Manuscript Preview - In the Fog of War - Chapters 1-3
Chapter 1
Alive or Dead
It was becoming increasingly difficult for Roland to choose his steps. The mask he wore did well to keep the acrid phosphorus from his lungs, but the gas was just one of many things striving to kill him. If he couldn’t see the ground, he couldn’t see the mine, and if he couldn’t see the mine he was as good as dead. Even the greenest medic fresh from the RAMC knew better than to treat someone caught in No Man’s Land.
Death was his world. To go forward was to die; by mine or by Fritz. To stand still was to die; by bullet or by bombshell. To retreat was to die; by a short rope and a tall tree.
Might as well go forward, Roland thought through the haze.
Around him, a blistering battle chorus blared, though the mortar blasts had bloodied his eardrums so that every sound melded with its neighbour. Shouting voices pierced the smoke, echoing as if they sprang from everywhere at once. Gunshots cracked like a thousand whips, sending shudders down Roland’s spine at every lash.
Screams. Those were the worst of it. Screams of pain and screams of anger. Screams of the dying and screams of those reminding themselves they yet lived. Screams in English and screams in German. Screams from men so delirious with blood loss that they weren’t in any language at all.
A hail of bullets whizzed past him; he felt the wind more than heard them. He swung his Enfield in the direction of the shots, slamming the butt into his shoulder without stopping his advance. The bayonet made aiming difficult, so why bother?
Bang. The recoil was comforting; like a gentle pat from a friend vying for his survival. Training made the bolt-action second nature – nothing more than muscle memory. In a matter of seconds, he’d peppered three more rounds in his attacker’s direction
Roland didn’t like to kill – didn’t want to kill – but the only thing he wanted to do less than kill was die. Pulling the trigger was easy. Whether his enemy lived or perished made little difference; that they stopped shooting was all that mattered.
And they did.
No more thinking, he commanded.
Step. Step. Step. Every step might very well be his last, but each brought him closer to the battle’s end as well. Not many more now. The plop of his footfalls into the marshy earth dominated his focus, starting slow and shaky, but quickly morphing into fast and rhythmic.
The screams were swelling now, with fevered battle cries thundering from somewhere close ahead. Through the smoke, the misty outline of a battlement ripened into view. Huddled heaps of dead and dying men littered the ground en masse; shattered remnants of the first wave’s crash. Roland paid them no mind, instead rushing towards a break in the twisted mountain of barbed wire ahead.
Maybe there is a God, he thought with relief. The pre-assault shelling had opened holes in the German line, for once. A moment later, he was sliding down the mound of dirt into the trench below. Two men trickled in soon after, though the bitter fog had cloaked them from sight an instant ago.
Death became his world once again.
Ahead, the frontline pushed, bayonets raised, stabbing randomly into what Roland hoped was the enemy. Above, men shouting words he couldn’t understand fired into the swelling crowd below, but were quickly struck down, bullets piercing them like pincushions. A body fell to rest beside him, blood seeping through its woollen coat in a dozen places. Whether it was friend or foe, Roland could not tell; the choking gas was thicker here than it had been topside. A grey uniform was indistinguishable from a brown through the haze.
The line thinned, dying men falling by the wayside only to be trampled by their replacements as the attack pushed forward. Only five pairs of allies separated him from the fighting now. Roland steeled his nerves as best he could, but a human was never meant to be amidst such chaos. His legs shook and raw tension constricted his throat to the point of suffocation.
A crack and a whiz sounded from the front. A hand seized Roland’s back, turning him to face the allied line. The man behind him had caught the bullet, blood spurting from his neck like rain through an East London roof.
Nothing I can do, mate, Roland thought numbly, shrugging out of the dead man’s grip. A gasmask hid his comrade’s expression, but anguish and terror were surely there in equal parts. It was a small mercy; he had enough faces haunting his dreams.
Roland turned back to the line just in time to see the Brit in front of him be skewered through the middle. The German assailant looked more like an insect than human; the filter of his mask drooping like the mouth of a fly.
Maybe that was what made it so easy to take his life.
The Fritz panicked, realizing his bayonet was buried far too deep. Eyes – blue irises peering fearfully through dirty lenses – locked onto Roland, begging, pleading, praying, all in vain. With a quick flick, Roland’s blade pierced the man’s throat. Warm blood spilled onto his hands, the gushes weakening with every heartbeat. Another flick and his bayonet was free, sending both the German and the Brit to the earth. There they joined the dead and dying, their bodies lining the earthen walls like a newfound catacomb.
Dirt kicked up from the trench wall onto his mask – from a bullet or explosion, he couldn’t be sure. Roland took a blind step back, foot landing on the outstretched arm of a fallen corpse. Flailing, he fell to the ground. An instant later, the chest of a soldier above him erupted in a puff of red mist. The man toppled helplessly, landing squarely on top of Roland and pushing him deeper into the churned mud covering the baseboards.
More Brits raced to reclaim the ceded space, crashing their rifles against the German line. As they rushed forth, their weight crashed upon the dying man atop Roland, each footfall sending a jolt of pressure to both their lungs. Blood poured from beneath the man’s mask, mixing with mud already blurring Roland’s vision. Even in the drowning clamour of battle, he could hear his comrade grunt in pain with every trample, right to the moment spirit faded and life forever left.
