The Best of Us

John gazed out at the swampy wasteland which spanned out for hundreds of yards in front of him. The sky, though not altogether cloudy, nevertheless lightly sprinkled rain upon the already disgruntled soldiers, adding ever slightly to the vast array of miseries which made up their lives. He pondered the scene in front of him: the expanse of mud was broken only by dirty basins of water, the products of millions upon millions of artillery rounds. The sight was certainly not uplifting, however what lay on the surface was incomparable to what lay beneath. The Earth here acted as both a reminder and an eraser; for although this uninhabitable blight, muddy and disgusting as it was, invoked a strong sense of the violence which rendered it thus, it as well swallowed all reminders of the lives that were wasted. Men fell, and the Earth sucked them under for good – an efficient mass burial appropriately befitting the circumstances that led them there.

The thoughts that ran through his mind seemed foreign in some aspects, yet echoed a strange truth. For John, who had been known all through his boyhood as level-headed and dependable, they had in them something which screamed the exact opposite of who he was. Most problems he dealt with cleanly and efficiently, with little time for question or hindsight. Before joining the Army, he had heard rumors that he was being considered for a foreman position at the factory in their little town. Now though, he wondered what he was doing. Nevertheless he had watched two minor German offensives come his way, and had loaded and fired his rifle just like everyone else, without a second thought or so much as a flinch. But what lay in front of him now was somehow not right. It was hiding something, and it bothered him.

He shook his head, trying to shake the disturbances from his mind, and glanced down into the muddy water below. Splashing their way towards him were two of his pals from home. Michael, a tall, strong man with dark brown hair and a large nose, was well known for his athletic prowess. His powerful legs pushed their way through the water unhindered by the clinging Earth below. Tagging along a few feet behind, slightly bogged down, was Pepper (a nickname given due to his initials, PEP). Unlike Michael, Pepper was short, standing just above five feet, and had a mess of light blond hair on top of his head. His face was one of remarkable youthfulness. Faces changed rapidly at the front: after a battle or two, they became solemn and old, as if a thousand lives had been spent on each man who returned. Pepper, though, could always find the time to smile and laugh, even amidst so much terror. It was because of this that he was so well liked amongst the other soldiers: when life itself seems worthless and futile, laughter can hold people together.

The two approached John, and he hopped off of the embankment, landing in the water with a large splash, sending muddy sprinkles into the air. Some of the other soldiers around looked at him, annoyed.

"You keep sticking your head up like that, and some Kraut sniper is going to take it off one of these times," Pepper said to him.

"You really suppose they’d waste a perfectly good bullet on me?".

"Well you never can tell, they’ve got a lot of extra ammo y’know…"

The three men grinned, and Michael interjected with his usual old news.

"We’re going over the top tomorrow boys. I’ll be one of the first to Paschendaele. I doubt anyone in the army could beat me there."

"Yeah yeah, we heard it all an hour ago… first one to town… good for you," Pepper said, passing off the comment with a wave of his hand.

Michael gave him a quick slap on the back of the head. They had yet to participate in their own offensive, and Michael was always eager to show off his athletic attributes to the rest of the group. None of them noticed the veteran soldier standing nearby, listening to the conversation. When they quieted for a moment, he interjected.

"Doesn’t matter how fast ya are. When you get up there, there’s nowhere to run. Even the fastest people can’t dodge a bullet."

Stunned by the solemnity of the man, the three looked at him dumbly. He took the opportunity.

"It takes the best of us," he added, glancing at the muddy water at his knees. He looked up briefly, and opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but did not. Instead, he slowly turned around and walked down the trench and into the bunker at the end. They continued to stand in silence for a couple of minutes.

"I think its about time for some food," Michael said, finally breaking the silence. "I’ll see you two later." And with that, he marched off in the same direction as the soldier.

Night came quickly on the army, and apart from a few isolated gunshots, the air was silent. It poured outside, so the men huddled into the sleeping quarters beneath the earth. Water had invaded that area too, but at least they were safe, mostly, from it coming down on their heads. John lay on his bunk, his boots still on, and felt a twinge of excitement and fear at what would happen tomorrow. Over the top. He heard the saying so many times, never quite understanding what it meant. Now he would find out.

