Pearl-white. The fog fled the no man’s land quickly now. With the lifting fog came the obsessive German guns, chasing the rest of the squad back across the no man's land. Bullets chopped at the rim of the crater and at the body of the German boy. They tumbled the body backwards, where it slid limp and lifeless and shattered. The bullets were like stones into a murky puddle. John laid across Roddy and contented himself that the shooting wouldn't last forever. He knew, though, that what would come would be far worse.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-five
Cold gray. The morning sun was somewhere beyond the shroud of fog turning the tortured no man's land into an abstract of ghostly silhouettes. The bullet and shell-stripped hulks of trees reached out as strange creatures among tangles of rusted concertina wire. The ground was tossed by overlapping shell craters, fading to a broken horizon and the German lines hidden behind that merciless fog.
The fog brought a silence, like that of a funeral. It was the silence of loss and exhaustion and of loneliness; a void in which all things once believed clear and immovable where now d ark and uncertain. The scent of death was in the air, but it was a different evolving scent from the strangling putrefying stink of the recently killed. It was a musty scent, not unlike upturned moss, wet earth and sickness. Bodies not collected or claimed, and those beyond collection were being reclaimed by the earth. Bodies not picked over by rats appeared as poorly conceived mud sculptures blending with the French soil.
Still groggy from a cold uncomfortable sleep, curled with his Enfield upon a stack of ammunition crates, John climbed from the trench. He stood straight for a moment, as if tempting German snipers. They couldn't see him, lost to the fog as they were, but the nature of trench warfare was not tactics or strategy, but simple survival. A cough, a sneeze, any errant sound could bring a brutalizing reply from German gunners who were every bit as jumpy and frightened as their allied counterparts.
The khaki-green wool uniform was filthy, blood-stained and damp from the morning dew. It stunk of the dead, of piss and shit, wood smoke and goat meat they'd cooked the night before. It hung loosely on John's gaunt frame. Four exhaustive months and successive bouts of dysentery and diarrhea had taken a terrible toll. Like the dead, he felt himself disappearing steadily from the world. John lifted the Enfield to his chest, unconsciously gripping the cold wooden stock hard enough to cramp his fingers.
John glanced back into the trench, and the five expectant faces of his squad. One of them was a tough as nails Irishman named Roddy MacAllister, with thick bright red hair and deep blue eyes. John thought he was a bit of a loud mouth, but he was keen with a knife and a good man in a fight. When John was asked by the Sergeant to pick his squad, Roddy was the first on the list. John nodded and the men rose quick and quiet. Without a word they formed a skirmish line, separated by three yard intervals. From where John stood the last man was almost lost to the swirling mist.
The mission was as much one of security as revenge. German sappers had cut the throat of a French sentry that night before beheading two of the sentry's sleeping comrades. The objective was to sweep the area between the lines, but each man entertained his own fantasy of what he might do should they run into the enemy. The squad drew a long slow arc that would take them mere yards from the German guns before turning back towards friendly lines.
They went cautiously, rifles at the shoulder, barrels angled towards the ground. To John it remind him of stories of the Indian Wars he’d heard from old veterans as a child. Like those Indians John stepped lightly at the edge of his foot, judiciously choosing each footfall, sliding forward to make as little noise as possible. His finger hovered across the iron trigger guard. John had to remind himself to breathe from time to time. Every eight steps the squad came to a halt and knelt, looking back along the line for John’s signal to push forward.
They were near enough the enemy lines that John could faintly make out a German soldier's snoring as he slept. It made him smile, breaking a strain that grew exponentially by the second. The sound tore at his conscience. It was upsetting to think the enemy was a man like him. John brushed away the thought, content that the wind, light as it was, was in the American's favor. Roddy heard it as well and smirked in John's direction. John pursed his lips and with a wave of the hand motioned the squad forward again.
Nearing the German lines John spied movement at the edge of a crater a grenade throw away.. Roddy came up beside him. He'd spotted it as well. As if by one mind they separated, intending to flank their prey from either side. Ten yards out both men rose, aiming their rifles from the shoulder as they closed the gap. John was there first, taken suddenly aback by the unexpected sight.
It was a young blond German boy, fighting to drag himself to the lip of the crater. His blue-gray uniform was in tatters and scorched on one side. Blood had matted and darkened along the back of his neck and into the neatly trimmed blond hair. The boy’s legs were gone below the knees. He turned slowly and peered over one shoulder at John, his eyes wide with fear. With that he only pulled more desperately at earth that slithered through his fingers.
