Dawning Creations

Inspired by the novel, All Quiet on The Western Front

Bang.
The first shot echoed loudly.
His knees buckled and his eyes rolled lazily and closed.
Our comrade was gone.

It was hard to sleep that night.
I lit a candle and reread his letter from home.
His wife was expecting and about to burst.
His daughters signed, love you daddy
in kindergarteners script.

I clenched my teeth, enraged.
This is all they’ll have to remember him.
His body was too heavy.
He had no necklace, no watch, no nametag.
He had only this letter from home.

The letter was splattered with his blood
and slightly torn from the shot.
Raindrops and mud joined the splatter
painting bizarre patterns, making some of the words illegible.

I took in a deep breath, shaking out a cry for him.

We were the unfortunate victims of wartime.
Professors and recruiters alike beckoned us,
like cattle we all willingly went.
We all willingly went, like cattle, unaware of the imminent slaughter.

The knowledge we acquired from our professors
was imbedded in us through years of conditioning.
A man was a “coward” if he did not volunteer.
This kind of man was against all our country stood for.
He didn’t want to fight for freedom or for our loved ones.

We were greatly misled and unprepared.
We knew of some troubled roads ahead
and that the training would be difficult.

We weren’t prepared for empty bowls and sharing urinals.
We weren’t knowledgeable in art of playing God,
watching comrades fall, their eyes losing light, their breaths increasing in frantic strife to survive, or in choosing which to save while trying to ourselves, survive.

We were hoodwinked when called upon,
filled with stories of valiant victories for freedom
and men returning home with all their limbs
and families happily waiting.

We put our trust in their promise,
their beautiful words.
They only wrote and petitioned.
Their knowledge of these wartimes was skewed and not to be trusted.
They only sang songs of fortune and honor.

These recruiters were ignorant in their cause.
They knew not what we know.
They know nothing of the cold, muddy bunkers
or the sleepless nights.
They haven’t ran miles with no meals
or even worse,
had to eat while knowing others would not.
They haven’t experienced death’s cruel call,
or watched their best friend breathe his last breath.
They’ll never know the feeling of taking the letter he held from home,
prying it from his corpse to return to the ones who wrote it.
Most of all,
they’ll never know how much their ignorance cost.