Move forward. Feel the squish of the mud in your boots. At least half of the battlefield has to be in there by this point.
You can't see, but that's not your fault. The rain is coming down in solid sheets of iridescent silver. Sounds pretty right?
Too bad the mud and blood and men ruin the picturesque weather.
I see the entrance to the trench, wood once helpful, now carrying enough mud that it might as well have been easier to just slide down the trench walls to the equally slimy wooden floor. Men shuffle behind and in front of me, men I've been around for months on end, and there are still some who I don't know.
As we pour into the trenches, the rats move in a wave in front of us. They're the size of Chihuahuas, some get up to about a terrier size. None of them are rat sizes. They're too gorged on the bodies and the rotten rations, and sometimes the injured guys. If I ever come down to that situation, I'll cut my own throat before I let myself be eaten alive by the little fleabags.
One particularly large one glares up at me as I walk down the trench. His beady eyes show no fear of me. He knows I'm a human. He knows I won't eat him, but the other way around, well, it's always a possibility.
I give him a good strong punt and his squealing little body flies into the side of the trench wall and makes a satisfying splat. It was a dumb idea really, now the other rats will come back into the trench to feed on that one.
Still, he deserved it for staring at me like that.
"Hey Church, over here!"
The sound of our captain, Butch, carries over the pounding rain. But just barely. I search through the rain and find him standing under a small niche in the trench wall, with a few of my fellow privates.
"Yeah Captain, what's up?" Coming out of the rain and stepping under the mud hole is like having your ears plugged then abruptly pulled out. Suddenly there is sound. Voices and planning, the clicking of magazines loading. Obviously, something is up.
"We got some movement from the enemy forces, maybe a couple hundred yards across no man's land. Private Tucker just came back with some intelligence-"
I snort. I would say Butch doesn't hear it because of how he plows on in his speech, but he gives me a small smirk. Butch and Tucker are a few of the soldiers I do know. We spent a few days hunkered down in a foxhole together, holding off the enemy front line, talking shit and getting to know each other.
"-and we think they're going to try and make a move during the storm, instead of waiting."
"Even though its batshit crazy…" Tucker throws in. He's cupping his hands and using them to catch water, trying to scrub his face and head clean of the battlefield buildup.
"Yes, it's very odd. But that's why we've moved the platoon up here to the front line. We've got a few more of the guys backing us up in the trenches about two hundred yards back. They'll be radioed in if we need help. But considering the conditions, this'll probably just be a shoot and spook."
Half of our fights are just "shoot and spook" battles, as Butch calls them. Both sides run at each other, dodging in and out of holes in the ground, firing rifles, barely aiming at each other. You hear the gunshots, maybe see a splatter at your feet as the bullet imbeds in the battlefield instead of your gut, and you stop. The whole line. Fear sets in. Hesitation.
Once that happens, it all goes to hell. You realize that you can't even see straight anymore, let alone aim. So you run back. You fly over that battlefield; the mud that sucked your feet in on the way to the battle seems to speed you along as you arrive back at your trench before you know it, back to sitting under the machine gun, feeling comfortable in the shadow of your metal ally.
"So you and Tucker make sure everyone's got their ammo, have their guns up and working, and get Jimmy on watch. If they come at us, we're going to make sure they don't catch us with our pants down."
Tucker opened his mouth, then apparently thought better of whatever he was about to say. He plops his helmet back on and walks into the silver mist and rain, his feet making the sickening squelching sound that accompanies trench mud.
Or at least, you hope its just mud.
I pass Butch's message along, and soldiers get themselves ready. We haven't been on the front too much lately. Not for weeks. We've been sitting in barracks, sleeping on cots with moth eaten sheets, eating hot gruel. What I wouldn't give for some hot gruel out here.
