From Within the Mist and Silence
Two soldiers-one new, one old-try to survive the night holding the end of the line.
Written for a 7-day 2500-word short story competition with an assigned genre (drama), subject (brand new), and character (a whiner). The story placed 5th in its group and granted admission to the 2nd round of the competition.
Long, they watched through the umbrous, sooted night. The moon hung dark as a tomb, leaving the stars as twinkling mockeries of sight through the clouded forest, haze rising from the frozen ground hit with untimely comfort.
“I feel like it should be colder.”
“What?”
The replacement squirmed a little. “I dunno. It doesn’t feel right. The air is close and sticky, like it’s supposed to be biting cold and icy.”
“Then you’d just complain about it being cold.”
A little huff. “I don’t complain all the time.”
“The little you’ve been here, newbie, has been mostly gripe.”
But the kid seemed to be thinking louder than he could hear. “I mean, I might not like it if it was cold, but that’s what I’d expect at least. I’d rather be ready for someone throwing a punch than be caught off-guard by one. It’s like the quiet out here. All the pictures back home are always showing bullets flying or buddies drinking, but now I’m here and I’m mostly just sitting in foxholes waiting for something to happen.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s not your fault. I guess I just came in with expectations.”
“I’m damn well aware it ain’t my fault.”
The awaiting silence returned as they peered over the lip of the small, muddy crater they had dug. The end of line. Hung out like the trailing tom at a turkey shoot. The veteran fiddled with his Browning, the heavy metal chunkings breaking the stillness for a moment.
“D’you know what our expectations were?”
“I figure the same as mine.”
“Ugh. No, you idjit, not when we first got in, Our more immediate expectations.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, fer cryin’, we’s told, time and again, take this next hill and you’ll be home by Christmas. Drive ‘em outta this-er-that town and you’ll be home by Christmas. The President wants us all home by Christmas. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. So much talk of Christmas it was like in Church on Sundays. You know, that old hymn? ‘When we all get to Christmas, what a day of rejoicing that will be.’ Well, I dunno bou’choo but Christmas done come and gone and all I gotta show for it is scars on my shoulder from a tree that exploded next to me, a new foxhole on the end of the line, and some boy in a starched uniform to keep me company. Turns out we were more right than we knew.”
The veteran never looked at him and the boy didn’t want him to. He felt like he shrank a little smaller with every word.
“Tell me: how many times did you hafta cross your fingers before your ball was plucked from the fishbowl? Huh? Did you feel all woozy when you heard your number come outta their mouth? Did you hope it was a dream?”
The boy mumbled something.
“Say it again. I didn’t hear it.”
“I enlisted.”
And the ire drained from the old man. “Enlisted, eh?”
“Yes.”
The elder tried to save face by keeping his the same, but the younger showed the hurt plainly through his ugly grimace trying to look tough.
“Well, if you enlisted, then you’ve got even less a right to carp. You signed up for this and, whether you expected what you got or not, you’ll fit in a lot better here if’n you juss grit and bear it.”
“Grin and bear it,” slipped out.
“You’re mumblin’ may end up rilin’ me more than your complainin’. Say somethin’ or don’t. Don’t make me guess.”
“It’s just, my mom gets those little sayings wrong all the time. Grit and bear it. Take it for granite. Less instead of fewer. I’m sorry. It’s just a habit.”
“Whatever the hell the saying is, I suggest you do it.” The veteran seethed for a moment, that flash of regret passing. “No. You know what? I think even if you’re supposedly right on this, no one wants to see your fresh face walking around with a stupid grin all day. I said what I meant: grit your pearly whites down hard, look like a man, and bear whatever battalion throws your way. And if—”
“Evening, fellas.”
“Evening, sergeant.”
“No need to salute, private. It’s damned near midnight.”
“Sarge.”
“We holding up alright over here?”
“As far as I can tell. It’s a bit lonely here on the end though, and junior here says he doesn’t like the quiet all that much.”
“Heh. He’ll learn soon enough the different types of quiet. This one’s a good one. Feels stuffy, but I’ll put up money that they’re sitting over there fussing over grub, not battleplans tonight.”
“You think so?”
“I wouldn’t mind fussin’ over grub.”
“I’ll get you two relieved in the morning and make sure that there’s a fresh pot on in company HQ. Help yourselves to something hot.”
“Best laid plans a mice and men, gunny.”
“Always so dour. You need to lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up when the day does.”
“Deal and I’ll hold you to it. Need anything to make it through till then?”
“Could use some dressin’. I gave a roll I had to doc and ain’t got anythin’ back.”
“We’re good on ammo. I made an account this morning.”
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do about the first aid, but no promises there.”
“Sounds good, gunny.
“Thanks, sergeant.”
“Good night, fellas.”
“Night.”
“Good night, sergeant.”
Just as suddenly as he had arrived, their sergeant had disappeared back into the night, leaving them alone on their little island lost in the silence and fog once again.
“Did I get that one right at least?”
“Huh?”
“‘Best laid plans of mice and men.’ Did I get that one right or am I pulling another ‘Momma’?”
“Well, technically, it’s ‘schemes’, but—”
“You little shit. I was pulling your leg. That means the same thing. Plans is schemes. Everyone says plans. I swear if you—”
A growing whistle cut through the mist, piercing louder and louder, stopping dead whatever they had coming next.
“Down!”
The first shell landed a couple hundred feet away, blinding bright and numbing sound, and the trail of barrage stepped its way closer to their hovel. The silence of quiet was subsumed in the silence of thunder. The world became flashes and quakes, splintering trees and spraying soil. The two soldiers ducked low in their place and all they knew was the press of the other’s body and the apocalypse around them. It was a timeless suspension of reality as they waited to see if they still existed at the end of it.
