Waste

Heroes

A bomb sent a cacophony of noise blasting through the air. He huddled lower to the ground praying he would not be sighted by the enemies’ ruthless eyes. Their aim matched with his vulnerable position would leave him lying with an acute bullet sized hole in his head if he was not careful. He did not wish to die so mercilessly after suffering as he had done.

Eighteen gruelling months had passed since he had been captured by the enemies’ soldiers and had then successfully escaped. Cruel memories haunted him causing him to sleep restlessly and his reintroduction into the military was the only way he could think of to escape his ghostly flashbacks.

But now he had willingly returned to their territory, equipped but totally unprepared for the horrifying thoughts of who was being tortured now beyond the steel barbwire fences. This task had been appointed to his division, the overall intentions seemed a worthy cause but experience taught him that when orders came from that high up the ladder, nothing was what it seemed.

The terrain leading to the sinewy barrier was drenched and his booted feet slipped uneasily as he climbed over another mound of dirt. Tufts of soaking grass and the occasional tangled bush was the only cover that the landscape offered.

He could feel the presence of thirty organised infantry men behind as their bombs reigned down from the droning of the aircraft overhead. His heart beat heavily against the inside of his chest as he peered cautiously around the low bush. Suddenly an alarm reared out from the depths of the ghostly prison and his throat tightened.

He heard German screaming rent the air and could identify with the panic in their voices. In his experienced mind he could picture straight-backed Nazi soldiers taking their selected positions, weapons loaded, hearts hammering as orders were barked at them from their heartless officers.

The clouds above were tinged with orange streaks of light and he could feel the night slipping away silently, avoiding more of the bloodshed. The last of the aircraft, an agile Spitfire, whirred out of eyesight and the prepared plan of attack zoomed back into his head. There was a tense pause of deafening silence even through the sirens resonating from the armoured prison but he could still hear his thumping heart reverberating in his ears.

He held out his arm firmly, internally hoping that it was not shaking, and with the other he clutched his rifle closer to his chest. The air around him grew taut again as he pictured the other soldiers watching his arm for the signal. Was he about to signal them to run towards their death? No, this was not trench warfare, this was a designed procedure, they would not all die.

He dropped his arm abruptly and immediately their ant army progressed forward nearer into the shadows of the prison. A fortified bunker blocked their passage but as they drew closer no bullets echoed out at them. Knowing he was breaking important military rule he glanced back at his men. They were still on their haunches and thankfully blended with the harsh territory.

He gave another signal and three small objects soared into the bunker with catastrophic effect. The grenades exploded and he saw three lifeless bodies rise into the air and land sprawled on the ground. In moments they had taken control of the bunker. The plain white walls were now charred from the blast. He had completed his task for now.

On the other side of the prison a small troop were cutting through the wire mesh fence, creating an entrance but more importantly a means of escape. They entered the prison furtively but soon their bullets were piercing Nazi uniforms as they searched for their prisoner. Their orders were to gain access to the military prison, recapture an American soldier and then ‘get the hell out of there’.

“Jonathon, we have to move,” a strained voice said, startling him. He turned to see the soldier heading out of the bunker, preparing to storm the prison from the entrance. The only reason his feet were on this evil ground was because he part of Plan B. If the diminutive troop were overwhelmed by Nazi soldiers then he would have to lead his group in to distract them. He briefly wondered who this American soldier was and what his importance was. There was no way they would all survive this suicide mission.

He barely remembered how they gained entrance to the prison. His was nearly devoid of his sense of hearing, the bombs mingling in with his burning thoughts. He tried desperately to block out the sight of his men being riddled with bullets, falling to the ground like forgotten rag dolls. They would die uncared for by history. After all, they were just Plan B soldiers.

Several minutes of battling fruitlessly elapsed before he found himself in a blank corridor, cracks crawling across the walls like veins. A tremor shook the entire building and dust mushroomed upwards from the floor. He was not too badly hurt but had a noticeable limp after a misfired bullet has caught the side of his leg. A large man rounded the corner and he immediately targeted him with his rifle but lessened his grip when he recognised him as the head of the mission. With obvious urgency the man shouted down the corridor at him but through the blasts of explosions and the distant firing of weapons he could not make out what he was saying.

The man disappeared and he deduced he had been telling him to get out of the prison. They had their man and now they would just drop the others and go. As he struggled down the corridor he noticed latched doors enclosing prisoners on the other side. He paused thinking frantically, before rushing back and freeing the prisoners.

He did not know who they were, or where they came from. He suspected in those brief seconds that some of them were Polish but it was impossible to be sure. There bodies were emaciated, skin clinging horribly to bone. Sunken eyes and gaunt pale faces staggered past him as he went through each cell. Some of them croaked out mumbled thanks in languages he did not recognise.

He momentarily pondered the thought that he was their hero and that maybe this mission was not just a waste of men and weapons. These captured souls would hopefully return to those who cared for them and their world would keep on turning. Our world, he thought savagely, would turn with or without them.

He watched mesmerized as they shuffled down the corridor toward more war and suffering. After a few moments he followed them, the thought of himself as a hero still playing on the innocent adrenaline fuelled part of his mind. Without any warning a round of ammunition pummelled the narrow corridors he had just entered. He saw the round polished helmet of a Nazi over the hunched shoulders of the prisoners. Fear flooded him as he realised there was no rounds left in his rifle.

Deftly removing a small firearm from inside his uniform he stood to his full height, his back rigid and his face impassive. He did not react immediately, nor did the German soldier. Their eyes remained fixed on each other seemingly oblivious to the terrified prisoners huddled between the two heroes of their nations. Because that is what this German soldier thought he was…a hero for his people, a brave son of his Germany, his innocence twisted in hatred.

A shot reverberated as blood splattered the adjacent wall in a flurry of different shades of red. The hero lowered his weapon as the other slumped to the cold floor.

The sky had turned pewter grey, masses of clouds separating the dreary menacing prison from the startling crystal blue sky that had enveloped their small corner of time. The stagnant air reeked of death, tormented purity and the blood of lost heroes.