The
Last Bullet
by Sheherezade
Copyright © 2011 by Sheherezade
Smashwords
Edition
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you
would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and
did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then
please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you
for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Table of Contents
George tried to change his position, leaning against the muddy wall was making his back hurt like hell. George was sure it was because he was wet and cold, and had been for such a very long time. He tried to remember how it felt to be in dry clothes but could not. As he shifted his weight on to his left leg he lost his footing and slipped into the mud. Thick sticky mud. It smelt too. George could not describe the smell but knew it was his smell! Did the mud smell of human excrement and decaying bodies or was it him that smell of shit and rotting bodies ? Which was it? Did it even matter anymore who smelt of what? He answered his own question in his mind.
Life had been like this for as long as he could remember. Mud, cold, wet and the most awful smell, punctuated by the perfume of cordite.
Did flowers, laughter, music or even dry clothes really exist? Not in George's world , for sure!
George got back up from his knees, wiping the mud off his hands onto Henry's back.
Henry had been his "best" friend for at least 2 days so George was sure he wouldn't mind .
Henry was from Alberta, that was all George knew about him. There was no point in finding out anymore about your friends than that. To be honest, it was more than he had known about most of his comrades.
" Where are you from?" Was the question most often directed at any new friends that arrived to share their muddy home. More often than not George did not even remember their names, especially over the last few days, or had it been weeks or even months.
George's companion , Henry, had been dead at least 6 hours and no-one had come to collect him.
George did not recall Henry's face, not that it mattered, since most of it had exploded as he had fallen, the rest was certainly already decaying in the mud. A single loud crack was all George heard before Henry fell. He lay exactly in the same position where he had fallen, face down in the mud. There was no point in even checking if he was alive, the German marksmen never missed.
How had he, George Price from Moose Jaw , Saskatchewan in Canada find himself in a muddy hole in Belgium?
It was so simple , he had been conscripted !
His last night had been celebrated in Frankie's General and liquor store . That was the 14th of October 1917. What a night! He had been paid his last wages earlier in the afternoon, wished the best of luck and congratulated by his ex-employer for doing his duty, and as far as he recalled had spent every last dime on beer before midnight.
George was generous with the drinks buying that night, being that it was his last day as a farm laborer and in the following morning his first as a soldier. George Price had been conscripted to serve in the 28th Battalion Canadian Infantry . He had been told that he would receive basic training and would then be a reservist. The conditions were good too! Almost as much pay as working in the fields but with free board , clothing and food. At least that is what he had been told by the conscription officer!