World War III

A young soldier crouched, bold and yet afraid, in the deep trenches. He looked out over the battlefield, dotted with many craters from exploding shells. Several more bombs whistled by overhead, and the scream of shell and soldier mingled into a hideous song, the song of death and blood.

But the soldier still watched from the relative safety of his trench, as the gates that held back both armies suddenly opened. Steel met steel and shells were launched from both sides, as soldiers rushed to meet each other in mortal combat. All about, blades flashed in the air, as if participating in a well-choreographed dance of injury and death.

One of the soldier’s comrades was cut down by his opponent, and the dark blood stained the ground. The enemy soldier was in turn gunned down by a flurry of bullets from a nearby truck. The stench of death lingered in the air, and the soldier clutched his bayonet, wincing as the wind brought with it the cloying smell of blood. His knuckles turned white from the ferocity of the grip. Before he changed his mind, he charged swiftly out of the trench, into the thick of the battle.

An illuminating shell flew through the air, landing with a dull plop in a bed of mud. But the soldier had seen enough of war to know that this was not a mere dud. The shell suddenly exploded, sending shafts of brilliant white light slicing in all directions. Temporarily blinded, the soldier dropped to his knees, letting the bayonet fall by his side. But when he regained his sight, it was to a living hell – littered all around him were charred corpses.

Another shell soared in a graceful parabola before landing right next to him. His eyes suddenly widened in fear, and he made as if to run. However, the sudden scorching heat of the explosion got to him first. The force picked him up as if he were but a rag doll, and flung him a few metres away.

Worse still, the shrapnel from the blast tore into his arm, slashing at muscle and sinew to expose the white bone beneath. Blood dripped straight down, covering his arm in the thick, sticky liquid. Brushing away hasty tears from his eyes, the soldier moaned and doubled over slowly, leaning on his bayonet and gasping for breath.

But as time passed and the bombs still raged, filling the air with their assertive shouts, he knew he had to be brave. Stripping off his shirt to expose the thin chain mail beneath, he mechanically tore the cloth into strips. Caring not for the oil, blood, and grimy dirt caked in layers upon it, he laid the strips over the jagged wound and bound it tightly. It would do – for the moment.

Gritting his teeth against the burning pain in his arm, he picked up the bayonet again. The soldier crawled commando-style into one of the blast craters nearby, cradling his bayonet in his arms. He peered over the rim of the crater, surveying his surroundings.

The sky was stained a blood-red, and smoke was everywhere all over the battlefield. He watched open-mouthed as one of their trucks daringly rolled towards the enemy fortress, and lined up both a portable cannon as well as a gigantic tank up in its gunsights. Then the tank moved out of the line of fire, and in a kamikaze motion, the truck slammed into the cannon, both vehicles exploding in a large fireball.

But there was little time left for him to gape at the battle, for he heard others approaching. His heart pounding wildly in his chest, he gripped his bayonet even tighter and flattened himself against the rim of the crater. Seconds stretched into eternities, as the footsteps approached closer. He timed himself, and then made his move. Both his legs slammed hard against the dirt-packed ground, and the action propelled his entire body vertically upwards, straight into the enemy soldier before him.

The bayonet blade flashed for an instant, before burying itself deep in the enemy soldier’s chest. The poor guy never saw that one coming. Bright blood fountained out instantly, and the enemy soldier gave several dying gasps before collapsing upon his killer. The soldier, on the other hand, could not tear his eyes away from the dark blood all over him, all over the ground… He turned aside just in time before he threw up all his army rations.

But eventually, he rose and pushed the body aside, trying to force down the rising taste of bile in his throat. His arm was going numb, and he wondered if he could survive this war.

This was war. It was kill-or-be-killed. He had no choice. But even if he survived this war, what was it for? To fight another one on the same battleground? And more after that?

A sound from behind startled him, and he whipped around. The king’s war vehicle was pulling up behind him, slowly drawing closer. It was only then that he understood the enormity of the situation, and he stiffly drew his bayonet up into the guard position. In his wounded state, he could do nothing but stagger forward at a snail’s pace. But stagger he did, slowly and surely forward, with the gigantic vehicle following behind.

Now he could see the enemy king and two trucks closing in on them. A blast from the great behemoth behind him, and one of the trucks exploded in a ball of flame. But the enemy king was faster, and planted his vehicle straight in the soldier’s path. The great gun muzzle swiveled round, and pointed straight at the soldier. He felt so small and vulnerable in the face of such power.

The soldier closed his eyes tightly and expected to be blasted to pieces. After an eternity, however, he opened his eyes and stared once again down the muzzle of the enemy king’s gun. The enemy dared not to blast him into oblivion, knowing all too well that to do so would be sending an open invitation to be blasted.

In that standoff, no one noticed the small portable cannon which inched along slowly, hiding behind mangled vehicles and shattered craters.

The soldier held his bayonet straighter. He could not move his arm any more, but he knew that the war would end soon, and that he would be playing a part in it, whatever it took him. Just then, the portable cannon suddenly made its move, shooting across the blasted wasteland, coming to a halt right behind the enemy king’s tank.

The soldier stood up straighter, knowing that he was the one guarding the small cannon. The enemy king stared at the soldier before him, then at the cannon behind him, and then at the king against him. He knew now that there was no escape, for his allied truck was too far away to help out. The soldier, on the other hand, was immensely relieved, and leveled his bayonet, in case the enemy king tried to break out at the last second.

The soldier saw, out of the corner of his eye, the cannon preparing to blast the vehicle into smithereens. In a matter of minutes, the tank would be a raging fireball.

But in the calm before the storm, no one heard the soft voice of the soldier.

“Checkmate.”