My own Springfield 1903 is slung across my back, ready for action as always. Some of the guys use different weapons, but I wouldn't trade my Springfield for anything. It's a trust worthy rifle, cleanest and surest aim on any rifle in our platoon. I've been put on sniper duty before, but only on the few days of this war when it was clear and sunny out, making it easy to pick out those gray helmets just poking out of the trenches. From 800 yards away. Sniping makes me fire slow as shit though. In head to head and closer quarters stuff I can get through two mags in a minute.
The bayonet for my rifle has never been used. I have a small hunting knife in my pack, which would have about the same effect on a guy if it comes down to that distance in the fighting.
I have a pistol latched onto my thigh, but I have rarely if ever had the occasion to use it. Usually its meant in case I run out of mags for my Springfield, or I lose the rifle altogether and need to clear some bodies out of the way to get it back.
Thankfully, I haven't had either occur so far. And to make sure I don't, I grab a couple of extra magazines from our ammo box, propped up on a shoddily built tower of ammo kept in small wooden boxes, piled up under a tarp in the center of the trench. Other soldiers brush past me, gathering their ammo and prepping or cleaning their weapons as needed.
You'd think the rain would give it a rest already. A week straight. No sunlight, no stars. Just endless pouring fucking rain. Never ending. I feel like just a little bit of sun, just a few hours, would greatly improve my desire to kill those bastards across the field from me.
Come on Mother Nature, give us a little break. It'll be good for morale.
Time has a funny sense on the battlefield. When you're in the barracks, you check your watch. You eat at a time. You sleep at a time. You do everything within your happy little constraints of days and hours. In a trench, the sun and moon rarely show, just the slight darkening and lightening of the rain. Sometimes you forget, and can't tell if the sun is rising behind those clouds or setting. Either way, on the front you don't sleep.
Oh sure it may look like we're sleeping. We're sitting on our asses, with our backs against the cold mud, worms and spiders and God knows what else slithering along our shoulders and up our legs. Our eyes are closed, and we breathe gently. We are not sleeping. We are waiting. Waiting for that screaming sound as a mortar round announces its presence. That bloodcurdling call of "Gas!" which gets us moving even faster than the explosions.
I sit like that now. I convince myself I'm asleep. I look it, so why can't I just convince myself as easily as the others.
Hide and go seek. You can't see me. I'm not here.
"Movement!" Jimmy's voice calls out in his southern drawl.
Me and my rifle are up on the ledge of the trench. Never asleep. Not really. I doubt I'll ever really sleep again. I press the butt of the Springfield up against my shoulder, nicely braced. I can pick off a man at 800 yards, but can only see about 50 yards right now. Fucking weather.
There's no movement in my line of sight, or if there is I can't tell. If the rain would just let up we'd have a good chance of picking off our ambushers while they still think they have the element of surprise. But with the rain kicking up splashes in the muddy puddles, my eyes are drawn across the whole field at every flickering motion, the sights of my rifle following with me. No way this is going to work.
Obviously Butch feels the same way. Our captain gives the order and now those slick slimy wooden steps echo under my feet again. Back into the fray.
Some of the boys in our platoon still give out their battle cries. They're the cowards. They need something to pretend that they're not pissing themselves as they run headlong into the bloodbath. I don't scream. I don't yell out to my comrades with bravado and arrogance in my voice. I don't say anything at all. Don't wanna give my position away.
I see the first gray soldier fading in through the rain and hit the mud, quietly, quickly. It welcomes me to it, soft and malleable and I sink down, better position. My gun is up and ready, and in a few seconds I exhale completely, pulling the trigger down.
The gray phantom of a soldier falls, hitting the ground the same time the casing from my rifle. I push the bolt back into position, clicking comfortingly and I know I'm ready to go. I sweep the area ahead with my eyes and don't see any more enemies. Then again, I can't see my allies anymore either. The rain has trapped me in a small bubble, with only the faintest gray and brown coming through.
I can hear shouting and explosions, one has to belong to a hand grenade by the sound of it, and spin in that direction, Springfield ever at the ready.