Roland gasped for air, clawing to find leverage to pull himself up with, but a boot came down squarely on his face before he could. His mask shattered with a crunch and blood – his own this time – carved a warm runnel through the sweat on his left cheek. A shard of glass had missed his eye by a fraction. Adrenaline propelled him forward; in moments, the choking phosphorus would seep through the cracks. Flailing wildly, he snagged the fatigue of a fallen comrade, wrenching himself upwards while shrugging the weight of the corpse away and rising to his knees.
The line behind him halted their advance, with the ring of clanging bayonets and sparse pot-shots growing more distant. His eyes stung fiercely, gas already working its wicked magic on his tear ducts.
He was lucky it was phosphorus and not phosgene, else he’d already be headed for a slow, painful death. No, this was not the killing kind, per se, but rather the sort that flooded the eyes rendering you blind or choked the lungs until you passed out from near suffocation. To be blind or unconscious on the battlefield was to be dead, though, so this would kill him all the same if he didn’t hurry.
His comrades sidestepped him as best they could, but the narrow corridors made it difficult. None stopped to help. Roland didn’t hold it against them; he’d have likely done the same. There was no time for compassion on a battlefield such as this.
Down in the trench, the gas was thicker, settling into the battlements and clenching the cooler ground tightly. He had to get above, but where was there to go? He had no choice.
Damn it all, Roland thought, rising to his feet and slinging the Enfield over his shoulder.
Gas was slowly filling up the mask, sending him into a coughing fit while the tears in his eyes and the mud on the broken lenses rendered him as good as blind. Luckily, there was a sliver of his vision exposed through the cracked glass – large enough to see the wall before him.
Falling had left him disoriented. Was he facing the front or rear now? The fighting was to his left, so the way ahead must be the German line.
All he could do was go forward.
Roland pushed himself through a trickle of allies, towards the wall of dead lining the far side of the trench. He stepped on the back of a corpse to force himself up, clawing at the top like a wild animal. His hands caught the uniform of a body just beyond the brim and he tugged hard on its collar, but the whole mass slid on the slick mud like a pebble on ice nearly causing him to lose his grip and tumble once more.
Roland swore loudly, reaching heavenward a second time, but hands only finding blood-soaked dirt. It would have to be enough. The coughing fits were becoming more violent; soon he wouldn’t have enough air in his lungs to pull himself up. With the last strength he could muster, Roland plunged his hands deep into the dirt above him, fingernails ripping as they scrapped against rocks underneath. He closed his hands on these stones where he could, surging up over the parados and onto a small stack of sandbags topside.
I only have a few moments, he thought, breathing heavily. Below him, the droning din of combat reverberated off the walls, but up here he felt a million leagues away.
He tore the mask from his face – little good it would do him now! The air on top was clearer, but only a touch more so. Every breath burned his insides, but he had enough oxygen to recover now at least. The sandbags bought him cover from the crossfire coming from the rearward support trenches, but even laying prone, his chest poked above it.
A spark of inspiration struck him. He removed his belt knife, flaying one of the sandbags like a fish from the Thames. After shaking the tattered remnant free of loose dirt, he wrapped the rough, damp cloth around his nose and mouth, tying it behind his head. It itched fiercely and it did nothing for his eyes, but already the air felt less damning in his lungs. The coughing fits shrank to wheezing.
Carefully, Roland peeked over the mound, mapping his next move. It was difficult to see from this angle, but the support trench seemed to be no more than thirty yards ahead. A concrete pillbox loomed just beyond it, firing randomly on his advancing allies.
Thirty yards, he thought grimly. Might as well be thirty miles! Surely the gunner would turn on him as soon as he left his fragile safety.
He’d stolen some of the Devil’s luck so far, but how long would it hold?
Boom. Soil rained down on Roland as he hugged the ground as if it were his mother. His ears rang so loudly it drowned all other sound as his vision swam. Slowly, the ringing faded and his sight steadied. A new crater had been scarred into the Earth a few yards ahead of him.
Bloody hell! They’re shelling their own line!
Other Brits were rising from the trench around him. At least we’re gaining ground. The attack must be progressing well if their forces were pushing for the German rear-guard. A whizz of bullets sprayed from the pillbox, slicing through a young lad who’d just mounted the brim nearby, nearly cutting him in half.
Then the shooting stopped.
Jammed! The MG 08’s were frightening, but unreliable. It was time to make his move before the enemy recovered.
Flinging his weight over the mound of sandbags, Roland sprung to his feet. Three infantrymen charged nearby to his right, so he swung to join them. The smoke around him began to clear as he travelled further from the allied line. It was still enough to blot out the daylight and twist the sunshine into a mottled, unnatural green, but much less so than it had been at the start.
Boom.
A sharp pain shot up Roland’s leg as he went to the ground once again. The man ahead of him was now nothing more than a smoking crater lined with viscera. His hand felt for the wound, wrapping around a sharp piece of shrapnel. With a howl of pain, he wrenched the fragment from his flesh, wasting a precious moment to bring it before his eyes.
It was bone. A shattered shard from the Brit who’d been but a few steps in front of him.
Better that than the gas, at least, Roland thought grimly.
Pain numbed with adrenaline and Roland quickly regained his feet, cursing himself for the squandered time. A piece of intestine squished underfoot as he overtook his dead comrade. The two others were now looming over the brim of the support trench, firing randomly below. Swinging his rifle onto his shoulder, Roland joined them, showering fire at the screaming men below as quickly as he could prime his weapon.
