Paris always seemed to me like a beacon of peace, whereby nations made treaties. When I got here, I saw the faces of citizens monochrome because of the war, wartorn buildings with some trying to repair them using planks, and some crestfallen people here and there. It was an urban city filled with raging influenza, plagues, and foot shortages. I was sent to march in the streets, so the citizens could see some hope, but their cheering had an undertone of tiredness.

While I roamed the street, I stepped on an old newspaper from 1914; it promised a quick victory and praised patriotism towards France. I wonder if we are demonized in German newspapers as well. I imagine there is a German city just like Paris, where German soldiers march and promise hope to an end to this accursed war. I always wanted to visit France and Paris, but not like this. Who knows if the next aeroplane that flies overhead is a friend or foe?

There were damaged buildings in Paris and a developed system of trenches that saw much warfare. Soldiers and corpses actually did get buried there — a luxury much of my squad could not afford. I do not know the situation back home, but I can see working women here, which was a rare sight to see back home before the war. I can only hope mainland America has not been attacked. I sure hope New York does not see as many strikes and unionization as I saw there. Needless to say, Paris is anything but peaceful. Just last year, Mata Hari was executed by a firing squad for being a German spy. The army commanders are constantly eyeing the soldiers in case of “another mutiny”.

I heard just two months ago, Germans used the “Paris Gun” to fire shells straight into the city, trying to kill as many as possible regardless of soldiers or civilians. Who knows if another bomb will suddenly fall from the sky and extinguish me before I blink? Who knows if a stray shot from a mile away will kill a refugee from Belgium?

For that question about the refugee, I know. Nine days ago, the Germans assaulted Paris. Artillery shells destroyed buildings, so no soldier or civilian could ever be safe. We prioritized shooting at machine gunners. If they make it into the street, they start shooting at anything that moves. Stray shots killed refugees and citizens, and sometimes those shots are intentional. It was a startling sight where the line between enemies and civilians seemed to have vanished.

My most terrifying experience happened three days ago, after being woken up by cold water. Apparently, I had been knocked out cold the day before by either a bullet or shrapnel (thank God for the helmet); the French soldier who poured the water on me tried their best to speak English, which I failed to comprehend. I did not need to because when I looked outside, there was a hulking “Water Carrier” on the German’s side. Two others were coming from other sides of the battlefield into other sectors of the city, but my side was nearly crumbling. All of a sudden, the building I was in collapsed. A wood pole crashed and pressed the French I was speaking to onto the ground, and his agonizing struggle was stopped after his scream stopped because his whole body lit on fire, burning his flesh and melting his face. I do not know where that fire came from as I was focused on finding cover and dealing with that landship.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

There was no good cover nearby, so I crawled on the ground. I had to crawl as fast as I could as the landship was menacingly approaching me. I was lucky because the tank rolled past me, thinking I was a corpse. I silently, stealthy, and hastily took a grenade bag from a fallen German nearby. It has two grenades in it. I took one, pulled the pin, and threw it. By some miracle, the grenade exploded in the tank’s connection nexus and damaged one of the tank’s belts. I rushed forward to the tank before the tank’s machine gun could turn in my direction or the other belt could rotate the tank to face me. I stuck my trench gun’s barrel into an exposed hole and fired the trench gun again and again until I was out of ammunition (I never had many bullets left loaded in the gun, to begin with). Then I pulled the pin of the other grenade in the bag and shoved it into that hole. I ran as fast as I could after that daring risk, but the Germans nearby shot at me, and I collapsed down as a bullet fractured a bone in my left foot. I turned my head back to see the tank was burning, and whoever was inside the tank banged at the cockpit in a vain attempt to escape, yet the cockpit was deformed by the explosion. That person’s shriek while being burnt alive is more piercing than any gunshots in the area, and that seemed to signal for a retreat by the Germans (or rather, those Germans ran to abet other sectors with land ships still intact).

I crawled until I could not move. I blacked out. I was awoken by a nurse at a military hospital the next day, telling me to get moving to make room for other heavily injured patients. They slapped some bandages on my left leg after judging it was not serious enough for amputation, although it was serious enough that I had to be sent home. As I was walking out of the hospital full of coughing, unconscious, or writing men, I saw Dave. He was unconscious, and his entire left arm was amputated. I did not talk to him as I did not want to disturb his slumber. Only then do my sense of smell return to me, making me realize the assault by the putrid stench and the sickening smell of alcohol used to soothe patients. My hearing fully returned next, surprising me with the footsteps of rushing medics and the screams of people in agony. My vision returns from the blur, filling my vision with squirming men, amputated limbs with blood still flowing out, and the cries and relief of families outside the hospital. Lastly, my sense of pain knocked me out of the statue-like state I was in, for my foot was in severe pain. I walked with a limp ever since I left that hospital.

I am currently writing this on a ship back home. I met Dave on this ship and exchanged greetings and postal mail information. We did not have much to talk about, nor were we in for some card games. We just sat next to each other for three hours or so and saw each other off. The only other thing we talked about was his arm, which he says that he still feels as if his arm is still there and could still be moved. This ship will stop by New Jersey first, which is Dave’s home state, then to New York City. I wonder what my family will say when they find out I will have to walk with a limp for the rest of my life.