Below the Fight

France, 1944

Bullets tear at us through the blackened husk of civilization. It is night, and the pinpricks of bright gunfire scatter amongst the wreckage of buildings. The cacophony mixes with the surprised shouts of men on either side of me.

First Lieutenant Heath presses a hand on his helmet and ducks. “Take cover!”

I drop to a crouch and scramble towards a tall piece of concrete. A bullet rams into my shoulder and I fall. I don’t have time to recover. I pull myself the rest of the way as bullets impale the ground around me.

I lean back against the concrete and look to my right. The dead and dying litter the dirt. My friend, Smithy, is on the ground. A corner of his head is gone. He’d taken off his helmet to show me where he kept his cigarettes; it still rests in his hand.

Closing my eyes, I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t. I wheeze and press a hand to my shoulder. Blood leaks between my fingers and down my filthy uniform.

The men of my platoon return fire from wherever they’ve found shelter. I can tell we’re outnumbered. On the other side of the street, I see Johnson, the kid with the lisp, get shot in the chest as he fires from behind a large piece of rubble. He is dead before the rifle falls from his hands. I dropped my rifle when I was shot, it rests ten feet from here I huddle, black metal reflecting gunfire.

On my left, stairs lead to a basement. The door is cracked open, and it’s dark inside. I glance one more time at my rifle that rests in a puddle of blood, and then I crawl down the stairs into the building.

The room is dark and smells like mold. I trip over a piece of plywood and look up. The flame of battle lights up the room through a hole in the ceiling. The Germans push this way, and I am a coward. I’ve seen men hold their insides with one hand as they shoot with the other, and I hide away with a shoulder wound. I’m light-headed and it hurts badly, but I should still fight.

I turn and begin to leave when I hear a cough. It startles me, but the only sound I make is a sharp inhale of breath. A faint light emanates from behind a tall bookcase. I move quietly and creep around the corner. I have my knife in hand, the one I use for opening cans and attacking at close range. My left arm dangles uselessly.

I lean against the edge of the bookcase and gather my courage. There isn’t a lot of it, these days. Whoever is hiding coughs again, and I spring forward and into the alcove. I stop short. An old man sits against the wall with a book in his hands, reading by light of an oil lamp that rests on a low shelf next to him.

He looks up at me and smiles. “Bonjour.”

Adrenaline leaves me, and I sink to the floor, leaning against the bookcase. The knife loosens in my hand and falls to the ground. I press my hand to my shoulder as the man pulls himself to his feet and grabs the oil lamp. He squats in front of me and speaks English with a heavy French accent.

“You are shot.”

He reaches his hand towards me, and I press back against the bookcase, grabbing my knife. The man is French, but there has to be a reason he hasn’t fled with the rest of the town.

The man removes his hand. “I was a medic, in the first war. I can help.”

“What’s your name?” I ask. My voice shakes and I feel pale.

“Henri. Yours?”

I hesitate, but the man couldn’t do much harm with my name. “Jackson,” I say.

“A strong name.”

I don’t say anything. My Company sometimes runs into families that haven’t evacuated in time, who hide in the rubble of their homes while war rages around them. They are always relieved when we are the ones left standing. We get most of them to safety, one way or another.

This man appears to be alone and unfazed at what is happening above him. He stands up and grabs something from a chest in the corner and walks back over, hand rummaging in a paper bag. He pulls out a piece of jerky and hands it out. I wipe my bloody fingers on my dirty pants and accept his offer.

“Do not ask what meat it is,” he says.

I sniff it. It doesn’t smell better or worse than what they give us as rations. My stomach rumbles and makes the decision for me. I take a bite. It’s gamey and salty. I drink what’s left in my canteen to wash it down.

Henri turns his back on me and rummages through the chest again. “Keep your hand pressed on your wound.”

I do so, keeping the pressure on as Henri comes back with a needle, thread, and vodka. He sits down in front of me.

“I can help.”

The firefight still rages above. It sounds like we are advancing, but it’s hard to tell. I have spent too much time here, and I couldn’t be caught hiding away.

I try to push myself to my feet, but I drop back down, my head light and full of cotton.

“I can help,” Henri says again.

I nod. I don’t have much of a choice otherwise. I could stumble out of here and search for a medic, but I am rooted to the spot. I am just so, so tired.

Henri gets the supplies ready. He cleans the needle with vodka and hands the bottle to me. I know what it’s for. It burns my throat, but my muscles loosen, and my heartrate slows. Henri helps me remove my uniform enough to clearly see my wound. It still seeps blood. The bullet went clean through my shoulder, and I don’t notice the blood seeping down my back until Henri makes me lean forwards.

I take another sip of vodka to prepare for the pain.

Heavy bootsteps and labored breathing accompanies whoever lurches through the door. I set the bottle down and search the ground for my knife. I don’t find it in time.

A kid in a German uniform stumbles around the bookcase, rifle aiming at the ground. He curses and raises it when he sees us. The rifle shakes and his eyes are wild. The German and I stare at each other; the gun is the only translator we need.

Henri says something in German, and the kid aims the gun at him. Henri speaks softly, then the fight goes out of the soldier, and he slumps down the way I had earlier. The gun clatters to the ground, and the kid cries. He’s as pale as a corpse. Henri walks over and sets down a canteen next to him, and then turns back to me with the needle and thread, as if what has just happened, hasn’t.

I take my hand off my shoulder and gesture at the kid. I glare at Henri. “You’re gonna let him watch?”

Henri glances over his shoulder at the German, who has begun rocking back and forth. “He is in worse shape than you,” Henri says. He twirls a finger. “Turn.”