But no enemies there, and now, through the mud and the rain, I've gotten turned around. I've never had a great sense of direction, and now I fear its fucked me over good.
I start running forward, hunched over, staying low and feeling the rifle butt jar against my shoulder with every hard fought step. I just hope I'm going the right way. Either to my comrades or to the trench. Not straight at an enemy line of rifle muzzles, ready to fire as soon as I clear the rain.
Something finally comes out of the rain to my side, heading the same way I am, with the rifle position and hunch that I too run with. Well this is good, at least I'm running the right way.
We don't head toward each other, nor do we veer away. Just a respectable distance, with each other in the corner of our eyes. Just in case one is picked off, at least someone will have a slight warning to take cover.
As I flick my eyes over to check my friend's status, just for a split second really, the floor gives way.
Not really the floor I suppose, but the ground has just stopped a few feet after where I should have stopped too. But no, I walked completely into a hole. Luckily the wet mud and water at the bottom of the hole cushioned my fall, but my ass still collided hard with the slick wall, leaving it tingly. Probably be a bruise. If I live long enough to bruise.
There's a short cry, and another body slides down the slope, narrowly missing me as it plummets feet first into the puddle not two feet to my right. Well, looks like my friend also got taken in by the shit visibility.
Oh, or not my friend. He looks at me from under his helmet just as I look at him. Really look at him. The water has splashed off a bit of his pant leg's mud. Just a bit of grayish cloth shows through.
That's the problem with wars like this. I'm not killing these people for any personal reason. They never did anything to me. They're just in a different color.
All I know is that I protect my color, and kill the despicable other color. Not sure why. But it's ingrained in me now. The other color must die, for the good of my own.
Problem is, in the rain and the blood and the mud, all the colors sort of fade into one.
We each snap our rifles up to eye level, resulting in each of us looking down one barrel, and into one muzzle. The distance between us is ludicrous, maybe 7 or 8 feet, since we both snapped away from each other as soon as the realization set in that we were enemies. Now our backs are pressed against the edges of this hole, trying to decide how this miniscule battle will end.
I could fire now, but the chance of his dying hand clenching down on his trigger while its still aimed at my head is a little too high. I can only assume this is the same reason why he has also not fired.
An old fashioned standoff, that's what this is. But no tumbleweeds, no fiery setting sun, no saucy madame promising some after hour's entertainment to the victor.
Just a man and a soon to be corpse. Now it was just to decide which of us was which.
In the least epic way to end our standoff, an explosion rocked the world above us, and a huge torrential landslide of water and mud and chunks of plant life came hurtling down. Onto my enemy that is. It knocked him face first down into the mud, his rifle flying out of his hands and ending up sunk into the mud at my feet. I reach down and take it, slinging it across my back.
The weapon of my enemy is my weapon. Not as good as my Springfield, but it's never bad to have an extra rifle on hand.
My finger is back on my trigger before the new rifle settles on my back. I point it down at the soldier as he rolls over from underneath the mud. His helmet falls off his head, planting down into the mud.
I should have shot him. Right then, right there. No hesitation in battle. I would have shot him in our standoff with no guilt. No problem.
But now he's curled up on himself, his hands up in a defenseless pose, and his eyes staring up at mine with tears in them. Or maybe its just the crazy rain again, but either way it looks like he's crying. He's young. Definitely younger than I am. Maybe by five years at most.
His face is so caked in mud he could be black, white, yellow, or green and I wouldn't be able to tell. His big gold eyes just look at me pleadingly, and now that the hesitation has come it can't be gotten rid of. It lingers, gnawing on my thoughts and my instincts till they lay in the pathetic shreds of what they once were.
Should have shot him, but I didn't. Pure and simple.
Later on I could say I had noticed that it wasn't a foxhole we'd landed in. It was just a natural old muddy sinkhole. Unintentional and far easier to get stuck in. I could have said that I observed the slippery walls were too high for one man to escape easily, and that I let the unarmed soldier live only because I needed him to get out.
