The Chaos of Glory

Darkness quells all sound in the cool, damp dugout. Dim lighting from the dreary winter sky slowly creeps at the entrance with each explosion above. Boom. Another shell falls overhead. Ragged breaths and sharp inhales permeate the silence. The anticipation growing so thick, you could cut in with a knife. As another explosion erupts from the ground above, dirt falls and I quickly close my eyes in avoidance of the falling debris. The throbbing in my ears so deafening I can barely hear as men around me shout. A hunk of the mud-ceiling caves, allowing light to fill in through the hole made. My heart beats uncontrollably, but from what? From adrenaline? Adrenaline from what? Excitement? Fear? Behind my closed lids, I envision the scene from my departure; my siblings clinging onto me, begging me not to go, the eyes of my father's picture boring into me as if to warn me of the impending suffering. The slow weeping of my mother that reverberates out through the top-floor window, as I boast of righteousness and the promise of victory. As it goes, boys should listen to what their mother tells them, lest they find themselves in a rather unseemingly predicament. A shove from behind sends me falling to the ground. Immediately I stumble to get up off the slick ground, light blinding my unadjusted eyes. "Ehlhardt!" Captain Addington hollers over the commotion. I straighten up, "Yes, sir!" My friend, Jack, helps me to my feet, finding his own footing amidst the slippery mud.

He shouts back, "Where is your unit leader? Lieutenant Garrick?"

"I don't know, sir! He disappeared after the third shell fell!" A ricocheted bullet hits the trench wall next to Jack, he flinches but maintains his stiff composure. The Captain goes on, "Move to the front trenches with your unit and hold position there until we can properly determine whether we'll hold ground or retreat!"

Jack and I simultaneously salute him, responding back with a, "Yes, sir!" I watch as the Captain's back disappears into a cloud of smoke, an explosion bursting in that direction soon after. What's one more body on this bloody field?

"Alistair!" A pair of stern hands firmly grab my shoulders and shove me to the side. Falling into muddy water, I can only watch as a piece of shrapnel was embedded in the place where I once stood. I let out a shaky breath and turn to Jack. He picks himself up, brushing off the new layer of dirt added onto his face and gives me weary smile. I nod, still staring at the piece of rusted metal. I swallow hard, "Thanks."

"Nothing like saving a friend from being impaled from a flying piece of junk."

My voice trembles, "Yeah."

"Ehlhardt! Lancaster!" I whip my head around, facing a wounded man, blood streaming from an arm he was clutching. I salute, my hand shaking from the rush of adrenaline flooding my body. "Yes, sir!" Lieutenant Garrick makes a gesture to put our hands down, "At ease." He stumbles towards us, his face displaying utter exhaustion. "You've heard from Captain Addington?"

"Yes, sir," Jack responds, adjusting his pack strap. "Just a few moments ago. He was asking for you." The Lieutenant's lips flatten in a thin line, a grim expression forming on his face. "I know" is all he said, but it was all the indication I needed to know that the Captain was as dead as the land we were on. Flatly, I asked, "Do we precede as mentioned, sir?" There was a thoughtful pause before he nodded, "Yes. Go on as planned, I'll see if Hallewell and Remington are still functioning and can assist the two of you." Jack and I nodded in unison and started off on our way. "Wait-" The Lieutenant slumped to the ground as a bloodstain began to form on his right breast pocket. I grabbed Jack, who stood motionless in disbelief and ran towards the ladder to the ground above the trench. I barely shot a glance towards the dying man, who was extending his hand towards us in a plea to help him; to comfort him as he died. We clumsily scrambled to the top level and ran towards the front trenches, passing the wounded and dead without looking back. Looking back was for the weak, it was a promise of death. Suddenly, there was a dark shape from overhead. "Down!" I push Jack to the ground, splashing into water filled of blood and debris. Another explosion to the right. "Go!" I scream hoarsely at my friend. "Go!" Crawling through mud and water, through the smog we catch sight of a trench up ahead. "There!" I point, quickly putting my hand down as a steady rain of bullets is shot at the ground next to us. I cry in pain as a sharp sensation attacks my left calf. Jack, worried, starts to rise to inspect what has caused me to howl out so. But I yell at him to stay down, yanking at his arm. He nods and we continue to crawl, my eyes stinging with tears as the throbbing pain increases with each movement. A hand grasps the back of my head and slams it into the polluted water. I struggle but the hand is holding me down firmly. My lungs are burning by the time the hold is released and I come up for air. Jack is panting next to me, his hand rubbing my shoulder blade apologetically. I shake my head slightly in understanding, mouth wide open as I try to fill my deprived lungs. Soon I hear muddy stomps ahead of us and a fairly large group of men are running our way, yelling 'retreat!' ferociously. Before Jack and I have time to get to our feet we are being trampled upon. Heavy boots stomp on me from all directions on all areas of my being. I can only imagine the bruising to come after this. As a metallic taste soon invades mouth, I reach for Jack's hand for support and reassurance that he is alright. Through the feet stomping on and around us, I catch sight of him extending his own arm towards mine. He is sporting a split lip and is tightly clenching his teeth together. A slight gap in the middle of the stampede allows us to grasp hands and we hold on for all it's worth, on hopes that neither one lose the other.

