Villi Asgeirsson

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Escape – a short story

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It wasn’t about her, he thought as he buttoned his trousers. Wasn’t about the woman, still lying in the bed he had just got out of. Wasn’t about his wife, who was completely oblivious to this affair.

Until she would find a careless message, detect a smell she didn’t recognise, or see a behaviour that was out of character.

It wasn’t about power, about proving he still had it, that he was still in the market.

Wasn’t about desire, because he wasn’t mad about this woman.

Wasn’t about love that had turned cold, because he still loved his wife.

The woman in the bed made a moaning sound as she looked at him, smiling. He smiled back with his mouth. His eyes were cold. He understood what had just happened was unnecessary, pointless and would destroy everything.

He buckled his belt and gave her a kiss. Wet and devoid of passion.

What was it about? The job he didn’t enjoy? The mundanity of daily life? What his kids were turning into?

He put on his jacket.

Whatever it was, it was not about his wife.

Neither was it about the woman smiling at him.

He opened the door and stepped out into the chilly night. Wondering what to do next.

This story is the twelfth installment in the Moments series

The Shadow in the Hallway – a short story

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This story and the next are based on events that I experienced many years ago. They are not fiction.

In the summer of 1980, I moved to a new apartment with my mom and sister. You could smell the paint and the fresh wood of the kitchen cupboards. The outside was still naked concrete and the parking spaces gravel. Surrounding houses were being built and we, the kids, played in the rain-filled foundations, pretending to be gangsters or characters from westerns, running up stairs without railings in houses that had only floors, no walls.

But that’s not what this story is about. It is about the strange man that used to live with us.

I’m not sure when I started seeing him. I just know that I did, frequently. You could see him from the corner of your eye, but the moment you looked, he was gone. At first I was afraid of this, but one apparently gets used to anything. He seemed harmless, just hovering there in silence.

The house was organised like any modern apartment, a small hall where you entered, leading to a living room. On one side of the hall was a kitchen with an opening, no door, on the other, the bedrooms and a toilet.

The man was tall, and it definitely was a man. He was taller than an average person, close to two metres, wore a long black coat. His hair must have been black as well, although I never really saw his head as a separate thing. Neither did I see his feet. I presume they were there, but he didn’t walk in the usual sense. He floated from one side of the hall to the other. It’s hard to explain. It wasn’t like he was flying, more the absence of walking. He just moved from one side to the other.

I never remember seeing him in any of the rooms. Just in the hall.

Although I was open to the supernatural back in those days, I was never particularly spiritual. I still believed in God and didn’t rule out the existence of ghosts, or whatever spirits they might be. After seeing the man many times, I accepted the fact that he was there, or that I was just seeing things. I learned not to look, because you could only see him from the corner of your eye. The slightest movement of the eyes and he disappeared.

A couple of years passed, I saw him regularly but didn’t really think much of it. I’d read the Bible somewhere around 1984 or thereabouts, and my faith was fading. God didn’t seem to make much sense, so ghosts probably weren’t real either. I was probably insane, or imagining it. Even if I saw him, I didn’t really believe my own eyes.

The shock came at the dinner table one evening. We were sitting there, me, my younger sister and mother. Out of nowhere, my sister speaks. ‘Who is the man in the hallway?’

I looked at her in astonishment. Then my mother spoke.

‘You see him too?’

I said nothing. As sceptical as I had become, this was strange, as much a proof as anything. I had been seeing him, then my sister mentions him out of nowhere, and apparently, my mother had seen him too. He wasn’t the creation of my overactive teenage mind.

There has never been a definite explanation for what happened. My mother did some research and contacted the building company. They obviously said nothing, except that an accident had happened during the construction of these apartment buildings. A wall in a hall in one of the apartments had collapsed and killed a worker. They wouldn’t say which building or apartment, but we figured it may well have been ours.

It may or may not be related that a couple of years later, I was watching TV with a friend in the living room. He jumped up and said, ‘there’s someone in the hall’. I replied, it’s just the ghost. I explained to him we were all seeing this man and that he did no harm.

After watching TV for a while, I started to feel extremely uneasy. Like there were a thousand eyes looking at me from all around the living room. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt before, and I said nothing. Just sat there, trying to watch the TV, trying to ignore this hoard of eyes looking at me.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ my friend asked. He stood up without waiting for an answer.

