Awakening

The lieutenant had to put it all away now.

Slowly, he rose from his bedroll and returned to routine. He hopped into his trousers, attached his rigging and belt, buttoned his gray serge uniform, mounted his cap, wrapped his white puttees, and finally threw on his greatcoat after his boots. He stepped out into the morning fog. Dave saw hardly beyond a hundred yards, and he still struggled within that perimeter. The morning sun’s diffused rays lit his pale skin but provided little warmth. He sat down on the dewy grass, letting the coolness seep into him. He spent many mornings in his youth like this, when his father wasn’t around and he woke before the others. A single candle lit the hallway of his family manor, guiding him through the dark and into the dawn outside. The wailing oaks smelled of the earth. They surrounded his yard with leaves and sticks, tall and imposing, always. Dave would raid the hunting parlor, scented with pine, leather, and powder. He often rummaged through the room, putting on his father’s hunting coat and hat, both hanging and dragging down his willowy body. Sometimes, when his grandfather was around, he too woke with the young boy. In partial military dress, he walked with Dave, who swung a stick in place of a rifle. Old marching-tunes, tales of heroes and the living. He reminisced about those days; feeling distant and lost despite his age and apparent vigor. Maybe he’d forgotten how to be young.

Sweet solitude. He savored every moment alone, and the fog cooled his hotter thoughts. Animal croons and insect rackets began and ended. More life was here today, but the earth—she still felt cold, and cold would have to do. Dave grabbed his rifle—perched next to Watermann’s—and lifted it. The steel felt heavy and firm, the bayonet jutting out the front like a boar’s maw. Some small sadness entered his smile. It really had been a long time. Times like these made him nostalgic; wrapped back in the crib and swaddled tightly. A man on the front may become cavalier with his life, but he will never think himself invincible. It is because he is mortal that the battle means something. Giving up one’s totality for the fatherland, bereft of independence and thoughts of comfort, is what they signed their names in ink for. These are the ideals their grandfathers fought for, and what they furiously cling to as she slips away in a tide of shrapnel and bloodstained chalk.

Safety is an endangered animal, and as much as he’d like to stay in its company, the lion that is duty was perched atop its rock. Inevitable. Letting go of longing, his face turned to stone as he went to wake his batman. The young man was sound asleep, snoring lightly and huddled into himself. A blissful look crossed his face.

“Private.”

“Private.”

No response.

“Private Watermann!”

Again, no response.

He didn’t care much for shaking him awake again, so the lieutenant thought of the vilest thing an infantryman could hear. He cleared his throat and bellowed.

“Congratulations, Private! You’ve earned a two-weeks of latrine duty.”

Watermann shot up from his blanket, still in his undergarments, and saluted.

“Goo-good morning, Lieutenant Parker, s-sir! What a wonderful day to serve, is it not? Ha-ha…”

“Damn right. Don’t forget it.”

Dave’s face lightened a bit. He grabbed Watermann by the shoulder, his hand soft and relaxed, giving him a quick order.

“Make ready. We eat then leave in 15.”

The morning then continued not much different from any ordinary one for the two: they picked at the embers and re-ignited the flames with fresh tinder. However, the moistness caused the fire to liven up only after considerable effort. After Watermann finished dressing and taking down both tents, they heated up the ration beef in their mess kits. The two stared into the fire without saying much to each other, waiting for their beef to fry. Once it was, they ate with little gusto or conversation. Dave picked at his food, trying to think of all the good beef he’d had—stews, pies, braised—but the taste of tin and solder made for poor seasoning. He still swallowed and made little fuss. Both men finished and put their kits away. Everything was packed neatly into their packs. They were ready, but the world was not.

The morning had silenced. All was small and quiet, enveloped. Watermann attempted to peer, but found that his eyes failed him.

“This fog, I can’t see anything, sir.”

Dave grimaced.

“Neither can I, but we can’t afford to wait any longer. Losing even a couple hours of travel could mean…”

The lieutenant trailed off, preferring not to sentence himself this early. He felt the lightness of his pack with some dread.

“We keep heading north, just like before.”

Watermann nodded, but he looked into the eerily stagnant fog and shivered a bit. Dave took the compass from his supplies and tried again, but again bore no fruit. He retraced his steps and oriented himself. His batman mirrored, and soon the two were on their way. They strained their eyes, trying to cut through the fog, but they were dull knives. Overwhelming, but very still. It never seemed to flow or shift with the breeze. One would attempt to describe it as an ocean, but even oceans have currents. As they felt the morning sun transfigure into burning noon, the earth kept her heavenly blue tint. Perpetual dawn or dusk, depending on your cynicism. A day that never came, or one that never died. None of them could say they were without trepidation or distant fear. But the two kept their pace, and their boots squelched the grass ‘neath the sole.

Miles of green lay hidden before them. The feeble life that sounded in the morning was silenced. Both men became discontent with their progress. With no goal in sight, no way back, and reliance on the invisible forces that the compass saw and directed, their morale began to waver. But as is the duty of all soldiers, they marched. Into the unknown. Into the unseen but present danger.

