"Control to 843, a member of the public has called in a stabbing. The patient is a white 36-year-old male. Please confirm the location and nature of the incident is on your console. Over."
Artur, and the new student, John, had been enjoying the unlikely occasion of being able to sleep on their night shift. It was exceedingly rare nowadays, especially in a big city such as theirs', but the opportunity dissipated as another call came through over the radio.
"843 receiving, we've got the details on-screen now. Blue-lighting now. Over." Artur, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, repeated the same call-acceptance protocol that had been ingrained into him since day one of training. The student, however, was not as unfazed as his mentor. It was only John's second shift on the road, and he was still over-confident, and eager to impress.
"A stabbing…?" Asked John dopily. He had never attended such a call before and was overall unaccustomed to violence. This was unusual, especially in an individual who was born and bred in a city as poverty-stricken as his.
Artur looked at the dashboard. It was 01:44. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes once again, he entered the call's address into the ambulance's satnav, flicked the great blue flashing beacons on, and began driving to the incident.
"Definitely not a rare thing. You'll find your first couple rough, but it gets easier the more you work them." Artur could empathise with John. He had only worked for his nation's ambulance service for two years, and still himself had those calls come through where the adrenaline threatened to overtake him. Those were fewer and further between as time went on, though.
They arrived on-scene within seven minutes, a good response time, which was necessary in as potentially a time-critical situation as this. The pair parked half on the pavement and half on the road of the street that the satnav led them to. Artur turned off the blinding blue lights, while John climbed out of the ambulance, grabbed the emergency response bag and defibrillator from the rear of the ambulance, and came to stand beside the more senior clinician.
The location of the call was, what looked to be from the outside, a two-story house. It had white, stone walls, with red slated tiles adorning the roof and four plain glass windows decorating the exterior of the house's side they were facing. A fully glass front door sat laterally on the street-facing wall, with a white pebbled path leading up to it.
The crew walked up the path, Artur taking the defib from his student so that John wasn't unfairly carrying everything. He hated when more experienced crew members did that when he was a student.
Artur was the first to stand within arm's length of the front entrance, and banged three quick but loud knocks on the thick glass, highlighting the urgency that the potential situation called for. Though the front door was glass, neither men could see any movement or figures inside house – the lights were off.
Within a minute, the door handle was turned by an unknown party and the glass swung open swiftly, yet the interior of the house was still pitch-black. Artur's instinct was that something was off – why would the caller have the lights switched off? The streetlamps were all alight, and so it couldn't be a power outage. Perhaps an issue with the house's wiring? That could explain the possible stabbing, an accident after the lights suddenly and unexpectedly lost power. The most unsettling thing, however, was that he couldn't see who had opened the door.
He decided to call out before entering.
"Hello! This is the Ambulance Service. Did somebody call 999?"
Yet nobody replied to his yell. Not being able to use his 'gut feeling' as rationale for refusing to attend a call, neither to his bosses nor his own conscience, he stepped over the threshold and felt around the nearest wall for a possible light switch.
The younger man was much less tentative, still full of bravado and a desire to prove himself. He skipped straight past his senior and walked into the darkness.
"Wait a second-" Whispered Artur harshly, but John paid him no heed as he continued onwards into the void. He sighed, remembering that he himself was much like John when he started as an ambulance technician. Hell, he would be lying if he said he didn't still sometimes act like that – Artur had a real passion for his job, and that sometimes won out over caution. Artur had joined the service straight from school at the age of 16, before progressing to qualify as a paramedic at 18, and while he was mature, his abundance of keenness was an aspect of his practice that he had to rein in frequently when he first started on the road. Although he was not overconfident like John was, having to in fact wrestle with his flaw of a lack of confidence, he was very eager to please and to do the best for his patients.
A few seconds after John entered the darkness, and was no longer visible to Artur, the sound of his footsteps had dematerialised very suddenly, as if they never existed in the first place.
"Is everything alright, John?" He asked cautiously, taking another step towards the direction the younger man had gone, abandoning his search for a light switch.
THUMP.
He felt a sudden pressure in his back, his vision rapidly accelerating towards the floor below him. He landed face-down on the ground, dazed at what had happened, before feeling a wet warmth originating from where he first felt that pressure, and felt it drip down his side, and then abdomen, before landing on the floor below. Artur looked at the ground beside him, where a bright red liquid was now coating the area around where he lay.
Is… Is that my b-blood? What the hell is happen-
He felt a sharp sensation, as a wet fleshy sound was heard, and he felt the pressure on his middle back relieve somewhat.
Until the pressure rapidly returned, and yet more THUMPing and wet, sickening, fleshy sounds were heard. This time, he felt an excruciating pain, his mind finally catching up to his body.
GARRRGH. MY BACK, WHAT IS HAPPENING MY BACK MY BACK MY BACK.
He tried to cry out, but only a weak sigh escaped his lips. He coughed harshly as the sharp agony duplicated in more and more places on his back. The cough was wet and stained with bright red-pink blood.
He felt his consciousness fading, but caught a glimpse of a figure behind him, the one responsible for his brutal attack. A knife was clenched in the figure's right hand. Blood dripped from it, coating both the knife and the figure's hand, shirt and trousers.
Artur had to warn the young man he entered the house with, but only more bloody, painful and oxygen-depriving coughs escaped.
Artur, the 20-year-old paramedic, was dead.
Artur was now standing, this time in what seemed to be another void. This pitch-blackness was different to that of the house he had entered.
What… What happened? Was I stabbed to death? I don't understand, John and I went into that house, and…
"Welcome. Welcome to the Hall of Memories, Artur Stuart." A booming deep voice let out its simple greeting, silencing Artur's thoughts entirely. His environment continued to be as that of deep space, the origin of that commanding voice being nowhere in sight, before the colours surrounded him totally inverted slowly into a blinding white.
"We are the Od Laguna, the source of mana and magic and arbiter of all souls. As you may have now be aware, you have died." The voiced stated, sounding somewhat sympathetic to the man's circumstance.
Artur had just died, and in an extremely brutal and malicious manner, in fact. He didn't understand why he felt so calm, and undisturbed by that reality. He should be shell-shocked, anguished, and torn up. He was a man that had a good relationship with his emotions, and so his lack of reaction was unexpected.
"While normally, as the arbiter of all souls and the guardian of reincarnation, we would return your soul to the cycle of reincarnation, we are afraid that the current circumstances are not, in fact, normal."
What? Reincarnation?
Artur was aware that reincarnation was a concept throughout culture, history and mythology – believed devoutly by followers of religions such as Hinduism, used as a literary device by novelists, and was sometimes simply something that many people wished might happen to them in order to escape their boring lives. The man had not, however, ever considered the concept to be anything other than fiction. Artur strived to keep an open mind, however.
'Od Laguna'? Why does that sound familiar?
"No, these are not normal circumstances. A strong being, one out of even our control, is pulling, tearing at your very soul, demanding that you are taken to its presence. One that is the embodiment of pure, unadulterated evil. Time is of the essence, and we have to get your soul away from this place, before it can intervene. We do not know when, or where you will be sent to, but we will do all we can to protect your soul from her grasp, and thus the sanctity of all of the cycle of reincarnation."
Why me? What does this 'evil' person want, especially with someone as insignificant as me? I might be the most run of the mill bloke out there.