At the edge of the crater, opposite the struggling boy, John lowered his rifle to watch the pathetic spectacle. He took a breath and guessed the wounds were more than a day old. It was quite certain he wasn't one of the sappers. John figured he'd been left behind from a half hearted assault two nights before that had been stopped cold by an artillery barrage. A few feet away Roddy smiled cryptically, and drew a trench knife from his belt. John scrambled down the side of the crater stopping Roddy just as he was about to dispatch the boy.
“What's the matter with you?” Roddy complained, at barely a whisper. The two men struggled. Roddy fought to pull free, staring into John’s eyes., grimacing as John forced the knife from his hand. Neither of them noticied as the boy reached the top of the crater.
“Deutsche Comrade!” he cried. Roddy shoved John away and dove on the boy just as a burst of machinegun fire erupted from the German side. John slipped and tumbled awkwardly, splashing into a pool of water at the bottom of the crater. The boy's head exploded. Another round banged off Roddy's dough boy helmet, flinging him into a heap across the trench. John crawled over, bullets ripping at the air above the trench, and turned Roddy over. He was limp. A trickle of blood ran from one ear and down across his dirt streaked neck.
The fog brought a silence, like that of a funeral. It was the silence of loss and exhaustion and of loneliness; a void in which all things once believed clear and immovable where now d ark and uncertain. The scent of death was in the air, but it was a different evolving scent from the strangling putrefying stink of the recently killed. It was a musty scent, not unlike upturned moss, wet earth and sickness. Bodies not collected or claimed, and those beyond collection were being reclaimed by the earth. Bodies not picked over by rats appeared as poorly conceived mud sculptures blending with the French soil.
Still groggy from a cold uncomfortable sleep, curled with his Enfield upon a stack of ammunition crates, John climbed from the trench. He stood straight for a moment, as if tempting German snipers. They couldn't see him, lost to the fog as they were, but the nature of trench warfare was not tactics or strategy, but simple survival. A cough, a sneeze, any errant sound could bring a brutalizing reply from German gunners who were every bit as jumpy and frightened as their allied counterparts.
The khaki-green wool uniform was filthy, blood-stained and damp from the morning dew. It stunk of the dead, of piss and shit, wood smoke and goat meat they'd cooked the night before. It hung loosely on John's gaunt frame. Four exhaustive months and successive bouts of dysentery and diarrhea had taken a terrible toll. Like the dead, he felt himself disappearing steadily from the world. John lifted the Enfield to his chest, unconsciously gripping the cold wooden stock hard enough to cramp his fingers.
John glanced back into the trench, and the five expectant faces of his squad. One of them was a tough as nails Irishman named Roddy MacAllister, with thick bright red hair and deep blue eyes. John thought he was a bit of a loud mouth, but he was keen with a knife and a good man in a fight. When John was asked by the Sergeant to pick his squad, Roddy was the first on the list. John nodded and the men rose quick and quiet. Without a word they formed a skirmish line, separated by three yard intervals. From where John stood the last man was almost lost to the swirling mist.
The mission was as much one of security as revenge. German sappers had cut the throat of a French sentry that night before beheading two of the sentry's sleeping comrades. The objective was to sweep the area between the lines, but each man entertained his own fantasy of what he might do should they run into the enemy. The squad drew a long slow arc that would take them mere yards from the German guns before turning back towards friendly lines.
They went cautiously, rifles at the shoulder, barrels angled towards the ground. To John it remind him of stories of the Indian Wars he’d heard from old veterans as a child. Like those Indians John stepped lightly at the edge of his foot, judiciously choosing each footfall, sliding forward to make as little noise as possible. His finger hovered across the iron trigger guard. John had to remind himself to breathe from time to time. Every eight steps the squad came to a halt and knelt, looking back along the line for John’s signal to push forward.
They were near enough the enemy lines that John could faintly make out a German soldier's snoring as he slept. It made him smile, breaking a strain that grew exponentially by the second. The sound tore at his conscience. It was upsetting to think the enemy was a man like him. John brushed away the thought, content that the wind, light as it was, was in the American's favor. Roddy heard it as well and smirked in John's direction. John pursed his lips and with a wave of the hand motioned the squad forward again.
Nearing the German lines John spied movement at the edge of a crater a grenade throw away.. Roddy came up beside him. He'd spotted it as well. As if by one mind they separated, intending to flank their prey from either side. Ten yards out both men rose, aiming their rifles from the shoulder as they closed the gap. John was there first, taken suddenly aback by the unexpected sight.
