Journey Back by Staright

Somewhere in France, 1918 

Besides a thick coat of mud, Lance Corporal Horace Yule had somebody else’s blood on his boots. He tried to rub it off but was unsuccessful. A plump rat scattered past him, making him reel in disgust. He knew that these things were the least of his worries, because, in an hour or so, it was going to be nighttime, and Horace and other men were going to have to leave the safety of their trench and raid the German trench, which was on the other side of no-man’s land.  

Far away, Horace heard cannons firing. It sounded like a heartbeat. Then, as if a chain had been tugged, water fell from the sky. He wanted to stay dry by hiding in one of the funk holes, which were holes carved out of the side of the trench, but they were full. He contemplated ducking into the officer’s dugout but ended up flipping the collar of his beige poncho and hunkering down instead.

Alexander Armstrong came over and sat next to Horace. Raindrops plinked on their tin helmets and splashed each other on the cheek. Horace shifted from foot to foot and felt his cold dog tags tap against his grimy chest 

“Amelia had the baby,” said Alexander in a whisper. “It’s a girl.”

“Congratulations, when did you find out?”

“In my wife’s last letter.”

Horace thought back to the letter that Maggie, his wife, sent him. He received it earlier that day. With all the excitement going on, he hadn’t opened it yet. He had an impulse to read it right now, but feared that the ink would smear and the paper would turn into pulp in this weather. 

Letting out a breath, Horace glanced up at the sky. There was a naked tree above him. The branches twitched in the wind and creaked softly. Alexander nudged him a while minutes later. It was time. 

Horace followed his party along the duckboards to the front line trench and the firing bay. His ears turned to blocks of ice as he waited for his turn to climb up. When it was, Horace glanced at the dented tin sign reminding everybody to keep their heads down and then set his left foot and hands on the rungs of the grubby wooden ladder

Up above, he joined Alexander’s side and unslung his rifle which had a bayonet attached on the end. Horace slouched forward like the rest and then began to walk stealthily. Rain rolled down Horace’s back as he wove around the tangled barbed wire. There were craters made by the Germans, fallen trees, and a dead horse lying on its side. Maggie would burst into tears if she saw this, Horace thought. 

When they neared the German trenches, the rain stopped, making the world dead quiet. Horace’s heart knocked against his ribcage and white hot fear zipped down his tongue and landed in his stomach. They crept closer and closer towards the firing bay and on command, Horace cocked his weapon and then woke up inside the trench on his back covered in sweat. 

Someone stood over him. Horace let out a cry and tried to crabwalk backward, but his arms were as weak as sticks of gum. 

“Calm down, calm down, it’s me!” Alexander hissed.

“W-w-what happened?”

“The Germans aren’t here and everything’s gone. They must have known that we were coming, and you took one look at a dead German and fainted.”

“. . . I’ve never seen a corpse before,” Horace admitted and then got to his feet. He adjusted his bandelier and smelled something. It took him for a moment to realize that there was a wet spot in the front of his trousers. He was so glad that it was dark or else the men would not only tease him for not being able to put on his woolen puddies, but for pissing himself.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dead German slouched up against shuddered windows that covered a funk hole. The soldier smelled so rotten that Horace could taste it in his mouth. It was a tang that he’d never forget. 

Feeling fruitless, Horace and the rest of his party began to slowly return to their trench. The moon and the stars were out now, illuminating no-man’s land. Horace didn’t like what he saw, so he kept his eyes down for a while.

When he kicked an empty bullet shell and heard it ping away, one of the men  swore loudly.

“Sorry,” Horace said in a hushed voice. 

“What’s wrong John?” Alexander asked.

John turned around. “I think we’re lost.”

“No, we’re not. This is the right way.”

“I don’t remember passing that tank, do any of you?”

There was a chorus of nos. Alexander suggested walking back to the German trench, but it would take too long. The sun would be up in a while, making them easy targets for German fighter planes.

“I know what we can do,” piped up Horace. “We can use the stars.”

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “You know how to do it?”

Horace nodded and began to lead the way, glancing up at the North Star and the twinkling constellations near it when he needed to. 

When Horace heard British voices. He grinned and he puffed up in pride.  They had made it to their trench. For a moment, he thought that the men in his party were going to compliment him on getting everybody back safe, but they did not. To his surprise, Horace didn’t mind. 

After they reported that their raid was uneventful, they dispersed to funk holes and makeshift canopies. Horace squeezed into a little nook with a tarp for the roof, set a lit torch between his knees, and withdrew the letter from Maggie. He put the envelope to his nose and breathed in the lemon verbena perfume that was spritzed onto the paper and was always worn by his wife. 

Carefully, he undid the flap with his penknife, slid out the letter, and ran an unclean finger over Maggie’s loopy cursive. Horace leaned back and felt a bit of dirt crumble off and land inside his collar. He didn’t mind that one bit and began to read.