He tossed and turned for an hour, going from staring at the tiny card table in the middle of the bunker to the damp earthen wall against which his bunk was resting. He always slept towards the inner edge of the bed. Even though they spent the majority of the day soaked in the putrid water, he did not want to be near it when he slept. The water had a vile odor – an odor indescribable to anyone who had not smelled it for themselves. It smelled of human waste… of gunpowder… of blood… of rot… of death. It attached itself to everybody and everything. He wanted to at least be away from it in his sleep.

As he began to drift off, he watched a rat, its tiny front legs kicking awkwardly through the water, slowly propelling itself across the bunker. They would kill it probably, if anyone noticed and cared enough to do something about it.

"Its kind of funny," he thought. "Really, we’re visitors in his home…"

And the rat, ignorant of the dangers around it, made its way across the room and swam out into the rainy night.

He was on the embankment of the trench. The rain beat down painfully hard, like he had stepped on a hornet’s nest, and was being attacked by swarms of venomous stingers. The sky was black and ominous. Looking side to side, he realized that he was the only one in the trench. He glanced at the bunker entrance quickly, but knew, almost as if someone had whispered it in his ear, that it was deserted. Compulsively, he reached to the bank of the trench and grabbed a fistful of mud. Lifting one leg up, he kicked his foot in and tried to push himself up. He seemed to float as he rose above the trench, and planted himself firmly on the ground above.

It was then that the moaning caught his attention. Initially, he passed it off as the wind, but then realized that it sounded somehow too vocal – too alive – to be the wind. The soaked desert of mud in front of him began to stir and ripple, and grow. Figures first sat, then stood up, in lines. The first line of figures formed just in front of the enemy trench, and the next a few feet in front of that, until progressively, the lines of figures got closer and closer. About 50 feet in front of him, the last line formed. The beating rain washed the mud off the faces of what he knew were thousands of dead soldiers, now standing, their sunken eyes staring deep into his. The army, he saw, was an amalgamation of nationalities and units. Germans stood next to Englishmen, who stood next to Austrians who stood next to Frenchmen, who stood next to Russians. Standing in the front line was Michael, his usually confident visage drained and pale. Beside him were a few people he recognized, and a few he did not. One was the veteran soldier. One was a boy he knew in school, who had gone on to Oxford. One was a famous soccer player from his town.

"The best of us…" John thought.

The army did not move. It merely stood, and stared.

The splashing and movement that finally caught his attention was to the flank of the dead army. He turned his head and saw a horse, a pale, gallant stallion, riding across the battlefield, crossing in front of the army. It seemed vastly out of place. The rider was dressed in a uniform John did not recognize, though he assumed it to be a cavalry uniform of some sort.

The rider pulled the reigns when he reached the front-center of the army, and stopped. He faced the dead soldiers for a moment, then slowly turned the stallion around to face his observer. John stepped back when he saw the blackness in the rider’s eyes, and the coldness in his face. A feeling ran through him that he had never felt. It was one of revulsion, and dread.

A loud bang rang out, and it all disappeared.

The booming of artillery woke those who were not already up and about. The ground shook, and soil from the ceiling rippled the water below and fell onto the soldiers sleeping on the top bunks. John woke to the revelation that the water had penetrated the lower beds. Much to his disgust, he had been sleeping on a soaked and stinking mattress. He swung his feet into the brown water and sat up. Pepper and Michael were splashing their way towards him with his bag and rifle.

"Well look who decided to wake up!" Pepper said loudly. John blinked at him for a moment, his eyes still focusing on the dim lamps which adorned the walls and provided the room with the little light it had.

"We thought you were going to sleep right through the offensive!" Michael grinned at the waking soldier and produced the tin box of rations from John’s bag.

"Eat up before its too late. The first wave is already assembling," he said, and tossed the box onto the mattress. John quickly snatched it off the wet mattress and wiped it on his shirt.

"How long?" He asked.

"About a half hour I think," Michael replied.

"But we’re not on until the fourth wave," Pepper added. "They just wanted to let the Krauts think they’re winning before we hit them with all we’ve got. They’ll scatter once they see me coming."

"Probably afraid of your bad jokes," John snickered.

"Hey whatever works."

"We’ll be outside," Michael said walking off. "Come on out when you’re finished." Pepper followed behind, and soon John was again alone on his bunk.

