DestrixGunnar
With blood and rage of crimson red,
It was the year 19...19-something. I was in the midst of a German offensive in France in the heart of the first World War. It was...Hectic, to say the least. Chaotic...Would be an understatement. I was in the mud, ducking down as deep as I can to avoid gunfire. My face was pushed up against the ground as bullets from bolt action rifles whiz by above my head. The sounds of my comrades screaming commands to each other were muffled. As I looked around me, I couldn't differentiate between the dead, the living and the ones who were both. My rifle laid stiffly next to me and for a split second I hesitated to pick it up. Of course, I did eventually, springing out the empty shell from the chamber and loading it bullet by bullet—round by round. I lock the hammer in and point my gun forward, aiming for anyone who isn't one of us. Shot after shot, they fall but for every one that tumbles onto the ground, five more charge up from behind the small hills. It was a storm of steel. The Germans kept on coming and some even came with flamethrowers and tanks.
I was a part of the United States 369th Infantry. We were and still are, widely known as the Harlem Hellfighters. That day we lived up to our name of "Hellfighters". The sight before me that day is one I'll never forget. We were being outnumbered and overwhelmed by their power. I remember my friend calling out to me and gesturing me to follow him into a somewhat stable looking structure. I'm sure now, that they saw us enter because as soon as we were about to forge up a plan to somehow fight back, two stick grenades fly into the room. We both traded looks before the bombs went off. The explosion flung me across the room and I felt my body hit the soft, moist and muddy soil outside, rain starting to fall onto my face before I black out entirely.
Then I wake up to find myself in a place that was dark. Very dark. In the distance, I see a light shining dimly. I was still curious as to where I could have been. Suddenly, I hear footsteps and voices from above me, followed by a choir of gunfire. I look back at the light and get up, making my way towards it. When I reach it, I find myself a door next to me. Inside, I hear loud chatter. Like a coffee shop on a Sunday. I knock on the door a few times and it all goes silent. I could only imagine what I'd find behind the door. A secret German outpost? A room full of politicians pulling the strings of the war? Or German soldiers getting ready to gun us down?
The door swings open and I see men inside with glasses of what looks to be beer in their hands. The man who opened the door gestures me inside and welcomes me warmly. I was trying to get rid of the look of awe on my face that I knew was there but I couldn't. I noticed the uniforms that the men inside were wearing. There were both American and German soldiers present there, and they all seemed friendly with each other as they continued their drinking and chatting. "what is this place?" I managed to voice out.
"Ah. Welcome to the Muddy Tavern, friend. Please, have yourself a seat. What would you like to drink?"
I couldn't answer that question. I could barely say anything. I was just in shock. My eyes were wide open, looking at what was going on around me. People who should be enemies, who should be at each other's throats, are sitting together happily drinking their lives away. As if on autopilot, I sit down at the bar and they randomly slide over a pint of bright, golden beer. I point at it and look over to the bartender. "I didn't ask for this,"
"Well you didn't ask for anything," he said. "so just take it, yeah?" He says quickly before going off to tend to other people. The man who greeted me before sat down next to me with a bottle of whiskey and chugs down a good amount of it. "What is this place?"
"Didn't I tell ya? This is the Mud—"
"No, I got you the first time. What is this place?"
"Ah, this is a tavern. But the trick is, this place? It's under the trenches. If you haven't noticed yet, war is goin' on above us. You probably heard it on your way in. Don't worry, we're safe down here. No war, no conflict. We're all comrades here, we don't give a flying mortar about country or race around here. As you can see," he gestures to everyone in the tavern. "We have people from all the different armies down here havin' a good time. This place run by soldiers, for soldiers" he chugs down more of his whiskey.
I drink my beer and enjoy the taste, the feeling of it running down my throat. I finish my pint and ask for another, already enjoying myself more than I probably should have. "Ya like the drink?" The man asks me. Only now do I notice his thick scottish accent.
"It's the best drink I've had in a while, yeah," I look at his uniform. I noticed that he was wearing full white and he was totally clean, like an angel of sorts. Then I noticed that he wasn't bearing a flag at all. As I grab my new pint of beer, I ask the man. "Hey, what army are you a part of? What country? I don't see any flag on your uniform,"
"Oh I'm from a place high up above. It's a beautiful place. We have no flags there, we dare not differentiate ourselves in such a way. Everyone is equal. It is where you will all go eventually,"
I didn't get what he meant but I just shrugged it off.
