A journal I had to write from the main character's point of view from a French book describing a certain event. Enjoy.
Dear Journal
I have just escaped the fiery grip of hell, and it’s much colder than I expected. It is February 27, 1807, approximately 20 days since the Battle of Elyau. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! I have been struggling in this hospital located in Heilsburg, tended by a short man named Dr. Sparchmann. A trimmed man, around his forties, he helped me gain my memory back. I was a colonel in Napoleon’s mighty army. Oh, the glory! The more I had, the more I craved! It was that day, the 8th, which fate decided I had had enough. I was leading the cavalry in Martinet’s segment, and aided us to win the battle, if you would call it that. We were riding until we were ambushed by those filthy Russians. Two giant monsters of men, sabers in hand, held me and slashed my head open. I was left to die, off my horse, while 2,000 horses galloped over me, my life flashing before me. I could hear the blood curling screams of agony, and the booms of distant cannons, the thunder of death. It wasn’t long until it was over, silent, and I was dead. Due to my bloody gash on my forehead that had put me into a cataleptic state, I was presumed dead to the ignorant doctors. I was stripped of my clothes, bare to the sharp cold, and tossed into a shallow grave, and I did not go alone. Piles of men were thrown in, as ragdolls about to be burned. Winter had no mercy and tore at our flesh, making us numb and wither away, dying. Never could I have imagined death to be so horrendous! Crying, bones cracking, pain, oh the humanity! Misery slept with us, dimming our hopes of seeing our families again, candles exposed to the gales of a storm, a storm of death. Blood drips. Sighs echo. Then, silence. A silence so void that a scream would be sucked out of a man’s voice and not be audible. A silence so terrible it deafened your ears just listening to it! I then realized that death, death itself, is the silence of death. It was with that realization that sparked my heart back to a steady thumping. I was raised from the dead. I struggled through the corpses, clawed at bare skin, gasping for air which was probably consumed by death, not wanting to let go of me. I continued, climbing toward the surface, until the breaking point. My hand broke through the dirt, and was greeted by icy gestures from the cruel and harsh world. I crawled out, naked, bleeding, but alive. I stared at my surroundings and saw men, of all ages, dead, bloodied blue uniforms, and silence. All I saw was a frozen, bloody landscape full of lifeless humans, and who would do such a thing? There was only one answer. Man. I was then found by a kind woman, who tended my wounds and brought me here. But, I still wonder now, what did the French gain from this battle? What did we win in this confrontation with the enemy? All we did was trade bodies, and go our separate ways. I truly believe that this “victory” was not, in fact, a victory. All the great Napoleon won was over 10,000 men dead. All we gained was death itself. And let me ask you this. Was that a reward we deserved? Then again, the Russians also received this marvelous gift of absent life. So, did anyone really win?
Colonel Chabert
Dear Journal
I have just escaped the fiery grip of hell, and it’s much colder than I expected. It is February 27, 1807, approximately 20 days since the Battle of Elyau. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! I have been struggling in this hospital located in Heilsburg, tended by a short man named Dr. Sparchmann. A trimmed man, around his forties, he helped me gain my memory back. I was a colonel in Napoleon’s mighty army. Oh, the glory! The more I had, the more I craved! It was that day, the 8th, which fate decided I had had enough. I was leading the cavalry in Martinet’s segment, and aided us to win the battle, if you would call it that. We were riding until we were ambushed by those filthy Russians. Two giant monsters of men, sabers in hand, held me and slashed my head open. I was left to die, off my horse, while 2,000 horses galloped over me, my life flashing before me. I could hear the blood curling screams of agony, and the booms of distant cannons, the thunder of death. It wasn’t long until it was over, silent, and I was dead. Due to my bloody gash on my forehead that had put me into a cataleptic state, I was presumed dead to the ignorant doctors. I was stripped of my clothes, bare to the sharp cold, and tossed into a shallow grave, and I did not go alone. Piles of men were thrown in, as ragdolls about to be burned. Winter had no mercy and tore at our flesh, making us numb and wither away, dying. Never could I have imagined death to be so horrendous! Crying, bones cracking, pain, oh the humanity! Misery slept with us, dimming our hopes of seeing our families again, candles exposed to the gales of a storm, a storm of death. Blood drips. Sighs echo. Then, silence. A silence so void that a scream would be sucked out of a man’s voice and not be audible. A silence so terrible it deafened your ears just listening to it! I then realized that death, death itself, is the silence of death. It was with that realization that sparked my heart back to a steady thumping. I was raised from the dead. I struggled through the corpses, clawed at bare skin, gasping for air which was probably consumed by death, not wanting to let go of me. I continued, climbing toward the surface, until the breaking point. My hand broke through the dirt, and was greeted by icy gestures from the cruel and harsh world. I crawled out, naked, bleeding, but alive. I stared at my surroundings and saw men, of all ages, dead, bloodied blue uniforms, and silence. All I saw was a frozen, bloody landscape full of lifeless humans, and who would do such a thing? There was only one answer. Man. I was then found by a kind woman, who tended my wounds and brought me here. But, I still wonder now, what did the French gain from this battle? What did we win in this confrontation with the enemy? All we did was trade bodies, and go our separate ways. I truly believe that this “victory” was not, in fact, a victory. All the great Napoleon won was over 10,000 men dead. All we gained was death itself. And let me ask you this. Was that a reward we deserved? Then again, the Russians also received this marvelous gift of absent life. So, did anyone really win?
Colonel Chabert