But really, I just didn't feel like killing this one. I'd killed plenty of men and boys while looking them dead in the eye. Never gave me a pause before. But this kid's face. He really doesn't wanna be here. I can see it. He's expecting this bullet of mine in his face any second, and he looks scared. But reserved.
Like he's lost all hope. Fuck.
I slowly lower my gun, but don't sling it back yet.
"Get up. Don't worry, I won't shoot you unless you give me a reason to."
He looks at me completely uncomprehendingly. Well of course, he probably doesn't speak my language. Only some of them do. And I don't speak much of any of their languages. You pick up a little trying to order food in town, or chatting up the fairer sex, but not enough to get very far. In either situation.
Realizing my words weren't working I motion with the gun for him to get up off his back and out of the mud. He seems to understand at least this small command and does as I told him. He goes to remove his helmet from the mud, but it is stuck fast and he decides to leave it where it is.
"Hands over your head," I say, using my left hand to show him what I mean and he follows, hesitantly. He bites his lip and looks even more nervous than before. His whole body is shaking.
I realize that executioners usually make men line up like this, before putting their hands against a wall so their killer has an easier time shooting them in the back of their heads. After looking him up and down quickly I determine that he has no visible weapons. His uniform has Grif printed on it, just above his left breast.
"Okay mister Grif, I'm just going to give you a pat down for more weapons okay? You move or give me trouble, I blow your guts out."
I walk behind him and poke him in the back with my rifle, he shakes even harder, hanging his head down, his brown hair stuck to his neck and chin. He can't see me put my rifle on my shoulder by its strap, freeing up both my hands.
I give his arms a quick sweep, working down to his back, patting him down, checking for anywhere he may have slipped a knife or a small gun, like a pistol. Not wanting him to have a better opportunity at trying for my rifles, I stay behind him, using my longer arms to wrap around to his front, giving him the slight pat down.
Its slightly awkward, but this is war. I ignore these kinds of things. As my hands search his belt for anything dangerous, he shifts uncomfortably, alternating his stance between feet. I won't say I'm a perfect guy. I won't defend my feelings or even try to reason them out. I know that seeing him squirm and feel uncomfortable gave me a power rush. But this was the enemy. He was fucking lucky I didn't kill him already.
Even though I had fallen in first, in my mind it was all the enemy's fault for me being in this hole. For the mud. For the rain. For the whole damn war.
I continue searching my prisoner, starting as his feet and checking up. He has a small survival knife in a sheath in his boot, I remove it and place it in my own belt near the small of my back. My hands pat and graze and check their way up his legs. He shifts again and his legs close, trying to get me to back off or stop.
"Spread em or I make you spread em," I hiss out, tapping the insides of his thighs with the muzzle of my rifle, moving them outward. He gets the hint and spreads his legs so I can continue my rather thorough check. My hands go up his thighs, inner and outer, forward and back, checking every pocket and crevice where something could be hidden, crotch and all.
He certainly jumps when my hand finds the crook of his crotch and thigh, checking it for any hidden small arms. You may laugh, but its been known to happen, guys hiding handguns under their dicks.
I could stop now. Hell, I could have stopped five minutes ago, I knew he was unarmed then. But I guess I'm a sadist sometimes. I bring my rifle up and press it hard up against his crotch, still standing behind him.
He lets out a surprised choked sound and his whole body goes rigid.
"Don't worry buddy, I know you aren't armed. Hell, I just wanted to fuck with you. Little shit likes to play for his own team does he? Or maybe you just like having a guy with a gun in charge. Need it to be against your will huh?" I rub the muzzle of the rifle along his crotch, laughing darkly.
Suddenly he spins around, his face blushing red and sucker punches me. He tries to grab the Springfield out of my hands, but he'll have to pry it from my cold dead hands. I recover and pull it from his scrabbling hands, slamming the butt hard into his stomach.