One last question I still had to ask him before I knew what this place really was. "Hey, what's your name?"
He turns his head toward me with a smile so genuine it felt like the sunrise was shining it's light on me. In the sweetest tone, he answered my question.
"My name is Azrael,"
I was a part of the United States 369th Infantry. We were and still are, widely known as the Harlem Hellfighters. That day we lived up to our name of "Hellfighters". The sight before me that day is one I'll never forget. We were being outnumbered and overwhelmed by their power. I remember my friend calling out to me and gesturing me to follow him into a somewhat stable looking structure. I'm sure now, that they saw us enter because as soon as we were about to forge up a plan to somehow fight back, two stick grenades fly into the room. We both traded looks before the bombs went off. The explosion flung me across the room and I felt my body hit the soft, moist and muddy soil outside, rain starting to fall onto my face before I black out entirely.
Then I wake up to find myself in a place that was dark. Very dark. In the distance, I see a light shining dimly. I was still curious as to where I could have been. Suddenly, I hear footsteps and voices from above me, followed by a choir of gunfire. I look back at the light and get up, making my way towards it. When I reach it, I find myself a door next to me. Inside, I hear loud chatter. Like a coffee shop on a Sunday. I knock on the door a few times and it all goes silent. I could only imagine what I'd find behind the door. A secret German outpost? A room full of politicians pulling the strings of the war? Or German soldiers getting ready to gun us down?
The door swings open and I see men inside with glasses of what looks to be beer in their hands. The man who opened the door gestures me inside and welcomes me warmly. I was trying to get rid of the look of awe on my face that I knew was there but I couldn't. I noticed the uniforms that the men inside were wearing. There were both American and German soldiers present there, and they all seemed friendly with each other as they continued their drinking and chatting. "what is this place?" I managed to voice out.
"Ah. Welcome to the Muddy Tavern, friend. Please, have yourself a seat. What would you like to drink?"
I couldn't answer that question. I could barely say anything. I was just in shock. My eyes were wide open, looking at what was going on around me. People who should be enemies, who should be at each other's throats, are sitting together happily drinking their lives away. As if on autopilot, I sit down at the bar and they randomly slide over a pint of bright, golden beer. I point at it and look over to the bartender. "I didn't ask for this,"
"Well you didn't ask for anything," he said. "so just take it, yeah?" He says quickly before going off to tend to other people. The man who greeted me before sat down next to me with a bottle of whiskey and chugs down a good amount of it. "What is this place?"
"Didn't I tell ya? This is the Mud—"
"No, I got you the first time. What is this place?"
"Ah, this is a tavern. But the trick is, this place? It's under the trenches. If you haven't noticed yet, war is goin' on above us. You probably heard it on your way in. Don't worry, we're safe down here. No war, no conflict. We're all comrades here, we don't give a flying mortar about country or race around here. As you can see," he gestures to everyone in the tavern. "We have people from all the different armies down here havin' a good time. This place run by soldiers, for soldiers" he chugs down more of his whiskey.
I drink my beer and enjoy the taste, the feeling of it running down my throat. I finish my pint and ask for another, already enjoying myself more than I probably should have. "Ya like the drink?" The man asks me. Only now do I notice his thick scottish accent.
"It's the best drink I've had in a while, yeah," I look at his uniform. I noticed that he was wearing full white and he was totally clean, like an angel of sorts. Then I noticed that he wasn't bearing a flag at all. As I grab my new pint of beer, I ask the man. "Hey, what army are you a part of? What country? I don't see any flag on your uniform,"
"Oh I'm from a place high up above. It's a beautiful place. We have no flags there, we dare not differentiate ourselves in such a way. Everyone is equal. It is where you will all go eventually,"
I didn't get what he meant but I just shrugged it off.
One last question I still had to ask him before I knew what this place really was. "Hey, what's your name?"
He turns his head toward me with a smile so genuine it felt like the sunrise was shining it's light on me. In the sweetest tone, he answered my question.
"My name is Azrael,"