Verdun: A Short Story

 

Verdun

A Short Story
By S.W. Martin
________

The first thing I feel is the force from the blast, my body thrown like a rag doll through the air.  Every inch of my mortal frame feels as though it is on fire, every nerve,  every bit of flesh and muscle resonates with the impact of the cold February ground, ground which is ravaged and torn as far as I can see.
I feel sure that I must be dying, for how could my flesh withstand such a violent impact? But within a matter of moments, as my adrenaline and sheer will to survive motivate me to step away from that abyss on the other side of this meat grinder of existence, I rise and pick up my rifle . My Lebel M93  had landed near me, and is no worse for wear.  Only about 10 yards from me I hear my friend Jean-Pierre  call out to me.

"Francois! Come quickly to me!"
He cries, half drowned out by the gun fire, the shelling, and the screaming of men who will soon be dead.  I run. As if the angels themselves carry me, I run. I feel the bullets as they sing their song past my head as I move toward the hole from which Jean-Pierre has called to me. I dive in, as bullets impact the edge of the fox hole.
Jean-Pierre laughs. I adjust my helmet and stare at my comrade incredulously.
"You are a fool, Jean Pierre! How can you laugh when the world is burning around us? "I say to him, as I check myself for bullet holes.
My friend hands me his canteen.
He looks at me and speaks.
"Why shouldn't I smile, François? If I live, I will see our home back in Cordes and I will marry Marguerite at the old church. We will make love, we will have many children and we will grow old together. If I  die, I will see the face of God and I will live forever in His Kingdom. I believe that no matter what, we will be victorious!"
I am envious of his optimism. For me, there is no Marguerite waiting at home.  I was conscripted a little over 6 months ago in the summer of 1915.  I have had no time to yearn for the gentle touch of a woman, or to contemplate the curves and contours of the female form.  I had believed there would be plenty of time for carnal things once I returned to our town of Cordes in Tarn , as a warrior, a hero. Up until now my passion had been for glory. But today, my lust for glory has withered. For Jean-Pierre and I are in the middle of hell on earth. The ground is soaked in the blood of our fellow Frenchmen. The air is heavy with a stomach turning stench.  Gunpowder, and burning petrol and fuel oil from the fires crawling down my wind pipe, the smell of death and shit accompany all of it .
There is no glory here. I was a fool to ever think otherwise.
Jean-Pierre digs around in his jacket pocket and takes out a cigarette  and lights it. He takes a long pull from it, holding in the smoke , a faint smile crawling across his lips. He passes it to me.
"Take this, my friend. Enjoy it. I want you to enjoy every happy moment we'll ever have. A happy moment with a pretty girl, or a beautiful sunset at your house in Cordes, or if you smoke a cigarette  in the middle of the end of the world. I love you like my own brother, François. No matter what happens here today, I want you to promise me that you will find happiness."
I take the cigarette from him. And I ponder his words. Would I even know happiness if I saw it. If joy were a thief in the night, and it visited itself upon me, would I slumber through it all?
Jean-Pierre points to the Southeast, and through all the noise we can hear the sound of our fellow Frenchmen, about 200 yards away. We will run towards the sound of familiarity.  I check my rifle, Jean-Pierre does the same.  Jean-Pierre grabs me by my shoulders , and says to me,

