A Devil’s Face, Sick with Sin
Wood twirls between forefinger and thumb. Scraping across a thin, flat surface gives rise to a gritting noise like a sudden tear in cloth. The smell of sulfur fills the immediate space. Smoke twirls up and an open flame is brought to a pipe. Tobacco smoke puffs into the cold air joining the smoke from the match, but its smell is somewhat sweet compared to that of the sulfur in a match. The match plummets to the filthy ground after being discarded by its igniter; it lands in a puddle of slag and is extinguished. In a moment’s notice, the flame went from alive to dead. From the singular motion of a flicked wrist, the match’s fate was sealed.
My right boot sploshes into the puddle. I curse. The muddy water would surely seep through my tattered boot. I take a deep draft through my pipe and exhale a plume of smoke. My feet slide as I drudge through the trench. I cough from his poor-quality tobacco. Several men are ahead of me. Two are talking to each other, some look over the edge, and others rest against the plank sidings. They weren’t the most comfortable, but they were stable. That’s where soldiers rest while they wait for orders. I tell one soldier not to stick his head over the edge for too long. The soldier asks me why he shouldn’t. The man sounded like a loud-mouthed Welshman. I become stern and tell the soldier that a German sharpshooter would pop his head faster than I could strike up another smoke.
The loud-mouthed man shrivels, sits down on a bench, and stares. He went from being a man to being a child within in instant. But at least he was smart enough to listen. I know what I’m doing — I’ve been here longer. I am probably, honestly, only a year or two older than this boy. The difference is that a year or two on The Front is enough experience to make me his superior. Maybe not in rank, but I rank in survival. If you could last that long, you were a veteran. I continue on my way and takes a left to go through a communication trench. It connected the front line to their past lines. It marks our progression. Years of war and we hadn’t gained but a mile. A lot of good it did us. If we were lucky, we made a few yards of progress per few months. It was a slow process, like a disease slowly engulfing the enemy.
Raindrops slipped from the sky and fall quietly across the field. The drops fall here and there softly like the pitter-patter of a critter’s feet. I am glad to be heading back to my dugout. It’s a ways back, but at least I have one to return to. I slosh through the mud and can definitely feel moisture seeping through my boot. Inhaling through my pipe gives a warmth throughout my lungs. I can remember the first time I smoked and how it burned my lungs so much that is caused me to cough. I remember being innocent in those days. It was only a few years ago, but it was long enough to make the impression that it was distant in the past.
I step over a small, muddy barrier that keeps rainwater out of my dugout; I make my way down the steps. Planks of wood are set across each step, a luxury of being there long enough. It was supposed to help me avoid slipping and maintain the structure of the steps. I remove my matchbox and strike another sprig against the side of the box. I light a lamp that hangs in the middle of my room. The yellowish light illuminates the muck of the room. It shows a wooden bench of sorts that’s covered in blankets. It is supposed to be a bed, but it looks more like a coffin to me. I set my pipe down on a nearby bed table. It’s a broken one, but it still works. Another luxury that others don’t always have.
The bench creaks slightly from the pressure of sitting down. The wood that formed the cot wasn’t made of quality materials. I reach over to my tiny, worn looking side-table and open a drawer. I pull out a piece of paper. On top of the paper is a charcoal photo with a woman standing and a boy sitting in a chair. It makes me smile every time, even through the hard times, the tears, the regret. A letter had been accompanied with this photo. I open it.
Dear Eddie, September 18, 1917
I hope this letter finds you well. Momma and I have been worried sick about you. It seems as if every week, theres somethin in the paper about a bombardment on the Allied positions. I pray for you every night and so does Momma. With Pa gone, you and I are the only ones shes got left. Theres still Aunt Tilly, but were her children for goodness sake. Ive been struggling, Eddie. Im almost eighteen and Im going to join the fight, I think. If I join, Ill be abandonin Momma. And if I stay, Im abandonin my country. What do I do? Please write me back. I dont wanna make the wrong choice. Oh, and Momma sends her love. She asks if youve been eating and are in good health. Write back to us so we know youre okay.
Your loving brother,
Alfie
Liquid drops onto a corner of the letter. I dry my tears with the sleeve of my tattered trench coat. Only my little brother calls me Eddie. I’m Ed, just… Ed. And it’s October now. It had taken weeks for this letter to get through to The Front and make its way to my tired hands. I still count myself lucky that it arrived in the time it did instead of months, or never arriving at all like some letters. My brother is going to turn 18-years-old in another month. I’ve been writing a letter, but it isn’t completed. How do I respond? It needs to be done carefully — I need the right words to place within it. After reading the letter one last time, I decide that my brother shouldn’t come — he can’t come. It is a nightmare on The Front. Besides, there are other things my brother can do to help the war effort while staying home and being out of harms way. That’s what’s needed to finish the letter.