“Move forward! We got ‘em on the run lads!” One of the men shouted from the brim. Roland felt the words more than heard them. It sounded like Lewis, but it could have been his own brother beneath the gasmask for all he could tell.
Thrusting a fresh magazine into his rifle, he joined his allies in jumping into the trench. As he landed, he turned in time to see a bayonet pointed at his stomach.
Bang.
The German’s mask as well as the eye beneath it exploded just as Roland braced himself for death. Behind him, the man that had shouted unloaded his clip into the enemies beyond the first. Roland joined, dropping to one knee and firing down the line.
In front of him, enemies threw down their weapons, turning to claw their way up and out of the trench. Roland charged, driving his bayonet deep into the back of an escaping soldier. The bleeding man loosed a wail of anguish and despair, muffled by the insectoid mask.
With a turn of his wrist, Roland made the wailing stop.
“Pick them off! Kill them today or they’ll kill you tomorrow!” The shouting man ordered once more.
Mounting the top of the support trench, Roland and company fired upon the fleeing Germans.
The shelling stopped. The enemy was in full retreat.
Roland had survived; for another day at least.
Chapter 2
Last Words
Roland pressed the tip of his pencil to the slip of paper for the fourth time, but words escaped him. To my dearest Ellia, was as far as he had gotten. The others would be leaving soon. Retreating was the better word, though the officers weren’t calling it that. To be fair, it had been difficult to even surmise who the officers were after the battle. Higher ranks didn’t join the suicide charges and most of the mid-levels were unaccounted for; likely dead or halfway to Paris by now. The men who’d inherited promotions from the fallen couldn’t be blamed for their lack of experience, though it wasn’t as if the German Army would show mercy to compensate.
All the hell he’d been through yesterday, only to be abandoned now. Which god had he crossed to be forsaken so? By all accounts, he should have been on the backlines now, rotating his way towards some well-deserved R&R, but the constant bombardments and his general’s so-called brilliant counteroffensive had belayed all rotations. Now, instead of relaxing with some wine on a beach near Dunkirk he was being left on the frontline to die.
Today, at least, was peaceful - almost disgustingly so when juxtaposed against the backdrop of what had occurred on this ground such a short time ago. It was the kind of early autumn day that deceived with its comfort; promising endless warmth, but leaving those foolish enough to believe the lie shivering come dusk. A light breeze spurred wispy clouds forward as they passed overhead, careless to the chaos that they’d played witness to. That same breeze had blown the choking fog away, clearing the air as if it had remained untainted for all the eons. Roland drank in every breath of that fresh air like a fine Spanish wine, promising never to take it for granted again.
It was a rare treat to enjoy a day like this while serving on the frontlines. He’d needed time alone to process his thoughts. Those staying behind had been given the day off to rest, so he found a vacant section in the support trench to collect his thoughts. The troops that were leaving busied themselves with collecting the dead to be thrown into a mass grave dug in what had been No Man’s Land. Others watched the line as crews spread barbed wire, flipping the old reserve trench into a British front.
This fortification was older, relatively, with more structure and commodities than the one they’d just advanced from. His comrades had found and commandeered several dugouts with cots and were dozing as best they could. It had been a long while since Roland had even seen a bed. At least they would die in comfort.
Ellia will have to forgive me for not knowing what to say, he lamented. The looming threat of death was a damn good excuse for writer’s block.
For a moment he considered crumpling the letter and tossing it into the muck, but resisted the urge. No; the incident strained their relationship enough as it were, no sense in fanning the flames higher. He needed to commit his thoughts to paper, even if he knew they’d never be together again. Perhaps even more so because of it.
A corpse sprawled on the far side of the wall, further distracting him, though Roland did everything in his power to avoid seeing it. He’d been unable to find an unmanned area that was also free of bodies, but this had been the only stretch with only one. Now he realized that a single corpse was somehow infinitely worse than a pile of them.
From his dress and mask, the man had clearly been German, but friend or foe made no difference to the dead. He’d died clutching a bullet hole in his chest, doing everything in his fading power to push the lifeblood back into his veins. Bleeding out had to have been slow. How long had the man known the end drew near? It was best not to brood on it.
“Roland!” A voice called out.
“I’m here,” he replied, not moving from his seat on the fire step.
From a side channel, a man emerged, dirty faced and gaunt - as they all were - with a swathe of blonde hair so dark with grime it was indistinguishable from brown. A piece of his left ear was missing at the base, ripped away by a piece of shrapnel a few months prior.
“Second Lieutenant Lewis,” Roland stood at attention, but a spell of dizziness caused him to stumble and fall back onto his seat. It was exhaustion creeping in; he hadn’t slept a wink last night.
“No need to stand old chap, you’ve earned your rest. It’s Captain Lewis now, by the by.”
“So, you drew the short straw, eh?”
Lewis chuckled, slinging his rifle off his shoulder, planting the butt into a baseboard, and leaning against it as best he could. The man looked as tired as Roland felt.
“Our whole company drew the short straw, Roland - or rather, what’s left of it did. We’re the unluckiest bastards in all the 2nd, but if it wasn’t us, it would be someone else. Don’t think on it too much or you’ll drive yourself insane.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I just don’t understand how they expect one bloody company to hold a half-mile stretch against the whole German Army.”
