The Wax Man Melts

Spencer held a cigarette up to the heat of the sun, his thin fingers glowing semi-translucent orange in the harsh light. Riggs squinted, obscuring his soft eyes with the brim of his helmet, and reached out to gingerly take the cigarette away from Spencer. 

“You’re wrong, I’m pretty sure it won’t light.”

“Course it will,” said Spencer. “It’s been so hot out here; it’s gotta.”

“Try another?”

“Try yours.” Spencer grabbed the cigarette back, taking it in his teeth and lighting it with one swift motion. The flame of the match was barely perceptible in the intense midday glare. Instead of simply waving the match out, Spencer made a point to reach down and snuff it out in the tepid muck on the floor of the trench, wiping a stripe of the reddish mud on his face. 

“You know, pigs do that to cool down,” said Beckett, watching Riggs struggle to unbutton his tunic pocket to find another cigarette to light. He turned back to Spencer and framed his face with a thick hand. “You still look crazy, though.”

“Won’t matter what if I’m crazy or not come 13:00 today,” replied Spencer. “In fact, it might help.” Riggs had finally found his cigarettes and was shakily holding one up in the air. Spencer slapped his hand down before it peeked over the edge of the shallow trench. “Are you insane? Do you want your fingers blown from here back to the boys in support?”

“No. I don’t think so?”

Beckett coughed out a laugh. “Might be worth it to lose a hand. You’ll miss going over the top today.”

“That’s the coward’s way out,” sneered Spencer. “I wouldn’t put it past you though, poor Mr. Riggs.”

“Well,” responded Riggs, then stopped, chewing on his bottom lip. He had a strong face, which he had a bad habit of hiding behind his hands when he obsessively scratched and picked at his features. Even sleeping, he would slump against the wall of the trench in the fetal position, his nose pressed in the dirt rather than face the world. Spencer joked that he would sooner die suffocating in the mud rather than be shot and Beckett was seriously convinced he was hiding the fact that he slept with his eyes open. 

“Listen,” Beckett said, “obviously, the cigarette won’t light just from warm air. But here, did you boys know I used to be a soap carver?”

“Seems about right,” said Spencer. “Knowing you.”

“Anyone got a candle?” Beckett held out a hand. Riggs pressed a wax stub into his hand.

“I’ve got this, but that’s it.”

“This’ll do.”

They sat in silence as Beckett carefully shaped the candle with his knife, turning it over with a careful watery gaze. A crude little man, about two inches tall, took shape, born out of Beckett’s careful hands. “We’ll see if he melts before we have to go over,” explained Beckett, balancing him on the edge of the wall. “An experiment.”

Spencer picked the man up and pushed a pin through his fingerless clump of a hand. “Here, a rifle.”

Riggs frowned. “That looks like it hurts.”

“He needs it if he’s to survive here. Poor bastard.”

“I guess.” Riggs poked the figurine. “Oh, look, he’s already a little bit soft.”

“I think he’ll melt,” said Spencer. “I’ll bet my watch.”

“How are you supposed to know when we’re supposed to go over without a watch?” Riggs checked his own watch. “It’s eleven A.M. If that helps.”

“See, I’ll just ask one of you boys. You’re nice enough to me.”

“I try,” said Beckett sarcastically.

“Me too,” Riggs added, entirely genuine. 

Spencer tilted his head towards the sun, his shoulders straining upwards towards the heat. He looked as though he could have grown wings right then, rising above the front to rain whatever cosmic violence he felt was fit. Part of the mud on his face crumbled off his sharp, angular face as he knit his brow. “Hot,” he said, shooting a glance at the other two men. 

“Sure is,” said Beckett.

“Makes a man go crazy,” said Spencer, leaning forward into the common space of the trench like a hawk swooping onto an unsuspecting rabbit. 

Riggs didn’t quite laugh as much as he made an amused noise. “Hope not!”

Spencer looked pointedly at Beckett, who shrugged. “You can never be sure.”

“You know, they say some guys are refusing to go over the top when they’re told. You know how that ends.” Spencer imitated an explosion with his hand out from between his eyes as if he was being shot in the back of the head. “Not me. Not either of you boys, I’m sure.”

“Nope,” said Beckett.

“I’ll be able to.” Riggs patted his gun.

“I hear some doubt, there, Riggs, my boy.” Spencer prodded. 

“Never.” 

“You won’t go weak in this heat? Can’t you feel it against your back? Do you want to burn up out in no man’s land? You might.”

“Leave him alone,” groaned Beckett.

“You never know,” whispered Spencer. 

A shell shook the ground. None of the men moved, but Spencer and Riggs turned to look. It wasn’t a close hit, possibly 300 yards away, but it was still plenty loud and powerful enough to send hot dust into the air. The little wax man shifted and fell on his side but did not leave his spot on the edge of the trench. Riggs wordlessly shifted him back to standing, tucking his base into the grey slop of the battlefield. 

