Here's another short story! I enjoy writing particularly macabre little tales, often about war or monsters, or the decaying human condition overall. This short story does contain blood and violence, so beware if you aren't a fan of that sort of thing!

All is quiet on the Western Front. And I am dangerously far from the Siegfriedstellung, our defensive line. It lies towards the north, our trenches running long and unevenly. Each line is separated every hundred yards or so by strips of perilous terrain. To the south-west, near Écoust, the British have made a desperate withdrawal behind the Allied Front.

Dust has settled on the ruins of Bullecourt, on the bones of this house. Dust shines in the still air against dawn’s gentle glow. It coats the remnants of a final dinner, interrupted; bowls of rotten food, open jars of preserves, a basket full of bread rolls. It is on the dog laying in the kitchen corner whose face is starting to collapse. And if I were ill-accustomed to the ever-present reek of putrefaction that has pervaded all of northern France, I’d be retching until blood was all my stomach had left to give.

There is a frilled sock in the doorway. Dropped, torn. A little girl chubby on freshly churned butter and milk, perched on her mother’s hip, sock proudly adorning her swinging foot. There and gone. A second presence grabs my attention.

He was here before I woke. Watching me.

I prop myself further up against the wall and adjust my grip to better guard my side. The movement sends pain, sharp and searing, bursting from my injured waist. I decide not to scream, even as the tendons in my neck strain.

The soldier lounges in a wooden chair. He bites into a piece of bread flecked with mould, ripping it viciously from between his teeth. He does not speak to me. He hasn’t since I opened my eyes.

He chews the remaining bread and dusts the crumbs from his hands against his trousers. Every movement is casual, as though the sound of shells were not booming in the distance and he was merely enjoying breakfast. Whatever he is thinking, his face betrays nothing. I reach for my musket but it is no longer by my side.

I snarl, “what do you want?”

My first offensive. We were fools. We’d ridiculed the British, said they’d sent their wives to fight for them when the Scottish mobilised for war. But I’ve seen them out there. I’ve watched them mock our men who surrendered in broken English before pumping them full of bullets.

He smiles. Was he waiting for me to speak first? He takes a swig from his canteen.

“You know English.”

His voice is cool; a hand smoothing over the flat surface of a cold stone. I think of all the Tommies I’ve shot and bayonetted and all the Tommies that have shot and bayonetted us and every dead friend I’ve had to count...and I shrug; “It is not a difficult language to learn. Englishmen talk a lot when they have their fingernails peeled off.”

He huffs through his nose. Once. Twice. And then his mouth is open in a guffaw, his body shaking with laughter, his face turned to the sky. He wipes his eye and sighs.

“You Krauts are sadistic fucks, aren’t you?”

“Maybe we are,” I respond, steadier than I felt. He moves his tongue to the side of his mouth and smiles smugly, a small huh escaping his lips. Then he nods to my wound. “That looks like it hurts.”

His eyes are like thunderclouds. They hold me down. He pushes off the chair and moves towards me. I go to unsheathe my knife but as with my musket, I only find empty air. I try to clamber backwards, but my back hits the hard wall. He crouches down. I search his face with frantic urgency. His features are sharp under all that dirt, almost Luciferian. He reaches a hand for me and my own snaps forward to grab his wrist. He hardly reacts, just pans his eyes to meet mine.

My chest rises and falls quickly. He doesn’t attempt to snatch his hand back.

“If I don’t help you, you will die,” he explains calmly.

“How do I know you won’t slit my throat the moment I let go?” I pant.

“Soldiers don’t choose to kill, lad. They do it on instinct. And if I wanted to,” he lowers his voice, “I’d have woken you just to make sure the barrel of my gun was the last thing you ever saw.”

My jaw tightens.“What’s in it for you?”

“Look at the state of you. Are you really in a position to offer me anything of value?” 

“Then why help me with no promise of a reward?” I snap. The corner of his mouth twitches just so.

“Are you going to shut up and let me help you or not?”

I say nothing for a moment, scanning his eyes. My forehead is damp and my strength is waning. It’s only a matter of time.

I drop his wrist. He acts right away, hands unbuttoning my tunic before he beholds the large patch of red spreading across my undershirt. He tears open the fabric, gently inspecting the damage with his fingers. I moan in agony.

“It’s deep, but I think your organs are fine. Whatever got you only pierced muscle,” he says.

“You’re damn lucky.”

“How can you be sure?” I pant. He opens the lid of his canteen and rinses his hands.“Because you’re still alive,” he says, and pours water all over the wound. Liquid hits raw flesh and I bellow. He grabs a roll of gauze from his torn bag and pushes it between my teeth.

“This is going to hurt like hell,” he says, holding up a long strip of field dressing. “You ready?”

My breaths come in ragged puffs. I nod, and he starts packing the wound, exchanging his fingers with more dressing in rapid succession. I bite down. My head explodes with blinding heat and the world flashes black and white and a shriek tears through my throat. But then he’s bandaging me, and the pain ebbs into a dull but terrible throb.