“They don’t,” the captain admitted. “You know that as well as I do, but as bad as it seems for us, it’s ten times worse for the Germans! It will be weeks at the least before they’ll be in any shape to mount a counterattack and that’s what the Badge is betting our lives on. If the Devil sees fit, this whole damned operation will be over before Fritz even crosses back over the river.”
Roland could only hope that the people in charge were correct in their assessment of the enemy’s condition. To be fair, if they – by some miracle – were right, the battle plan was a brilliant one. The trench they now stood in was flanked on both sides by the River Sambre, with the only undamaged crossing in ten leagues lying a mile ahead. The Germans were expected to fortify all defences at the crossing, pooling their troops in preparation for a full-frontal assault. Instead, the Allies would leave only a skeleton crew of soldiers - Roland’s company - as a diversion, while four battalions crossed the river on rafts, striking at weak points left lightly guarded.
“What if they’re wrong? What if Fritz comes charging over the bridge tonight? Every man left standing does so only through grit and desperation. Even the German nurses could wipe us out without a fight as it stands.”
“Then we all die,” Lewis replied simply. “Relax, Roland. Either we get out of this as heroes, never firing a shot, or we’re all slaughtered quickly; those are the only two outcomes. Hope for the best, but make peace with God just in case.”
It’s fine, Roland, don’t worry! You may be dead tomorrow or everything might be alright. Try not to think about it, lad! The logic of it escaped him. Roland stared blankly at the ground. The boards were smeared with mud and blood that no amount of rain would ever wash away.
“How’s your leg?” Lewis asked to break the silence.
“Deacon patched me up,” Roland mumbled. “I’m in the pink.”
The wounds on both his leg and cheek throbbed, but the lone medic, Corporal Moore, had treated them with alcohol-soaked bandages.
“Shame,” the captain said. “Almost nabbed a blighty back to England.”
Roland only nodded.
“At least you’re doing better than your friend here,” he added, gesturing at the corpse opposite them.
Lewis slung his rifle back into place and tugged at his mutilated ear; an absent habit. “Finish up your letter, the other companies are pulling back soon. This might be your last chance to send word home.”
“And get some sleep!” He shouted over his shoulder as he strolled away. “You’re on sentry duty tonight.”
Roland shuddered at the thought. An entire night on the front, looking towards the bridge, all while waiting for the German charge that would end his life. To make matters worse, he would have to do it all without sleep; the images of yesterday were sure to keep him awake until nightfall. It had been Captain Lewis who’d ordered them to fire on the retreating soldiers. At the time, he’d acted on instinct and obeyed, but now the memory of killing unarmed men as they fled haunted him. There was no honour in shooting a man in the back.
Lewis wasn’t to blame, however. What he had said was the truth; every German who escaped was a German who would spend the rest of the war trying to kill them. Still, what Roland had done didn’t sit right in his conscience.
The captain was a decent man; strong, calm, and intelligent. In Roland’s opinion, his promotion was well deserved, even if no sane person in the entire BEF would wish for the assignment he now faced. Further, Lewis had a family to fight for. Was that why the man could pass harsh orders so casually? Humanity was secondary to survival when there was a young one awaiting their father’s return. Perhaps if Roland had a child of his own, it would be easier to live with the horrific things he had done?
With mind still preoccupied, he turned back to the paper in his hands, chewing the nub of his pencil anxiously. Just get on with it, he spurred, annoyed by his own hesitation.
To my dearest Ellia,
I hope my words find you in good health and good cheer. Not a day goes by that I do not long for the sight of your face or the caress of your skin against mine. Though it has been too long since I’ve heard from you, every letter sent helps to keep my spirits high and my hands steady in the face of the unknown.
I have happy news to share today! This long war of ours is drawing to its final stages and I will be back in your loving arms one day soon. Though I am far from the front, safe in the backlines awaiting new assignment, messages from our advancing forces relay stories of heroism and victory! The hour we all pray for is close at hand.
Please send word to my mother that her son is safe and well. I know she worries so about my brother and I. It has been quite some time since I’ve heard tell of Robert, but my heart assures me he is still flying high in defence of our homeland with the RFA. Assure her that both of her boys will be home in time for corned beef at Christmas and that I keep her and my sisters in my thoughts with as much tenderness as I hold for you.
I yearn to hear your voice. I miss you more with each passing moon. You are the light of my world, Ellia, and your brightness will carry me all the way back to London one day soon.
Yours, now and forever,
Roland
It was a lie – and a bad one at that - but it would have to do. He didn’t have the fortitude to pen another syllable. There wasn’t parchment enough in all of existence to capture the depths of passion he held for his wife, but words rarely come as easily as feelings. I love you Ellia, I hope you remember that when I’m gone.
With great reluctance, Roland stood, folding the letter carefully and packing it into an envelope. He didn’t close the seal; a postmaster would review his words before allowing it to be sent, assuring no sensitive details were leaked within. On the front of the envelope, he scrawled his East End address. His home was nothing grander than a rickety flat, packed so tightly with its neighbours that the property boundaries blended. When he had left, he never could have imagined missing that ramshackle building, but now he’d give all his rations just to sleep beneath its roof one last night.
Roland kissed the envelope lightly before stowing it in a pocket, swinging his Enfield over a shoulder, and marching towards the rear trenches. He needed to find a postmaster before the other companies departed, or his meagre words would be wasted. Finding Corporal Moore was also a priority. The wounds didn’t throb as much as they had yesterday, but he’d be damned if he died on account of infection! With the others leaving, there should be plenty enough medical supplies to warrant fresh bandages every day.