It was a young blond German boy, fighting to drag himself to the lip of the crater. His blue-gray uniform was in tatters and scorched on one side. Blood had matted and darkened along the back of his neck and into the neatly trimmed blond hair. The boy’s legs were gone below the knees. He turned slowly and peered over one shoulder at John, his eyes wide with fear. With that he only pulled more desperately at earth that slithered through his fingers.
At the edge of the crater, opposite the struggling boy, John lowered his rifle to watch the pathetic spectacle. He took a breath and guessed the wounds were more than a day old. It was quite certain he wasn't one of the sappers. John figured he'd been left behind from a half hearted assault two nights before that had been stopped cold by an artillery barrage. A few feet away Roddy smiled cryptically, and drew a trench knife from his belt. John scrambled down the side of the crater stopping Roddy just as he was about to dispatch the boy.
“What's the matter with you?” Roddy complained, at barely a whisper. The two men struggled. Roddy fought to pull free, staring into John’s eyes., grimacing as John forced the knife from his hand. Neither of them noticied as the boy reached the top of the crater.
“Deutsche Comrade!” he cried. Roddy shoved John away and dove on the boy just as a burst of machinegun fire erupted from the German side. John slipped and tumbled awkwardly, splashing into a pool of water at the bottom of the crater. The boy's head exploded. Another round banged off Roddy's dough boy helmet, flinging him into a heap across the trench. John crawled over, bullets ripping at the air above the trench, and turned Roddy over. He was limp. A trickle of blood ran from one ear and down across his dirt streaked neck.
Emmetsburg: Thirty-four
If he'd been running straight Louis might have been half way to Illinois by the time John got dressed. He was erratic though, falling and flailing again and again, and through up the most unholy cries, as though he was in mortal agony. John hesitated at the back screen door. He thought better of the pistol and placed it on the counter, pulling a dish towel over it.
Louis was up again, but making feeble progress towards the tree line at the back of the yard. He turned, upturned face ripped by excruciating pain, mouth agape. Louis washed his hands across his head and torso before going down hard once more. He let out a shriek that faded into a silence far beyond pain.
John was running as hard as he could through the dewy wet grass in his bare feet. Each footfall thundered painfully in his injured hand. He ignored it as best he could, believing that the man was truly dying. It seemed that these were Louis' final agonizing assertions. Anna was behind him on the step, still wrapped in the quilt.
John caught up to him almost at the tree line, where the grass was deep enough to wet the bottoms of John's trousers. Louis was on his hands and knees hardly making any progress at all as he swatted at something unseen torturing at his head and shoulders. Louis moaned loudly and rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up. His eyes were wide and distant, fixed somewhere among the starry heavens.
A body dies from head wounds like the one Louis had suffered. Not right away. Some pass on in their sleep. Others writhe and cry at the excruciating pressure as blood pools in the skull, crushing life from the brain. Louis had seen that before. The memory took him back to the bloodied fields of France 1917.
Louis was up again, but making feeble progress towards the tree line at the back of the yard. He turned, upturned face ripped by excruciating pain, mouth agape. Louis washed his hands across his head and torso before going down hard once more. He let out a shriek that faded into a silence far beyond pain.
John was running as hard as he could through the dewy wet grass in his bare feet. Each footfall thundered painfully in his injured hand. He ignored it as best he could, believing that the man was truly dying. It seemed that these were Louis' final agonizing assertions. Anna was behind him on the step, still wrapped in the quilt.
John caught up to him almost at the tree line, where the grass was deep enough to wet the bottoms of John's trousers. Louis was on his hands and knees hardly making any progress at all as he swatted at something unseen torturing at his head and shoulders. Louis moaned loudly and rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up. His eyes were wide and distant, fixed somewhere among the starry heavens.
A body dies from head wounds like the one Louis had suffered. Not right away. Some pass on in their sleep. Others writhe and cry at the excruciating pressure as blood pools in the skull, crushing life from the brain. Louis had seen that before. The memory took him back to the bloodied fields of France 1917.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-three
Louis was well enough to sit up. Not great, but better. He rose to meet John just crossing from the stairs with a glass of milk and some bread with sweet ruby-red rhubarb jam. The bread was still warm from the oven. Louis' eyes widened a bit at the thick pieces stacked upon the small flowered china plate. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit. He held the milk in his good hand, with the plate balanced on the forearm. With the darkly bruised and swollen fingers of his injured hand John steadied the plate.
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
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