Categories > Original > Historical > Where The Wolf Did Step
December 8, 1915
I saw a man get blown to pieces, today. Hit by a shell, only five feet away from him. I saw another man get a piece of shrapnel lodged in his forehead, and come out of the back of his skull. I killed someone with a knife today. I have seen, lived, and experienced hell. Yet I still feel sane. I am not losing myself to shell shock. But others are. One man lost it enough that he ran out of the trench. He was almost immediately shot. Povero uomo. He died rather quickly, at least. My meal consists of a ration I got off the man I killed. A piece of bread, some pork, and a thing of powdered milk. I use trench water for the milk, and it has a clear aftertaste of dirt. I use the bread to stave it off, afterwards. It is not the best meal I had, but it is better than starving, which most others have to do. But I felt pity for a poor man, so I gave him half of my pork. It is better to be half starving, but I and him, than I be full, and he be dying.
The Name Of War
On the end of my knife
is the body of a man.
I have taken his life,
his uniform, I scan.
All in the name of war
to be gloried and honored.
I dropped my medals to the floor,
and solemnly pondered.
“Why such a toll
to wear this uniform?”
I have no control,
my mind cannot reform,
the horrors of war.
I saw a man get blown to pieces, today. Hit by a shell, only five feet away from him. I saw another man get a piece of shrapnel lodged in his forehead, and come out of the back of his skull. I killed someone with a knife today. I have seen, lived, and experienced hell. Yet I still feel sane. I am not losing myself to shell shock. But others are. One man lost it enough that he ran out of the trench. He was almost immediately shot. Povero uomo. He died rather quickly, at least. My meal consists of a ration I got off the man I killed. A piece of bread, some pork, and a thing of powdered milk. I use trench water for the milk, and it has a clear aftertaste of dirt. I use the bread to stave it off, afterwards. It is not the best meal I had, but it is better than starving, which most others have to do. But I felt pity for a poor man, so I gave him half of my pork. It is better to be half starving, but I and him, than I be full, and he be dying.
The Name Of War
On the end of my knife
is the body of a man.
I have taken his life,
his uniform, I scan.
All in the name of war
to be gloried and honored.
I dropped my medals to the floor,
and solemnly pondered.
“Why such a toll
to wear this uniform?”
I have no control,
my mind cannot reform,
the horrors of war.
Sign up to rate and review this story