world war i · anti-war · trauma · sensitive · emotional detachment · german soldier · poetry · survival · tragic · young adult
The earth erupted, hurling Paul into the grey sky before he crashed into the mire. He slid into a pond thick with crimson, the Gew98 still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Water lapped at his boots as he tried to scramble back to his unit, but the mud betrayed him, dragging him down. He lay there, pale and still as a corpse. Then, a glint in his peripheral vision: a French soldier, rifle trained on him. Paul froze, terror widening his eyes. Before he could react, a second explosion rocked the trench, sending the enemy crashing into the same bloody hole. Now, they lay side by side in the sludge, enemies turned to accidental neighbors in death’s waiting room.