No Man's Land

"Fire...embers...parts. Parts of bodies sprinkled all around to rot in this sodden mud. This mushy, mildew teeming with pools of bubbling malady. If you were lucky, you'd only catch a whiff of it, and see only the stained white skulls, having already shed their fleshy coating. Lifeless...on display...like trophies. There is no honor blanketing the dead. No notion of victory, heroism, or patriotism. Just the deepest and darkest hole left in your chest, of abandonment. You wouldn't believe how lonely it is to be surrounded by the dead. More alone than actually being alone. At first, I found it eerie, walking amongst seas of static corpses. No pulse except the rhythm of the guns. You get used to it. You get acquainted with the different body parts, the same way you would recognize different cuts of meat at the butcher's. Nothing glorious about holding a steak. Nothing glorious about symbolizing a severed head to be a radiating beacon of victory. Uniforms all look the same when covered in mud and dark, oxidized blood. The smell of iron and filth is absolutely revolting! Are you getting this? Are you writing it down exactly as I describe it? It's important that you do!"

"Relax Private Burton, take a sip from your canteen. I know it's filled with something stronger than water, just like everyone's canteens are these days...at least those who got lucky while rationing the supplies. Don't worry private, I am no rat."

Private Jacob Burton, a thirty-year-old soldier with the British Expeditionary Forces, grabbed his left hand with his right to stop it from trembling. The artillery boomed in the distance as the Great War continued to advance its awful tally of the faceless dead, joining in from all fronts. It wasn't able to advance much else, and everyone realized too late, that trench warfare was a hasty, horrible idea not worth even an inch.

"Now, let's start from the beginning. You stated that you're a private in the British Expeditionary Force. Which division do you belong to?" The gaunt private clattered his canteen against the small, discolored table, almost spilling its valuable contents. "First Division, Hellfire squad," said Jacob stoutly, accompanied by an automatic salute. "Hellfire?" asked Captain James Dickinson. "That's right sir," Jacob answered, staring off into the distance at the threaded line made up of his haunting past. "Can't say I've ever heard of any 'Hellfire squad.' Are you sure that wasn't a nickname or informal jargon amongst soldiers?"

"No sir, that's what we were called. You won't find us in any documents or official reports. We were what you would call, 'specialists.'"

Captain Dickinson ran his fingers through his mustache while scrutinizing Private Burton's eyes. Was he having a laugh? He couldn't detect the telltale signs of a lie hidden somewhere within those lifeless eyes. In fact, he couldn't detect much of anything, except for long lost ruins of strewn memories, echoing soul scarring actions...and this gravely concerned the captain. "Specialists of what exactly? What was your mission?"

Private Burton's eyes glistened with panic and the dread of memories, long smashed to pudding underneath the last remaining stone of sanity. "Death. Agony...and most of all...fear. Our mission was fear."

"I do not follow. Are you referring to combat? Were you ambushed? Overrun? Is that why you were found alone?" Private Burton stared off into the distance again. He could see the peasants' faces, of all ages, genders, and forced juxtapositions with Death.

Captain Dickinson placed down his fountain pen and creaked the brittle chair loudly as he shifted his weight. He exhaled heavily through his clogged nostrils and shook his head. "Private, I want to remind you just how important it is that you tell me the truth of exactly what happened. Everyone is convinced that you're a deserter, and frankly, based off of what you've told me so far, I'm inclined to agree. Start making some sense. I'd suggest for you to take another swig from your canteen, take a deep breath, and tell me exactly what happened, starting from the beginning." He did as the captain instructed, and for a brief moment felt incredibly anxious. Not because of the story he was about to tell, but because of the cannonade. Or rather, the lack of cannonade. The artillery had gone quiet for a few minutes, and the absence of booming shrapnel was silent and foreign enough to give Jacob a slight migraine. To fix this, he took another healthy swig.