War Monologue

As I loaded my worn out rifle, I heard the sounds of war. The bang of the cannon, the frightened shouts of soldiers, the loud pop of their hand guns, the whirring and screeching sound the fighter planes produced and the crunch of gravel beneath both friend and foe’s battered boots . I took my time inserting the deadly explosives onto my belt, careful not to blow myself and every person preparing for war, into pieces. The only thought on my mind was whether or not I would see my home again.
As soon as the commander pushed aside the decaying tent flap, I stood; quivering in fear of what would happen next, looking around, all I could think about was the fact that almost every man in this tent would likely be dead, including me.
We marched all
One word kept repeating itself in my head. Death. I would never be a husband. Death. I would live to experience the magical thing called fatherhood. Death. Death. Death. I had so much to live for, and so little to die for; I was fighting in a war I didn’t care about, taking orders from a country that’s done nothing for me, and soon to be fighting men that could have been my neighbors, instead they’re the enemy.
We were here. The front lines; home to thousands of severed limbs, hundreds of dead bodies and now, me. 10 more feet and I would be in shooting distance of our adversaries, 5 more feet and I would be in shoulder to shoulder with my comrades, ready to become a cold-hearted killer.
I was in the trenches now. I heard stories from veterans, they all said that the it was hell on earth. Disease was as popular as ammunition, and sleep was rarer than gold. I also had been told horrendous stories of people losing fingers or toes to the harsh, freezing weather; some stories even involved soldiers dying because of frostbite. Nothing I heard made me want to fight in the
It was time for battle. I hurriedly moved to a safer spot in the trenches, surprised to be thankful for the dirt walls. With shaking fingers, I pulled out my rifle. It took me three tries to load it, dropping bullets with clumsy fingers. Taking a deep breath, I took a step towards the top of the trench. I was about to kill someone, even though they are the enemy. Aiming my rifle, I looked for any heads or body parts that I could possibly try to hit; I found a solider. He was fumbling with his weapon just as I had done. I aimed at his head, my fingers hesitating at the trigger; he was just like me, nervous and scared. I couldn’t do it. Lowering my rifle, I looked once more at the soldier that I had spared. I found a speeding bullet heading in my