The final touches are put on my letter ending it by telling my mother that I have been fine. It was a lie, but I don’t have any injuries. So in that sense, I am fine. I’m honest about the lack of food, at least. That gives my suggestion more weight for little brother to stay on the home front; he can raise funds for food or volunteering at the munitions factory. It would be more believable. Besides, if I were to tell them the whole truth, they would grow concerned and I don’t want to do that to them. I seal the letter and places it on the top of my side-table.
I remove my boot and some water pours out. I curse and remove my sock next to examine my foot. It’s a little swollen and it aches. I dry it off as best as I can. Looking around for some nearby scraps of material, I can’t find anything of use. Since I don’t exactly have any grand storage space, there is no where else to look, so I pull my pillowcase off and lay it on my lap. It isn’t the most sanitary by this point, but it’s better than nothing. I pull out a knife and tear into the pillowcase. One long strip is made and used to wrap my foot. Tying it off, I lay back on my cot and close my eyes.
Darkness. Distant rain is falling. My eyes hurt. I try and focus on relaxing and listening to the rain to lull me. It grows heavier and thunder cracks. Curls fill my mind. A face is attached to them. Tan skin, brown hair, green eyes, and a white dress with ruffles. She smiles at me. I try and reach my hand out. Her mouth is moving, but her words are silent. She’s so happy. She shakes her head and looks up at a hanging plant. She’s on a porch. It’s warm out. She lifts on her tiptoes and smells the plant. The Sun shines on her beautiful face, but even the Sun doesn’t match her radiance. The air smells of lilac. There’s glee in the air, yet my stomach feels tight. She moves her face down and looks up at me. I’m holding a paper. My… my signature is on it. Her face sinks. Her mouth drops, a tear streams down her face, and her eyes are cold. She’s devastated. I know this, but I have to tell her. I need to not. I need to rip the paper up. Go back. Wind whips her hair across her face and she extends her arms, but he’s already gone. Or, am I already gone? She shouts and I know what she’s saying, but I still can’t hear her. Her voice is soft and rises somewhat in an eerie scream. It increases, but she grows farther from me. Her hands extend more for me, but she can’t reach me. I can’t stop himself. It’s too late. The fence gate closes and her voice starts to register. Don’t go, she begs. Don’t go.
A blast shatters my peace and I find myself thrashing awake. I shake my head. I should never have volunteered with the British Army. The Americans finally joined — I could’ve simply waited to be drafted or join with my own country. Instead, I had to join early, for what? A sense of honor and duty to the world that I belonged to. I left my sweetheart behind. Not thinking of her. Not thinking of my family. Only thinking of a “greater calling” that I would soon regret. Now, I’m trapped.
The thunder of artillery is matched with that of Mother Nature’s thunder. They combine into a deadly symphony of clamor. I throw on my boots once more. They haven’t dried. Nothing dries in this desolation. I throw on my trench coat and grab my gear. An artillery barrage usually means one thing, an assault is coming. I have to get back to the front line and brace for a possible attack. The barrage could only be hours long, or it could be weeks long like during the Somme. I would rather be out in the trench and blown alive than buried in his dugout, which is supposed to endure a bombardment, but I can’t take that chance.
The trembling ground makes me stumble up each step of my dugout. The incredible blasts shake the very ground from which I walk upon. I hold onto the side of the wall, but there is only slick mud. An explosion sounds and I’m sent sliding to the ground; I brace myself with my forearms. I curse. Placing hands on the ground, I push myself up and drag my right foot forward. Placing the sole of my boot on the soil, I steady myself to move my next leg. My left leg follows and I lifts myself back up to a standing position. I retrieve my fallen equipment and continue upward toward the open air.
The outside air is thick with panic. I exit my dugout and a man runs into my from the left. The man apologizes as he continues to run. I get a quick look at the man’s face. It was dirty, but rather innocent looking. These were just boys, not men. Rain falls and begins working the mud off of my hands. I rub my hands on the sides of my trench coat and look up. Several flashes of light ignite in a row in front of the tenches sending muck flying through the air. I’m heading straight for it. This doesn’t make me happy, but I have no place left to go. So, I trudge forward. Another man brushes past me from the right side, this time. He is wearing a helmet with a red cross in the middle and white surrounding it. He runs past me without a look. A shout sounds from the left side of the trenches. They’re calling for a medic. That’s where the angel with the cross is headed.
