Fight for Your Life

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“Cock it, cock it quick!” roared the officer, standing tall and exaggerating his chest – all the while thumping it to expose that we were the superior race.

Screeching and howling, crawling back and forth. Miserably pattering through thick sludgy mud, which was caking our bodies. We were first to fire. Bullets soaring in every direction. No order or arrhythmic pattern, just open fire. Put your paws on the trigger and hope you don’t injure one of your own. Alongside protecting yourself, you feared for your brothers. Never should you damage one of your own. That’s the capital rule. If you caused harm to your own pack, you had no way of grieving. You just pull through and fight on.
“Keep calm and carry on.”

That’s what echoed in our minds. It was a matter of life and death. It’s every man for himself. Nobody cared, just locked and loaded. Only feared for our lives. Who would blame us?

Run out of ammunition, grab another. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Run out of ammunition, grab another. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Run out of ammunition, go to grab another…gone. Everything’s gone. You panic, you breathe, you process a thought. Run.

Hearing the loud shrieks from strong, faithful men buries your happiness. Every shred of hope you have is lost. You are lost. Your mind, your strength, your will to fight on.

The dauntless aroma of blood and dirt mix together. The grimy stench blocks our senses. You’re blind and exhausted, and the lingering stench of death depresses us. Makes men who are in packs of hundreds feel alone.

Image: backpocketcoo

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