“Roland,” a voice called quietly from behind.
“Yeah?” He replied, turning gingerly so as to not aggravate his leg. The voice had been so low he’d barely heard it.
There was not a soul in sight.
For a moment, Roland stood puzzled, scanning the trench. There wasn’t much to see, though; on either side of him were dirt walls reinforced with planks and the nearest corner was too far away for such a quiet voice to have emanated from. Fire bays were sectioned off in a way that cut sightlines as much as possible, in case of an attack.
Had it come from above the brim? To check, he mounted the fire step, but nothing stirred above ground level. Even as far away from the enemy line as they were, few were foolish enough to leave the trenches. There was a small grove of trees near the river where snipers could be perched, after all.
Roland shook his head, dismissing it as his imagination. Probably just the wind, he thought. Vortexes formed over the trenches sometimes, creating peculiar noises as air cycled over the broken earth.
Strange, though. I could have sworn someone called for me.
Casting a last leery glance over the area, Roland turned once more to leave.
“I see you.”
Roland froze in his tracks, heart pounding in his chest so hard that it might burst. There was something unnatural about the words; the cadence was wrong - far too choppy - with emphasis in strange places. The tone was off as well - or rather, tones. The pitch was all at once too high and too low for a human speaker, as if there were two distinct voices mixing to form a single vocalization. He craned his ear, listening for movement or another whispered word, desperately trying to surmise where the speaker stood.
A choking laugh rang out, jolting Roland to turn, rifle finding his shoulder as a drunkard finds the bottle. To call it a laugh was to call decapitation a head wound; whatever throat had loosed such a sound was one that Roland hoped never to see. His hands were unsteady, shaking as a new-born babe, but to his surprise, there was no target.
“If this is a joke, it isn’t funny,” he called shakily to the void.
It was right behind me, he thought, sure that the speaker had been within arm’s length but a moment ago. He didn’t lower his rifle, peeking over the brim and stepping once more onto the fire step. Fear clenched his eyes shut as he inched his body upward, rifle pointed towards No Man’s Land. He peeled them open.
Nothing.
Releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding, Roland dropped down into the trench, sending a fresh wave of pain up his injured leg. He brought a dirty hand to forehead, wiping sweat from his brow and mopping his tired eyes.
I’m hearing things, he thought wearily. I’ll end up like sis if I don’t sleep soon.
Roland turned away one final time, determined not to stop for anything. Dread pulsated in his veins at first, but with each step his assuredness that the whole experience was a delusion solidified.
Still, there was a tingling between his shoulder blades that the distance travelled did not evaporate. Nor did his many self-assurances shake away the ominous feeling of being watched.
In his haste to leave, he failed to notice that the corpse was no longer there.
Chapter 3
Shot in the Dark
Roland resisted the urge to peel back the fresh bandage and scratch the wound on his leg. It itched incessantly, but it was a welcome annoyance truth be told; much better than burning. Itching meant the wound was scabbing over and would mend quickly, if left alone. Burning would have meant losing either leg or life. Itching was a welcome friend. Still, the sensation was maddening, made worse when coupled with the darkness that surrounded him.
He’d been right about the heat of the day; it had dissipated slowly until his breath misted in a haze reflected by the pale moonlight. Would the war see another winter? Roland doubted he’d survive it if so. The other two had nearly claimed his limbs with frostbite. As a child, he’d loved the snow, but he’d likely curse even the tiniest of flurries for the rest of his life.
The full moon gave just enough illumination to see the bridge in the distance, as well as the copse of trees on either side of it. To him, night watch was far better than day; gloom offering as much protection against a sniper as the trench did. A charge across the barricades would also be difficult without the grace of light and if the German’s fired flares, at least it would give him a few extra moments to brace for death.
Under normal circumstances, boredom was the archenemy of the midnight sentry. The last few days were anything other than normal, however, and Roland had no issue keeping his eyes wide. Despite Captain Lewis’s warning, he’d not slept during the day, but a dull pulsing of adrenaline and anxiety staved off the sandman’s efforts.
Though he barely felt it, his body had to be approaching its breaking point. The night before the sortie was the last time he’d slept for even a moment and that had been – When? Two days ago? Three? It all blended together. How long had they been trapped in this accursed trench? It mattered little, Roland supposed.
If I lose focus, I am as dead as that lad who took the mortar, he thought, absently rubbing the wound beneath his bandages.
His ears were perked, though he was barely aware of the heightened focus. It had become subconscious – he’d been listening all day for any rumblings of the strange voice that had called his name earlier. So far tonight, only the chirping of insects and chittering of rats disturbed the silence. Perhaps that should put him at ease, but the sensation of being watched had persisted through the day. Even now in the lowlight, the piercing stare of the unseen watcher was upon him.
A faint shuffling from behind reached Roland’s ears. His mouth dried instantly, feeling as if it were full of sand. Instinct called for him to turn, but crippling terror of what may lurk in the darkness kept his eyes trained forward, thousands of miles into the distance.
“Roland,” a quiet voice called out from the abyss, startling him so that he nearly slipped from his foothold near the brim. Panic drove his hands toward the Enfield at his side, but wits quickly returned.