He drops like a bag of potatoes into the puddle below us. He really got worked up over that. I bring my gun back up into position, the guilt I had been feeling having lessened considerably. I think the fucking pounding in my jaw has to do with that.
Now he looks up at me, defiance in his honey gold eyes.
"Do it," he says, his voice thick from embarrassment, being in the rain, fear for his life, who knows.
"Wait a minute, you just talked!"
He looks at me a bit like I'm an idiot. Instead of speaking again he just nods, his eyes moving rapidly from my face to my gun, pointed not a foot away from his forehead.
"So, does that mean you've understood everything I've said, and everything I'm saying now?"
"Almost all of it. I'm just about fluent," he says, his voice carrying a distinctive local accent now that I hear it in a greater quantity.
Well shit. I wouldn't have said those things if I'd known he could understand me. I mean, I could have played off the whole 'rigorous search' idea. But with what I said, and the kinda sorta semi-groping going on. Well shit.
"If you kill me you'll be stuck here."
Ah, so the boy noticed our predicament too. I don't let the gun down. Not this time. Not until I'm really sure he isn't going to attack me again. Although, if I'm honest, I totally deserved it.
"Maybe I shoot you. Then use your body as a stepping stool and get out of this little mud pit."
He looks up at the walls. They're completely slick with mud, and water is continuously pouring in the side where the mudslide had almost buried him. The water must be draining out somewhere near our feet, because the puddles aren't turning into swimming pools. Would have been better than way, just float our way out.
Wait a minute. Mine. My way out. Not ours.
Fuck.
"So, what's your name?"
"What?" I respond, with less anger and intimidation than I had hoped for.
"Well, you know my name is Grif. What's your name? If its on your uniform I can't read it because of the mud."
My friend Grif here knows how to make an observation. Face planting in the mud on the way over here had covered up the small tag that says Church above my left pocket. Then again, this guy is my prisoner. I have him at gunpoint.
"I don't have to answer to you."
The guy rolls his eyes and shakes his head slightly. I bring the rifle back up, letting my eyes find the sights, and he quickly snaps back to attention, that worried look returning to his face.
"Hey man, look, I just figured if we were gonna be stuck in this hole together that we might as well try and make nice. Just starting some small talk."
"Small talk? This isn't a date you fucktard. You're my enemy. I'm gonna paint these walls with your brains."
He just looks back. The rain has fallen enough to clear off some of the mud on his hair and face. He has a nice tan complexion, with light brown hair, dyed shades darker by the mud and war grunge. In another world, in another situation, he'd almost be attractive. The kind of kid that probably had his pick of all the popular cheerleaders in high school. Especially if his eyes were as big and as full of bullshit as they are now.
"Then why haven't you yet?" He questions quietly.
"Haven't what?" I snarl back. I hate losing my place in a conversation and becoming confused.
"Why haven't you shot me? You've had quite a few chances so far. Not that I'm suggesting it or anything," he quickly covered.
This shuts me up a bit. Much as I would have liked to respond with something involving a shot, a flash, and a thud, instead I just stare at him. Maybe I'm just getting soft in my old age. Even if I'm not that much older than he is.
Been in this war too long. It ages you. Maybe I just don't like killing completely helpless kids stuck in the mud, hunched over their bruised gut. Or maybe its just that the kid has pointed out something I've known all along.
When it comes right down to it, I'm a chicken shit coward. Sniping men from five football fields away is easy. Can't see their faces. It's easy to aim with your rifle at a blurry gray figure emerging out of the rain, smeared in mud, faceless and nameless. I've killed my share, but I'm certainly not a good soldier. Good soldiers actually want to kill those guys wearing the other color. I just do as my commander says.
I put my rifle down, no longer pointing right at this Grif kid's head. With a small hesitation, I fling it over my shoulder. It clanks against his rifle, reminding me of its presence.