Wait, they don't know 'when or where' I'll be sent to? That doesn't sound very good.
"The body you are transmigrated back into your world in will not be your own. Your age, skin colour, and even gender may be different. We apologise that this might be a shock to you."
That doesn't sound good… My body's not the strongest, most agile, or most attractive, but I've gotten comfortable in it over the last 20 years.
"When we meet again, we hope that it will be in better circumstances. We will do all we can to make your soul untraceable, and we will, with luck, remove the evil's gaze from your very being." The godlike entity sounded regretful at having to spit out Artur's soul into a random place, time, and body.
"Goodbye, and good luck." And with that, a bright white light, in desperate contrast to the all-absorbing black void, overwhelmed Artur's senses, and when his senses returned to him, he was struck by utter confusion.
He was standing in what seemed to be a large barrack. Bunk beds upon bunk beds upon bunk beds lined the interior wall behind him and in front of him, and also ran through the centre of the large building. It was exceedingly bare, with the only furniture other than beds being footlockers at the foot of each bunk.
What is going on? When the god-guy talked about reincarnation, I assumed I was going to be put into the body of a baby, and that I was going to have my memories wiped. Oh, maybe that is what they meant, when they talked about not having time to do things properly.
Artur spotted a door at the end of the long room, and quickly made his way over. Opening it and crossing to the outside, he saw that he was in what seemed to be an army base, like the kind he had seen in war films and television shows. He spotted soldiers in PE equipment jogging around the base, others taking aim and firing at targets down long shooting ranges, and yet more soldiers patrolling the perimeter of the camp, standing guard at the camp's entrances, and manning watchtowers from great heights.
This looks like something out of Saving Private Ryan, or Band of Brothers. Where, or better yet, when am I?
After walking around for half an hour, taking in his environment and trying to find a clue as to his location. A thought had niggled at him when he was opening the door to leave the barrack that he had 'spawned' in, but after now walking for a brief time, had hit him in full force.
Am… Am I shorter than I was? I felt a lot weaker when I was opening that barrack door, like I had to put more effort into even pulling the handle down. I know that the Od Laguna told me I wouldn't still necessarily have the same body as I had before, but I don't think that quite hit me.
I'm curious… I'll have to see if I can find a mirror. My entire body feels different… I feel weaker, a bit more agile, I'm sure I'm shorter… And I'm definitely more wiry than I was.
He was unconsciously looking for someone that looked like an officer or someone in a position of authority, but instead of finding one himself, an officer found Artur.
"STUART! YOUR SECTION IS TIMETABLED FOR PHYSICAL TRAINING, SO WHY, IN THE NAME OF HIS MAJESTY, ARE YOU WALKING AROUND AS IF WE DON'T HAVE A HUN TO KILL?!" A large man, around 6'3 and 180kg, screamed at Artur from a stone's toss away. Artur gulped; he was never particularly good with authority. Even in school, his teachers made him nervous.
Artur could tell the man must be some kind of officer from looking at him. He wore a brown, very smart uniform, with same-colour trousers that went down into dark brown boots laced shut that stopped four fingers short of his knee. A silver sword was sheathed by his left side, and a handgun was holstered on his right. His head was adorned by a brown, peaked-cap service hat, the same colour as his smart uniform jacket.
As Artur parted his lips to respond, the large officer, supernaturally now at arm's reach, bellowed at him in an English accent representative of his noble birth "DON'T YOU DARE OPEN YOUR MOUTH. IF YOU ARE NOT CHANGED INTO YOUR PE ATTIRE AND STANDING IN RANK WITH YOUR SECTION IN TEN MINUTES, I AM GOING TO HAVE YOU FUCKING COURT-MARTIALED! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR, YOU DUMB, DEAF AND BLIND EXCUSE FOR A SOLDIER?"
Artur was not taking any chances. He didn't know the large, loud man, but he certainly knew Artur. Assuming that the bed he had 'spawned' in front of was his own, he dashed back to the barrack he emerged from, intent on fully obeying who he inferred was his superior. Artur had a natural sense of spatial awareness that had always served him well, and it was especially useful in the ambulance service.
Wait… His Majesty? From the officer's accent, I'm guessing I must be somewhere in Britain, although that doesn't narrow down the 'where' aspect of my… new life nearly as much as I'd like. The when, however, is still fully unknown to me. If the monarch is a male, then does that mean the Queen is dead?
No, the man's uniform… I am certain that it's one that has been long-superseded. I must be in the past, then?
No point in dwelling on it. If I take too long, I'm going to get a boot up the behind, and I think the best course of action right now is to blend in as if I haven't just been wrenched from one reality and cast into another. I'll try to get more answers later.
Artur hastily entered the barrack, made his way over to the bed he assumed was his own, and spotted that his name was engraved on the footlocker… 'A. Stuart.' Disorientated as he might be, even Artur could remember his own name. He didn't understand, however, why he was clearly familiar to at least one person, and how there could be property with his name written into it if he had only arrived less than an hour ago.
He paid it no more mind as he changed into the tidily folded PE clothing that lay inside his footlocker. He noticed a few other items in there, but decided that further investigation could be left to a later time. He placed the brown clothing he was wearing, which he now recognised as a British soldier's uniform, neatly into the small chest, before leaving the barracks and finding his way back to his superior.
The officer had a clearly annoyed look on his clean-shaven face, but said no more as he led Artur to where he assumed he would meet his fellow soldiers.
The men the officer led Artur to were standing in two rows, the front of 5 and the back of 6. Artur took the empty spot in the front, making the formation 6 and 6. He was most definitely the shortest out of them all, by a small margin against some of the men, but by a large margin in others. Just how young was this body he now inhabited? Artur estimated that he must be around 5 ft 4 inches.
"Alright, now that Private Stuart has decided to grace us with his presence, we will now begin this morning's training." The Officer barked out angrily, staring Artur down with a nasty sneer on his face. The two soldiers on either side of Artur looked at him from the corner of their eyes, but neither of the men turned their head towards him.
The morning consisted of vigorous physical training: miles upon miles of running, uphill, downhill and on flat terrain, designed to challenge and improve the physical condition of the soldiers. Artur was surprised at how fit this new body was; while he was slim in his old body, he was definitely not the fittest man on Earth. He was rather sedentary on his days off, preferring to read and play video games, listen to music and play his guitar, than to spend time at the gym or running. It was definitely something he regretted, but it had no bearing on the present, considering that he occupied an entirely new body.
While his new body may have been more fit than that which he had previously, it was clearly not at the peak of physical condition, and by the end of the morning, Artur was drenched in sweat, struggling to catch his breath, and felt like he would need ten showers to get the dirt and grime off of him. His wish was granted, as their exercise through the forest near their camp came to an end at Artur's barrack. The men briefly stopped to collect their uniforms, before all making their way to a building not far from their bunkhouse.
Artur's fellow soldiers were clearly used to following this routine, day in, day out, and so Artur followed along. The building that they had arrived at was the soldier's communal shower, and after indulging in the hot water running down his body, purifying his skin from the mud and sweat he accumulated from his nightmarish run, Artur and his fellow soldiers changed into their uniforms.
There was no uncertainty left in Artur's mind that he had travelled into the past, now. The uniforms that he and the men changed into were most definitely from a time now long gone – he figured that they must have been from WW1 or WW2, but he couldn't remember specifically what either war's uniform looked like.