I’m jumping at shadows, Roland scoffed. He should have recognized the voice immediately.
“Evening Deacon,” he greeted as the medic strode to join him at the watch post. Roland hoped his voice was steadier than his heart was. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Corporal Moore only shook his head in reply, though the gesture was difficult to see. Even in the dark, his face shined brightly; always clean, though how it remained so was a mystery. He was one of the few in their company who’d made it thus far unscathed, with not a wound to count among his many expeditions. The man was of two crosses; a wooden one strung around his neck and another painted red aside his helmet. Only the creator knew which of the pair kept him safe. If it were the red one, it hadn’t spared the countless others who’d borne it alongside him.
“Figured I would check on everyone at the front,” the medic shrugged, taking a seat atop the fire step. “Nothing better to do, I suppose. How is your wound?”
“Fine. Itches right fierce like, but I’ll survive.”
The corporal nodded. “Resist the urge to scratch; you’ll only make it worse. Most things heal faster left alone.”
“I’m trying, mate. Who’s further up the line?” Roland asked absently, conversation helping to steady his strained nerves.
“I spoke with Creighton, just on the other side of that bend.” The man gestured vaguely northward, pulling a tin flask from beneath his jacket.
“I’m surprised you got away ‘fore morning! That bloke can talk the ear off a mountain, given time.”
“He didn’t have much to say tonight,” Deacon replied. His demeanour was much unlike what Roland was akin to. Earlier today, he’d been his normal, bright-eyed self, but perhaps the flurry of activity had distracted from their plight.
“Care for some tea?” The man added, unscrewing the cap from his flask.
“You have tea?” Roland asked incredulously. His own supply had run dry weeks back. It was bad enough to live in a damn dirty trench, but to do so without a morning cup seemed overly cruel.
“It’s weak; I’ve had to cut the leaves and stretch it thin to make my ration last.” Deacon offered the tin and Roland accepted.
“Did you offer the same to Creighton?” He asked, swirling the liquid so that it produced a pleasing slosh inside its container. Tea was tea, but Roland wasn’t quite sure if he’d be willing to drink it if so. That man had some less than savoury habits.
“Yes,” the medic chortled softly. “He told me, ‘If it’s not whisky, I don’t want it!’”
“That’s why I don’t trust Scots,” Roland joked. “What kind of civilized person would refuse a cuppa?” He upturned the tin and sipped.
“It is a tad weak, but not bad,” he lied, not wanting to sound ungrateful. In truth, it was closer to water than brew. The heat of the kettle had left it as well, doing nothing to fend off the cold that was slowly seeping towards his innards. Instead there was only the memory of warmth; like the ghost of a fire still flickering in his eyes long after closing them to sleep.
“I should be able to make a proper cup soon. The other companies left supplies behind and Lewis plans to hand them out once he’s taken inventory.”
“They left their supplies?” Captain Lewis hadn’t mentioned any such thing to Roland, but of course he was just a lowly private, not worthy of such grand information.
“Yes. The other captains gave orders to leave all nonessentials behind. Tea was mentioned specifically; perhaps they think we’re more deserving?”
“Or they thought it proper to leave some flowers for the dead.”
It had been a poor jest. For a long while, only the howling wind broke the silence. There was a chill on the breeze that touched closer to winter than autumn and Roland shivered, clenching his jacket tighter. Soon, he’d need to switch to the heavier trench coats, but those woollen travesties itched worse than his leg did.
The eyes were still upon him. Roland turned his head abruptly, hoping to catch a glimpse, but the night was empty, save the swaying trees. Shapeless lumps dotted the ground out in No Man’s Land, but he tried his best to ignore them.
“Think we stand a chance of seeing winter?” Roland asked, perhaps a bit too bluntly. The silence had grown uncomfortable.
“All we can do is pray.”
“You’re the second man to tell me that today,” Roland chuckled.
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Corporal Moore commented. His voice carried the same brand of exhaustion they all felt. “Have you lost your religion?”
“I’m not sure anymore, if I’m to tell true.” They’d had this conversation many times before, but Roland’s answer was becoming less clear as the months passed. “Are you here to save my soul, Deacon?”
“Perhaps it’s not yours who needs saving.”
Roland shifted uncomfortably. He had been joking, but his friend was direly serious. “Are you having a crisis of faith, lad?”
The corporal paused for so long a time that Roland assumed the conversation had perished. He rubbed his wooden cross between finger and thumb. “I find it hard to see the grace of the Almighty in a hell such as this.”
This time, Roland’s chuckle morphed into a full snicker. Deacon watched him shake in mirth by the lowlight, though his expression was unreadable.
“Nay,” Roland replied, after his spurt of humour had dispersed. “You fail to see the irony in it, Deac. God is all around us now! I wager it gets rather boring in Heaven; so much so that seeing His creations killing each other must be a rare, bloody bit of entertainment. War is the closest thing He has to the opera! Why else would He let it happen so often?”
Corporal Moore turned his gaze from Roland to the ground, though he did not offer any of the heavy thoughts that were sure to be coursing through his skull.
“I’m right sorry, mate,” Roland muttered. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. It’s just I share the same doubts as you and it’s difficult to wrap my head around them sometimes.”
“There’s no need to apologize for speaking what’s in your heart. God can’t stand in judgement for your words if He himself allows us to suffer so.”
Roland began to fear he’d gone too far. “Keep the faith, Moore. It’s the only thing we get for free out here.”
