Carnage
A short story by Keith Redhead
illustrating the true horror of war

Part of the Seventh Doctor Fiction collection

All I could do was keep going forward. Over the sandy blood-soaked dirt. Don't look round, you'll see them. Don't look up; don't want to see anymore. The noise is deafening, a blanket of thuds and booms. The noise isn't the sound of living; it is the signal call of death and destruction. The sound of mortar shells tearing the ground to pieces and the sound of bullets ripping into flesh, the sound of the dying screaming out in pain.

This wasn't how they said it would be. They said it was a great adventure, they said it wouldn't be hell on Earth. Caught a glimpse there, head turning inside out. The blood and tear-stained eyes looking at me. Accusing me. The empty lifeless stare of death passing silent judgement for still being alive.

Onwards I push. That one was close; I heard a cry of agony in my ear. In front of me is a sea of green and red. It was impossible to believe I was talking to these people yesterday. Telling stories, telling jokes, sharing a drink and a cigarette. So hard to take it all in, the sheer disbelief of so many dead people killed in just a few seconds. This has to be a dream, it has to be, and all I see is people dying before my eyes. I try to detach myself, switch off all reason; I don't want to think that I could be next.

I slip in a puddle of congealed blood, my face falls into a spongy mass of someone's guts. Oh my God, this is too much. The stench is unbearable and my stomach heaves over my fallen comrade. I've been blooded. The stain may never wash away from my soul. I have to go on, can't turn back. I don't want to be here, I never should have come.

I find reprieve behind a small hill. I can take a moment to shelter from the horrors that surround me. I look back across the beach, the shock of how I managed to crawl here sinks in and I start to cry. All I can think of is Mom waiting by the door expecting me back in one piece. Dad embraces me in welcome and shakes my hand. I don't want to be here. Too many friends have died. I see my old school friend Joe Moses coming towards me smiling. His smile turns to a twisted agony as his chest is torn open and blood pours out of a mouth that will smile no more. No, no, not him. Not little Joey who once climbed old man Rogers apple tree for a bet. I want to yell out and lament, but that would make me vulnerable. Too many good men have fallen, their bodies heaped together in a blanket that will never offer comfort, only pain.

I don't want to go on, don't want to move another inch but I must. I can't go back otherwise their deaths would be in vain. I cannot bear this load, but I shall try. Please God; take this burden away from me I don't want it anymore. Please free me from this horror, free me from all this pain.

The rifle that has been just dead weight now has its use. In this place would they forgive me for killing? What is there to take away my sins? All I can think back to is: how did that happy boy become this empty man? How can I be so cold and rational? So clinical and precise? All I can think of is the mission, all that is left in my heart is the aching pain of loss.

I fix the grenade by the book and take careful aim, fighting back the tears for a clear view. With one action I can take care of the immediate problem. I take aim. Do I have this right? Ready to fire. Am I any better than them? My finger was on the trigger, ready to fire. Why do I have to do this? Squeeze the trigger. Can they ever forgive me? Target destroyed. I can never be quite the same again. The bunker billows orange and yellow, the noise of pain and suffering is lost in the sound of war.

A pain in my shoulder, Pain floods my brain. Blood squirts out over my uniform, is this the end? I drop the wooden rifle, my work is done. Try to find a bandage but my fingers tremble and it's not with shock or pain. I lay back, safe and shielded lifeblood draining away. My vision dims and fades away. This isn't death, it's a release from having to live with all of this.

I wake up screaming but hands hold me down. A small man is tending to my bandages. He tells me the battle has been won and I'm safe. I tell him of my fears and my self-hatred for my actions. He replies that I'm not the only one. His eyes hold so much love and so much pain; I can't doubt he knows more about this that I ever want to.

He carries me to a field hospital and waits by my bedside, until I have been treated. I ask him why save me, I'm no one special. He smiles and says that everyone is important. Then he is off, he has other people to help, other lives to save. He said he can't save everyone but it's important to try and do his best.

Perhaps I will see John Smith again one day, I'd like to thank him properly. It's something to look forward to, a reason to go on living and put this carnage behind me.