The men made their way to another building, this one larger than the communal shower had been, exceptionally long and quite wide. Its walls were made of a brown stone, and it had a slanted, brown-tiled roof. Its architecture was in line with the rest of the buildings that Artur had seen at the camp. As Artur made his way inside, he could see many tables and benches arranged in a way that made it clear he was inside the camp's mess hall.
Lined up along a wall were what serving tables, where soldiers lined up with trays in hand to be served food into empty crockery by mess soldiers. At the start of the queue were trays stacked one on top of the other, with bowls and plates laid out beside them. Making his way over to the queue, Artur's belly rumbled fiercely – it appeared his stomach approved of the actions Artur was taking.
He noticed that this was the first time that he and the men had been out the constant oversight of their superiors, and as such, the atmosphere inside the mess was much more relaxed than in had been in the middle of the open-air camp. Men were laughing, telling each other stories, and had a much more gregarious look to them. The mood of the room put Artur much more at ease.
He picked up a tray, got served his meal – an unidentifiable, meaty, soup-like substance in a bowl, along with a quarter of a loaf of bread, and made his way over to the table that the rest of his section were occupying, taking one of the seats that wasn't currently occupied.
"I'm amazed your head's still attached to your shoulders, mate. I thought Lieutenant Blacklock was going to take a bite out of you for being late to PT." One of the men, seated diagonally across from Artur, joked at him. This man had noticeably short brown hair.
"I guess even the Lieutenant isn't fed up enough of the food to be taking bites out of his underlings." Artur joked back, causing both of the men to laugh. A few of the other men around them chuckled at their exchange, too.
"Not yet anyway. If those Jerry bastards sink any more of our supply ships, even a scrawny 14-year-old is going to start looking edible. Yes, even you, Artur." Said the brown-haired back, his face a mix of humour and anger.
WAIT, WHAT?! 14-year-old? How the hell does a 14-year-old end up conscripted into the army? That doesn't make any sense.
Unless, wait… I'm sure I remember from history class that there were children who lied about their age to be able to volunteer to fight. Is that the situation that I'm supposed to be in?
I need to know what year it is.
"Hey, remind me, what's the date today?" asked Artur, gingerly.
The diagonally-seated man furrowed his brow for a moment, before giving back a tentative answer.
"I think it's… The 16th? That might've been yesterday, actually, but I'm sure the newspaper that arrived this morning had the '16th' on it."
"Ah right, okay. The 16th of…?" Artur asked awkwardly, trying to sound as unsuspiciously as possible.
"April, mate." The brown-haired man's eyes moved from being furrowed, to being raised, in response to Artur's question – a strange question, from every perspective outside of Artur's.
"And what… What year is it?" Artur asked cautiously. This question got the eyebrows raised of not only from the young lad that he asked the question to, but from a few others sitting near them, and strange looks in abundance. 'Strange' would be an understatement, it'd be more accurate to say they gave him looks as if he had two heads.
"Eh? What do you mean? Did you hit your head on that run there, or is this the setup to another one of your terrible, terrible jokes?" Asked the brown-haired man as he rolled his eyes. His confusion around the question was fair, and to be expected by Artur, but he had to get a straight answer, nonetheless.
This guy mentioned that a newspaper was delivered. Ah, if I just waited until tomorrow's delivery, or if I found one of today's newspapers, I could've avoided sounding so suspicious… Well, too late to take the question back now.
"Please just answer the question." Artur said.
"It's…" the young man paused, still trying to gauge whether Artur was pulling a joke on him.
"…"
"It's 1916."
Artur had bolted from the mess hall, unable to believe his ears. He had to find a newspaper now, now.
It can't be. It can't be. It can't be. 1916? What kind of sick joke is this? I'm training to be a soldier, in the middle of the first world war. What the hell kind of twisted thing to do is that? Is that fucking 'Od Laguna' the real evil entity, condemning me to die in a trench? Hold on, hold on, hold on.
Artur came to a stop, arriving back at the barrack of his. He had to think. April 1916. What battles had already happened, and what had yet to occur? He sat on his bed.
"April 1916. Verdun started in January, right? Wait, no, was it February? I can't remember exactly, but I'm sure it's this year." Artur started talking to himself. He was the only soul in the barrack, everyone else in the camp either training, eating, or otherwise preoccupied.
"I've missed Gallipoli, the spectacular disaster that was, and I'm sure I've missed the first battle of Passchendaele, but maybe not the second or the third. Have I missed Arras? Damn it, I wish I took more of an interest in the First World War, but I always did find World War Two more interesting."
Artur was exasperated, to say the least. Why had the Od Laguna, a being that claimed to be oh-so-powerful, chosen to spit him out in the middle of the fucking GREAT WAR?
"FUCK!" He yelled, angry at a situation he had no control over, had no say in, and was more than likely going to end in him being killed in a trench, alone and forgotten.
No, the Od Laguna didn't choose to spit me out here, did it? Or if it did, it was a liar… It claimed it was doing this because it was unprepared, didn't it? Because there was some kind of 'evil' being after my soul? Then maybe the flinging me into what's going to be hell on Earth really is just a terrible, terrible dice roll.
It doesn't matter, at any rate. I'm here now. If I remember right, British soldiers in the First World War were trained for three months before joining the frontline. I think the next thing I should find out is how long until we're shipped to the front, or how long I've 'been in training', so I can figure out how much time is left.
Artur had calmed down a little bit. He could be an emotional man, but usually managed to get his control of himself by coming up with a plan of action and thinking rationally. He stood back up, and looked down at his uniform.
"Hahaha…" He laughed at himself. "This is just my luck. Of all the times in human history to be sent back to, I had to get sent into the middle of a war so destructive, so deadly, so damning, that it got nicknamed 'The War to End All Wars'. So fucking typical."
He shook himself off, and left the barrack, walking back to the mess hall. He looked up at the sky. The sun's position meant that it couldn't be much later than noon.
I wonder what the routine in this boot camp is. So far, I know that PE is in the mornings, but I'm curious about what the rest of it includes. I have to strengthen myself as much as possible if I want to come out of this thing alive. It's certainly not going to be the lark that the propaganda and newspapers painted it as.
He entered the mess hall, sitting back down in the spot he had rushed out of the building from.
"Are you alright mate? You've been acting strange today. First, you're late, which is totally unlike you, and then you start asking really strange questions. What's going on?" Asked the same man that informed Artur what year it was.
I obviously can't tell this guy that I've been transplanted from one world into another. But I also can't pretend as though everything is fine… It's an act that I'd only be able to keep up for so long before questions were asked that I can't answer, or people expect things of me that I have no awareness of. I'm going to have to be honest, and try to make friends here.
"No, I'm not." Artur said, wondering what he could possibly say in this situation.
"What's going on, mate?" The man asked Artur again, looking expectant. "We're friends, you can talk to me."
So, I do have friends, then? I don't get it. Have I taken over the body of somebody with the exact same name as me? Have I been thrust back in time, with reality shaping around this sudden intrusion of mine?
"I've… I've got amnesia. I woke up this morning with complete, total amnesia." Artur said, trying to judge the reaction of the brown-haired man he was speaking to. If nothing else, Artur really needed to get the guy's name – there's only so long he could call him Mister Brownhair.