He ate a quick breakfast consisting of a few biscuits and some gulps of water. He wasn’t feeling especially hungry. He threw the tin ration box back into his bag, grabbed his rifle, and joined his friends outside. The first thing he noticed as he stepped into the air was the strong smell of powder, and the mud spraying into the air with every explosion. Through the clouds, he could see the red sky as the sun peeked just above the horizon. The attack was to begin at sunup, so it would still be a little while. Michael was right though; the first wave was already lined up across the embankment waiting for the orders. John looked into the faces of the soldiers awaiting the assault. Some looked apprehensive and unsure; others looked scared; but mostly, they just stood, their dirty faces adorned with a blank, wondrous look. It was hard to tell whether they were in deep contemplation, or simply maintaining a quiet apathy. He wondered which he would be doing. And what about Michael and Pepper? The both of them joked as if all the bullets in the world couldn’t move them. But then again, he joked right along, and acted as though he never thought about it. They must, he thought. They must understand it too.

The artillery barrage finally came to an end, and silence descended upon the battlefield for a few brief moments. There was always a short period of silence between the barrage and the attack so the commanders could scan the field with their binoculars to assess the damage done by the big guns. After just a few minutes, the officers in the trenches began looking at their watches, waiting for the designated time. When it hit, they put their whistles between their lips, and blew.

With an appearance of great gusto, the men of the first wave yelled and climbed up the embankment. Accompanying this was the unmistakable tut-tut-tut of machine gun fire from across the field. As the officers shouted orders for the second wave to assemble, John watched a soldier claw his way up the embankment and then, with a sudden jerk, go sprawling backwards towards him, knocking him over into the water. John pulled the man’s face out of the water and looked at it. It stared at him, and he stared back. A medic came over and saw the little red hole in the helmet.

"Just drop him there for now," the medic said to John. "We’ll get him later."

He noticed quite a few such situations. It seemed a good number of men had been hit just climbing up. But a second whistle blew, and another row of men yelled loudly and clambered up to meet their fates. More fell into the water, but he could tell that the soldiers who made it over were making some progress. Again a whistle blew, and the next row of men scaled the trenches and charged onto the field. The machine gun fire seemed to still be constant, and he could see the bodies piling up even inside the trench. Then he realized it was his turn.

An officer saw him standing idly, and pushed him against the trench wall. "Fourth wave!" he yelled loudly. John looked down the line, and a few men down he noticed Michael, and a few down from him, Pepper. Michael looked over at him and gave a grin. John could tell it was phony.

"Don’t want to be too close to you two. If you do something stupid, I don’t want to get caught in it. Someone’s got to save you after all," he yelled over the gunfire.

John faked a smile back. "We’ll see…"

The truth was, his heart was beating quickly, and his mouth was dry. He wasn’t much in the mood for jokes. The next few moments seemed the longest in his life. Each beat of his heart pounded like the largest guns in the army, as if it were combusting in one grand finale before it burnt out for eternity. But then the sound changed, and it sounded like a bell -- the bell of the Episcopal Church just down the road from his house. Its heavy iron bell was ringing out each sad, abysmal tone, counting down to the final hour when the ground would swallow the structure whole.

He realized then that he had but one place to go. The path he followed had been growing fainter with each chambered bullet, until, looking back, he saw only emptiness. Ahead of him, through the smoke, he saw the pale stallion, its rider’s eyes hollow and black, its hands beckoning for him to follow. The horse reared mightily, and the rider emitted a shrill, piercing scream and took off across the field towards the Germans. John followed.

The bullets wizzed above his head, and the tut-tut-tut of the machine guns rang loudly in his ears as he dug his fingers into the slimy earth of the trench embankment and pulled himself up. Nearing the top, his fingers met something beneath the earth which he could tell was some sort of cloth. Instinctually, he grabbed it. A small portion of the embankment crumbled away, and a rotting hand swung outwards like a lever. John shuddered, and pulled himself the rest of the way up. Standing above the trench he could see the soldiers ahead of him, some falling, some diving to the ground to avoid bombs and bullets. He ran forward. A shell exploded nearby, and he dove into a swampy crater, his face going beneath the surface of the muck. His foot kicked something that could have only been a body, and he emerged quickly, nearly throwing up at the taste of the water on his tongue.

