The bullets and shells spat a constant barrage at the soldier who crouched in the trench. The rain had been pelting the miserable soldiers for days, and still, it showed no signs of letting up. Beneath his boots corpses piled up. A friend, while alive, became a bridge to keep wet boots above the mud.
Out in the field, the bodies were strewn like snowflakes dropped from heaven. So numerous. Ours? Theirs?
But unlike the pristine white flakes that fell through the biting air of winter, these bodies that littered the ground festered in the sun. Baked and turned a ghastly blue. Swelling and bursting and drying up like mummies, they were scattered upon a vast desert of destruction. In every position they were found: sitting, lying, on their knees, frozen, dead, and silent.
"'Orders. New orders," the officer said.
"You," the officer said, pointing to the soldier.
The soldier's stomach sank to his bootlaces.
"Take this message down the line."
The soldier's jaw clenched, his teeth gritting in fear. But he had been ordered, chosen, picked from among the band of men, and he must go.
To disobey meant certain death.
He stuffed the message inside his shirt and willed his wet feet to propel his tired body forward.
How many bodies was he walking on?
He did not care.
His only worry was that they had been layered too high, and his head would show above the top of the trench.
The Huns would take aim, and the top of his head would be blown off.
So many corpses under his feet!
But it was impossible to throw them over the trench into No Man's Land. The rapid rat-tat-tat prevented this.
So, he moved on.
His muddy heel tore into an opened mouth or squashed into a soft and rotting stomach. They did not seem to mind. And he was glad.
On and on, he ran – a crouching, sweating, gristle of fear and purpose. His foot slipped from the bridge of corpses, and his balance lost, he fell sideways into a pool of viscous mud. Ankle deep? Knee deep? Waist deep? Shoulder deep it grabbed his tired body, filling his screaming mouth.
He awoke with a start, staring blindly into the night.
YOU ARE READING
The Dust of Death
Mystery / ThrillerIt should be happy days. It's the Roaring Twenties and The Cupid/Archer Detective Agency is open for business. A little girl's body is found in a shallow grave right in the middle of the city's large park. Private investigators Florian Flix and Phal...
