From the Old World

Light brighter than the sun, and then there was nothing. The dead matchwood forests no longer swayed, and the flow of mud was absent from his ears. Cries of “Fix Bayonets” flashed in his mind’s eye, and the tips of the blades dug into his skin. His legs tangled in iron thorns and the smell of rotten humanity. The man cried out into the mold, thrashing as he twisted and shook like a rabid animal, but he was blind. Then, a coldness. And there was nothing.

Grass?

Flowers. Blue. Electric blue. His mind lurched and expelled its contents.

Grogginess… and dizziness. He wanted to sweat blood all over his shirt.

What’s happened to him?

Dave opened his eyes, looking for the smoke.

Blue skies. Just as he remembered them.

He lay there for a moment; thousands of blades coating his skin with morning dew. Birds soared in free formations. Verdant fields moved through the vast sea of silence. Every minute motion in this pristine nature rivaled even the greatest opus. Dave’s empty gaze flew into the sky. Wind swept his face. Poppies hugged his boots as the distant sunflowers waved.

In that bed of green, he waited for a shell or the saints to take him away. But nobody came.

Dave ruffled his hair, knocking the officer’s cap from his crown. He pinched the outer rim and slowly dangled it in front of his face. Good. He still had that. Rising from the grass bed, Dave looked over his person and accounted; rifle, pistol, pack, canteen, knife, greatcoat—!

Everything seemed in its right place.

But there was no empire, no republic, no homeland.

So it couldn’t be.

Dave scanned his surroundings, peace making way for goosebumps as he noticed the nostalgic replaced with the alien. Those rolling hills, pockmarked with shell holes and scarred with La Grande Tranchee, and the northern cities of that country with thrown-up clouds of chalk on the westernmost shores: these were all gone. But what alarmed him most was the absence of noise. For the first time, he could hear himself think. With that freedom, he was lost.

He turned to his right. Lying shut-eyed in the swaying tall grass was his batman, Private Watermann. Dave approached the sleeping half-mensch-half-kid and tried to shake him awake. Watermann’s rifle swung back and forth on his chest as Dave’s movements grew more desperate.

“Private.”

“Private Watermann!”

Nothing.

“Kristoff!”

The young orderly groaned slightly as he stirred. He babbled and drowsily rocked.

“Father… Mother… the cows…”

“Kristoff! It’s me! Wake up!”

Watermann’s eyes shot open. He inhaled a newborn gasp as his darkness illuminated with thought. The memories flooded back all at once: storms of shrapnel-bullets, tangling barb snaring his hare’s legs, hot lead singing over his head, and searing brass marking his skin. Fleshy matter on his face. Screaming and shouting and the cries, the gray men and the waves of dirt and flesh washing over them. The Blues cresting the hills, and the flowing scarlet carving through the white.

The private scrambled for his rifle, quickly getting on his feet as he switched between racking his bolt and looking for the enemy. His wide-eyed, light gray pupils dilated painfully in the sun. Chicken-winging his rifle, he aimed for the blue devils that flickered between the grass and fired.

“Where are they? Come on, you yellow jackasses! Bastards! Come on out and fight me like a man!”

His nostrils flared. He pulled the trigger of his rifle wantonly in the distance, even as the spent casing clicked hollowly from inside his chamber. Watermann fumbled with his rifle’s bolt again, mumbling to himself all the while.

"We’re surrounded… we’re surrounded…”

“Stand down!” Dave barked. “Drop it! We’re clear! There’s no Cassies here!”

Nothing. He racked the bolt and readied his trigger finger.

“They’re… they’re… they’re—!”

“That is an order!”

Watermann’s heart pounded in his chest with drum-fire as he struggled to inhale; breath coming out like a dying train whistle. Dave took hold of the private’s rifle, near the hand guard, and lowered it to the meadow below. His eyes locked with his lieutenant’s, and his heart tempered. His chest beat in gradual lifts and falls.

“Stand down.”

The trigger felt cold against his finger. Blood drained from it. The brown scent of burned clay and rust vacated. His face paled, returning from the high spark of panic to a tranquil baseness. The two of them stood together; alone. Nothing but the sound of whistling oak and grass surrounded them. An occasional creature made itself known, then dissipated into the plane of green. Unreality settled over their bodies and pricked their skin to gooseflesh. Sweet perfumes of lemon and distant spring that were mere memories now flooded back to them. That sweet perfume left them inundated with sickening beauty. Such was that sweet perfume it left them paralyzed by choice. Fear colored their faces.

This unique loneness differed from that of the returning soldier. There, in the side shops and cold streets, was a madness of imagination. People flickered by, with double pictures leaving behind a trail of something always out of reach. The machines were quiet, while conversation rattled and deafened. This loneness was that of immense enormity; there they felt the world grow large and encompass them. They knew not where they were, why they were, but each knew that he was lost.

“Lieutenant, where are we?”

Dave looked around. Nothing but nature.

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

They stood there for a long time.

“Lieutenant,” Watermann began, “What do we do?”

Dave averted his eyes. He couldn’t look at his batman in good conscience. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do. What is a leader to do, a man to do? What could he use? Ingenuity. It was so easy to say, but execution is another dilemma. A timed dilemma. He made an inventory—Dave had to know what he was working with. That was the first step to any solution.

The lieutenant rummaged through his map pouch for anything useful. He groped around in a slight panic as the map he so relied on was absent from his pouch. Damn! How could he be so stupid? Dave continued feeling. Cold brass... his binoculars. No—useless right now. The lieutenant closed the pack in frustration and secured it tight, and brushed his hand against another, but smaller, surface of smooth leather.

He stopped and laughed.

A compass.

Of course, how could he forget? Any officer worth his salt carried one, and he was certainly a worthwhile officer. It was essential; navigation through enemy territory without a frame of reference was a fool’s errand. A compass was an anchor and a lifesaver for the ground infantry. Dave laid it flush against his palm, but its shaky finger spasmed and flew wildly. He wanted to throw it all away. But the lieutenant kept his cool and stashed it. Maybe not today, but tomorrow.

Dave squinted at the sun, seeing as it hung a few degrees towards post-meridiem. Watermann stared in confusion as he seemed to burn a hole in his shadow. He squirmed uncomfortably.

“Sun’s past its peak, and we’re in winter…”

“North is somewhere…”

He pointed.

“Over there.”

He oriented himself.

“Wherever we are, we can’t be too far from the front.” Dave’s fake confidence was thin, but Watermann bought every ounce.

“Alright, what now, sir?”

“We start walking.”