The storm continued on, the sound of titans in a melee resounding through the once green fields of muck and flesh. Brown and red mixed together, forming a sea of mortality that stagnates within the large craters providing salvation to the fortunate few. Several figures still stood, stubbornly refusing the fate of their formers. The storm intensified, metal scrap raining from above as the man-made lightning of artillery roared across the wasteland. One still stood with his brethren, carrying the weight of his labored breath in each footstep. Small inaudible words broke through the dry mouth of the figure. 

“November 5th, 1917.”

These utterings spread newfound strength through his weak joints, and encouraged him onwards. His callused, sweaty palm molested the lifeline of every soldier: the rifle. Giver of freedom and taker of suffering, a man’s life in the hands of another. The wooden stock, which was now more blood, tears, and dirt than tree, gave false insurance of a fate within his control. A fate of the wielder’s making. His near silent chant marched onwards with him.

“November 5th, 1917.”

His accompanying hand grasped another form of salvation, this one being of love and bond. The thin laminated sheet, crusted with brown memoirs of suffering and death, crumpled ever more, clasped within a cage of flesh. His fingers closed tighter still over the priceless treasure, that if equipped by any other, would be no more remarkable than one of the stray cigarette butts that littered the trenches. To him, however, the small colored scrap was his lifeline- his own personal morphine that, much like the drug itself, took away his pain and traded it for addiction. Every night, when the familiar metal shards of stray artillery shells crashed around him and embedded themselves in whatever lied in their path, that white scrap called to him. The whistling shells, distant comrades expounding their last breaths, cracks of gunfire, and the continuous thrum of bombardment served as white noise. All there was in that small world was him and the paper. Streaks of glistening liquid trailed down his battered cheek. A grimace formed while eyes hastily batted, bidding riddance to the scarce water gathered in his vision. He would not cry: he was a good soldier, and good soldiers don’t cry. Again, his motto echoed throughout his mind.

“November 5th, 1917.”

The thick slop of gore and earth sloshed upon his already drenched and musty cloak, weaved of rough fabric that scratched still against his leathered skin. The other trench was now in sight; the last stop. Curious heads of British troops dared now to peer above their soil prison in which they were trapped, tired eyes locking to the approaching shapes. He heard shouting now, and the united metallic bolt clicks of chambered rounds. He could almost see their faces now, exhausted and scraped with wounds that went far beyond the skin’s surface. Funny, that: his foeslooked just like his friends. His dried lips cracked themselves into slight grin, as the barbed wire embroidering the trench began to climb in height. He murmured his phrase once more.

“November 5th, 1917.”

The long metallic spikes and razored pricks tore apart his shoddily woven cloak, and stained what used to be a military outfit with his own blood. Rivers of translucent silver trickled forth once more, draining what little water was left in the dehydrated man as he came to the realization of his situation. Buried instincts foreseeing peril were once again recovered by his drive. He had to live, to win. For them. Blinding flashes erupted, and new crashes of gunfire conjoined with the artificial thunder. There was no hope, no last chance of redemption. He realized that then, time slowing to a halt. There would be no final stand or blaze of glory. There would be no triumphant return, or hero’s funeral parade. Just him and dirt, with all the others fallen before him. Violently he shook, embracing the grey hornets as they stung him, sharp crimson pain digging into the fiber of his being. That too, then, bled away, and to his knees he fell. The wet earth gave way as he fell, returning him to whence all had come. Thin lines of wire adorned by rusted spikes welcomed him with open arms, enshrouding his body in a grim cradle. His rifle dropped as well, vanishing into the muck as he himself soon would. The slip of paper uncrumpled as the pressure ceased, and slid ever so slightly from the weak grasp of its former owner. There, as the slip unfurled, lied the true nature of the addiction: a photo, grainy and deteriorated. Depicted was a woman, teeth bared in a wide smile. Below her, wrapped in her soft grasp, lay a small child, looking to be no more than three years old. Underneath the infant, in careful fading handwriting, was a phrase of German and a date, adorned with flowery lettering and hearts aplenty. 

“Ihr Sohn wartet auf Sie.”

“Your son is waiting to meet you.”

-November 5th, 1917