties once khaki green were now stained with blood and caked with decomposing flesh. Clothes quivered, as if they too were afraid of what was to come. The equipment pack hung down his back like a tail between his legs. Ernest’s arms were rigid and tense, holding his rifle from the mud. Nail marks were beginning to appear where he had gouged at the stock in a nervous fashion. Shoulders were hunched, body slumped as if curling up into a ball would contain the vile mix of fear and anger swirling inside him.
His head was bowed but his eyes flickered from side to side forever searching for danger. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he spotted a flicker of movement in a nearby shell crater. Beads of sweat gouged channels through the thick layer of mud and grime covering his perfectly chiseled face. His breath got shorter and sharper as his imagination ran wild. Was it the Hun? Was this his time? Was it Death waiting to pounce?
He stopped the patrol and turned to take a look, all the while murmuring a silent prayer to God. ‘If this is to be my time make it quick, please don't draw it out!’ The rifle rose prepared to shoot, to kill, to maim. The mind tried to pull the body back like a dog straining on a leash. As he neared the edge of the crater a squeal erupted sending a jolt among the men. What was at first thought to be a German soldier turned out to be a group of rats feasting on a man and his mule, torn apart by shrapnel. The patrol breathed a sigh of relief before grimacing in disgust. No one deserved to die this way.
They all moved on; it was nothing new. Hundreds, sometimes thousands died each day from war wounds. For Ernest Mullins war was starting to become part of him. The sights, the sounds, the all-out destruction, all these things were starting to become normal.
The patrol headed back in an extended arc, towards allied lines, navigating cautiously but quickly around shell holes, corpses, and barbed wire. Back to the intertwining tangle of trenches and night watches that was the Western Front. As dusk approached Ernest found himself giving a silent prayer of thanks, one more patrol without getting injured or killed, one more day in the land of the living.
