Missing In Action

adjective

(of a member of the armed forces) not yet found dead or alive.

C1: MIA

A pair of blue eyes awoke to a crisp cool sky. The smell of pollen thickly filled the air, as the sound of birds twittering to their morning tune. This was a far cry from the greys and browns of artillery battered fields of the western front. Rolling onto his front he placed his hands guardedly on each side of his body, moving his mud-caked fingers wide as he pushed upwards and onto his aching knees. Stretching back to relieve his joints, he heard a series of cracks move up his spine. His grey officers uniform, patched with blood and dirt, had seen better days.

"Verdammte Scheiße." Damned Shit. He muttered in German, squinting his eyes to the further rising sun. Wobbling onto his feet, he looked around his feet for his rifle only to find in a metre away. Bending over, with a grunt, he grabbed it by the sling and flung it over his shoulder. He took a quick swig of his flask, before looking around. The rolling hills moved into mountains in the far distance, reminding him a lot of his hometown of Füssen in Bavaria.

A loud cough sounded behind him.

Looking to his about, he saw a British officer; a glance at the two pips on the man's cuffs confirmed that, wearing his battle-worn green uniform. He had lifted his revolver and was aiming it at the German. "Well, this is awkward…" He tilted his soup bowl of a helmet upwards.

"Do you know, where we are?" The German officer said, his accent quite thin, not even bothering to move in retaliation, the Brit would have shot him already if he'd wanted him dead. Dropping the handgun and holstering it, he sighed moving up.

"If I'd have a guess… Alps? Hopefully Switzerland. I'd take this over Flanders any day of the week." He moved to his hands back, propping himself up, before asking for a hand. "A hand."

Despite his better judgement, he gave the man a hand, pulling him up to his feet. "You know. I could get shot for fraternizing with the enemy."

"That makes two of us. But what are you going to do. I have no idea where we are, and neither do you." He fiddled off his webbing, coat and dress jacket. "But get a smile on your face, old boy." He folded, rolled and squared away his winter uniform, before grabbing his rifle off the floor. "Let's see if we can find any locals, eh?"

Watching the Brit move off left, confused the German Lieutenant somewhat, making him glance around as if following would be a test or not. Finally giving an exasperated sigh, he set off after Brit.

Quickly catching up to the other officer, he tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you have any idea where you are going?"

"No, no and no." The German paled slightly. "However, where there is water, there is life. So we follow a stream, then a river, and then the coast. People always build around water; we'll die without it. If nothing, at least you can get some fish." He slapped the man on the back. "What's with that face? You'd rather be in Flanders?"

"At least, I'd know where I am." He muttered, slipping off his jacket in the warming spring sun. The pair walked downhill and into the lulls of the grassland, which, to some extent, reminded the two of the pre-war Low Countries. "Lieutenant?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't get a name."

"Oh? It's John, Lieutenant John Stevenson. What about you?"

"Lieutenant Hans Krüger. When did you sign up?"

John snorted. "I've been in the service of His Majesties since January Nineteen Twelve."

"Over four years…" Hans whistled.

"Two of which, I have somehow managed to survive with you pointing a gun at me."

"You're a sniper?" Glancing at the Enfield on the soldiers back.

"Designated marksman, my captain kept me in the back in order to provide covering fire, hence why I am not dead." He said shaking his head. "To think that I've nearly outlived most of my company is just odd to think about." He sighed. "What about you, Herr Krüger?"

"Why thank you, Mr Stevenson," He snorted. "I'm a sniper myself. Though I've only been in for the past year."

"I'd like to say how much of a bastard you are Hans." He said. "I know you are doing your job, but you just make life in the trenches even worse, somehow."

"Well, that's part of the idea, isn't it? We can get you at anytime and anyplace, it'd cause most people to feel terrified to even think about peaking over the that trench wall."

"True, true." The two of them walked further in silence. A small stream had formed to their side, slowly building up a width as they trudged through the forest. "I don't like this silence."

"Missing the rattle of the guns?" The German asked.

"Hardly. It's a welcome change actually."

Grabbing a box of matches and a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, he offered one of the fags to Hans. The German reached over and plucking one out, nodding a thanks as he put it in his mouth. John struck the match, lighting his fag before passing the light over. "Danke." Thanks.

"No problem." He took a drag. "A sniper that smokes, I've never seen something that ironic."

The two of them continued their back and forth for the part of the day, but it wasn't long until they came across a beaten path near where the stream met a river. A much as it wasn't paved, the clear sign of twin wheels was enough to suggest civilisation. By the time noon had came and went by the time they reached what looked like a hut, the warm glow of the setting sunlit sky bathed the forest in calm, it was as if the world was winding down. Slipping towards it, the pair, walked on the sides of the feet as the quietly made towards the front door of the cottage. With a light tap on the door, the pair stood a polite distance from the door.