The man blinked. His brow furrowed.
"I'm going to be honest mate; I've never heard that word before. Is that a fancy-schmancy way of saying your leg's sore? I have to say, that doesn't explain your strange behaviour today." He looked confused, but he was clearly trying to inject humour into the situation.
Ah, damn. Was amnesia not a commonly used word back then? Err, back… now?
"Sorry. What I meant was, I woke up this morning having lost all of my memories." Again, Artur studied the face of brownhairboy.
"…"
"…What? I don't get the joke, Artur…" The man looked very confused, now.
"I'm not joking. That's the reason I was late to the PE session. I woke up having no memories about our schedule, where I am, or, like you can figure out by my earlier question, even what year it is. The most recent thing I have memories of is waking up." Said Artur.
The brown-haired man's eyebrows shot upwards, seeing clearly now that Artur was not joking, not in the slightest.
"Wait, so you don't remember me? Or who your friends, family, or loved ones are?"
"No, I can't remember anything. I only even know my name is Artur is because everyone keeps calling me by that name." Artur hated to lie, he felt it to be one of the most despicable sins, but there was no way he could be honest without ending up in a mental institution.
Well, 'mental institution' is a kind way of describing where he would end up. With how mental health 'care' was in the 20th century, it would most likely be more like an insane asylum.
"This isn't funny Artur. You can't even remember me?!" The man looked genuinely hurt by this. Was he related to Artur in some way?
Artur shook his head, eyes downcast. "I'm really sorry, but I can't even remember your name."
"I'm your big brother, by God! This isn't funny at all Artur!" The man, or more accurately, the boy, was suffering from a mixture of confusion, anger, and sadness. He wasn't sure if he would have preferred this to be a sick joke, so that he hadn't lost his brother, or for it to be genuine, so that his brother would not be the kind of person to make such a hurtful attempt at humour.
"I'm really sorry, and I'm not trying to be funny. So… What is your name?"
"My name is Malcolm." He sighed. He went to speak, but sighed again. "Come on, we'll go somewhere private where we can talk openly."
Artur nodded, and they both arose from their seats and left the mess hall.
Information overload would be an effective way to describe it. Artur had one million questions, or thereabouts, for his 'brother' Malcolm, and Malcolm was only too happy to help out who he perceived to be his little brother.
According to Malcolm, neither he nor his brother were conscripted, but were in fact volunteers. Volunteering together guaranteed that they would serve side by side in a so-called Pals Battalion, rather than being arbitrarily distributed to separate units from one another. It was, in fact, Artur's idea to volunteer to fight in the war – and Malcolm, being the loving big brother that he is, couldn't let his little brother go off to Europe to fight by himself, and so there was nothing for it – they would fight together.
Artur felt a real sense of guilt at this – of course, it was objectively false that this Artur, who was in the here and now, had done such a thing. He had lived only 1 year in the 20th century, a far cry from the 14 that Malcolm believed him to have – and that 1 year was while he was a new-born baby. The 19 other years of Artur's life had been in the 21st century. Regardless, Artur felt obligated to stick with Malcolm, which was made much easier by how protective Malcolm seemed to be of Artur.
They had been in training for about a month now, with each day's regime consisting of PT of various activities in the morning, marksmanship or another combat skill trained in the afternoon, and something else trained in the evening, which varied depending on what the training officers felt would benefit the green soldiers. This often survival skills such as navigation, bushcraft, pioneering, and other general activities.
In just two months, they would be sent into Europe to reinforce the frontline. The men did not yet know where they would be heading in Europe specifically.
And so, that is how the next two months went for Artur and his comrades. While undergoing the training regimen that was imposed by his superiors, he slowly got to know his fellow soldiers and his 'brother' better and better. One thing he found amusing was that, if he didn't know any better, one could believe that Malcolm really was his brother. They both looked alike, shared a terribly similar sense of humour, and had a common belief in values and ethics. Artur wasn't sure how to feel about that – that some of his beliefs were held in high value in the early 21st century as much as they were in the early 20th century.
They hid his 'amnesia' from their superiors – neither Artur nor Malcolm felt that it would do Artur any good for his superior to learn that he awoke to holding no memories of his circumstances in 1916, and although Artur was effectively a month behind his fellow soldiers, he was helped along by Malcolm to catch up, not thinking twice about helping his brother. Although Artur couldn't remember him, Malcolm was extremely pleased that they got along so well.
But before long, their three months of training had come to a conclusion, and it was time for them to be shipped off to the western front. By the time they had arrived at the front, it was the 1st of July 1916, a time where the Entente were beginning their 'great' offensive on the river Somme.
Hell. Hell on Earth. The trenches were to be Artur and Malcolm's home for the next 3 months. Artillery barrages constantly rained from the sky, shelling everything around them. It didn't stop, day and night, day in day out. It was constant.
I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep-
It wasn't just the constant artillery barrages, but the gunfire. The unending machinegun fire rang out through the night, with each bullet threatening to be the one to finally catch them.
The latter half of the offensive was especially rainy, exacerbating the already inhospitable, muddy environment that the soldiers constantly lived through. Each step Artur took threatened to absorb his leg into the near-bottomless mud, and he was running out of clean socks. Trench foot was a debilitating threat to consider.
Artur was lucky that he never caught a sniper's bullet, either – the Germans had learned that a single bullet from a marksman's rifle could be as effective as a thousand shells fired from a howitzer, a lesson that the Entente officers had learned the hard way, themselves being the targets of Jerry snipers.
More artillery barrages. Artur and Malcolm had been lucky that they hadn't been hit by artillery shells, but their brothers-in-arms, and even some of their friends, had not been so lucky. It sounded like a constant screeching, screaming, squealing, that no matter how hard they pressed their hands to their ears, or put their heads under their pillows, could they block out.
I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep I can't sleep-
Artur and Malcolm had been lucky so far, in the sense that they had not yet had to go 'over the top'. Artur knew of the concept, and the terrible whistle that sounded out before beginning an assault, and Malcolm had heard rumours of it being the final, 'friendly' sound that many men heard before their time had come.
But they had only been lucky so far – and soon, their luck had run out.
The sun was hiding behind the clouds this afternoon, and it was not long since a great monsoon of rain had ceased falling. The ground was especially muddy today.
"It's finally our turn." Malcolm remarked ruefully to his brother. His face was wrinkled with worry, and it seemed as though he had aged 10 years in only 3 months.
"Can you remember what time the Platoon Sergeant said?" Artur asked, his face and his age not aligning at all. He may have looked 14 years old when he was first spat out from the Hall of Memories, but that were no longer the case. He rarely thought about it now, but while his translocation had occurred five and a half months ago, it felt like more than a lifetime. Time passed so slowly in the trenches, and it took all Artur had to keep his mind from wearing to tatters.
"I'm sure he said it was three o'clock." Malcolm pulled out his trench watch, the time reading twenty-five minutes past two. Artur peered at the small device, his brow furrowing.
"Shit." He mumbled, unslinging his rifle, re-inspecting it for the fifth time in an hour. It was a nervous habit he had begun developing gradually, ever since the constant artillery barrages, machine-gun firing, and sounds of distant screams and cries had become a constant of day-to-day life.