Sad. So many red crosses. Do they represent the blood of Jesus on the cross? Jesus is not in this place. Humans have killed him. This is what happens when you allow us control of the world. Look what we make of it. We don’t deserve saving. Salvation is above those who cause so much harm, so much damage, so much pain.
A shock wave of artillery shells land in a straight line all heading toward me. They remind me of knocking over dominoes as a child. Stacking in a row and leaving devastation in their wake as they fall. The last blast hits close to me and I’m flown. My body hits the side of the trench and forces me to collapse in the dirt. A high-pitched ringing penetrates every fiber of my being. Wait, no. It’s just in my head. I shut my eyes so tight that I don’t think they’ll open again. I feels that if I do, my head will fall apart. There’s a small part of me that wishes I had died there. I open my eyes, though, and realize that I am still on this terrible Earth. A splitting headache grows like someone was squeezing both sides of my head. I cough trying to find my breath. The wind seems to have been knocked straight from them. A blur of running figures surround me. A familiar image appears in front of my blurry eyes. A mixture of red and white. My eyes clear and I see the cross.
Maybe Jesus is in this place. He has graced the medics to take care of those in need so that they do not suffer. They are the soldiers’ angels. Or are they Jesus’ soldiers of light? I hold onto this. It’s all I have left. Except, I still have family. They would be better without me. I’m a terrible son, a terrible brother, and a terrible beau. Or, maybe that’s not true. Maybe I simply want an excuse to set myself free from this world? Maybe I want to return to the ever-after. People would be sad for a time, but they would get over me soon enough.
The medic is moving his mouth. How long has he been gabbing on for? I’m not sure. I try hard to pay attention now and put audio to the words. The ringing in my head has moved to my ears and through that ringing, words start to come forth. He’s asking me if I’m hurt anywhere. How about everywhere? Instead, I tell him that there isn’t any additional pain besides in my head. The medic removes my helmet and brushes back my hair to examine for any injuries. The touch is painful, yet nurturing. The pain must be coming from within, not from the medic’s hand. But my head still throbs furiously. The medic nods to a nearby soldier and brings out a glass bottle. He uncorks the bottle and drops out two white pills handing them to me. I toss them in my mouth and swallow with what saliva I have.
Another explosion sounds off behind us and all the men in the vicinity hunker down. The medic covers my body with his. They truly are angels. Mud clumps shoot down from the sky. My head starts to lighten up now and I know I must lift myself up. With the help of the medic, we both get up. I grab my rifle and equipment again. I extend my arm out for my helmet, but the medic places it back on for me. The medic gives me a nod and I nod back. I begin to walk again stumbling in the opposite direction. To The Front. Other than the hand on my shoulder trying to pull me back, I push forward. I turn around realizing that I’m not moving. The medic is trying to say something, but only bursts of fire are reaching my ears. I suppose that the hand on my shoulder was going to be an issue with walking, but it didn’t register it immediately.
The communication trench is filled with men running back and forth between the front and back lines. They bump into me every now and then. The shoves nearly topple me over. I’m not at my strongest after my fall. I try to pull the hand off of me. In the process, I trip and fall to the ground. The medic has fallen with me. I tell this man to leave me be, but the medic is adamant about rest, or sleep, or something that I can’t really interpret. I shout that I have a duty. The medic touches below my ear, which makes me jolt. My ears are incredibly sensitive right now. The medic’s finger is wet with blood. My ears must be bleeding from the earlier explosion. This would mean hearing problems when I grow old. I curse and bite my lip a little.
Bodies litter the front line trench; we had tripped over some poor fellow that I didn’t even know. I exhale and thrust my hands into the ground to lift myself up. I staggers over the bodies and lean against the muddy wall. I reach a hand down to help the medic up, who’s hand is slippery from mud and blood. The medic tries to plea again for me to pull to the back, but I look him in the eyes and tell him that I am honor-bound to hold The Front. I turn around and stumble across the bodies moving towards The Front. Like a ghost, I move forward with a shaky manner. I’m not sure where my feet are taking me. No officer had given an order to charge the enemy and during bombardment, most men ran for cover without shame. I, however, am carrying on to the frontline. I sway trying to avoid the bodies that continue to accumulate. There are men huddled against a section of the trench and shudder every time there’s a blast. They look as if they plan to morph into the very wall of the trench to become invisible, to be taken away from this place. I wish I could morph there, too. To become invisible and be taken away.