"We will run, my friend. I will take the lead. We will push until we are with our compatriots. They are only a few hundred yards away. We can do it! I know we can,  my friend !"
Suddenly, I am paralyzed,  my body in a state of shock. I feel as though Death himself has laid his cold hand upon me. Tears well up in my eyes. I look at my friend and say, ""I can't do this. I'm too scared. I'm ashamed to admit it. But it's true. I don't want to die, Jean-Pierre! God forgive me, but I'm so scared! "
My friend's smile never leaves his face. There is no disappointment in his eyes. No disgust, there is no judgement in him toward me. Only the love of a brother.
"Do you remember when we were only boys, François?  When we went to play in the waters of the Cérou, and you were afraid of the water?  I was there with you.  I never left you, and I won't leave you now.  We will defy the Germans, and we will defy all odds and with God as our ally, we will see our home again.  You will come to my wedding and Marguerite will introduce you to one of her sisters.  They won't be as beautiful as her, but you're not beautiful either."
I laugh. How can my good friend maintain such a humor as he does?
We decide we shall make our run on the count of 3.
"Un, Deux, Trois!"
Into the meat grinder we throw ourselves. Out of our trench and across this broken and battered wasteland,
we sprint and jump over the bodies of Frenchmen and German alike. Bullets hiss and sing through the air around us. I hear rushing water inside my skull, my heart beating as though it will burst from my chest. The gunfire from an MG08  tries to make us two more nameless casualties of this useless war. We run past a dead
Boulonnais horse, its body bloated and swollen from days on this field. In this moment there is no difference between the dead horse and the dead men on this battle field. In the end, we are all meat. It is strange how even in such moments as this, the mind will contemplate such things.
And then Jean-Pierre falls. I had not even heard the gun shot. I drop my rifle and try to grab him as he falls and he cries out, "Francois! To your left !"
From my left comes a German , his eyes wild with sheer terror. He's charging me,
Bayonet affixed to his Gewehr 98.
He must have fired his last round at Jean-Pierre, and now he and I will engage in Man's oldest form of violence, for now our bare hands will decide who lives to see another moment.
As he lunges forward with his bayonet, I sidestep and grab the barrel of the Gewehr and i try as best I can to wrestle it from him. He's yelling at me,  his terrified voice barely making words. I don't understand much. 
<"God forgive me! I don't want to die here!">
He screams as we struggle for the rifle. I can feel him shaking. 
I strike him in the face with my elbow, knocking him back a few steps, he cries out in pain. His nose gushing blood over his dirty wet face.
<'I never wanted to come here!  I just want to go home!">
He says, his voice trembling.
We continue to struggle for the rifle, and a new wildness fills his eyes. It's the wildness that turns good men into monsters.  The monsters of the old stories. The monsters that are born in that old Darkness. A darkness that has existed since the first man fought to preserve himself. When Man first  picked up a stone to slay his brother. This scared German boy now has offered himself to that old Darkness. His tears have stopped, he is steady now. 
He head butts me. I stumble back and lose my grip on the rifle's barrel.
<"You will meet God now, Frenchman!">
He says. There is no tremble in his voice anymore. He has decided in his heart he will kill me to live another moment.
He moves faster this time ,jabbing and lunging with the bayonet and I try my best to evade every move he makes. I fall backwards. And he is upon me . Down comes the bayonet, and I try with every ounce of strength I have to stop it. My grip on the barrel and bayonet handle is slipping. The cold steel is descending upon me, he is as much an instrument of death as his rifle is.  He pushes harder towards me, the blade seeking my heart. I manage to push it upward as it passes through the fabric of my blue overcoat and the blade finds the flesh of my upper left shoulder. I scream in pain, as the rough dull blade pushes past muscle and bone, its sawback edge tearing all the way through to the ground below me. I have heard other soldiers refer to the German bayonet as "The Butcher's Blade".
He knows he has me. The old Darkness has full control of him.  He knows he will pay his price down the road, but that does not matter to him right now. He is predator. I am prey.

I feel as though these are my last moments. I will die here, in the mud, and the blood, and the destruction, as so many of my fellow countrymen already have. Is this all there is? To die for Kings and politicians, so that lines on maps either change or stay the same? Are the lives of men like me worth this? Are we their little throw-away soldiers? 

  The German has drawn his bayonet from my shoulder and he will deliver the death blow now.
A shot rings out.  The German's eyes fill with disbelief. And a circle of crimson begins to form around an exit wound in the center of his uniform. He falls on me, and I feel his last breath leave him. His debt to the Darkness is apparently now paid.
I struggle and push him off me. Jean-Pierre is struggling to stay sitting up, holding his revolver, he arm trembling. I crawl to my friend and he lets himself collapse into my arms.
"It seems...I must...always...save you,.....my friend."
I tell him to rest, not to move. I can hear French soldiers approaching us. They will surely save us both.
Jean-Pierre grabs my arm.
"Take the letter from my right breast pocket. I need you to take it. I need you to bring it to Marguerite. Do you understand me François?"
I nod. I promise him I will take the letter to her. He smiles at me. I feel the warmth of his blood as it soaks through his uniform and mixes with mine and the German's. 
The letter has my bloody finger prints on it now. And I worry that it will upset Marguerite. I put it in my right breast pocket.
Jean-Pierre smiles.
"I want you to live long. I want you to grow old and be fat and ugly and drink too much wine and chase young women who are far too beautiful for you. I want you to watch the sun go down  and remember me, my friend."
I struggle to keep back the tears.
I feign a smile and I say through trembling lips, " I will always remember you, my friend."
And my friend was gone.

 I pass out, his body in my arms. 

 I wake up later in  the Hôpital Temporaire d'Arc-en-Barrois, my shoulder wound bandaged.
The smell of the place is god-awful but it is not like that terrible place in Verdun where the fire, and the gunpowder, and the blood and death all mix.
I ask a pretty young nurse where my uniform is, and she says she will retrieve it.
I can not risk something happening to the letter. I will keep my promise. She brings my belongings to me. And she smiles. It's the sort of smile that lets a young man know she likes him in that sort of way. But I'm not really there. My mind is going back to that field where I lost my good friend. Where I looked into the face of the old darkness.
I lie back on the bed. And I think about Jean-Pierre. I think about the German.
And I think about that old darkness, and how it has always been there, waiting on us.