Blood and Shadows

Morning light broke through the remnants of the storm, and the sun’s warm embrace quickly dried our clothes. Eventually I was told a small army core, just four men, would take me back to my unit, I replied that there was one more to take and they said OK let’s go. Harry got in with me along with another two soldiers and we were soon climbing up a mountain pass. The ascent was brutal, a jagged ridge that clawed at the very soul. For an hour, we struggled upwards, every yard a battle against the mountain itself. The air grew thin, biting at our lungs as the vehicle clung to the rocky outcrops, the steep incline relentless beneath its gnarly tyres. Then, without warning, the peace of the wild was shattered. The deafening roar of mortar shells tore through the air, their explosions sending plumes of earth and stone into the sky. The crack of machine-gun fire echoed through the jagged peaks, sharp and vicious, as though the mountain itself had awakened in fury. Bullets whistled past, the smell of gunpowder in the air. The world had turned into a battleground, and we were caught in its grip. Our vehicle, once a symbol of our determination, now became a helpless beast. The tyres screamed in protest as the driver fought to maintain control, but the rocky terrain betrayed us. With a violent lurch, we were thrown off course. The wheels spun wildly, then with a sickening crash, we plunged into a deep ditch, the earth swallowing us whole. The world spun into chaos. The sound of metal scraping against stone was drowned by the cries of men, the hiss of escaping gas, and the staccato rattle of gunfire. In the madness, there was no time to think, no time to react. It was every man for himself. When the dust settled, I found myself among the wreckage, the twisted remains of the vehicle scattered like broken bones. The others were gone—taken by the trap that had claimed us. Only Harry and I remained, bloodied, bruised, and alive by some cruel twist of fate. We clung to the edge of survival, knowing that the battle was far from over. Amidst the chaos, Harry had been struck in the upper right arm. His screams pierced through the din of battle a sound as agonizing as it was unceasing. I ordered him to silence, knowing that any more noise would bring unwanted attention. We crawled through filthy, swirling water for what felt like an eternity before finding refuge in the shadowy cover of a nearby forest. There, I swiftly removed Harry’s coat to assess the damage. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and I turned to his emergency dressing—a small, crucial supply each soldier carried in the top pocket of his left trouser leg. I cut the stitching and applied the field dressing with practiced efficiency, hoping it would staunch the bleeding. With Harry’s wound dressed, we faced the grim reality of our situation: Germans still prowled the area. We ventured through the woods to the next valley, seeking shelter in a small cave. Our respite was short-lived, as some local lads spotted us and fled, shouting “Englessi, Englessi” in alarm. Our options were dwindling, we could go no further so we settled into the cave, waiting for the inevitable.