The two sat in silence for what could have been a minute or an hour.
“I should keep moving,” Deacon whispered, rising from the fire step. “Come see me tomorrow to change your bandages. Be safe, Roland.”
“You as well, lad.”
The corporal disappeared into the veil, once more leaving Roland alone with his thoughts and the watcher’s piercing eyes.
From his jacket, he drew a wooden carton, opening it gingerly. A lock of brunette hair hung from the lid, attached by a measure of twine. He ran his forefinger over the token – thoughts trapped back in London for an instant – before retrieving a pre-rolled cigarette and snapping the carton shut. Only two would remain after this one turned to ash. He wasn’t much of a smoker – the damn things burned his throat more than the calming effect was worth – but he hoped the other companies had left their tobacco behind. He imagined the next few days would be the most stressful of his life and any bit of distraction was a welcomed friend.
Roland struck a match, careful to cover the flame with his hand. He did the same as he inhaled, shielding the tip and tucking it beneath his palm as he lowered it. Best not to paint a target on himself; the glow would be easy to see on a night such as this, even from great distance.
Movement caught his eye as he brought the cigarette back to his lips and he ducked instinctively. His free hand found the Enfield, shifting it closer, but not drawing it quite yet. Odds were that it was just an animal, but when the wager was your life extra caution was warranted. Slowly, he peeked his head above the parapet, scanning through the gloom for the source of the disturbance.
It didn’t take him long to find it.
From the copse left of the bridge, a dark shadow slinked away from the tree line, its features blending in the darkness. The creature moved slowly, picking its steps through No Man’s Land as it worked its way into the open field. As it inched closer, its figure became clearer, though the shroud of moonlight still hid the fine details.
Roland had never seen an elk before – they’d been extinct in England for some time – but that profile seemed to fit most closely. It was bulky and awkward, with the top section of its body inordinately large compared to the lower. On the left side of its head, a large, many-pronged horn towered, reaching half its height again skyward. The right side was broken, instead replaced by a jagged spike reminiscent of the peaks of a crown.
Something about the way it moved bothered him. It was as if it were injured at times, wobbling jerkily with uneven steps, though at others it acted as a bull in its prime. The lack of rhythm was discomforting, motion seeming unnatural in some way. Perhaps the beast was sick or rabid; after all, what sort of creation would linger wilfully in a place so violent? Roland felt as if he were entranced, unable to look away as the figure swayed towards the lumps that dotted the landscape.
Bodies, Roland knew, though he had tried in vain not to notice them. Between himself and the beast were a dozen mounds; silhouettes in the darkness that he’d avoided looking at until now. The tattered corpses of fleeing men, shot in the back as they prayed for their lives. When the war was young, a ceasefire might have been called to retrieve the dead, but those days were long over.
With a few more spasmic steps, the shadow reached the nearest body, where it paused. For a moment, it merely loomed over it, heaving heavily as if convulsing. It may have been his imagination, but Roland swore he could hear it panting. As it exhaled, it wheezed, a jarring sound caught somewhere halfway between choking and laughter. The beast seemed to have no intention of moving on, instead staring at the corpse that lay before it.
It bent its gangly neck downward. The wheezing stopped, yielding to a wet slopping. A crunch rang out as bones snapped between the beast’s jowls. Roland wanted nothing more than to look away, but the horrid scene before him mesmerized as sure as any siren.
Searing pain shot from his fingers; the cigarette had burned away, singing the hand that held it. The jolt turned Roland away, cursing softly as he flicked his fingers in the air to cool them. In an instant, his gaze snapped back towards No Man’s Land.
The beast was on its hind legs. It had drawn much closer, only a few dozen yards from the trench now. From Roland’s low vantage, the being seemed impossibly large; towering to a height no living thing had a right to reach. What he’d thought was a broken horn was instead some sort of growth, spiralling around its skull and spiking in a fleshy circle. Its hands were outstretched; the left profanely humanlike, but the fingers of the right nightmarishly long and ending in a wicked claw.
Its eyes were upon him, two red embers burning in the dark.
Roland’s hand hovered over his rifle, but fear paralyzed him. The creature’s chest heaved, reverberating with the same visceral wheeze as earlier. Slowly, he inched towards the weapon, breath caught in his throat. Any sudden movement was sure to be his last. His eyes were locked on the glowing flames of hell, alight in the skull of the beast before him.
Bang. A shot rang out in the darkness, but Roland’s attention remained tied to the abomination. He dared not break his stare. How quickly the creature had closed the gap separating them was frightening. If he took his eyes off it for even a second, it would be upon him.
Were they shooting at the beast? He wondered. If they had, the bullet missed its mark. There was shouting in the distance, but neither man nor shadow reacted to the noise.
Bang. Bang.
Two more shots reverberated and for the slightest fraction of an instant, Roland’s focus wavered. When his eyes flicked back towards No Man’s Land, the beast was nowhere to be found.
Roland slung a hand onto his Enfield, sliding from his perch near the brim as he did so. Where is it? He thought in desperation, jerking his body in all directions, afraid to leave his back turned to the corridors for even a second. The shouting continued further up the trench.
Best go check it out, he decided, shaking violently. If he were to encounter the beast within this tomb of sunken earth, he’d rather not face it alone. Quick steps took him past the bend and into the next fire bay, but the section was deserted. Where the hell is Creighton?