"Alright, I won't kill you. Because like you said, this hole is pretty deep, and I'm not looking to be trapped down here with you forever. And I really don't want to be stuck with your bloody stinking corpse for who knows how long. So for now," I see his shoulders slump in relief and that missing element, that hope of living to see the next day returns to his eyes, "let's call a temporary truce, huh buddy?"
He nods and extends his hand, dripping with mud and water and sweat, I reach out with my equally filthy one and shake hands. His grip is strong, he probably has more muscle to him than the uniform shows.
"Now if only we can get the weather to cooperate, we could catch some down time down here…" He trails off as he sees me glaring hard at him.
"You said not fluently, but you sure know turns of phrase enough." He shifts uncomfortably now. Ah ha, I have caught him in a lie. "So what are you, a turncoat?"
"No, parents came over. I learned as a kid before we moved here. First language, I just haven't spoken it in a long time."
The silence fell between us, coated in that same pattering of rain that has been constant since I arrived in this part of the country. It seems to never stop out here. At least not when we're out on the front line.
There's some awkwardness now between us. We are still enemies, no doubting there. The way his eyes flicker from my face to the guns slung on my back leaves no doubt there. But as for now, we aren't trying to kill each other, which is a marked improvement for guys like us.
The silence becomes more silent as the rain, thankfully, begins to lessen. It slows down, still enough that I would have used an umbrella or a raincoat back home, but now it feels like a blessed reprieve to be merely sprinkled by water instead of having buckets poured down on our heads.
Unfortunately, this brings us back to the fact that we are stuck here, with each other. And neither of us are talking. That guilt that had retreated earlier is back with a vengeance.
"Hey kid, look, I'm sorry about the shit before alright. It's just, you know, you're an enemy. We're supposed to do shit to you guys if we catch you and don't kill you right away."
He just nods, understanding exactly. Had the situation been reversed, I know he would have messed with me too. Only difference is, I like to think I wouldn't let myself be taken advantage of and humiliated. Shit, with my mouth? I'd probably be dead before the guy could think of harassing me.
"So, the rain is letting up at least," he says quietly. He takes his hands, cupping them to catch the light rain and begins splashing it over his shoulder length hair, trying to get the mop to lay back away from his face. It's exactly the same movement Tucker made just this morning.
Wonder if he's alive. I can't believe no other soldiers from either sides have come by this hole and fallen in. Or at least taken a look in and noticed us needing a little help.
For that matter, it sounds like the battle has stopped. I hadn't noticed when pouring rain and bombshells had eased into simply raindrops.
"Listen. I think the battle's over," I cock my head up and see Grif do the same. After a second he nods and begins crawling to his feet. I take a step back, my hand resting on my rifle, just in case. But the kid just stands and pops a few joints, stretches out and wipes the larger chunks of mud and grime off his ass.
"So what do we do now? We have to get out of here sometime. Might as well do it while it isn't raining as hard."
I have to agree with him on that point. The mud won't be dry for far too long, if the rain ever stops coming down fully, so now is as good a time as any for an escape attempt. At least we can see what we're doing.
"I guess first thing we do is figure out how one of us is going to get out the hole. Then that one helps the other up."
We stare at each other. I've been told I can give a pretty wicked stare and I hope it's turned to full power right now. I figure he's attempting the same thing. But there's something about that golden brown color that just can't frighten me. The color's too soft to be scary.
"Okay, so lemme rephrase that. First thing we do is figure out how we can fucking trust each other long enough to get out of this shit hole. Better?"
Grif nods and looks around at his feet, obviously deep in thought. He bites his bottom lip and for some reason my eyes are drawn to it. Better not to dwell on it. We have a grand escape plan to be making.
"Oh, I have an idea," he shouts out, pulling off his belt. I can't help but raise an eyebrow at this.
"Okay, please tell me how your belt is going to help us trust each other?" I glare suspiciously at the trust belt.
