Tobruk: Hell in the Sand

The sand grinds between my teeth, I sweat like a horse, and the cannonade roars in my ears. For several days now, here at Tobruk, we have been trying to hold our positions against Rommel's tanks. Desert Rats, as we call them. But rather, we are like rats here, hiding in holes and waiting for the next attack.

I remember how we got here. Full of enthusiasm and determination to show those Germans what it's like to be hot in Africa. But the reality is cruel. The heat here is incredible, water is scarce, and we are running out of food. And to that, constant shelling and air raids.

I remember the guys from my platoon. Most of them are already dead. Franta, the joker who was always making jokes. Pepík, the quiet boy from Moravia who was always praying. And Olda, the oldest of us, who told us about the First World War. They are all gone.

This morning we launched a counterattack. We had to destroy a German tank that was threatening our positions. We managed to destroy it, but at what cost! How many of us fell there again? And I got a shrapnel in the stomach.

I am lying in the sand now and I feel life leaving me. Shots and explosions are heard around me. I am cold and I am afraid. I am afraid that I will never see my wife and children again. I am afraid that I will die in oblivion, far from home.

But then I remember the guys who fell next to me. Franta, Pepík and Olda. And all the others who fought and died here. And I know that their sacrifice was not in vain. I know that we were defending something important here. We were defending freedom and democracy.

And so I die with the knowledge that I did what I could. And that I was proud to be able to fight for my country.