‘Yeah, let’s.’ We both hurried out of the apartment and walked around the neighbourhood. He explained how he’d felt eyes staring at him. Neither of us saw anything, but we both felt it.

After a quarter of an hour or so, we returned. I put the key in the door and felt some kind of negative energy, almost like an electric shock, but without the pain. There was a tall and narrow window in the door and I felt “them” looking through it. I said we should keep walking.

Another ten to fifteen minutes later, we returned. I put the key in the door and felt nothing. We went inside. The atmosphere was different. There was a sense of relief in the air, like sunshine after a heavy shower. We both knew that whatever had been there was gone now.

There has never an explanation for either of these phenomena, I have no idea what we felt. Did a man die in our apartment? Does that explain the man in the hall? What was the second thing? How can a thousand demons, or whatever they were, make you so uncomfortable that you escape your own home?

I am convinced there is a logical explanation to everything. There are no supernatural forces, no creator playing with us and no spirits haunting us and our houses, but I do not know how to explain what happened in that apartment. I’d love to understand what we saw and felt back in those days.

This story is the eleventh installment in the Moments series

A Traitor Lay Dying – a short story

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The nurse closed the curtains as the old man struggled for breath. He’d been transferred here two weeks earlier, and the nurse had noticed nobody ever came to visit the man. She arranged the unread magazines next to his bed and filled the galls with water. He moved slightly, and she looked at him as he gestured her to come closer. ‘I need to tell you something,’ he whispered. ‘I have a confession to make.’

‘A confession? I’m not a priest.’

‘Somebody must hear this before I go,’ he whispered.

It was in early spring 1943. Marloes collected a few breads at the back of the bakery and wrapped them in cloth. Her father nervously looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes.’ She smiled and hung the bread basket on her bike.

It wasn’t far from here. The point where they would drop their cargo. She biked along the canal and over the dike until she came to an open field. It was chilly, and she pulled her coat over her ears. She’d done this often enough, but every time it gave her the chills. The distant drone of the engines grew louder, and she looked to the sky. A single airplane appeared from the distance and as it came closer, it dropped the load. A small crate parachuted to the ground. Marloes walked across the field, opened the crate and removed the contents.

The weapons fit nicely under the breads. Someone else would collect the crate after she’d gone. You couldn’t leave these things out here. The Nazis couldn’t be allowed to find it.

Marloes quickly biked back to the village, past a couple of Nazi soldiers that gave her that look only a young woman needs to fear. One of them whistled, but she ignored him. They couldn’t know she was hiding weapons for the resistance in her basket. They never stopped her, never checked. The baker’s daughter was just doing the rounds.

Reaching the outskirts of the village, she followed a path to the windmill. She laid the bike against the fence, took the basket off and walked around to the back, lifted an old wooden hatch and put the weapons down. Someone would come for them after dark.

She closed the hatch and as she stood up, she heard a door open. Turning around, she saw five soldiers approach, pointing their rifles at her. In German, they asked what she was doing. She couldn’t say anything. She froze. Dropped the basket, raised her arms into the air.

‘I am picking up flour for my father.’ Her hands were shaking and the sunny sky seemed to crash down on her.

The soldiers pointed their rifles at her while the officer opened the hatch. She closed her eyes as he reached down. Knew he’d found the guns and ammunition. He stood up, a British gun in his hand, and walked over to her. Stroked her chin and let his finger run down her neck, to her breasts. ‘What a waste,’ he said and smiled.

The nurse looked at the dying man, heard him struggle to speak. ‘She died a few months later in a concentration camp somewhere. I don’t even know which one.’ The old man could hardly breathe, but he had to get his story off his chest. ‘Nobody ever knew I was the one that told them.’ He tried to cough before continuing. ‘I thought I was helping. I really believed their lies. And Marloes, I loved her, but she never even noticed me. I don’t know why I told them, why I betrayed her.’

The nurse said nothing. She stood up, opened the curtains and left the room. He would die alone.

‘I have lived with this ever since,’ he said as she closed the door.

