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Description
The night of the mission was a dark one. We sneaked out of the side of the side of the trench with the General, stumbling through the muddy craters of No Man's Land. There were noises of shells in the distance and the front lines of our trenches were illuminated by gunfire. As we moved away from our lines towards the cliffs at the edge of our battle, the darkness intensified and a rise cut us off from the view of our comrades.
We were alone. The fear set in.
As we skulked along the base of the cliffs in the absolute darkness, there were pale white faces, with teeth chattering from the cold, and foreheads sweaty from fear's heat. Shaky fingers tightened on triggers, as if a death grip on our rifles could hold us to life.
Closer and closer we went, until we could see the enemy's gunfire lighting up the ground beyond the rise. We stumbled onwards, hoping that the muddy stream would mask our noises and trying not to think of last night's failed mission. Not a single man returned.
There there was the noise. A whimper, emitted from the deep crater close in front of us. One of our men? We instinctively dropped flat, bringing our rifles up into firing position. The General slunk forwards, then paused over the edge of the crater, gathered his courage then stuck his head over the edge. A German appeared on the other side of the hole. The General's bayonet was caught in the mud, he was never going to free his rifle fast enough. I rose to one knee as the German raised his rifle. I fired at him and the bullet whined away into the darkness. We trained our guns on each other and shot. His hair flew up and his hand went to his chest as if to pull out the bullet and I had just enough time to recognise his face before he toppled into the crater. I had shared a pint with this man not two days ago on my last leave. His name was Fritz and he spoke English with barely an accent, he said he was on leave from his work in this town, just as I told him. He was going to move to England once the war was over. Neither he nor I mentioned what our work in France entailed. And now I had shot him dead. On a muddy battlefield I shot a man who could have been my friend.
No. No. I lie. I did not meet him. That is the toil of war. You know not your foe or why he's here although you are the same. He is just a face in the wrong place and that is war's game. I only felt I had met him because he looked just like me. Shocked and scared, not ready to leave this world, not ready to kill but shooting because he had no other choice. In those moments that our eyes met, I felt we were the same, for if we'd met in any inn, I would have known his name.

Description
The night of the mission was a dark one. We sneaked out of the side of the side of the trench with the General, stumbling through the muddy craters of No Man's Land. There were noises of shells in the distance and the front lines of our trenches were illuminated by gunfire. As we moved away from our lines towards the cliffs at the edge of our battle, the darkness intensified and a rise cut us off from the view of our comrades.
We were alone. The fear set in.
As we skulked along the base of the cliffs in the absolute darkness, there were pale white faces, with teeth chattering from the cold, and foreheads sweaty from fear's heat. Shaky fingers tightened on triggers, as if a death grip on our rifles could hold us to life.
Closer and closer we went, until we could see the enemy's gunfire lighting up the ground beyond the rise. We stumbled onwards, hoping that the muddy stream would mask our noises and trying not to think of last night's failed mission. Not a single man returned.
There there was the noise. A whimper, emitted from the deep crater close in front of us. One of our men? We instinctively dropped flat, bringing our rifles up into firing position. The General slunk forwards, then paused over the edge of the crater, gathered his courage then stuck his head over the edge. A German appeared on the other side of the hole. The General's bayonet was caught in the mud, he was never going to free his rifle fast enough. I rose to one knee as the German raised his rifle. I fired at him and the bullet whined away into the darkness. We trained our guns on each other and shot. His hair flew up and his hand went to his chest as if to pull out the bullet and I had just enough time to recognise his face before he toppled into the crater. I had shared a pint with this man not two days ago on my last leave. His name was Fritz and he spoke English with barely an accent, he said he was on leave from his work in this town, just as I told him. He was going to move to England once the war was over. Neither he nor I mentioned what our work in France entailed. And now I had shot him dead. On a muddy battlefield I shot a man who could have been my friend.
No. No. I lie. I did not meet him. That is the toil of war. You know not your foe or why he's here although you are the same. He is just a face in the wrong place and that is war's game. I only felt I had met him because he looked just like me. Shocked and scared, not ready to leave this world, not ready to kill but shooting because he had no other choice. In those moments that our eyes met, I felt we were the same, for if we'd met in any inn, I would have known his name.