"Well, we just tie ourselves together, that way, if the person who goes up first tries to run, the person down below can just pull them back in. So it doesn't make sense not to just get out together," he smiles at me and damn if the kid doesn't have some of the whitest teeth I've ever seen. Maybe it's just because without the rain I have my usual vision back, but they practically glow in the mud hole we're stuck in. "We can use your belt too, gives us a bit more slack to work with.
"Not a bad plan. As for getting out, I think if one of us boosts the other up it could work. We just have to hope for something for you to grab onto when you get up there."
He pales just a bit as his jaw hangs open a bit.
"Me? Why does it have to be me?"
"Cause I outweigh you dumbass."
He opens his mouth than closes it silently, his cheeks puffing out like a petulant child. Not sure why he would have a problem with being the one going up first. He has more of a chance of getting away and leaving me down here to rot and be eaten alive by the roaches and the rats.
"So, let's tie ourselves up and get this show on the road," I say. Immediately after the words are out of my mouth he bows his head a bit, fingering the belt in his hand. It looks like he's blushing. But I ignore. Plow on. Don't pay attention to it.
Don't notice how soft his hands and wrists are as you tie them up in coils of your own belts. Don't notice how his hands shake a bit as they do the same to you.
Our wrists don't have much leeway between us, but it should be enough that my arm won't be dislocated when he jumps up onto the hole's edge, but is taut enough that I can rip him back in if he tries to get away.
"You ever gotten a leg up to get on a horse?"
He nods a bit, his face still red.
"Okay, we're gonna do this that way. But lets do it slowly," his Adam's apple bobs noticeably as I say it. Damn kid and his damn overactive imagination. "I'll just boost you up a bit at a time, so we don't rip each other's arms off by accident. Once you're up, pull me up, and we can go our own ways and go back to killing each other like normal."
I brace my right side up against the muddy wall. It's a bit disconcerting how easily I start to sink in, even without gravity to help. Like the dirt is just waiting for me. Nice and ready and anxious. I shudder a bit and push the thoughts out of my mind.
Bending down to get a sturdier stance, I cup my hands together in between my legs. He puts his right foot in my hands, his right wrist connected to my left and barely able to move, other than to grip my forearm. His left hand braces against my shoulder and his left foot sinks a bit more into the mud below.
"On three, just try and get your other foot into a foothold or something, I'll try pushing you straight up."
He just nods again, looking up at the wall of the hole. Its maybe ten feet up. In dry conditions, with good hand and foot holds it would have been easy as pie. But here in the slick and the slime, it'll take a little miracle or a lotta hard work to get us out of here.
"One. Two. Three!"
I lift up the foot in my hands, and am thankful to find that the kid weighs about as much as I anticipated, not very much. He shoves his free foot against the wall and scrabbles up with his left hand. I straighten my legs, lock my knees and try and bring him up, my hands moving from waist height up to about my stomach.
I look up and see that he is nearing the top of the wall, so I force out a bit more strength to get that reaching hand of his over the side. He flails it forward, and must have grabbed something as I feel the full force of his weight being taken out of my hands and placed on whatever he has grabbed.
"Oh shit!"
All of a sudden I find myself ass first in the mud, with the enemy sprawled on top of me. Our belted hands are crammed somewhere between my legs, causing me to be awkwardly crumpled.
"What the fuck!" I try and pull my hand back, easing up on my strained shoulder, but unfortunately the belt ties have worked, and the private comes with the wrist.
Grif essentially faceplants against my stomach before snapping up. Not very far though, since we're connected and I'm still stuck in the mud. After a few more awkward moments out of a Keystone Cops routine, we are sitting, he on his knees which are wedged between my own spread ones, our bound wrists to the side, and staring at each other.
"Well Grif, what the hell happened?"
"I got a root or something, thought it was good but it gave a little. It was pretty big, I don't think I broke it, just kinda slipped and lost my grip when it gave way," he says, looking down again. Those big gold eyes get covered by long brown lashes, caked in mascara a la mud.