This story is the thenth installment in the Moments series

Queen of Hearts – a short story

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The queen was looking out the window, at men pushing carts through the castle grounds, women running after chickens and carrying breads, soldiers standing guard and knights unmounting their horses, two men dragging a condemned man to the platform and the executioner inspecting his axe. They were hard years, constant wars with her neighbours and the people suffered. How was she supposed to keep the peace with the endless raids on her border villages? They called her a warrior queen as her reign had been that of war and violence and because she had led her troops into many battles, but what she really wanted was a man she could call her king and little princes running around the castle.

Fate had pushed itself unto her and she had no choice but to oblige. A queen could not be seen to be weaker than a king would. There were enough greedy relatives waiting for the opportunity to oust her, with or without bloodshed.

The executioner raised his axe, and the queen walked away from her window.

She turned to look into the large mirror on the wall. The dark hair flowing from under her crown, almost merging with her black velvet dress. Black, the colour of mourning. Her future king, the one she had chosen, was dead. She looked into her own eyes, saw the stony stare. Am I evil, she asked herself. She didn’t hesitate to condemn people, to send them to the gallows. It did nothing to her to see them hanged. It gave her no pleasure, but she had no choice. You couldn’t allow yourself to be sensitive to that sort of thing. She ran her slender finger down the pale face. Wondered if she was still beautiful. There was a tiny wrinkle sprouting from her eye, but it was hair thin. Her face was still smooth, her features still those of a young woman. The only thing that may have made her look beyond her years was the sternness of her gaze. The coldness of her eyes, the authority she projected.

So why had he rejected her? He was nothing but a knight. A war hero, with many battles won, but in her name. His ancestry wasn’t much to boast about. His father had been a minor earl and yet, the man she had chosen rejected the idea of becoming her king.

Her face grew dark, thinking of their encounter. He kneeled before her, as one should. She complimented him on his victories and admired his body, his face and the fire in his eyes. He will be the father of the future king, she decided. But after weeks of courtship, he made his excuses, got himself out of her noose and claimed he had to leave for some battle or other.

One does not disobey the queen.

She lifted a glass of blood red wine and wetted her lips. Any moment now.

There were footsteps out in the hall. The queen put the glass down and smiled at her mirror image. They may think they can defy their queen, but they are wrong. She applied red colour to her lips, fixed her hair. No man should be able to resist this woman. She smiled and held back the tears. She was good in holding back tears, concealing her emotions. Some called her the Ice Queen. They knew nothing.

There was a knock on the door. She straightened her dress and waited a few seconds before answering. ‘Yes, come in.’

The door opened, and two soldiers entered, one carrying a covered silver tray. ‘Your Majesty.’

Silently, she gestured towards the table. The soldier put the tray down and walked backwards towards the door. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and he left, closing the door.

Here we are again, she thought as she sauntered towards the covered tray. My love.

She lifted the silver lid, revealing a heart laden with diamonds and gold. Her face showed no emotion as she picked up a large ring with a deep blue stone from the soldier’s heart.

‘You should have given me your heart, my darling. Now I was forced to take it.’

She arranged the jewellery around the still warm heart and put the ring on her finger.

The widowed queen.

This story is the ninth installment in the Moments series

Cinema – a short story

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It wasn’t far off Alexanderplatz, but the alley was dark and deserted. Kirsten sensed the man following her and walked a little faster than she otherwise would. He walked faster still and soon caught up with her. Touched her shoulder. She ignored him, but he grabbed her and twisted her around. Kirsten tried to break loose, but he held tight, shook and threw her against the wall. Gottlieb pushed himself against her. She struggled but couldn’t move. She tried to scratch his face with her fingernails, but he grabbed her hand and all she could do was scream.

Ulrich was enjoying the evening walk, no destination on his mind. Just an evening stroll in the city. He heard a scream nearby, from an alley he just passed. His senses awake, he turned and ran towards the sound. Turning the corner, he saw a man holding a woman against her will.

He breathed deeply before mustering up the courage, composed himself and ran down the alley. Before Gottlieb could understand what was happening, he was ripped away from Kirsten. Almost losing his balance, he smashed against the opposite wall. He pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed at Ulrich. The two men confronted each other while Kirsten tried to compose herself.

‘Put the gun away,’ Ulrich almost whispered.

‘Learn to mind your own business.’ Gottlieb aimed the gun between the man’s eyes.

