Broken

1916 - Netherlands

The dark doesn't bother him up here like it did in the mines. Not with the silvery glow from the moon illuminating the landscape, a friend following his course. Its bit of light makes the shadows seem less menacing. But it grows cool, and even the man's physical exertion doesn't keep his body warm, the sweat on his skin like ice. He wears only a short sleeved shirt which had been white before his labours in the mine, and torn navy pants, flared at the ankles. His Navy jacket had been discarded in the camp before going underground and he wishes for it now.

Day comes eventually though, the sun warming him slightly when its rays try breaking through the clouds. He sucks dew from the dying grass, easing his thirst slightly. But his hunger becomes a living creature in his stomach, ripping into his sides. It distracts him from the pain in his feet as he walks late into the day, but then he nearly stumbles into a farm populated with people in its fields, hard at work. He drops to the ground, holding himself dead still, breath whistling out between clenched teeth.

None of the workers noticed his approach, too focused on their labour, on harvesting crops, food. The man peers closer, beets, they're harvesting beets, and his mouth begins salivating. His hunger tries clawing its way out of his stomach and across the field to rip the beets from the ground and eat them raw. But he forces himself to be patient, watch a little while longer. He looks for the German soldiers with their rifles, guarding these prisoners of war who are forced to harvest their crops. He sees none. Decides to obey hunger, creep forward, sneak into the rows of beets and take them.

He makes it into the fields on his stomach, far from the workers, and wraps a hand around the stem when someone behind him clears his throat, says, "Hallo."

The man freezes, caught, heart galloping in his chest, throat constricted, head expanding to make room for pure panic. He throws his hands into the air, peers over his shoulder, his pupils drowning in the whites of his eyes. He opens his mouth, nothing comes out, licks his dry lips with his dry tongue.

The man standing behind him doesn't look like a German soldier, dressed in a button down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose cotton pants, dirt stained on the knees and around the ankles. No rifle, no hostile glare in his eyes, just a mildly curious, concerned gaze. So he ventures to say, "Please, I am hungry." He's surprised by how raw his voice sounds, as though he's speaking through gravel that fills his mouth.

The farmer looks him over—dirty face, scraped hands, torn clothing, dried blood on all exposed skin. His head tilts and he says, "Je bent been duits."

The man doesn't know what to say, but it doesn't sound like a question so he doesn't respond. "Hungry," he merely repeats, and rubs his belly, mimes putting food in his mouth.

"Ah, ja. Hongerig." The farmer nods, reaches down and pulls a beet out of the ground, revealing a large red bulb. He brushes off dirt, watches the man, who seems to have forgotten all possible dangers, as he stares at the beet. As soon as the bulb is in his hands it is gone, hunger having grabbed it from the man's mouth and pulled it down his throat, barely giving him a chance to chew.

As the farmer generously gives him another he asks, "Frankrijk?"

The man stares up with eyebrows knit in obvious confusion, shakes his head, shrugs slowly, unsure.

"Engeland?"

"Engeland? Ah yes-" He cuts off, choking on a bite he didn't chew, then nods. "I am from England, or Engeland, if that's how you say it." He pauses, remembers his recent trek, his escape. Eyes widening, he looks up frantically. "Where am I? Please, dear God, not Germany still, am I?"

The farmer shakes his head, whether reassuring the man or revealing his own confusion at the conversation, the man doesn't know. But the farmer jabs his finger at the ground, says, "Nederland, hier."