The day passed sluggishly, painful with the heat and the knowledge of the charge to come. Spencer spent his time with his eyebrows raised haughtily, cleaning his gun in short, repetitive cycles, frequently sending pointed looks towards Riggs who purposefully shied away each time. The sun crept across the sky, shining unkindly even through the thin grey clouds of smoke from the constant explosions. Although he didn’t quite melt, the wax solider’s arms began to droop.

Noon came. “You ever kill anyone?” asked Spencer.

Both Riggs and Beckett had the same answer. “No.”

“I have.”

“Who?” Beckett twisted his mouth, flicking Spencer’s helmet to expose his eyes to the light.

“Not someone out here. I’d get in trouble for telling you.”

Riggs made his voice low and quiet. “Murder?”

“Shh.” Now smiling ear to ear, Spencer pantomimed stabbing someone an obscene amount of times.

Beckett sighed. 

“You’ll have to kill someone. That’s how that works. That’s how it’ll be, come 13:00,” Spencer continued, tapping his well-kept boots against Riggs’ muddy ones.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“You see, Beckett? He’s gonna chicken out.”

“Shut up and let me take a little nap,” Beckett murmured, slumping back in his seat. 

“You, too?”

Riggs wrung his hands. “Better let him sleep. It might be the last sleep he gets.”

Spencer scowled. “I don’t understand how you could sleep at a time like this.”

“He’s tired.”

Beckett slapped the wall angrily.

“Jesus!” cried Spencer gleefully.

“He’s not here,” grumbled Beckett. A man further down the trench quietly scolded them for being so loud. 

They did eventually shut up, still watching the wax man. Spencer’s eyes burned into the little effigy, clearly regretting betting his nice watch when it didn’t seem to be melting. Riggs once playfully sprinkled a little water on the thing’s head, to “cool him down,” but Spencer broke the silence to sternly tell him off for cheating on the bet. Beckett did not sleep but he nearly convincingly pretended to, only given away by his tightly held fist. 

“Nearly time,” said Spencer at 12:50.

“Really?” Riggs nearly stood up to his full height before stopping himself. Beckett barely stirred.

“Nearly time,” repeated Spencer, this time with far more malice. “Out of this horrible trench.”

“Less horrible than the barbed wire on the other side,” mumbled Beckett. 

“You don’t know. You haven’t seen the barbed wire. It might be lovely,” simpered Spencer.

“Oh, I know.”

“Hm.” Riggs craned his head to try to see across the field. “Do you really think it’s lovely?”

“No, you dolt, I was making a joke.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Beckett giggled and all three men methodically roused themselves, preparing to rush the enemy trench, guns in hand. 

“Ready?” Spencer prodded Beckett, but he was looking at Riggs. There was a blessed moment where finally everyone was quiet and they were free to look out at the horizon not as poor, co-dependendent denizens of the trench, but as individuals, about to be flung out to the end of their lives. The sun shone on their backs. Spencer turned to look over his shoulder, hoping to see the last bit of green France had left, but was reminded of Lot’s wife, and twitched back to position.

The whistle blew. 

They were all supposed to go over at the same time, but Riggs charged forward like an animal, clambering past Spencer and Beckett, who could only watch and hold onto their helmets. It hadn’t occurred to Spencer just how big Riggs was, given he was always curled up, but against the sea of blue it seemed he could be as large as the sky itself. Sounds were coming from every which way, screaming mostly, but also shot after shot, but the loudest seemed to be the pounding or Riggs’ boots as he rocketed out of the trench. It was like a painting of warfare, gleaming brighter than anything Spencer had ever seen. 

Then it was all over. A fan of hot blood spread itself across Spencer’s face, animated and sticky, and he realized it was what was left of Riggs’ head. Riggs’ body fell back and back, nearly crushing Spencer and clipping Beckett’s right shoulder. There was a pile of clothes and flesh now on the floor of the trench that might once have been a person, but Spencer barely recognized it as such. He gagged but did not vomit. 

Beckett looked at Spencer and Spencer looked at Beckett. Beckett put a hand up on the wall and pushed himself up. Spencer stayed where he was. Spencer… he stayed where he was. He was going to be shot. He couldn’t move. There was no reason that he couldn’t move but he couldn’t he just couldn’t.

“Beckett,” he called. 

No answer. 

“...Riggs?”

Silence.

He slid his hand over the boiling earth, with his fingers meeting something soft to the touch. Something in his brain told it must be viscera, so he jerked his hand away. It was white, though, a blinding white. Wax. The little man had been crushed to bits on Riggs’ triumphant climb over, or, and Spencer knew he would never know which, on his fall. 

Spencer picked up the tiny soldier’s hand, still wrapped around the pin. He was going to be shot. No, he still had time to go over. Then he would be shot, but honorably. For the right reasons. He wrestled the pin from the hunk of wax. No, honor nor bravery was not for him. He’d die for the wrong reasons. He held a hand up to the sky once again. His red veins stood out through his thin skin, and he was suddenly aware of Riggs’ blood in his mouth.

“Huh,” he said, pressing his hand to his heart. “I guess you’re right, Riggs. The little soldier didn’t melt.”