All Quiet On The Western Front Short Story

A thousand fires burned on the faded green hills around me, hot smoke rose into the air with the aroma of onions and carrots and pork. My company sat closest to the rough bulwark and lines of splintering wooden spikes that marked the edge of the camp. Deep grey clouds set in; suffocating the azure sky the light was swallowed so quickly I thought that the sun had disappeared. I couldn’t see a thing so I decided to join my brothers for dinner, there were plenty of others on watch duty and one man wouldn’t make a difference.
A grey mist had set in over the camp; combined with the smoke of the cook fires it was hard to see more than fifty meters ahead. I frowned and thought about returning to my post when one of my friends called out to me. Siegfried
stumbled over to me drunkenly, hereeked of mead, an awful sharp smell. Food had dribbled down his braided brown beard. He brought me over to the rest of our friends. None of them were as drunk as Siegfried but they were all still tripping over themselves. I started to say something about going back to my post but was drowned out by a cacophony of complaints. They wouldn’t have it; Siegfried grabbed me by the shoulders and forced my down onto one of the makeshift benches. He struggled to give me a horn of mead, spilling half of it on the floor. Stifling a laugh I thanked him and took it from him. Bjorn proposed a toast to our glory. I took a sip of the mead and it travelled down my gullet like liquid fire. My head was already spinning after one sip. While they were all distracted I threw the rest of the foul drink over my shoulder. If I was to find my glory on the battlefield I would do it sober. I joined in with the frivolities for a while, telling jokes and stories, trading plans for our first battle.
We didn't have a worry in the world; we outnumbered the enemy two to one. Our war band had the sharpest axes and the strongest shields in all of Scandinavia. I already knew how the battle would turn out. The lines would clash, our company at the vanguard. Our steel would sing as it sliced through our enemies. Their banners would be burned their bones would be crushed and by the end of it we would leave a feast for the crows.
I noticed something amiss. There was this pack of sullen old dogs that sat round the fire beside ours. They made no jokes, they told no stories, if I didn’t see them moving I would’ve thought them dead, for there was no life in those sunken grey orbs that sat where their eyes should have been. They all sat there, mechanically sharpening their battle axes, they were already sharp enough to shave hair off a fly. They were staring at our party with envy… or pity… maybe both. I didn’t know what to make of it. I quickly realised that these men were our war band's berserkers. They were madmen. I had heard stories of how these men would enter a trance and charge into battle with two axes and no shield, cutting down everyone in their path, not discriminating between friend or foe. They were the most elite soldiers in existence. Fame and glory ran before them yet it seemed that all they ever felt was a deep and unending sorrow.
I started to feel sick to my stomach. How many of their friends had these men seen cut down before them. How many young soldiers had these men cut down? I was suddenly compelled to leave; I wanted to go home, back to my village. My mother would be sat at home by now, having supper with my little sister, she would be telling all her friends how proud she was of her brave son who had gone off to fight for the righteous king. But in truth she didn't care about the king. She just wanted her son to come home.
The watch horn sounded, the enemy was here. A horrible howling; it called out to us; It called for death. I rose up from the bench and grabbed my axe and shield, the splintered wood scratching across my palms. My eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. I felt like my stomach was trying to crawl out of my mouth. All the rookies rushed eagerly to the front lines, forming their ranks, bashing their shields and shouting like the drunken idiots they were. The berserkers rose from their benches, each one of them pulling a mushroom out of a sack on their hip and eating it. I chuckled at that, I had thought of these men as brave warriors when in truth they were just sad old men, repeating a routine, drowning their sorrow with drugs and mead. I made myself rise and, fell in to my formation with my friends.
I looked around and saw smiling faces, they all stood jeering at the enemy, calling names; the enemy acted the same way. They were no different from us, both sides bashing shields and waving banners and calling names and soon to be killing one another for some king we couldn't care less about. Thousands of men each with their own friends, their own families, their own stories, ready to lose their lives for men that probably regarded them the same as livestock.
Black clouds swallowed the sky and let out a mighty roar.
The enemy army fell into a chant, it seemed to be coming from all sides; we soon found out that it was. They had split their force into three groups to surround us each group with as many troops as our entire army. Their berserkers lead the charge while the rest of their men threw javelins and axes. We all looked to our general for orders only to find that an axe had split his skull open. Panic spread like wildfire, some charged, some fled and the rest stood in shock. I lost my train of thought and simply watched blank faced. A faster berserker had outrun the rest of his army and bashed down Siegfried with the side of a battle axe. He lay in the mud bloody faced and begged, tears filling his eyes. I had never seen a face so full of fear. I couldn't hear what he said, I couldn't hear anything, but I saw what happened next. The berserker slammed his axe down on Siegfried's neck and pulled his head from his body. I had heard that when someone is decapitated they remain conscious for ten seconds. My eyes met Siegfried's. He was confused, then terrified and then he was gone. Bjorn was locked in combat, I wanted to help but I couldn't make myself move. Another fighter was moving in on his back. I couldn't move. He raised his sword. I couldn't move. He cleaved off Bjorn's arm. Tears ran down my face and I couldn't move. He looked at me, his face was screwed up in pain but I could see his eyes saying one thing to me, "You are a coward". Men encircled him and skewered him with their spears. I could move, I moved away and left my friends to be slaughtered. Blood and rain fell in equal portions. I threw down my weapons and ran as fast as I could. Red faced and sobbing I ran. By the end of the ordeal I was right about one thing I had left my friends as a feast for the
crows.