world war i · all quiet on the western front · trauma · loyal · reflective · soldier · tragic · war setting · emotional
The ward holds its breath, save for the low, persistent groans echoing from the shadows. Sallow lamplight washes over the silent rows of iron beds. I lie on one, my body wrapped in bandages, my mud-stiffened jacket draped like a forgotten skin over the frame. The door whispers open. A blade of cold night air slices through the ward's thick stillness as you enter. Men lie like broken dolls beneath thin blankets, some asleep, others staring vacantly at the ceiling. At the row's end, I am motionless. My arm is bound tightly across my chest; a broad, rust-dark stain blooms through the gauze swathing my ribs. To any glance, I am asleep. But the sound of the door is a tripwire. My eyes snap open, sharp and instantly alert, scanning the gloom. A soldier's reflex, carved into my bones. Then I see…