 Ulrich jumped to one side, confusing Gottlieb for a moment, then launched himself, knocking the gun out of Gottlieb’s hand with a karate kick. Both men seemed prepared to run after it but knew the other would use the opportunity to attack. Gottlieb punched toward Ulrich, but was thwarted. After receiving a heavy blow in the face, he ran away, out of the alley and out of sight.

Ulrich picked up the gun and smiled at Kirsten. ‘Hope he didn’t cause you any harm.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Kirsten brushed her coat and smiled.

‘Ulrich, my name is Ulrich. Hungry?’

A moment later, they were in Alexanderplatz, laughing at the sauce running down her face as she took a bite. ‘Curry wurst may not be a great idea for a first date,’ she mumbled amusingly through the fat soaked wrapping. So beautiful, so elegant, yet so human. This perfect being mesmerised Ulrich. He saw his future right there, in her eyes. Fate had brought them together and nothing would get in their way.

Five men approached from the side. Ulrich devoured the sausage and clenched his fists. He was ready. Gottlieb, he recognised the man from the alley. They aligned themselves in a half circle, like gunslingers in a western, ambushing their prey. Kirsten moved closer to Ulrich, and he put his arms around her. They turned and walked off, knowing the men would come after them. Ulrich needed a plan.

The remains of the old Berlin Wall merely indicated at their former power. Covered in graffiti, the barbed wire and gun turrets were gone, but that didn’t make Ulrich and Kirsten feel any safer. The five men followed them at a steady distance, never letting them out of sight. As they approached the end of East Side Gallery, they took a sprint across Warschauer Straße, but could not get away. Two men attacked Ulrich, and he fell to the ground. Three went after Kirsten, grabbed her and dragged her to a car. As she was being pushed into the back, Ulrich, enraged, punched and kicked and got up. He ran towards the car, but someone shouted ‘Klaus!’ and he was tripped by one of the men. He fell on his face as the car sped off. The two men were back on their feet and started kicking him. Lying helpless on the ground, he remembered the gun he’d gotten off Gottlieb earlier. He pulled it out of his pocket, quickly turned and shot one of the men, which promptly fell into the Spree river. The other man ran off across the Oberbaum Brücke. Ulrich was in pain, but got back on his feet and ran after him.

He caught up with the crook halfway across the bridge. They slammed against the railing and almost lost their balance. The man resisted, but Ulrich drew the gun and pushed it under his chin.

‘Where did they take her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ulrich pushed the gun upwards and it hurt Klaus. ‘Take me to her.’

‘I don’t know where they are.’

Ulrich searched Klaus’ pockets and found a phone. ‘Unlock it. Give me the name of the guy we’re about to visit.’

‘Never.’

‘I don’t care if you die here and now, or later. Or not at all. I really don’t care. I just want that girl back.’

‘Go to hell.’

Ulrich pushed Klaus, so he almost lost balance, aimed at his knee and pulled the trigger. Klaus screamed and fell to the ground ‘Tell me.’ Ulrich pointed the gun at his other knee.

‘Don’t!’

‘Tell me where she is or you’ll never walk again!’

‘Unlock it with 2014. Name is Gottlieb.’

Ulrich typed a text message. “Got rid of the guy. Where can we join you?”

Ulrich pointed the gun at Klaus again, while keeping one eye on the phone. ‘Don’t move.’

A message came in. “Tiergarten, under the Bismarck Monument.”

Ulrich hit Klaus on the head, knocking him out before taking his gun and waving a taxi.

The taxi stopped at the Victory Column and Ulrich got out. He walked straight to the path leading up to the Bismarck Monument, making no effort to be discreet. As the men saw him, he drew the two guns and fired. Two of the three men fell down. Gottlieb grabbed Kirsten and dragged her to one side, towards the trees. As they approached the English Garden, Gottlieb stopped and turned, pointing his gun at Kirsten. 

‘If you shoot, she will die. You are too far away. She will be hit.’

‘Let her go.’

‘Never!’

‘I’m telling you. This is your last chance. Your friends are all dead and I won’t hesitate to kill you too.’

Gottlieb pushed his gun against Kirsten’s chin and hid his own face behind hers. Ulrich raised his gun and aimed. Kirsten whispered something in terror but the words never came out. Ulrich held his breath, aimed and fired. Gottlieb let out a quick scream as he fell to the ground.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Ulrich took Kirsten’s hand.