A cold, high-pitched whistle is sounded and grounds me back in the reality that I have found himself in. Then, another whistle blows, and another. There are shouts, screams, and shrieks. Gas, they yell. GAS, they yell again. I drop my rifle and rummage through the bag of the equipment I brought. There’s grenades, ammunition for my rifle, and a gas mask. I pull it out and turn around into a squat. I fumble desperately with the straps on the back to loosen it and place it over my face. I rip off my helmet and smash my face into the mask. The rubber sides pull my face back like an older actor before a show, worried about wrinkles. I tighten the straps in the back and readjust it so that I can see through the small, circular glass lenses. I bring my gaze around to assess the scene. I look back to the communication trench and see the medic. The medic is stark still, staring at his hand. My eyes trail down the medic’s arm and become fixed on his hand, too. The medic holds a gas mask. The glass eyepiece has a large crack in it.
I loosen the straps from behind my head and tear at the mask to get it off. I remove it, pulling out strands of my own hair in the process. I stand up and rush to the medic. I push him against the wall and seize the medic’s helmet. I pull it off and toss it down to the mud floor, which makes a splash in the mire of the trench. I thrust my mask over the medic’s head as gently, yet quickly as possible and tighten the straps in the back. I do it too fast and too forcibly for the medic to protest. The medic brings his stare up and it meets mine. I tell the medic of the letter in my dugout. The medic’s broken mask wouldn’t protect anyone from anything. The gas would simply leak through the eye and cause an even slower death. I can’t use his mask.
A man with a thin mustache and a rounded, pale face places on his mask and looks up at me. Every soldier nearby looks at me. A wave of fog emerges from No Man’s Land. The Germans are releasing gas through pressurized canisters, no doubt. I could run, but then I would be shot for desertion. I could also desperately cling to other soldiers and beg for a mask, but only one mask is issued per soldier. Sometimes, there are spares from the dead. But, I suddenly have no desire to seek one. I look back at the medic. He’s searching the ground now for masks. He only finds broken ones. The blasts had seen to that. Everything is still now. No more artillery speaks. After the gas attack, the Germans would send a wave of soldiers. Perhaps more of their soldiers would die on the charge over than my comrades would die under the onslaught.
They must have mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers, and sweethearts, too. Wouldn’t they miss them if they died? I don’t know these things, but I hope they would be missed if they fall. Everyone deserves to be loved so deeply. The haze in the distance grows closer. The medic stops looking for masks and stands back up to look at me. For a moment, I think I see a shimmer of tears from the inside of the medic’s mask, but I can’t be certain. Will he miss me? Will he remember me when I go? Years in the future, will he have night terrors of these next few moments? I hope not.
I regret not writing my family more. I regret not warning my brother sooner, apologizing to my sweetheart sooner, or calming the worries of my mother sooner. Nothing would matter soon enough, though. The wave of gas has arrived. It makes its way down the trench like a prowling mountain cat, waiting to strike until I was vulnerable. It licks the dead bodies on the ground. They look so peaceful. Like a group of friends resting after a long day of work in summer. The medic is yelling for me to run. But I know I can’t. I wish I could climb out into the field and be shot by a German sharpshooter, but that is not my fate. I know this.
The gas crawls up my body and overcomes me in moments. It’s like a swarm of bees that floods through my mouth. I cough deeply. Unlike a cold, I can’t shake this or wait this out. It won’t go away with a wave of a hand, with simply holding one’s breath. It wants one thing and one thing only: my complete submission. I can feel an intense burning inside of my lungs. It reminds me of my first smoke when I burned my lungs, yet this is far, far worse than that ever could be. This feels like hell fire has made a home within my lungs. A searing pain overcomes me. Even those white pills from earlier can’t remove this affliction. I cough so deeply, so powerfully that blood spews out of my mouth. It isn’t liquid like blood should be; it’s frothy. I trickle of the bloody foam remains on my chin. I wipe it away trying to hold onto my dignity. I feel as though I may vomit, cough some more, or simply convulse onto the ground.
I look over at the medic. Angels deserve to live and spread more light where they can. I have no light left to spread. The medic can still do some good in the world. Ease the pain of the war. I may have been bad at a great many things, but I was always a fine soldier. I hope that my sacrifice still means something. I cough more deeply and feel that the next cough shall be my last. I totter over and lean against the trench wall looking at the soldier with the mustache from earlier. I close my eyes and begin coughing more and more heavily like each cough is building upon the last. The winds whisper something to me as I fall to my knees: Dulce et decorum es, pro patria mori. I plummet to the floor of the trench and I’m received by the others that await me there.