And yet somehow, it looks good on the kid. Shit. Shut up Church. Stop fucking noticing the kid's eyes and lashes. You're getting gayer by the minute.
He looks up and I notice how very close we are. After the whole wrestling thing we're muddy and slippery again. No, bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad associations.
"Come on, one more time."
He starts to stand up, slipping and trying to pull me up. I am, for lack of a better way to present it, ass deep in mud. I have sunk quite a bit from the weight that landed unceremoniously on top of me. Now he's got my hands in his and is pulling with all his weight, his boots slipping and giving way on the mud, but he gets just enough traction that with my help we free my from the mud.
There's a sickening squelching sound, which can only happen in mud of this quantity and caliber, before I'm hurling forward to my feet. And beyond. Right into Grif and the wall.
I catch myself with my hands in the muddy wall, but the rest of me still hits and pushes and presses the younger soldier up into the wall between my arms. I won't think how nice it is. I won't think about how he's just the right amount shorter than me, just barely. Just enough that I could kiss his eyelids before…
I pull back, freeing the terrified soldier. I won't think about things. I won't picture the guys on cold nights, under the tarps and blankets, huddled for warmth. I won't think about the hushed breaths and things you hear, as someone's blankets and shoulder's move rhythmically, their hands lost down below.
"Let's try again," I say. The huskiness in my voice surprises even me. He lets out a muffled okay, looking up at the wall, the root, his boots, the wall again, anything but my face.
We assume the same position, and again I hoist him up on the count. He digs into the mud and again reaches the root. Again the weight I've been supporting eases up, and this time continues to do so. I use this lightening up on my end to brace his feet and give him a strong push upwards.
His chest and waist clear the top of the hole and he swings his legs up, digging frantically into the mud to ensure that he doesn't come tumbling right back down again, Jack and Jill style.
My left arm is pressed against the wall, hanging by the belt contraption to his arm, which is flopped over the edge of the hole. Stretched like this my toes are still on the ground, but just barely.
"Come on kid, pull me up already!"
"I was just catching my breath!"
"This is no time for a fucking nap, pull me the hell up," I scream out, giving a tug on his arm to remind him of our deal.
His hand seizes the belts and begins to pull up, and I dig my toes into the muddy wall. Its like trying to get a foot hold in pudding at this point. My fingers squeeze into the wall, sinking in and slipping down before I can push myself up.
But despite this, with his help pulling, we manage to move me slowly but surely up the wall. Finally my hands find the edge and his forearms and shoulders as with one mighty hurl I'm up over the edge and on my back on the edge, feet still dangling into the hole.
He is sitting next to me, panting just as hard.
"Shit man, we're outta shape," I mutter as I start to undo the knots in the belts that are holding us together. My fingers look like they're ready to turn blue.
"Yeah. I really need to give up smoking one of these days."
I laugh at his joke and he returns the favor, flashing those pearly whites again. As if the universe heard our amusement and was offended by it, the pouring rain comes back with a vengeance. My long bangs get plastered to my face again, where they will most likely stay until we return to the barracks.
"So now what?" He asks sort of quietly.
I unsling his rifle from my back and place it down on the ground at my feet. As I step back, I pull the Springfield out and get it in position, my aim right between his eyes.
"Just pick up your gun, turn, and head back to your camp. I'll head to mine. No harm no foul this time. But I'm telling you, next time I see you, all's fair you know?"
"Yeah yeah, in love and war…" he mutters as he picks up his gun and turns around, not even giving me a second glance.
I watch him fade into the rain and once he's out of eyeshot I back up and head towards my own trench. Turns out I had doubled back during the battle before falling in the hole and was only about 50 yards from my very own trench. Guess that means Grif was really the lost one.
The battlefield is pockmarked and corpse laden. I try not to look at the brown stained uniforms, trying to discern friend from foe. The colors all bleed to the same out here in the rain.
The end.