Edition:
“Step into the darkness!”
Real Life Horror Is No Fantasy Horror
By L.R.Johnson
Inhabitants of Germany celebrated the end of the ‘Great War’ just like their enemies in Great Britain, France, and the USA. Although many had lost their sons on the barbaric battlefields of Belgium, Northern France, and parts of Germany. Relief that the war was now over was momentarily celebrated. However, the truth behind the slaughtering of millions came later as families waited to hear if their sons had survived such an apocalyptic, horrific showdown of Western Powers, achieving absolutely nothing. Not only had the dead to be counted and buried in green fields far away from their homeland. Returning soldiers wounded and shattered had to somehow find a path back to normality after enduring the ultimate horror of trench warfare.
Boys left their homes, and returned as men, damaged both physically and mentally. Some soldiers withstood the constant bombardments and barbarousness with bravery and returned unscathed. Other soldiers were ripped apart by machine gun fire as they were ordered to ‘go over the top’ never knowing if they would return alive, with one leg, one arm, or know legs and arms. Horrific scenarios, which only those who survived the barbary could ever explain, but never comprehend.
As evening approached the mists of constant bombardment from artillery and machine gun fire settled on the muddy, swamp-like battlefields of Flanders leaving only the stench of death, horrific mutilation, and lingering poisonous gas. Cries of the wounded and dying pierced the misty silence as soldiers lying in their primitive foxholes used their final breaths, hopefully, to attract the attention of a passing gas-masked Red Cross team sent out to gather the remains of the dead and wounded.
Carrying their stretchers, Red Cros personnel passed blown-apart boots with the remains of legs torn away from mutilated bodies not knowing who the boots belonged too. They had no time to pick up the pieces, leaving them for scavenging foxes or crows to pick on. Their main goal was to recover any living men before daylight who still breathed after the horrific onslaughts of the day. A limited time slot before the horrors once again commenced at dawn.
A German soldier, Ralf Zimmermann, his name, survived the daily onslaught, but not without sacrificing one arm, ending up deaf in one ear, and limping because a huge lump of shrapnel nearly blasted his left leg off. Luckily, the huge lump of shrapnel flew inches past his leg as he dived into a foxhole dug by his British enemy suffering the very same horrors. As the firing died down, Red Cross volunteers were allowed to enter the battlefield to pick up the pieces of their comrades. They found Ralf bleeding to death with his leg left ripped open. Ralf cleverly, and in extreme pain, managed to partially thwart the bleeding by tying a piece of his torn uniform around the thigh; this saved his leg and life.
Gasping for air as remains of poisonous gases lingered and were gradually entering his lungs, he managed to call for help before nearly passing out. Ralf said a final prayer believing his short life was about to end. A tear of helplessness run down his baby-like features. He was in no doubt he could ever return to his beloved homeland. Fortunately, Red Cross workers were aware of their wounded comrades slowly dying lying in foxholes deep into enemy territory. The evening truce after daily bombardments allowed both sides to enter battlefields searching for survivors. Red Cross, and other volunteers, from both sides crossed each other’s paths carrying their dead and wounded back on stretchers before darkness sunk upon a Flanders Hell.
Lucky ones were found, horrifically wounded, some with their lungs damaged through inhaling too many poisonous vapours to add to the excruciating pain after having their limbs blown away. Others had open wounds after being bayonetted by their enemies, left to die as darkness fell with any hope disappearing.
Ralf Zimmerman, lying in a British foxhole, was saved by brave volunteers who dared to enter the smoke and stench of death and disaster. They discovered him, checked that he was still breathing, and managed to haul him out of the foxhole. A gas mask was put over his face because hovering poisonous gases still lingered in the evening air. Ralf had pulled off his gasmask because he believed he would never make it back alive and did not want to face God wearing such an ugly thing. After strapping his wounded leg, clouds of death entered his mind, and for him, the fight for life was over. Hence, he breathed lightly, accepting his young life would end there convinced it would be futile to fight the inevitable. Drifting into a scenario of near death, this calmed his thoughts, and saved his life because if he had panicked and screamed for help, he would have breathed in even more, hovering, toxic gases, which would have completely destroyed his lungs.
The next thing Ralf knew was when he woke in a German lazarette. Nurses caring for the nearly dead and wounded barely had time to make sure all their patients were still breathing. Ralf groaned as he felt below the blood-stained sheets to see if both legs were still attached to his upper body; they were. A passing nurse rushing to care for a fellow suffering, blinded soldier in the next bed, saw Ralf move and asked him if he felt okay, or did he need more morphine to ease the pain. Ralf nodded towards the nurse and asked for a glass of water; five minutes later she returned with a jug of water and whispered in his ear.
“Herr Zimmerman, a Red Cross truck is arriving tomorrow, and you are being shipped back to Germany, you are one of the lucky ones with everything still in place, apart from your left arm, I’m sorry. They will take you to a military hospital near your home where you will spend the rest of the war until you are healthy enough to return to your former life.” She smiled and left.
Ralf looked at the place where his arm used to be, he felt a sense of sadness, but also a sense of relief that he was still breathing and, had both legs to walk on. He then dropped off into a deep sleep under the influence of morphine and did not wake until stretcher bearers carried him out to the truck the next morning.
Three months passed and Ralf was now able to return to his farm. He had not completely recovered from the horrific ordeal, still in shellshock, but doctors in the hospice needed the beds as more wounded soldiers returned from the front. The Great War was nearing its climax in 1918. The nearer the end drew close, more and more victims of this horrific period in history grew and grew, but an exact count was impossible as obliterated remains of soldiers were buried in mass graves.
Résumé
Millions of brave, innocent, unsung heroes suffered (and are still suffering) real ‘horrors’ the likes of which not even Stephen King could trump up. This short story is my utmost respect to those who have perished throughout history at the hands of insane dictators, political leaders, and royalty, in their perverse efforts to maintain, uphold, stranglehold the minds and bodies of their followers/worshippers for the sake of nonsensical power.
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