Emmetsburg: Thirty-seven

A moan awakened him. It was long and low, trailing to a pathetic whimper, not unlike that of a small child. John awake3ned with a start, believing for a moment that it had come from him. His body was a conspiracy of knots and bruises, his painfully empty stomach twisting with dysentery. Mud had hardened on his face and hands, tightening the flesh there. He sweltered, dripping with sweat as the caked earth and heavy wool uniform became an oven beneath the afternoon sun.

John's mind spun, fighting to grasp hold of the world once more. Had John fallen asleep, or had he slipped into unconsciousness. It seemed a subtle distinction, and one that John wasn't sure he could answer.

The crater was drenched in deep shadow, mostly. The white gold disk of the sun fell oblique across the shoulder of the crater, carving the far rim in bright day light. That light retreated steadily as the sun teased the crater's edge. Something in that disk drew John's attention. He squinted into it, struggling to make out something moving it its light. Undefined and barely discernable it fluttered and moved excitedly, hovering in that light like an angel. John's mouth opened partly in disbelief and partly that he felt compelled to say something. The angel grew and came nearer until he could make out the blurred and still undefined motion of the wings. His heart rose to meet it, as though it was being rescued from the misery of the crater and the war. When it set down upon the rim of the crater as a small sparrow it was almost too much for John to take.

Each man has his limit and his precipice. Each man has a load beyond which he cannot bear. It is a crushing moment when that limit has been reached, for nothing so defines the soul as that limit. Indeed, nothing defines a soul as much as the way a man comes to that limit. The catalyst plunging a man over the edge may be miniscule or profound. The supreme disappointment that the bird was not an angel come to same him drove Kohn to the very edge of sanity.

The moan returned, this time louder and more sustained. It was all John could do to lift his head to discover the origin. The muscles of his neck had grown stiff, pulling at the back of his skull and sending burning tides of pain through his head. Behind the muddy little wall John had constructed, Roddy writhed and dug at the mud with his fingers, as though that might divert or stem the terrible pain from which he prayed to almighty God for relief or for death. Roddy’s moan evolved into a cry that John knew for certain would bring the Germans down upon them. John pushed himself to a kneeling position, still leaning on his arms and mustered the strength to reach Roddy.

Suddenly the man arched his head skyward and gave the most unholy and painful cry John had ever heard. Roddy's eyes rolled back in his head and his body shuddered unnaturally. With that he began to thrash and sob, repeating again and again, “Kill me!”

John fell upon him, turning him over and clamping a hand across the man's mouth. But Roddy twisted and convulsed so hard, biting down hard enough on John's hand to draw blood, that it became impossible. Frantic and terrified, fully expecting German soldiers to appear at any second, John drew a rag from his pocket and quickly stuffed into Roddy's mouth to quiet him.

There was no doubt the German's had heard Roddy's wailing. The air had stilled. The sound would carry to both lines. John drew back the hammer on the revolver with one hand, and with the other covered Roddy's nose and mouth. John leaned over the suffering man, pressing down with his entire weight.

A German soldier appeared at the lip of the crater. John leveled the revolver and put a bullet neatly through the man's neck, killing him instantly. Another appeared, and John shot him too. A third appeared. John fired again, but the German, a towering powerhouse of a man rolled under it, coming up again with his rifle and bayonet within thrusting distance.

John was ready, and parried away the bayonet with the pistol. In the mud and slope of the crater wall both men lost their balance, abandoning their weapons and ending up in a heap on the far side of the pit. They were instantly teasing and slugging at one another.

John was clearly outclassed against the German. He was nimble and quick despite his size. John was stunned by the man's strength, and the man seemed almost to delight in even the best placed of John's punches. For a minute, as they grappled half submerged in the pool at the bottom of the crater, John almost thought the guy was toying with him. As if to make that point, he turned john around and hook an arm around his neck to strangle him. The fight was running away from him. John had reached his precipice. He'd gone over the edge, clinging to the world by a tenuous hand hold.

John dropped his chin as the German hooked the arm around his neck and bit down. The man's flesh stretched under his bite, then broke gushing warm into his mouth. The man screamed and clawed at Johns eyes, the ragged finger nails drawing deep troughs across John's cheeks and forehead. Finding bone john twisted until part of the man's arm came loose in his mouth.

With that the German pulled away stumbling backwards and falling over Roddy, now still and lifeless. The man froze, a horrified expression coming to him as John rose over him and spit out a piece of the man's arm, blood dripping from his lips. It wasn't fear of death, but more that John had crossed some threshold. It was as though john had uttered some forbidden obscenity beyond what the so-called civilized conventions of warfare allowed. John had become a demon, and that was fully reflected in the German soldier's expression. For him that was the precipice; that was the limit. As John picked up the trench knife the man shook his head once, as if asking the demon to reconsider. John fell to his knees straddling the man's legs and grabbed him hard by the collar. The man closed his eyes and turned his head aside.