I let the roll fall. He wipes the string of saliva hanging from my lip with his knuckle and puts a flask in its place. I take a few generous gulps of the bitter ale and sigh breathlessly. He opens a can of bully beef and passes it to me. I dig into it with my hands, offering him a guttural ‘thank you.’ He gives me a half-smile.

“Name’s William, by the way. Abernathy.”

I nod and look away from him. He chases my gaze.

“You gonna tell me your name, lad?”

“It’s Fritz,” I say. He watches me for a few seconds before shaking his head.

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.”

He clicks his tongue and reaches into his pocket. My dog tag emerges from within, dangling from his fingers. I grasp for my neck.

“Gereon,” he starts. He sounds like a disappointed father. My name sounds wrong on his foreign tongue. He turns the metal over in his hands and runs his fingers over its inscriptions.

“I could have killed you in your torpor, but I didn’t. I helped you. What reason do you have not to trust me?”

“That! Precisely that. Nobody offers aid without getting something in return,” I declare. “You are British. I am Deutsch. We are at war! Why help me?”

“Does it matter? If it’d been anyone else, they’d have shot you without hesitation. I know my men,” William bristles.

“I know your men, too!” I shout, which puts pressure on my wound. I let it push me to keep talking. “Which is why I know there’s no way you decided to nurse me out of the kindness of your heart. You Tommies don’t have fucking hearts! So why?”

William’s jaw clenches then unclenches. His fists rest on his thighs, and I can see his knuckles are white.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly.

“Answer the question!”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“William-”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE MY RAM!”

I frown.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He sighs and rubs his face, clasping his fingers together to rest his forehead against his knuckles. I can scarcely discern his muttering; “Lord...sent me my ram...you did...Abraham...instead of me...show me how...”

Then his shoulders sag, and he shifts his position so his knees point to the ceiling. He rests his elbows on his knees and regards me silently for a few moments before speaking.

“When you picture the world outside, what do you see?” I release a long breath through my nose.“I am in no mood for games.”

“This isn’t a game. Just tell me what you see.”

I shake my head and throw up a hand. “Grey smog?” I begin, “dead men, shell-holes full of water ten bodies deep.” I pause.

“The...I see the grin of dead horses, trembling men cowering in bunkers, still men with nothing in their eyes.”

“And what do you think it looked like before?”

I frown. I try to picture it but the image behind my eyes is...simple, like a tattered painting on a wall. Farmland with rolling green hills and a bright sun shining down onto the field. I tell him I don’t know.

“A world undone,” he murmurs, then his face hardens. “I refuse to fight for it anymore. But I still intend on returning home.”

I want to ask him what that has to do with me but the sound of boots crunching against rubble resonates from outside. Four men. Maybe five. Both of us stiffen. But then one of them mutters something distinctly in Deutsch. William snaps his head back in my direction.

Glorious fear. I open my mouth.

He’s on me in an instant, his calloused hand clapping over my mouth. He presses down hard. I shout into his palm and grapple with him, kicking while I try to pry his hand away, but whatever strength I had seems to have left with all the blood I’ve lost.

I claw at his face. He barely suppresses his cry of pain, snatching my wrist with his second hand to pin it above my head with punishing strength. It hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the pain that explodes in my other hand when the weight of his knee presses it into the floor.

He is crouched over me, his face so close I can feel his breath fanning against my skin. And there, in his eyes, is a look as ancient as the rage that produced it.

From the other side of the wall, I can hear someone talking.

Young. Uncertain. A second voice responds, gruff and low.

I’m here, I want to scream. Don’t go.

Laughter. A third chimes in. He sounds cocky. I think I know him.

I close my eyes. Their footsteps fade and are followed by silence again. He backs off me, and I push him as he does. The first thing I grab is my hand and hiss.“You son of a bitch,” I growl, following him with my eyes while he paces back and forth. “Why did you do that?”

He looks at me incredulously.

“They would have shot me,” he snaps.

“Not if I told them you saved my life!”

“Would you?” he asks, stopping in his tracks. He waits for me to answer, then scoffs knowingly when I don’t say anything. “If you had any intention of stopping them from killing me, you wouldn’t have tried to scream.”

He stares at me in contemplation, then marches towards me.

“Get up,” he commands. I don’t move.

“Get up.”

He grabs my arms and pulls me to my feet. I cry out and hold my side protectively, almost doubling over. He pulls his bayonet off his back.

“Don’t fucking move.” Then he’s out the side door, no doubt checking for hostiles, and back a moment later. “We can’t stay here anymore.”

“Then leave,” I pant and hold the wall. He ignores me and takes me by the arm, dragging me back out the door with him. He lets me go with a harsh release that sends me stumbling across the pavement.

The pain is too great for me to stand straight, so I maintain a slight hunch even as I regain my balance. I watch my breath fog up the air in front of me.

“What is this, William?” I finally say.

He raises his weapon and points it at me. I think he is going to fire it until he nods to the path ahead. I turn my head slowly and inhale.

The road ahead doesn’t lead north. It goes far beyond the ruins of Bullecourt.

William kicks me forward, towards Ećoust.

Where a host of men who do not wear my colours swarm.

Dangerously far from the Siegfriedstellung.