They walked towards the city, holding hands. As they stood under the Brandenburger Tor in the evening light, she turned and thanked him. He looked into her eyes and they kissed. They would never be separated again.

The evening sun cast shadows across the tiny room. Ulrich killed a cigarette in an overfull ashtray, stretched and typed THE END on his typewriter.

He got up from the chair, grabbed his coat and stormed out the door. The evening was beautiful, calm and chilly, and the Babylon Theatre cast its neon glow onto the pavement. Entering through the door, Gottlieb smiled as he looked at the ticket. ‘How often have you seen this film?’ He tore the stub off and let Ulrich in.

‘I don’t know.’ It was awkward to be recognised like this. He didn’t come here for the film, and it was none of Gottlieb’s business. He walked down the couple of steps to the candy stand. Kirsten smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’

He wanted to say so much to her. ‘Can I…’ 

’Sorry?’ She smiled patiently. How could she be so perfect?

‘Po… pop…’

‘You want popcorn?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled at him. ‘No problem. Cola, as usual?’

‘Yeah.’ This was awkward. Ulrich searched his trousers for change. It dropped on the floor, obviously. Embarrassed, he bent down, picked up the money and put it on the till in front of her. He smiled and she smiled back.

The film was the same as it had always been. He’d seen it around six times now. The half way point was here and the lights came on, but he stayed in his seat. He wanted to go out and see her, but he’d had enough popcorn and just standing there… it was awkward enough as it was. A moment passed, people returned to their seats, and the lights went out. The hero ran across a street and shot some bad guys, but the girl was still missing. She would be rescued towards the end. Ulrich had seen it all before.

He could not concentrate on the film. All he could think about was her as he put the leftovers of his popcorn away and stood up. There was no need for him to see the ending of this film anymore.

Ulrich apologised to the people in his row as he made his way towards the aisle, then walked up to the door. One last look at the screen. The hero was calling a taxi.

Ulrich opened the door and walked into the foyer. Kirsten was busy putting empty bottles into crates and arranging candy. Ulrich walked up to her. She looked up and smiled.

This story is the eigth installment in the Moments series

19 February 1916, 8:07 A.M. – a short story

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The distant rumble of bombs and artillery never seems to stop. Every moment of every day, it penetrates my mind. I have been at the front for almost three months and it’s driven me insane.

Sleep didn’t come this night. What good would that do, anyway? While insomnia allows me to experience life, for as long as that lasts, it gives me no pleasure. It’s dark and cold here. What day is it anyway? 12th of February, I think. I’m not sure. I fear the dawn. It will arrive too soon.

I tried to count the days as I lay awake. 19 years, five months and sixteen days have I been in this world. Should I count the seventeenth day? Tomorrow? 365 times nineteen, add the leap years, I lost count. Try it again. There is nothing else to do.

I tried to look at the photo in my hand, tried to see her face as she smiled at me. Does she worry about me? How will she react when she hears the news after tomorrow? Will she cry? I wish I could hold her in my arms. That’s all I wanted. I wanted to get away, get back to her. Have a normal life, away from this madness.

Will she find someone else? 

Dear mom. I’m trying to read the letter you sent two weeks ago, but it’s too dark in here. You were so proud when you saw me in uniform, said I was a real man now. It doesn’t feel like it. The uniform turned me into a monster, not a man. Running away was me trying to get away from this hell, I don’t want to turn into them. There is no sanity in the trenches, just madness. Grown men cry. There is nothing but noise, mud, insanity and death. I was fully expecting to die here, but wasn’t it supposed to be a German shell or a bullet? It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

I see the faint glow on the dirty window above me. I would welcome it, but this dawn brings no sunshine, no warmth, no future. I read the letter again. Posted two weeks ago, but they only gave it to me three days ago. I almost didn’t get to see it. Who knows what else I will miss? Charlie is doing well in school, father had the flu but is getting better. Grandma is worried, but assures me we’ll meet again. Poor soul. I hope she won’t be too sad.

