March of Shame

Philippe was walking down the dirt trail, passing burned barns and decapitated livestock. Sheep, cows, dogs, cats. He was feeling numb, yet his mind was in it’s own world. His footing, mechanical, like he had been ordered to. He was looking down on his feet, the weight of defeat and desperation too heavy for his neck to lift. The french distinctive blue uniform was scratched and muddy, it barely resembled the condition it was handed to him prior to the war. The Adrian-type helmet, a unique design of French mastery, was no longer shining, the insignia was missing and it’s color is peeling off, like Philippe’s soul.

“Martin... Pierre, Régis, Zacharie...” He muttered all the names of his deceased squad mates. All victims to the massacre the Germans had done to the village that Philippe’s squad was protecting days ago. The German attack had been so fast and destructive that the squad didn’t have time to react in time. Philippe, had to hide inside the belly of a ripped deceased cow in order to avoid being executed by the Germans. He heard the cries of agony and pain of his friends being tortured and killed by the German forces one by one. When the Germans left the village to march eastwards, only then Philippe had the chance to escape the village who had gained the smell of flesh and decay, Phillipe couldn’t even bury them, crows were flying above the soulless victims and he puked from nastiness and disgust.

The calling screams of crows, the agony of his squad mates, the gunshots, the mutilated body parts that flew left and right from artillery explosions, were images that forced him to stop his walking for a bit and sat on a rock in front of a desolate destroyed barn. His feet were trembling, he was sobbing uncontrollably, he couldn’t even remember the last time he cried and everyone back then told him that men don’t cry for petty reasons.

While he was trying somehow to sweep his scratched cheeks with a dirty blue cloth, he remembered a moment when his grandpa was crying in secret at his house when Philippe went to Saint Etienne for vacation prior to the war. His grandpa fought in the French-Prussian war of 1870 but he never told his grandson about it, he never wanted to, he felt Europe would be a better place but alas how wrong he was. Philippe didn’t understand him back then. He did now.

Philippe grabbed his Berthier rifle and took a look at the butt stock of the gun ‘1939 Paris’ was engraved on to it. A date that would live in infamy. He remembered how trams was filled to the brim of men like him, excited to fight for France once again. They were drunk by the stories that their fathers were saying to them about the battle of Somme WW1. Heroes in that blue outfit fought without hesitation the German menace. Young Frenchmen wanted to repeat the success of their fathers, to experience the victorious marches through Germany. To meet pretty girls in the streets and boast about their achievements. To see the desperation in German eyes. Oh, how foolish they were...

With his trembling hand, Philippe checked one of his beige pockets on his chest. He had enough bullets for one clip. Philippe couldn’t bare the thought of being ridiculed, he couldn’t bare the thought of seeing German soldiers with their shining grey uniforms marching through Paris, the city where he met his girlfriend Leanne, a local journalist, in which her whereabouts were unknown to him. But Philippe could predict her fate. Journalists get silenced whenever they got rowdy. Leanne was pretty much the same. She couldn’t being silenced by words.

Philippe couldn’t bare the thought of seeing his grandpa seeing Germans marching inside the capital like he did in the 1870. He would probably die out of sadness. He felt guilty for his cowardliness to die like his squad mates, he felt guilty for being a failure to his own family, and of course to his country which so quickly fell under the German control.

He imagined with fear what would probably happen in Europe for the second time, even though he wasn’t even born in the last world war. The uncertainty of the future, the insanity of a failed mustache grim man, the impeding catastrophe of Europe once again.

Philippe, peaked at the barrel of his gun. No one expected him, and no one would cry for him. He was just a number with a uniform, people expected from him to be dead rather than surrendering anyway. He couldn’t imagine that he would step inside the German command post with his rifle to surrender only to be sent in a camp to die slowly. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He put a bullet inside his rifle and pointed at his chin.

“D-Do I deserve to be alive anymore ? How can I live with my failures ?” He said with baited breath.

As he was about to press the trigger he heard the trumpet signaling the surrender of French forces in the East.