After what feels like an eternity of pain, it stops. The last of the men runs through the middle between Jack and mine's bodies. Throwing us a quick glance of concern, before running off towards the others, leaving us to recover by ourselves. I sluggishly sit up, wiping my mouth, and spit out blood and mud. "Jack?", I croak. He doesn't respond, making me nervous. Slowly and hoarsely, he responds "Yeah?" I let out a shaky sigh of relief. Gradually getting up, I extend a battered hand towards his crumpled body. He looks up, his face half in the mud, and wearily lifts his arm, placing his hand into mine in a thankful gesture. I dragged him to his feet and put his arm over my shoulder, knowing he had gotten the good brunt of the stomping. Putting my free arm around his waist, we steadily make the thirty feet trek to the designated trench. There are no more words between us till we make it to the ladder of one of the front trenches. "Made it." I said with a hint of humor, hoping to pep up my fairly exhausted friend. "Yeah." He mutters sheepishly.

One of the men who stayed in the trench, while the others ran like cowards, motions for me to lower Jack towards him. I do so, accidentally brushing against a shallow cut on his side. He hisses in pain, "Bastard." I give him a side smile and release him when the other soldier comments on having a good grasp on him. He holds onto Jack, while I quickly scale down the ladder. I carefully take Jack from him, hoping to cause no further injury to my friend. As we make our way down the trench I am directed to a small shelter and strengthen my hold on Jack, finding that my own strength was waning at the moment. I'd reach the limit with my body, yet my mind was far from tired. "Come on, Jack." I drag him, in his semi-conscious state towards the dugout, giving him another smile, assurance that it was gonna be okay. He weakly smiled back. Abruptly, to break our tender moment, a man behind us shouts something. I don't catch what it is, but suddenly everything is loud, yet deaf and temporarily goes black.

Feeling mindless, my body fairly numb, back on fire, left eye nonfunctional, I force myself to push myself up from the mud. "Jack..." I begin to mumble out. "Jack?" I slowly turn my head from left to right, the ringing sensation in my ears, preventing me from thinking straight. "Jack? Jack?" The ringing still in my ears, I begin to stumble around on my knees, trying to stand but failing, the pain in my left calf unbearable. As I reach out, touching the ground, my fingers brush against hair. I crawl over, smoke blocking my sight, and causing my eyes to burn. I feel around further and my fingers trace a scar on the head of the person. A wave of cold washes over my being. I know this scar, I remember how it happened, how it formed. A scene of warmth goes through my mind, one of summer days and toad catching. Jack and me at the creek, goofing around as we hunted for the unsightly amphibians. I remember jumping onto the rock he was on, and him falling, his head landing on a rather sharp rock in the stream. We freaked out then, as the blood dripped from the cut, but later learned to laugh and joke over the incident. "Jack?" I mumble, my voice choking. I swallow, the name clinging to my throat. "Jack?" The smoke begins to clear and my friend's face appears. His eyes closed, his chest still as crimson blossoms from its center. My hands shake as I grasp his shirt tightly. "J-J-Jack?" I croak as if he'll answer me. The burning in my eyes starts again, but it's more of a stinging this time round. A taste of salt and metal invade my sobbing lips as droplets stream down my cheeks. 

"Stupid gas," I mutter, wiping my eyes fiercely. I feel something hot drip down my back, the pain immense. I clench onto his shirt tighter, the vision of his smile, the smile on his cold dead body, will forever be imprinted into my memory. Soon I'm pulled to my feet by the soldier that had helped with lowering Jack into the trench. I refuse to let go. Others surround us and tear me away from the corpse of my beloved friend. They calm me and take me away to the med bay. I feel dazed as I watch as the man who helped Jack and me before, cover him with a dirty blanket. His face appeared glum as he drew the blanket over Jack's smiling face.

A cotton cloth covers my left eye, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. I hear the doctor murmur the words "shrapnel embedded" and "permanent damage". It doesn't matter, not anymore, not to begin with. None of this matters. I stare blankly into nothing as I sit on a cot in the infirmary tent. In the bustling background noise, a Major tells soldiers around him that their retreat is temporary and they will be back out as soon as they can. Still staring into the nothingness I say aloud, rather quietly. "Hell, is what this place is. An inferno of mud and blood, where Satan is the very bullet that strikes through your heart." A fellow soldier on the cot next to mine mutters a "Too true" and leans back into his cot; his eyes wrapped with a bandage as a result of mustard gas. There is no glory, only death. And maybe . . . Just maybe that is what glory truly is. Death, a sweet release from this hell. I lean back, rubbing the blood of my friend between my fingers. We have all committed a sin, we desired glory, and now we are being punished, punished with a crumbling mentality and throbbing wounds. I wish death would come to me as it did my friend. Numbly, I state, "A soldier's true duty, is not to fight, it is to die."