His jog morphed into a full-on sprint, determined to keep moving. Paranoia told him the creature followed close behind, or waited in ambush atop the parapet, ready to swipe from above with its terrible claw. The sprint caused his heart to race, adrenaline washing over his body with every pulse. Roland focused on that feeling, drowning out his other senses with the tingling sensation in his blood.
By some miracle, he reached the next bay, crossing over the bend to spot a tall man standing over another on the ground. It was difficult to tell by moonlight, but the man lying down seemed injured, clenching his stomach with both hands with weapon strewn beside him. The standing man – likely Creighton judging by his height – was hovering above his comrade, rifle pointed towards Roland.
Did the beast do this? He thought warily, looking every direction at once. Where the hell is it?
“Stop!” Creighton exclaimed.
“It’s me, Roland!”
“I bloody well know that you wanker! Fuckin’ stop! There’s a Fritz with a gun down that side trench!”
A new fear dashed thoughts of the creature from Roland’s mind; were the Germans attacking? Heavy footfalls echoed from behind and he swung his Enfield towards them just as a newcomer rounded the bend.
“What’s going on?” Deacon called as Roland lowered his rifle.
“There’s a bloke with a pistol down there,” Creighton answered, motioning towards the side tunnel. “He’s pinned; Clark is on the other side. Bastard shot Geoff, Deac, I need you over here!”
“Coming around,” the medic responded without pausing. He shouldered past Roland, sprinting down the line. As he approached the side trench, he dove, sliding to dodge any shots, though none came.
“Warte! Warte!” Said a voice from the side trench. “Ich gebe auf!”
“What the hell is he saying?” Roland shouted.
“I don’t fuckin’ know, I don’t speak Fritz!” Creighton replied.
“Ich gebe auf!”
Creighton and Deacon exchanged words, though Roland couldn’t hear. The medic seemed calm, however – a good sign. He pulled a rag from his jacket and soaked it with liquid from a different flask. Geoff yelped as Deacon pressed the rag onto his wound.
“With me!” Creighton called, leaving the medic to his work. The man slammed his shoulder into the corner of the side trench, waving for Roland to join him.
In a few moments, Roland stood opposite, leaning against the slatted wall. Creighton held up three fingers, then two, then one.
“Ich gebe auf!” The German shouted one last time.
In unison, Roland and Creighton turned the corner, rifles pointed forward.
Bang. Bang. They both fired, one of the two shots striking home. The man had his arms up, pleading surrender. His pistol was on the ground. It all happened so quickly that Roland hadn’t processed those facts until afterwards.
“Gotcha you bastard,” Creighton declared, striding forward while cocking his Enfield.
“Warte! Bitte! Ich will nicht sterben!” The man’s voice was strained and fading. He was losing a lot of blood, midriff of his shirt glistening in the moonlight.
“Wait,” Roland said, placing his hand on Creighton’s shoulder. He moved forward, taking the pistol from the ground – a Luger, if his guess was correct – and tucking it into his belt.
“Fuck that. This son of a bitch shot Geoff!”
“Geoff will be fine,” Deacon called as he approached from behind. “The bullet passed clean through. Can’t imagine it feels jolly, but the only risk he has is infection.”
“We should inform Captain Lewis immediately,” Roland replied, voice oddly calm. Inside he was trembling. This night had wracked his nerves more than the assault had.
The German reacted to the medic’s approach, perhaps recognizing the red cross painted on his helmet. “Bitte, hilf mir. Ich glaube, ich sterbe.”
Without hesitation, Deacon pushed past Creighton, kneeling beside the injured man and pulling a small box of medical supplies from his jacket. “He’s bleeding out!”
“Just let him,” Creighton suggested, spitting on the ground. “He’s better off in the dirt.”
Corporal Moore paid the Scot no heed, continuing his work at binding a compress to the wound. The German seemed to have fainted from his injuries, nothing moving but his chest as he inhaled shallow, pained breaths.
“Is everyone alright?” Another soldier approached from the far end of the side trench. From his boyish voice, it was easy to peg him as Private Clark. The lad had barely seen his 16th year.
“Go fetch Captain Lewis,” Deacon ordered.
“What? Why? What hap-,” Clark started.
“Just do it, man!” The private jumped at Deacon’s shout, turning in a full tilt towards the sleeping quarters.
Creighton shrugged in exasperation, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “You’re too soft, Deac. Bastard will gut you as soon as he comes to. I’m going to check on Geoff.”
“Wait, Creighton,” Roland called. As he did, he knelt, applying pressure to the bandage while Deacon wrapped it in cloth. Hot blood soaked his hands as he pressed. In truth, it felt pleasant, warming his cold fingers.
“Yeah?”
“Did you see it?” Roland whispered.
“Did I see what?”
Words escaped him. In his mind, it sounded crazy, but surely the man had seen it too?
“The animal in No Man’s Land?” It had been no earthly creature, but to call it anything else would paint him a lunatic.
“I didn’t see a god damn thing, mate.”
An unpleasant sensation washed over Roland as Creighton muttered his reply. The piercing eyes were upon him once more. Until the moment they returned, Roland hadn’t noticed they’d ever left at all. Now he realized that he hadn’t felt the watcher’s stare since the moment the shadow had emerged from the forest. A question popped into his mind that sent a wash of fear into his veins once more.
Where had it been in the meantime?