The small building, cottage looked ageless, as if it could have been built ten to a thousand years ago. Simple non-varnished door and window frames, the pale, weathered wooden shutters, like aged and stacked logs, slowly matching the greyness of the stone foundation, after being bleach by the sun. The vines latched themselves around the edged and hard points of the building, reaching far under the lip of thatched roof, covered in sycamore blades. The sound of a neigh alerted the pair to a small overlapping bit of thatch and a donkey underneath, a large tarpaulin covered carriage. A grumble was heard from behind the door.

"Ermm, hello?" John gave a small wave.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Salute?" The man asked as the two men at the door paled slightly. The old man gave the pair in front of him a strange look. "Dous sont Sacre Transweoruldus?" He slightly curious. "Nein?"

"You have any idea what he's saying?" John asked.

"Sounds like a bastardisation of German and Latin, much like English." Hans responded. "Transweoruldus, means across or trans, world or weoruld, and I think the 'us' bit is a male suffix, like Julius rather than Julia. Sacre, is the source of the word sacred, or holy. So I think he thinks we are pilgrims." John looked surprised, Hans raised his hands up in defence. "Hey, I'm Catholic and my school was run by monks, I think I might know Latin. The German, however, is self explanatory." He smiled before clearing his throat. "Wir sont Preditia Transweoruldus?" Lost Travellers. He said questionably.

The man just barked a laugh, the two soldiers looked confused. "I take it you need to work on the accent?" John said.

"Oh shut it." He turned back to the man. "Entre?" He asked. The man sighed, he gestured with his hands, into the small room. "Danke." He bowed his head in thanks and respect, and it seemed to be a universal gesture. The old man moved around a pot in the centre of the room and sat down. The small cottage had a pleasant smell of herbs that seemed to float through the room. A small girl, about the age of sixteen walked through. Both John and Hans were surprised to see what looked like natural blue hair atop her head, with equally curious eyes to match.

"Salute." John attempted, causing the girl to look to the old man questionably.

"Transweoruldus?"

"Da." He responded.

"Ah." She nodded in understanding, jumping up next to the old man.

Hans leaned towards John. "I think you need to work on your accent."

She pointed at herself. "Lelei La Lalena." Then the old man. "Cato El Altestan"

Hans did the same, "Hans Krüger." then to John. "John Stevenson."

John took out a small notebook and an ink pencil before beginning to scribble in some notes.

"Senior Stevenson, Du fachen Notias?" She pointed at the paper.

"Err… Da?" He attempted they seemed to understand. He repeated the action with a little over exaggeration. "Ich facen" then he pointed at the text "Notias?" He attempted to say, his nervous smile broak into a grin when the two across from them nodded in understanding.

"Da. Du no comprehent unser Langia?"

John leaned into Hans. "This is like a melting pot of old French, Italian and Germanic. A proto-English, almost." He smiled. "So I'm guessing she is questioning if I speak the language at all."

"Die… La… Langia n'est… nicht unser."

"La Langia nicht unser." The old man corrected.

"La Langia nicht unser." The language is not ours Hans attempted to say. "Wir Ausländers." We're foreign.

"Dours Cladias est curius, eben wie dunser Transweoruldus Stockias."

"Our walking sticks?" Hans questioned John, who was still scribbling down notes.

"I think he means our rifles, Hans."

"Ah." He turned to the old man. "Unser Stockias sont nicht für Trandeorulden. Sie sont wie Arcuai, aber nicht." They are like bows, but not. "Sie heißen Gewehre oder Rifles." They are called guns or rifles.

"Rifles? Das est trés intressant, wie tun sie funktion?" The girl asked.

"Should we show her? She's asking how they work." Hans asked John.

John picked up his Enfield Mark III rifle and sat it across his lap. Double-checked the ejector pin was still in place, before quickly cycling the mechanism, ejecting a live round into the air, which he caught with his right hand. Holding the .303 round in between his finger. With his left hand, he circled around the whole round "Cartridge," he then pointed at the tip, "Bullet," and then the casing, "Case." He turned to the Hans. "You're the translator, do your thing."

"La Bullet, Es-est wie ein Pfeil… Fleché… Saggita? In der Cartridge est ein Pulver la dilaten. La dilaten forceren… drüken… pushen la bullet von la Casing, aus la Ende las Gewehre. La bullet est trés schnell… rapide."

"Aha. Genial."

"He says that its genius." Hans said to John.

"Kind of is, isn't it."

Cato looked over the lip of the pot and nodded grabbing a bowl he turned to his guests. "Essen?"

"You don't need to translate that for me."