His hands trembled lightly; adrenaline already being secreted in a trickle by his hyperactive adrenal glands. Artur imagined that his endocrine system wouldn't be his greatest admirer for the stress he involuntarily put it through.
He could hear the distant artillery barrage of his own side, its direction being across no man's land. Their own artillery were doing their job of attempting to soften up the German trenches, in preparation for the imminent assault that the higher-ups had mandated. It had been going on for the last five days. Although the Jerrys were his enemy, he couldn't help but feel empathy for them. He knew how hellish, how excruciating, how intolerable the constant scream of artillery shells bombarding the ground around you was. He had had to endure that eldritch aspect of trench warfare since almost the same day that he and his newly adopted brother had stepped off the train transporting them from dear old blighty.
His Platoon Sergeant was approaching from the communication trench to the rear. He knew it would soon be time.
"What time is it, Malcolm?" Artur asked his brother. Malcolm looked hesitant to check, as if not looking at his watch would stop time's endless march forward, but he did so anyway.
"It's five minutes until three-o'clock." Malcolm stated, his face showing no signs of pleasure at all. Men that Malcolm had been friends with from the village he grew up in had been some of those who had already went 'over the top', and had subsequently taken their last step on two legs after finding a landmine, been caught on treacherous barbed wire and shot, among other ways that no man's land had of ensuring those who entered it would not leave.
The Platoon Sergeant stood by the ladder that would lead out of the trench.
"Mark the 26th of September in your diaries, lads. It's the day that you'll all prove that you are heroes!" He shouted. The man's positive sentiment and emotions on his face were greatly juxtaposed to the atmosphere of his men. Whether he was unaware that morale was 6 feet underground, or was aware and was simply trying to brighten the mood of his men, Artur couldn't work out.
The Plat. Sergeant climbed halfway up the ladder leading to no man's land, and looked along the trench in both directions. His men were all queued in single file, awaiting the signal that their assault had commenced.
"Affix bayonets!" Screamed the NCO. The soldiers followed his command, some of the men's hands shaking more than others. Once Malcolm had attached the bayonet to the end of his rifle, he checked his trench watch again. One single minute to three. The assault would not commence a single second before the scheduled time.
Artur took deep breaths, attempting to calm his heart rate. It wasn't working.
The NCO, staring at his own watch, snapped it shut. He took the whistle he held from around his neck, took a deep breath, and blew threw it with all his lungs' capacity. The screech was rivalled only by the death-from-above unleashed by the enemy's howitzers.
To the left and right of Artur, he could hear other NCOs blowing their whistles, signalling to their own men that the assault had begun. The Platoon Sergeant lay prone beside the top of the ladder, as one-by-one, his men climbed the ladder and began walking across no man's land. The creeping barrage had begun, turning the fields that once were green into a craterous hellscape to a greater and greater extent.
The enemy's artillery had adjusted its trajectories, and were now bombarding the land in front of the Entente trench, in attempt to fling shrapnel into advancing British soldiers.
Malcolm began to climb the ladder, with Artur directly behind him in the queue. Machine-gun fire rang out, no longer firing in a general area as Artur was used to, but was now specifically sighted on Artur and his immediate comrades.
Malcolm was now over the top, as was his brother a moment later. They both advanced with urgency, bullets whirring past them and artillery letting loose their terrible power. The mud squelched under their boots as they advanced, the terrible autumn mud having done the advancing soldiers no favours.
They could see the enemy trench now as they advanced, Malcolm to Artur's right-hand side, but as they advanced, a large explosion occurred to Artur's left, one that Artur's ears never registered. He was deafened, a high-pitched ringing noise being the now-15-year old's only auditory companion.
He felt disoriented as continued to trudge forward, stumbling and attempting to remain upright. A soldier to Artur's left was shot in the neck, blood pouring from the perforated blood vessels as he instantly crumpled to the ground, dead. It took Artur all of his willpower to not give in to his ambulance instinct's desire to provide aid to the fallen man. If Artur stopped to help, then there is no doubt that he himself would become a holding sack for enemy lead.
Another man, 30 metres to Artur's left, stepped on a landmine. Dirt, water, and a red mist blew upwards into the sky, and Artur could see the man's lower limb flying opposite the direction its owner had advanced. Any step could be your last one on two legs.
Four minutes went by, and they were still advancing. Artur's hearing had partially returned, but still a high-pitched ringing persisted. A man to his right, further away than Malcolm, took a single step into what appeared to be a puddle, and it took all of half of a second for his entire body to be submerged. It was no puddle, but a metres-deep pool of dirty water, the muddy terrain masking its nature from the soldier's view.
Another landmine was triggered, this time to the rear of Artur. Had he not just passed over that area? Another soldier lay dead behind him, blood mixing with muddy water to provide a disgusting-coloured ground around the now-lifeless body. He could hear another man vomiting behind him, before that same man caught a bullet in the belly. His screams never ceased as Artur and his brother continued to advance.
He couldn't tell whether him still hearing the screams after minutes of further advancing was true to reality, and a testament to just how slow they were advancing in the perfidious, muddy autumn sludge, or whether it was a figment of his damaged psyche.
Artur glanced briefly around him, attempting to gauge how many casualties his assault group had sustained.
That was a mistake.
There were now more men laying on the ground unmoving, or rolling around on the ground in agony, or laying in more pieces than there were German machineguns, than there were soldiers upright and moving in the same direction that Artur and Malcolm were.
They continued to advance for a few more minutes, before another artillery shell was dispensed onto the ground, to Artur's right. A mere five metres away.
Artur was thrown further than he could throw a grenade, and he landed face-down in the mud. He attempted to roll onto his back, but he was completely disoriented, was entirely deafened this time, and could feel a sharp pain on multiple areas on the right side of his torso, face, arm and leg. Even in his shambles of a state, he could feel that he caught more than a few pieces of shrapnel.
No. Wait. To my right. The shell landed to my right. To my right. To my right. To my-
He tried to scream, but only managed to get a mouthful of mud. He attempted to stand, now successfully this time, and stumbled in the direction of where he had been standing mere moments before.
No. No no no no no. No no no no. It can't be it can't be it can't be.
He finally got back to where he was before the artillery shell flung him, and the disgusting mess of limbs, viscera, bodily fluid and pieces of clothing confirmed his worst fear.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Artur fell to his knees and screamed "NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!
NO!
He vomited over himself. It was a horrifying brown, bloody substance that now coated his face and uniform. What had once been his adoptive brother, a man-, no, a mere boy younger than Artur had been before his death on Earth, was now a sick mosaic of the constituent parts that make up a human being. He attempted to put the pieces of his now fallen kin back together, but only accomplished getting his hands covered in blood and brain matter. There were no pieces to put back together.
Another landmine was kicked behind him, and he was thrown away from what had once been a human being by the name of Malcolm. With that, Artur lost consciousness.
When Artur regained consciousness, the first sensation he felt was agony, and the second, was that he was being dragged by his collar. He opened his eyes, but could only see out of his left one. He noticed it was now night.
How long have I been asleep? Too long, no doubt Malcolm will-
ACK! MALCOLM! MY BROTHER MY BROTHER MY ONLY FAMILY-
He sobbed, and sobbed, and tears ran down his face. He cared not about the reaction of the individual dragging him along the ground, and the individual showed no sign that they had noticed his breakdown.