Slowly, slowly, the shells spaced out and eventually ceased, the loathsome scream of their approach leaving the battered air. In a snap, the veteran leapt to the trigger of the Browning. The recruit wallowed in the pit feebly.
“Get up! Prep the ammo for reload! They won’t trail this by much.”
The kid scrambled around behind the old man staging another belt for the Browning and jamming another few rounds in his Garand before hopping up to the mouth of their hole.
The haze and silence had settled back into place as though nothing had happened. Only the Earth showed the evidence with new divots plunged deep and splatters of cast-off dirt, chunks of destroyed trees and small fires choking in the pervasive dampness. They lit small orange halos scattered about the hanging cloud. Then, sudden shadows broke across their glow, showing themselves for just a flash against the background.
“There! I see them!”
“Keep your voice down. They don’t know we’ve made it through the barrage just yet. If we fire now, so will they and I don’t know how many we’re dealin’ with.”
They waited as the sound of hushed commands and footsteps rushed closer. They were coming straight toward their position, thinking they had already flanked the line. The boy sat there and licked his dry lips, breathing softly. He strained his eyes to see into the dark. Then, he could see them crouching ever closer, and, as he did, the Browning opened fire, the cacophonous rattling of lead flying downrange. He followed suit, squeezing off round after round from his Garand. The figures in the dark dropped or ducked behind what stumps remained. Some turned to run. The tracers from the Browning swept back and forth like hurled motes of flame, some carrying off and out of sight, some stopping short, met by a thud and wheeze or thunk into wood.
The ring of his final cartridge ejecting brought the boy back to the moment. A splash of dirt hit his face and he heard for the first time the whizzes of returning fire, the small little hits of bullets on the lip of their foxhole. He reached into his ammo bag and plunged another 10 rounds into the belly of his rifle and took aim once again, catching silhouette after silhouette in his sights. He pulled the trigger and watched them fall.
“Running empty!” came the veteran.
“On it.”
The recruit turned and grabbed a fresh belt box and stepped back up to the Browning. Then, a snap and a ping shook the world around, his vision suddenly catching sky and naked treetops. His helmet left him and clattered down outside the foxhole as he landed flat on his back in the depths of the pit. His eyes turned circles and his head swam. He looked at the stars and they seemed closer. He could see them moving through the sky, tracing little lines of fire as they passed. He reached out his hand skyward and felt something take hold.
“Get up!”
The gruff visage of the old man filled his sight and he felt himself being lifted back to his feet.
“You’re fine. Your pot did its job. Get back to returning the favor.”
The Garand was thrust back into his hands, and he stumbled his way back to the lip of the foxhole. As he reentered the scene, he found himself less alone. Reinforcements had arrived, filling the other entrenchments, adding to the hail of lead pounding the forest. Wave after wave of phantoms in the dark plunged forward toward their line, just reaching the point of solidity before being beaten back into the night or spilling across the ground. If he had time to think, he would have been exhausted, but the pulse of battle coursed through his body, granting strength from a place he did not know. The clamor continued for what hung on them as an eternity.
Then, the sound of rushing footsteps and foreign shouts retreated back into the mists. The shadows no longer encroached on the light. The two of them had held their places, and now, with the damp air sputtering on the hot barrel of the Browning and smoke pouring from the Garand, the quiet seeped back into the world. The fog encircled them, the dark enclosed, and their breaths returned to normal.
“Heh. Held your own there, kiddo.” The veteran slapped the youngster across the back. “You might be useful yet.”
He winced. “A little softer next time maybe.”
The old-timer guffawed. “Grab your lid. ‘Spect lieutenant’ll be around soon, and I wanna make sure you get a new one if that one’s totally busted.”
The replacement obliged and leaned his body up out of the foxhole to reach the helmet.
He saw it first, the veteran, the starburst-shine out among the gloom. Then, the crack, whistle, and thud of the shot all arrived at once, and only once. A single potshot taken at a whim at a figure in the dark. The kid gave a little grunt and slid back into the pit, helmet in hand. His eyes were wide and white, looking around at everything and nothing. The old man bolted to him.
“You alright?” He patted him all over, trying to find anything wrong. “Talk to me, kid. You get hit? You made a noise.” Then, his hand found the spot. Just under his armpit, a hole surged blood. He jammed his pinky in and felt nothing but empty space angling down to the opposite hip. He moved his other hand there and found another wet patch. He ripped off the boy’s jacket and shirt to get as good a look at him as the dark would allow. His white body stood out stark against the loamy black surroundings, and his breathing began to shudder, a pained catch in its rise and fall. From the top wound, warm, foamy red flowed. From the bottom, dark, black blood. Lungs and liver.
“What happened?”
The old man jabbed him in the leg with a morphine and then another. Maybe reality would leave him be until it was over.
The boy spoke haltingly, choking out the breath he had left. “It’s cold. I’m cold. When’d it get so cold?”
The veteran pulled the soggy uniform back over him. “Here we go, buddy. I’ll get you bundled back up. Sorry ‘bout that.” He tossed down his own coat and pulled a thin, mud-caked blanket across him, tucking them in gingerly. “That any better?”
“Not you’re f-f-fault, b-but I’m s-still cold. Getting...c-colder. It’s...f-f-f-freezing.”
The old veteran hugged the kid close as he tried to take the shivers into himself. But it was no use. That small frame shuddered and sputtered, breath rattling through a bloody-phlegm choked mouth, slower and slower.
“That’s a li-little bet-t-t-ter. W-w-warmer. Thanks.”
And they stayed like that for a few more moments until everything sank back into the mist and silence.