I push myself around until I face the soldier and Henri is at my back. I’m halfway out of my uniform, and goosebumps rise as I become acutely aware of my vulnerability. My breath catches as I watch the kid mutter either a prayer or a curse under his breath, arms wrapped around his knees and head ducked low. The rifle rests on the concrete between us. The kid looks like he’s completely forgotten about it.

I make a snap decision. Right as I feel Henri’s cold hands on my back, I muster my strength and ignore the pain as I reach forward and snatch the gun. In seconds, I load it and have it tucked under my right arm, pointing at the kid. The German jerks his head up, but lets it fall back on his forearms just as quickly. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s not much younger than I am, really, but his lankiness and tear-streaked face makes him look too young to drink, even over here in Europe.

I tighten my grip on the rifle and keep myself from yelling out when Henri pours vodka on my back. It’s excruciating, but I know it must be done. An infection is a bastard to deal with out here. The pain becomes manageable, and then I feel the needle in my back. Henri is steady and efficient, but it still hurts.

I talk to distract myself from the feeling of a needle in my skin.

“Why do you speak German?”

Henri pulls the thread tight, I wince, and he dives back in. “My mother was German. She moved to France as a teenager. She was pregnant with me at the time. I learned French before she did, but we spoke German at home.”

“And English?”

“I learned in school, and in war.”

We are quiet as Henri works away. He holds my back still when I try to shift my weight. “Don’t move. I am almost done.”

“I learned some French in school. I don’t remember any of it,” I say.

The kid has stopped crying and rocking back and forth, and now stares at the ground with a gaze I’ve seen many times.

An explosion sounds above, like amplified thunder and colliding boulders. Dust falls from the ceiling and the German and I jump, but Henri stays perfectly still. The explosion fades, then the gunfire starts again.

“Why are you here?” I am not sure whether I am speaking to Henri or the kid.

Expectedly, Henri is the one who answers.

“I haven’t anywhere to go. I help the way I can.”

I gesture at the German. “You help them?”

“That boy is hardly them.”

I watch the kid as he takes a sip from the canteen Henri set next to him. His hand shakes vigorously as he drinks. Then he takes out a cigarette and lights it. I think of my friend Smithy, who had been so proud of his secret stash of cigarettes. Heat builds in my chest.

“They’re all the same,” I mutter.

Henri uses a cloth to wipe at the finished stitches, then starts speaking in German. The kid answers in a soft voice. It’s strange hearing the language in a gentle manner.

After their short conversation, Henri speaks in English. “Tomas was drafted. He doesn’t want to be here anymore than you do.”

“I volunteered,” I say. I turn and rest my back against the bookcase so that Henri can stitch the entry wound. I keep the rifle trained on the German.

Henri pours the alcohol on that wound as well, and my mind fills with fire. The pain settles, and Henri speaks. “Then why are you down here, hiding away when your medics are bound to be more apt than me?”

The question cuts deep, and I try to come up with an answer. I can’t. I should have stayed and fought instead of coming down here. I hadn’t known Henri would be here, so what would have been my plan? Hide underground while my brothers died above me?

“I fought in the first World War,” Henri says. “The regular folk? We did not know what we were doing. That included the other side as well. We were all like Tomas, and we all showed it eventually.”

My father fought in that war. He would not talk about it, but he didn’t discourage me from volunteering. We understood something about each other, though he had tears in his eyes when hugged me goodbye. It was the only time I saw him cry.

The first time I killed someone had been after I watched a kid from my hometown get blown up. I shot an enemy soldier in the head, and I had the sickening thought that I killed someone on our side. I remember crying later that night, not in grief, but because I was relieved that I didn’t kill someone I knew, and that I wasn’t the one that had been blown up.

“That war was bad. Everyone knows that. This is a different beast,” I say.

Henri finishes the stitches on my shoulder. “No fresh gauze. You will have to make do.”

I nod and begin to pull my uniform over my shoulder, when Tomas makes a sudden movement, hand going into a pocket on his uniform. I retrain the rifle on him, my muscles tense. He holds up his other hand in the universal sign for calm. Slowly, he pulls out a wad of white bandages. He tosses them to Henri, who catches them. The rifle relaxes in my grip.

“War is war. Each one is entirely different,” Henri nods his thanks to Tomas, “and exactly the same.”

Henri wraps gauze under my arm and around, tying it tightly, but not too tight. I pull my uniform back on. My shoulder burns, but I can manage.

The gunfire and explosions fizzle down and I climb to my feet, using the bookcase for support. I readjust the German rifle so that it points at the ground. Even though he has given me bandages, Tomas watches me warily.

I shake hands with Henri.

“I’ll tell them you’re down here. We can get you somewhere safe.”

Henri shakes his head. “No, I would like to stay.”

I look at Tomas, whose face is still pale, eyes still distant. “What about him?”

“I could use the company.”

“He might turn on you.”

Henri looks at Tomas. He asks something in German. Tomas’s eyes widen and he answers quickly. Henri nods, turning back to me.

“He says he will not do that.”

I have no choice but to believe him. It surprises me how easy it is to do so. Tomas is just a scared kid trying to escape death.

“Thank you,” I say to Henri.

Then, I take my leave. I don’t give the rifle back to the kid. Even though we weren’t at war in the basement, above ground is a different story. Still, I don’t tell anyone about what happened, I dodge questions, and I pretend that my shoulder isn’t injured. We lost men, but we held our own and came out victorious.

We move on to the next town, and then the next. In some we must fight, in others we don’t. It all becomes a blur, and what happened becomes a distant memory. Only when my shoulder twinges do I think of the basement, and I become, for a moment, less keen to pull the trigger.