Once his crying had abated, the next thing he had noticed was that he had had first aid applied. He was bandaged, and although it was difficult to tell due to the red coating that was applied to nearly the entirety of his being, he was sure that his bleeding was less than when he first lost consciousness, though he was in no state of mind to even begin assessing that.
"You've found another one?" Asked a soft voice. He didn't recognise it, but he was certain it belonged to a woman – he was having trouble hearing at the moment.
"Aye, miss. Found him in a right sorry state not far from the Jerry's abandoned trench. I've patched him up a bit, but he's going to need desperate work." It was a deep voice this time, a man most likely, and brimming with equal parts sympathy and exasperation.
"Alright, lay him on the field bed." It was the women that time.
Field bed? Is she a nurse or something? I-
He lost consciousness once more.
Pain. That was, once more, the first sensation that Artur felt when he regained consciousness for the second time in… well, he had no way of knowing how long it had been since he first awoke, being dragged along the ground.
He tried to open his eyes, but could only open his left. His right eye felt like it was covered by cotton, or a similarly soft material that wrapped around his face. He saw that he was no longer outside and exposed to the elements, but in a room, atop a comfortable bed. A white blanket lay over him, and his head rested atop perhaps the most comfortable pillow to exist – although his judgement might be a bit biased, having spent the last number of months sleeping in a trench, using bags of flour as a pillow.
There was a single window in the room – on the middle of the wall to his right, letting rays of light through the glass, illuminating the room.
I can't see the sun, but judging from the level of light and considering the time of year, it must be late morning or early afternoon.
Artur tried to move, but the pain he felt was excruciating. The right side of his torso, and his right arm and leg were in agony when he moved them. He tried to shout out, but only a weak whisper escaped his lips. He had no energy, and felt as though he was hit by a bus travelling at 80 mph.
There was a glass of water to his left, sitting atop a small wooden end table. He moved his left arm, in a minor amount of pain, and tried to grasp for it, only succeeding in knocking the glass over, having it fall and smash on the ground, and sending water everywhere.
Fuck.
After a few seconds, he heard movement on the other side of the wooden door leading into his room, and quickly the door was opened. A beautiful woman with long brown hair and deep brown eyes entered the room. She was dressed in a nurse's uniform, one typical for the period of time he was now in, but one that would be entirely anachronistic if seen in the modern day.
"Oh, dear. What happened, Mister Stuart?" Asked the nurse. She had a voice that radiated a no-nonsense manner.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I tried to reach for the glass of water by my bed, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor." Artur let out weakly, quietly. It seems that swallowing muddy water and lying out in the freezing cold for hours was not the best for one's vocal cords.
"Ah, not to worry, Mister Stuart. You must be awfully disorientated after what you went through. How are you feeling?" She asked, pinning no blame on him in the slightest.
"Like I've been run over by a bus, if I'm being honest."
"A what?" Asked the nurse, confused.
Ahaha, buses probably weren't around yet.
"Never mind, you're right, I'm feeling a bit confused at the moment. What happened to me?" Asked Artur.
"You were found by one of the soldiers sweeping for survivors overnight, briefly treated in one of our stabilised in one of the field hospitals on the front, and transported to this hospital following your regiment's successful assault on the German trenches. I must say, mister Stuart, you're nothing short of a hero! Not far from mortally wounded, surviving for hours without treatment, all in service to your country! May I say, thank you for- "
That was about all Artur could take. "Hero! Hero! I'm nothing like a hero! I didn't achieve anything at all! All I did was march through a hellscape, see my friends die around me, and lose the only person I had close to family be turned into an unrecognisable mess!" If Artur hadn't lost his voice, his statement may have come out harsher than it ended up sounding, but it only came out as yet another weak struggle.
The nurse looked sympathetically at Artur. No doubt that she had seen men brought in before, with the same attitude as Artur. She couldn't understand it, though – she didn't have the capacity to understand it, and unless an individual had gone through similar experiences as Artur had, nobody else could, either.
"I'm sorry to upset you. I mostly came to let you know you have a visitor, a Captain Lawrence."
Artur had never met the man, but he knew that he was the superior of Lieutenant Blacklock. He had seen him in passing, and heard him admonish Blacklock a few times when his harsh treatment of the men was to too much of an extent. Artur wondered what the man could possibly want to see him about. He had accomplished nothing to merit notability or notice of his superiors, and, as far as he was aware, he hadn't committed any crime or infarction to warrant disciplinary action, either.
He couldn't presume that, however – if Artur had learned anything over the past months, it was that military regulation could be a convoluted beast. Rules that were centuries out of date, designed for issues not relevant since decades prior. It was completely possible to commit no wrongdoing, and yet commit wrongdoing in the eyes of the unseen eye of bureaucracy.
What does he want with me?
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Thank you for letting me know about the visitor, I'd be happy to speak to him." Artur's face softened, displaying an expression of regret and kindness.
I must remain polite.
The nurse nodded, and turned away from Artur before leaving his hospital room. Thirty seconds later, the captain entered his room.
He was a tall man, standing far above Artur. That was no challenge, however, as Artur still was only 5 ft 6 himself. He wore a smart brown officer's uniform, the same that Lt. Blacklock had worn, and that was typical of all British officers that Artur had come across. The only difference was the insignia on the epaulettes of his coat. He was a gruff looking man, with brown eyes and black hair that held significant grey, and seemed to become greyer as each day passed. A small moustache adorned his upper lip, looking a shrunk-down version of that which Lord Kitchener had on his 'Your Country Needs You' poster.
"Private Stuart. I am Captain Lawrence. The first thing I wanted to speak to you about was the death of your brother, Malcolm. Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult it is to lose a sibling, having lost a brother of my own, and it must be even more difficult for you with Malcolm being such an early age."
The captain stopped talking, his eyes fixed on Artur expectantly.
"Thank you, Sir. He was a good soldier, and a good brother." Artur struggled not to tear up while he said this. Though every word he uttered was coated in formality and rigidity, having learned the hard way the potential consequences of behaving relaxed in the presence of an officer, he struggled to talk about the late Malcolm at all.
Lawrence merely nodded, his eyes softening.
"He shall not be forgotten." The captain rapidly changed the subject. "The second matter that I wanted to discuss with you is how you feel about returning to the front – once your wellbeing has fully recovered, of course. Normally, we would not begin to consider putting a soldier back on the frontlines after sustaining the kind of wounds you have, but after thinking on it, I know that I myself would want to be back in the thick of it."
No, you wouldn't. You don't know a fucking thing about what life is like in that muddy, rat-infested hellscape. If you did, the thought to send back to the trenches someone who had just lost a part of his family, and many of his friends, wouldn't even occur to you.
"Thank you for considering me for such a privilege, Sir- "Artur could not help but spit as he said 'privilege'.
"Excellent, I will have the order sent to deploy you as soon as deemed medically fit." The officer interrupted him, seemingly not picking up on Artur's sarcasm.
Artur was stunned into silence. He could not help but have the sounds, smells, and sights of the trenches and no man's land flash through his mind at Lawrence's words.
"And to commend you, I am pleased to confirm that you will be receiving a direct promotion to the rank of Corporal, bypassing that of Lance Corporal, in addition to being awarded with a citation for gallantry. Being the only man in your Company to survive the assault, you are surely deserving of recognition."