Their aimless stumbling ended when the worn foundations of a stone building materialized from beneath the grass. They were very faint, but still visible above the grass. A broken wall appeared in a much similar fashion. Dave and Watermann’s knees turned to paste, and the sight of relief was enough to break their will.

“Let’s sit down a bit. But only a bit. Any more and we’ll lose pace.”

Watermann smiled, his silent thank you coming out as a sigh when he sat down on a foundation brick. Dave took the opposite, resting along the broken wall that seemed unstable yet settled. His rifle sat on his lap, and the lieutenant took out his cleaning kit. At least, this lesson from his father still remained: a clean gun is the difference between heaven and hell.

Fiddling with his rifle and all its parts—bolt, firing pin, and other such small objects—reminded him of those simple years of academia. How simple life was when studying and arithmetic were the only things taxing his mind! That time of daffodils and eternal spring. Now life was at its simplest and in her base struggle. The smell of cloth-bounds and leather never left his head, regardless of his current book-less state.

Throughout his labor, he hummed to himself quietly as Watermann enjoyed leisure. Neither man noticed the small wisps of light gathering around them. Small, like the ambient particles drifting in the foyer’s sun shadow. In the corner of his eye, shadows danced like devils, and his own grew tall. Mid-day turned to midnight, and his hands trembled with a terrible premonition. Dave quickly re-assembled his rifle, and as he clacked the bolt into place, small echoes began in the distance. His eyes darted to Watermann, but the lad seemed completely content. Dave’s warnings fell silent, and the world opened up under him to swallow him whole. The distant sounds were indistinguishable at first, like the distant recall of a conversation, but soon they rang his ears.

Clashes of swords, rumble and crackle of fire spreading throughout, cries of a distant people, and the instinctive memory of conquest. His heart sank as the noises deafened him, now increasingly accompanied by low drum-fire and zipping prattle of eight millimeter. Dave’s head felt heavy, and the world seemed to spiral down and down and down. His breath hitched, the pungent stench of fire and flesh replaced mildew and moss. It reminded him of that everlasting smell: a man’s fateful encounter with a fragmentation shell. His tongue tasted hot iron. The wisps surrounded him, and he brought his hand closer to them, even as they burned him with a lurid heat that felt like grasping a hot coal. Anything. Anything! Anything to stop this feeling!

“If you do that, you’ll die.”

Like shattered glass, everything fell from him. Reflections danced and twisted around his head. After this spectacle, the burning stopped, and day returned to his helm.

Dave clutched his chest. His heart’s pounding was up to his ears, and overwhelming reality washed over him like the parted seas upon the armies. The lieutenant fought for his consciousness, bobbing back and forth. Watermann killed his contemplation and rushed over to his superior’s aid.

“Lieutenant, are you OK?”

“Ah—it’s alright, Private. It’s just a funny feeling in my chest, alright?”

“You should know better than to touch Corpse Wisps, stranger. Didn’t your mother teach you?”

A shrill voice came from on top. Both soldiers looked, and a girl’s presence appeared from nothing. Her white dress spilled over the half-topped cobble of the wall, and she looked down with some calmness.

“One more second, and your soul would’ve ripped straight from your heart. Loose and string-like. Dead.”

The two stood silent. Not a word between them.

“Well, that’s what happens when you stumble into a wisp trap, I guess. Then your little gray-haired friend would’ve followed suit. You know, you’re really lucky Maman taught me how to dispel today. Or was it yesterday maybe? I don’t know.”

She stroked her chin.

“That doesn’t really mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday…”

Dave stared. His relief that seemed a boulder over the summit, now rolled down to the very bottom, pitting his stomach. This newfound fear grasped him once more, but the girl stuck out her pale, milky arm. A motion that seemed strange, then calming. Soothing and warm against the returning and thickening fog.

“Don’t be scared. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

Her innocent sadness made both men stand with guilt.

“No—you didn’t scare us. It’s alright!”

Watermann removed his private’s cap and held it to his chest. “Are you alright, young miss? Are you lost?”

The silent air whirled around him, causing him to shiver.

“This is certainly no place for someone such as yourself…”

She smiled at her lip ends, looking down at both men softly.

“You’re right. After all…”

“This is a graveyard.”

Her voice, that pleasant twitter, carried such words the two hardly withstood it.

“So many have died here. It was such a long time ago, but I don’t doubt a single one has forgotten what it’s like to be alive. They’re all crying.”

“Can you hear them crying? Or are you crying, too?”

Dave’s eyes poured like the mourning rain. He couldn’t understand. Nothing she’d said made him feel any different. He’d seen it all before. Why was he crying? Why? Why?

“It must be so hard being a fighter. You both look so weary.”

“But make no mistake.”

Her eyes steeled.

“Don’t rest here. The dead only know death. If you keep here, you’ll get a good schooling too.”

The girl stood up. She seemed a feather’s weight, and her long brown hair moved in the quickening wind.

“Maybe you already know. But there’s only one thing left to say. Keep north and don’t stop moving.”

Just like her words, she left with the wind.

It was a while before they regained their composure, but truth waited for no man. Watermann firmly placed his cap on his head, and Dave hitched his rifle over his shoulder. He grabbed the compass from his pack and soon they began to move again, now with a fearful determination. Ever into the unknown.