[ WP ] A young student is drafted off to fight in a bloody foreign war . He quickly finds that war is the most enjoyable thing he has ever experienced .

I actually wrote this story a while back for a game I was playing, but it fits pretty well with the prompt. I hope you like it, even if it's slightly off topic. 
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 His hand twitched impatiently, the sinuous coils in his suit tightening the grip on the flail in his hand. The soft sound of spikes disturbing the ground was registered and he swiveled to face the noise, his desire overriding his knowledge, creating a feedback loop of impatient tension. He was itching for a fight. The low rumble of his engine made the crashing pounding of his blood nearly unbearable in its intoxicating power. He was swimming in a sea of his own mind, and it was drowning him. He roiled with disgust, and hoped desperately for the opportunity of mindlessness, the vacuity that loomed in his thoughts like a lighthouse and could be tossed to him like a life raft, saving him from himself. He hated these sleepless nights more than anything. 
 
 Not that he slept; even in his dreams he was alive: a dervish, a tempest, a typhoon roaring across all that stood before him. Krieg would dream he was whole again, endlessly charging across that pockmarked field of death, forever close to that other side, forever far away. Then in his dream he would feel the fire burning at his back, his body launched and torn like a ragdoll. Upon waking, the fire would be there, the warm glow of his engine making him sweat coldly, scream soundlessly. He slept fitfully, always. Sleep held no sanctuary for him. 
 
 Other nights he would dream he was amidst a thousand enemies, swinging mightily and wildly. He was threshing a battlefield and sowing dragon ’ s teeth in the furrows, two more enemies rising for each fallen comrade. His roar of rage was the overtone song of a steam whistle; his blood was vapor, whistling out and wetting the faces of his enemies. In his sleep there was endless war, but it did not save him. He still could think as he slaughtered; his visage frowned mightily upon this reflection. The killing would slowly lose its luster, and he would awaken once more. 
 
 When it wasn ’ t dreams, it was memories: he hated these most of all, but could do the least to stop them. He was whole, like in his dreams of the charge, but now he was sitting in his bunk, staring at his hands, and the rifle it carried. He sat, as Adler and Scheumann played their pornographic cards. He remembered that everyone once agreed that the Queen of Hearts had the best girl, but he thought to himself that the Ace of Clubs seemed a nice sort, and that he would find the model after the war. He would be a hero, after all, and could go anywhere and be with anyone as he pleased. Lost in this reverie, he would hear the Kommandant whistle, and everyone would scrabble to clean up and grab his or her weapons. He remembered calmly standing up, and being the first to file out, time slowing as the slightly rotting timber of the breastworks passed over his head, as the mud would slowly suck at his boots, reluctant to part like lovers on a bridge. He remembered the grim faces of his comrades, as they all looked between them, striving to remember each other ’ s faces, as friends do before parting for a long time. The Kommandant raised his sword, and the order was given. He remembers climbing over the top of the trench, gripping the wood of his rifle in one hand and the wood of the breastworks in the other. He remembers Beringer falling backwards into the trench, her helmet flying off from the force. The Glöckners trying to grab each other ’ s hands as the mortar split them apart. Enns marching silently forward, the tears streaming down his face. Janson crawling, still with gun in hand, his legs in tatters. He remembers reaching almost all the way to the end as his friends and comrades were all cut down like wheat on that muddy, godforsaken field. He remembers the brief pause as he made eye contact with the boy in the blue uniform, who looked entirely too young and entirely too terrified to be manning that machine gun. And then he remembers the nothingness: that sweet drug he has chased for years after, the end to his torment just like it ended the torment of that field so long ago. The pain of living being ended, the worry, the suffering, the useless fury and sorrow; all gone, with a pop like a bubble. The roar in his head subsiding to a gentle tide, pulsing in and out as his eyelids grew heavy and he could no longer see that boys face, the bayonet lodged in his chest, hands scrabbling at the metal… 
 
 And then he remembers the cold. The sudden jolts of instinct making him thrash and shake, but he could not. He was trapped. He could not move his arms or legs, for he could not move that which was not there. And then he remembers what he saw: the Kommandant looking straight and not at him. He remembers thinking the Kommandant was taller before, and then seeing the Marshal. Instinctively he straightens and tries to raise his hand, but fails. The Marshal peers up at him. He does not remember being this tall. The Marshal moves out of his line of sight, and he hears a whirring and a bubbling behind him. The Marshal comes back before his eyes, and the Marshal is holding a gun. The marshal holds this out before him, and he remembers reaching out to it. He remembers not feeling it at first, but as the heat grew behind him, so did his senses. He could finally hear what the Marshal was saying, and he tried to look sidelong at the Kommandant, who turned completely away from him. The Marshal grabbed his visage and moved it bodily towards him. The marshal comes in close and he says, “ Charge. ” 
 
 He did as he was ordered, for he was still a soldier. They say that the line was broken through that day, and that a great victory was won, but he did not see it or care. He charged that day and never stopped. He died on a battlefield, and was born anew on a battlefield. All he would come to know was that field and all he would come to crave would be found on it. 
 
 For he was wrath incarnate. For he was power in motion. For he was the unstoppable force, rushing headlong to find an immovable object. 
 
 For he was Krieg, and Krieg was War. 