Upon hearing this news, that his entire Company had been wiped out, Artur's eyes flew open as wide as physically possible.
What? Is he joking? The entire Company? B-B-But we were nearly at full Company strength, 190 other men! How could we have all been… Dear God, I'm going to be sick.
Artur wretched at this, and immediately tried to move his right hand to his mouth, before wincing in pain and moving his left. Lawrence was confused at this. Surely any soldier would be pleased to receive recognition for his efforts. Then he realised.
"Oh, dear. You weren't aware that your Company was wiped out? I'm afraid the Germans had thrice the number of artillery pieces and machineguns defending their position than we expected, resulting in a much denser concentration of fire on your advance than we could have possibly predicted."
He paused for a moment. "No matter. I wish you a swift recovery, Stuart."
The Officer clearly did not want to be in the hospital room; the entire conversation felt forced, disjointed, and he was opening the hospital room door to exit as he finished his sentence. Lawrence shut the door behind himself.
With his departure, Artur wept. He wept for his lost brother, a man who was not truly his brother, but was as good as one. He wept for the friends he had made in his Section and Platoon, who he would never banter with again. He would be ashamed to admit it, but he also wept for himself. Artur was, once again, well and truly alone again. He hadn't had many friends before his half-reincarnation, and he had struggled to make friends at first with the soldiers he got to know around him, barring Malcolm of course.
And now, he had no-one. Not his small but tight-knit group of friends in the modern day. Not the harsh but well-meaning comrades he had got to know in the past few months. Not even Malcolm.
He wept.
The next two years went by slowly. Very slowly. Artur was sent back to the front, just as Capt. Lawrence said he would be, acting as if he was doing the man- the boy a favour. The horrors of living on the front had not dissipated in the three months that Artur had spent in hospital recovering. No, they were the same before, during, and after his admission.
But time passed slow. Unbearably so. He no longer had people around him that he cared about, or that cared about him. He couldn't let himself get close to the fellow soldiers of the Platoon he had been moved to following his original one being wiped out. Getting close meant even worse pain when they were inevitably killed by artillery shells, sniper fire, or stray machinegun fire.
The machineguns – for a purpose that the divines only knew, Artur would never forget the sound of a MG08 for as long as he lived.
Regardless of how slowly this Hell-on-Earth passed, however, Artur knew that it would soon be coming to an end. It was a date than even those who had taken only a passing glance at a history book were familiar with – on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, 1918, the guns would fall silent.
Artur was grateful that the date was approaching. He didn't think he could take much more. Not another suicidal charge across no man's land, plunging his bayonet into men- no, boys, who were younger than even Artur was back home. No more sleepless nights, his only companion being constant explosions and gunfire. No more smell of infection from untreated trench foot, which would undoubtedly turn septic and kill the poor lads suffering from it.
He knew it was currently November – but he was unsure of the exact date. He thought to ask one of his fellow soldiers, but they themselves did not know the exact date. Newspapers had long since stopped arriving at his section of the front, along with other non-essentials that the officers feared would turn the men 'soft'.
The date to Artur was confirmed, however, when the atmosphere of his section of the trench came. He could remember it very clearly. Artur had awoken on yet another freezing morning. The snow was falling, and was decorating the ground in a thin blanket of white. The colour was a welcome change to the dark mud that the soldiers were used to staring at for the majority of the war.
"Four hours' time – the cease fire is going to be eleven o'clock." Said one soldier, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
"So, 'leven o'clock, on the 'leventh day, of the 'leventh month? Fuckin' 'ell, mate. No doubt some fat royal bastard is well-pleased with 'imself comin' up with that one." Said another, no love for his higher-ups left, if there ever was any to begin with.
"But why are the Jerrys still shooting? Why are they still letting off artillery? I don't understand. Why are they still killing us, when it's to stop in four hours' time?" Yet another voice, this one exasperated. It was a good question.
"Don't you think they're asking the same thing, only about us 'Tommys'? The wankers making the decisions sitting comfy in their warm houses, feet up, a cup of tea next to them – they need to keep appearances up, make it look like they're ready to keep us killing each other if the Germans don't play by the rules. They aren't thinking about how many more people are going to die between now and the ceasefire." Said another, thumb scratching his chin, thinking carefully.
Artur walked over to the campfire that the four men he overhead talking were sitting at. He didn't say anything, or look at anyone, only wanting to warm his hands.
I wonder what I'm going to do when this is all over. I can't exactly do what I did before all of this. The ambulance service isn't going to be around for over another fifty years. I definitely don't have the background or money to go to university, either.
I could stay in the army, I suppose. It's a wage, and I'm guaranteed not to catch a stray bullet once the war's over. Well, not for another 21 years, anyway.
Wait, was the UK involved in another war between WWI and WWII? I know there was some kind of trade dispute with Ireland at some point, but I don't think it actually came to blows. Think, think, think. What other wars are going to happen between now and 1939? If I remember right, Poland is going to give Russia- no, the Soviet Union, a bloody nose on the Vistula, and Pilsudski's going to become a legend.
There's the Spanish Civil War, but that's not until, I think, 1936. A long way to go. Britain wasn't involved in that, anyway – at least, they didn't send soldiers, although there were plenty of volunteers that went and fought for Spanish freedom.
Artur slapped his forehead, facepalming to himself.
I didn't even consider that I could end up getting sent to nearly anywhere in the world. Britain still has a massive empire right now. They could send me to Africa, Asia, India, Hong Kong, or just about a million other places if they wanted to. At first, the thought of that was off-putting, but… A chance to travel sounds like it wouldn't be such a bad idea. I always wanted to visit Canada, but never really got the chance to. Although would I even be given the choice of where I'd end up? Probably not.
I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I actually need to survive till the end of this war!
Artur smiled darkly to himself. It would be just his luck to survive two years of nigh-constant death, destruction and brutality, only to end up dying with an hour to go.
He sat back against the trench wall, and pulled his metal helmet over his eyes. The sounds of war hadn't yet stopped, but they undoubtedly were thinner than they had been over the past couple of years. Artur fell asleep.
It was not long until he awoke, though. He couldn't believe his ears – there was no artillery bombarding the area around them, no gunfire, no land mines being triggered by a raid over no man's land. Had he slept through the Armistice?
"Excuse me, mate. How long until the ceasefire?" Artur asked a man who he had spotted looking at a trench watch, similar to the one that Malcolm had kept in his coat pocket. A pang of pain hit Artur, but he focused on the man.
"If my watch is right, it should only be five minutes. It's almost over!" The man had the warmest expression that Artur had seen in well over two years, and the smile could not help but spread to Artur, as well.
"Just when I was getting used to stale bread and cold tea." Artur joked at the man, earning a chuckle before the man turned and walked over to who Artur assumed were his friends. He was so alone.
The now-17-year-old walked over a nearby ladder leading out of the trench, and climbed up halfway. He couldn't see much risk in poking his head out now, not when the Armistice was-
Thwack. Bang.
A bullet hitting the ground to Artur's left, the sound of the gunshot quickly following.
Thwack. Bang.
A bullet hitting the ground to Artur's right, the sound of the gunshot quickly following.
Thwack.
Artur felt the bullet, but didn't hear the gunshot.
Artur was enveloped by a blinding bright white, his senses overwhelmed by a great numbness. It seemed familiar to him – he was sure that he had seen and felt this before. He strained his brain to remember.