Someone slid into the crater behind him, and he turned around defensively. But it was Michael, followed closely behind by Pepper.

"Thought you were hurt buddy," Michael said calmly.

"I’m ok," he replied. He glanced at Pepper and received a smile. He still marveled at the youthfulness ingrained therein. In full combat gear, Pepper looked even smaller, and even younger. His smile reminded John of the children he used to see out the factory window every day. They always looked so contented, even though their toys weren’t anything more than what they could break off the trees or create with their imaginations. He wished it were still that easy.

Michael patted him on the shoulder and climbed back out of the crater. John and Pepper followed out a few seconds later, and the three continued the charge to the opposite trenches. John looked at the men in front of him. Trotting casually alongside them was the horse, its rider obviously slowing its pace. He ran towards it again.

The bullets continued to fly at them, but none found the three friends. Ahead was an enemy trench, the barbed wire in front already cut by the advancing Tommys. They were ordered to advance further, so it was occupied by just a few soldiers, taking refuge until they mustered enough courage to climb up and over again.

The three friends jumped into the shallow ditch, for it wasn’t really a trench, to rest for a moment. John stared out across the battlefield again. This time, it hid nothing. The rider sat on his horse a few feet from the trench in which they sat, staring at them. Its face was no longer black, but instead burned hot orange and red flames. John stood up, and climbed out of the ditch. Michael and Pepper walked by his side, and the rider grinned malevolently. It raised its hands, and a bright flash burst from its fingertips.

John woke staring at the gray sky. He turned over on his stomach and looked out to try and discern what had happened. Several feet away from him, a short, mud covered soldier lay face up on the ground. He could see the chest moving up and down slowly, which meant that at the very least, the man was breathing. He crawled over to the mud-covered soldier and wiped off the side of his face. It was definitely Pepper, but he was not conscious. John began wiping the rest of the muck off his friend’s face, when his hand struck something peculiar.

He cleaned the majority of the mud off, and what stared back at him forced a scream from the very pit of his stomach. The left half of Pepper’s face looked to have hardly even a scratch. But the right half was replaced with something more grotesque and horrible than had ever existed in the worst of his dreams. A wide, half grin of shattered teeth and shredded flesh consumed half the soldier’s face, as if it had been mauled by the claws of some Gothic gargoyle. Protruding from Pepper’s right eye socket was a jagged piece of iron, surrounded by a red-brown mush. John stared, and stared, and stared, but never stopped screaming. Finally he jerked his head upward, and with a sudden burst, took off towards the British trenches, screaming and flailing all the way. The sky darkened like coal and opened up a deluge upon the already drenched battlefield. The water washed crimson through canals of flesh, and the grotesque creature, unable to stop its morbid grin, stared up at the sky and emitted a quiet, choked groan of despair. Its chest rose, fell, and remained still.

Michael stared out the window of the infirmary at the building across the alley. His limbs ached something awful, and the blaring music hurt his ears until he just wanted to cover them to drown out the noise. In a window slightly at an angle to his own, he saw some pitiful creature staring out. The creature’s right eye twitched uncontrollably, and his left stared out into space, as if he were completely unaware of his surroundings. In fact, the entire right side of his face seemed impossibly twisted in some hellish grin, bearing its constantly chattering teeth, though there did not seem to be any physical damage. But as Michael looked at him, the creature, for just a few moments, looked almost human. Both of his eyes fixed on Michael in some strange sort of recognition, and he stared into them. They were vacant and cold. Whatever humanity and rationality resided there had long since retreated into hiding for its own protection. "It takes the best of us…" he thought.

Michael looked down at his legs. They should have been hanging over the edge of the chair. Instead, they were neatly folded up on the seat. He looked down at his arms. They should have been resting on the armrests. Instead, they were pinned to the shoulders of his pajamas. He looked back up at the window across the alley, but it was dark now. He shivered and called out for a nurse, but his voice was weak, and no one came.

"How cold and late it is," he whispered to himself. "Why don’t they come and put me into bed? Why don’t they come?"

Bio:Tim Nordstrom was born in Jacksonville, FL but raised in Keene, NH. He is currently a history major at St. Michael's College.

E-mail: nutshell3888@my-deja.com

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