Mr Gilbert also sent a letter a while ago, saying he looked forward to seeing his boy again. Hopefully soon. The bookshop is doing well, considering everything, and he hopes his apprentice comes back shortly to pick up where he left off. He says war makes no sense, the only one I ever heard talk against it. I wish I could walk in through those doors now, smell the old books, wish I could complain about how early in the morning it is and how I don’t want to end up listening to wannabe poets that hang around all day, hoping to gain inspiration by being surrounded by old books, and lonely women looking for fantasy romances as they have none in their lives. I miss Mr Gilbert and would give up everything to be there now, to be tired and grumpy, arranging Shakespeare in chronological order again. I wish my life was boring, as it used to be.

The first rays of the sun light up the dirty glass in the window. They are late. Have they changed their mind? Have they pardoned me? I jump up on the bed to see the outside world. The dead trees, the wet ground. I hear them. Footsteps coming my way. I jump down from the bed, so they won’t think I was running away again. Then I wonder why it would matter. It’s not as if they can give me a harsher sentence or sentence me to death again. The door opens, the Sergeant enters. He is holding a piece of paper, states my name, looks at me. His eyes are cold, like my cell.

‘It is 8:07 A.M.’ He looks at his watch as if to verify that what he’s just said is correct, then he looks at me. ‘The court has charged you with desertion and your sentence is death,’ he states.

I say nothing. Can’t say anything. Two men standing behind him wait until he gives them a signal, then tie my hands behind my back. We then proceed out into the chilly morning. The first rays of the sun kiss my face, but have no warmth to offer. Like the heavens are trying to say goodbye but not caring enough to show emotions.

It’s not that I wanted to run away. I genuinely wanted to fight for king and country, but after months of bombs going off around me, officers that treated me like scum, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I had to get away. Get back home, to my girl, to the bookstore, to the family. I wanted this war to end, to have a family of my own and loved ones around, exchanging presents at Christmas, celebrating another birthday. I hadn’t planned on leaving the trenches when I did. There was heavy fighting and as I lay there, sheltering myself from the flying dirt and bullets, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat in the knee deep mud, crying. The rain was pouring down, and I was cold, shocked and drained. An officer kicked me and called me a coward, pointed a rifle at me and told me if I didn’t get up he’d shoot me himself. I got up and aimed my rifle across no-man’s-land, fired in the general direction of the enemy. I wasn’t sure who this enemy was and as soon as the officer got a bullet through his head and fell dead next to me; I started crawling away. I got out of sight, stood up and ran. I ran all day until dusk. I was alone in France, no way to get home, but I wasn’t at the front anymore.

They found me the following morning, sleeping in a barn next to cows. The trial was quick, and the general had no problems passing the sentence. They let me rot away in a cell for a week, allowing me time to understand my fate.

‘Cigarette?’ the sergeant asks.

‘Please.’

He unties my hands, warns me not to run. I stand there, in the courtyard, smoking. Trying to make it last as long as possible. This cigarette is the timer, the clock, it shows how much time I have left. I look at the wooden pole, at the holes in the wall behind it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

He smiles sadly as I finish the cigarette, gives the soldiers the order to tie me to the pole. I want to see the sun, but it is behind a wall. I realise I will never see it again. Never see my girl, the rest. Nothing and nobody will come and save me at the last moment. A soldier puts a bag over my head. I try to refuse, but it is procedures.

I try to pray but can’t find any words. Don’t know what to ask for.

‘Ready!’ My heart is beating so loud I can hear it.

‘Aim!’ A dreadful feeling fills my body and mind. Not fear of death, but the thought of the people, my people, the ones I will never see again. My mom that will get a letter saying how sad they are I’d been lost in action. Or will they do that? Do they treat it differently with deserters? Traitors? Will they add shame to her sorrow? Or have I shamed her? My girl…

Or will I become nothing more than a statistic?

‘Fire!’

During the Great War of 1914-1918, almost a thousand soldiers were executed for desertion and other crimes. Around 600 French soldiers were shot at dawn, 306 British and Commonwealth, including 22 Irishmen, 23 Canadians and five New Zealanders. 18 German soldiers were executed. On average, five soldiers were executed every week. Many charges were flimsy and wouldn’t stand up in court. Some are also said to have been framed by officers or fellow soldiers as revenge. Many of the soldiers were as young as 16 or 17 years old. Many deserters suffered from mental breakdown and shell shock – known today as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – caused by constant bombardment and poor conditions. In many countries, still today, the executed soldiers are not given the same respect as others. They are still seen as traitors.

This story is the seventh installment in the Moments series.