The memories returned to him. It was Armistice Day. He had looked up over the trench wall to glance across no man's land, but before he knew it, he had caught a bullet. Was it a sniper's shot? The inaccurate spray for a machinegun? The truth, however, was that Artur didn't really care.
When he realised that he should surely feel something about his life coming to an end – for the second time that he could remember – it instantly dawned on him just where he was. The supernatural calmness that he was currently feeling, in the face of the inevitable result of his own mortality, solidified in his mind that he had been here before.
He was in the Hall of Memories once more. The Od Laguna.
As if in response to realisation dawning on Artur, The Od Laguna once more bellowed to him.
"Welcome back, Artur Stuart. It hasn't been long since you were last here, since we evacuated your soul. Although, we can feel that you are different. Your personality, your psyche… We can see that, to you, it feels like it has been much, much longer since our last meeting, than it has for us."
Artur nodded. True, it had been a painful, agonisingly slow two and a half years since he had been not-reincarnated. He had no doubt that his own perception of time was direly warped by the horrors he had endured. It felt more like ten years, and even more like he had aged that amount of time.
But now he was free from that Hell on Earth. He didn't have to suffer anymore.
"You might remember that we sent you away so hurriedly, because your soul was being tracked, and pulled on possessively, by a malevolent entity. We believe that by transplanting you as we did, we have freed you from- "
The benign being was halfway through its sentence, before a loud crash sounded out behind Artur, interrupting it. Artur turned to look at what had caused the noise, and that sight took his breath away.
A black, void-like, gooey and growing mass was spreading out in unparalleled contrast to the divine-like white that characterised the Hall of Memories.
"NO! BE GONE, YOU BEAST! THE HALLS ARE SACRED, YOU HAVE NO PLACE HERE!" Cried out the Od Laguna, seeming to Artur that it was enraged by this transgression, at perhaps the mere thought of such an evil, eldritch monstrosity desecrating what was possibly sacrosanct ground.
Perhaps it was not as powerful as he believed, the thought had occurred to Artur. It was a waste of brain power for such an idea to cross his mind, however. He had absolutely no frame of reference to compare it to. How should he know anything about it?
Artur stared wide-eyed, encapsulated as the black mass continued to spread. It was almost like… shadows? While he was transfixed, his emotions still seemingly severed from himself in this white, now-blackening stasis, he saw a new shape emerge from the shadows – one that he had not seen before. It was a dark, void-like hand, attached to an impossibly long arm, slowly moving towards him, its fingers opening and closing as if grasping for something. Shadows, as if in a state of liquid, dripped from the arm, falling to the once-unblemished white ground and staining it with splotches of void.
The hand got closer, the grasping motion seemingly intent on surrounding Artur in its grip. He couldn't move, or rather, he had no instinct to. He was not frozen in fear, for he was incapable of feeling fear in that moment, although he perhaps might have if his emotions were not seemingly ostracised from him by the benign Od Laguna. Artur merely stood as the hand got closer to him, curiosity building in him.
'What is this thing? What does it want with me?'
As much as the Od Laguna resisted with all of its power and might, however, it was in vain. The hand grasped softly at Artur's torso, a warm, loving, seductive feeling spreading out through Artur's entire being. How could this entity be evil? Its mere touch communicated unconditional, eternal, infinite love that was solely, solely intended for him. But something didn't feel right. What had he done to deserve such a blessing? No, something was wrong. Artur knew that something was wrong, that he didn't deserve such warmth, this happiness incarnate.
It was too late, however, as the hand softly holding Artur in its grip had lifted him in the air, and was pulling him towards where the shadows originated from. As he got closer to the point which the stygian arm came from, he could see that the grotesquely black mass of shadow that was spreading through the Hall of Memories was shrinking back from where it came from, receding.
The Od Laguna was fighting back. It was taken by surprise at the shadows' intrusion, ambushed – but once it had gotten its wits about it, it seemed to prove that it was the stronger entity between the two.
"RELEASE HIM! RELEASE HIM NOW, HE HAS DONE NO WRONG, HE DESERVES NOT THAT WHICH YOU SHALL INFLICT ON HIM!" The Od Laguna bellowed, in what Artur was sure was rage.
It seemed to be too late, however, as Artur was mere metres from where the dark being had wrought an entrance into the Hall.
"WE… WE ARE SORRY, ARTUR. WE HAVE FAILED YOU, TRANSMIGRATING YOU TO WHERE YOU HAVE JUST COME FROM WAS FOR NOUGHT. IF WE CANNOT PROTECT BUT A SINGLE SOUL, THEN HOW CAN WE CLAIM TO BE THE PROTECTORS. WE SHALL DO ALL WE CAN TO ATONE. RECEIVE THE DIVINE PROTE- "
With that, Artur was pulled, torn, ripped away from the overwhelming white environment, to what could be considered the total, unequivocal, categorical opposite. A midnight surrounded him, as if he was in the middle of outer space, with no tiny stars in the distance scattered about. Like he was at the bottom of a completely unlit mineshaft, only it did not feel stuffy or humid.
Love you.
He jumped, startled, and spun around to face where he thought he heard a voice.
Love you.
Artur heard it again, whirring around to his left, searching for the origin of that voice – it sounded beautiful, but mournful, as if it was suffering from a great, soul-deep pain.
Love you.
He heard it once more, directly behind him. He did not spin round this time, however, for he could not move. He suddenly heard a great rushing noise surround him, coming from all directions, trapped in a great waterfall of crashing water all around him – but he was dry, there was most certainly no water.
He was spinning now. Spinning, twisting in all directions, pulled by a gravity that could not possibly exist in a void such as this.
And then, from nowhere, his emotions returned to him in a great rush, all at once. His eyes were closed, but he could see light coming through his eyelids. He could hear what sounded like wooden wagon wheels rolling along stone cobbles, and more than that, he could hear a great number of people speaking to each other around him, some shouting, some arguing, and best of all, a lot of them laughing and giggling – a capacious valley of different emotions in each of their voices. He could hear dogs barking in the distance, and what sounded like horses, which must surely be dragging the wagon wheels he could hear, breathing noisily through their noses.
He could feel his dark brown leather boots on his feet, and the ground underneath him. Clothing was pressed against his body, and he remembered that he had foregone the standard battle dress that he was used to wearing over the previous two years, for his service dress. It was smarter than the standard battle uniform, and he felt compelled to use it for the occasion of the last day of the war – if ever he was going to take pride in his uniform, it would be on the day of the signing of the armistice. On the final day of The War to End All Wars, which, he of course knew, it would not be.
A light pressure weighed against the top of his right shoulder, the strap of his Pattern 1914 Enfield bolt-action rifle slung over the top of it, and the wooden forearm pressed against the posterior of his right shoulder. His standard issue Webley service revolver sat in its leather holster against the left side of his waist, and it was looped on the brown leather belt that wrapped around Artur. His backpack, which he was used to carrying over long marches and that he had customised to be filled with items to his own liking, was pressing against his back, both shoulder straps around his shoulders. Atop his head sat his service dress cap, a small metal emblem with a thistle adorning the front of it.
Slowly, Artur opened his eyes, and the sights surrounding him shocked him – he didn't know where he was, but he was unquestionably not on Earth anymore.