Trooper's Sunrise

Trooper Banks shifted his weight on the firestep and adjusted his grip on the sniper rifle. His hand trembled as stiff muscles jerked into action. Just an hour more. Banks had his sleeves rolled up but barely felt the sea breeze brushing against his skin. The entirety of his body was grime, a caking of dirt and days’ old sweat—not all of it his.

He spotted movement through the eyepiece and tensed his finger around the trigger, and then loosened. The enemy sniper moved; nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes hard, suppressing a yawn. Just an hour more. He bit his bottom lip just enough to leave indents but not enough to break the skin. Pain always helped with keeping awake. 

A distant roar excited Banks. He turned to Trooper Dale, the sentry on relief, who was similarly alerted and had stood up from the box stool. Another roar, a rumble, a flash in the sky.  This time the two men smiled. Their lips cracked and tiny slits of red surfaced. Banks tasted iron. ‘Rain’ they said to each other.

It hadn’t rained for days. That, coupled with the sun relentlessly beating down on the seaside encampment, meant the humidity was stifling. Their trenches felt like mass ovens slowly baking, steaming, them all with heat trapped from the day, slowly sapping them of their strength, slowly killing them ambiently, killing them faster than their enemies can. 

Shirts clung to bodies and the air enveloped the skin incessantly with what felt like a damp blanket. A sourness developed in the human odours. Banks could hardly breathe in the sleeping quarters and would risk a stray bullet sleeping outside.

He almost felt envy for those digging the trenches now, in the cover of night, slowly advancing into no-man’s-land. A hideous task with the risk of being buried alive—though they will be clear of sniper shots.  He envied their freedom of movement. It would soon rain and they would kick the puddles of mud. If he could move he would strip and take out his rationed cube of soap. He would scrub until his skin was raw. He wanted nothing more than to wash the war away.

But Banks was on sentry duty. Crucial to their success. Crucial to their survival.

The rain started, and in a matter of seconds, really poured. The accompanying winds were furious and howling. Occasionally they blew the rain sideways, drumming the sniper shield. The grime on his forearms washed away and he felt the chill now. The smell of wet earth and wet jute was satisfying.

Banks could no longer hear the distant digging northwest way. He glanced at Trooper Dale who was washing his face in the rain, visibly joyous. He shook his head but let Dale have that moment. Let him be a child for a while.

He turned back to his eyepiece and no-man’s-land was all static. The heavy curtain of rain drastically worsened visibility and Banks didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Still, this might be a good time to take a shot. He strained for a target. Some heads were around the sentry post and parapet. They stayed quite steady.

Banks breathed out and held it. Lightning struck and lit up the battlefield like daylight. A clap of thunder followed a split second later.

Banks almost didn’t hear the clang of a bullet hitting the sniper shield. He jumped but collected himself. He strained again to pinpoint a target. He returned a shot but saw the spark as his bullet bounced off the enemy’s shield.

He set his target again. Another clang on his shield. Banks winced and felt it reverberate within his helmet.

Banks checked that he didn’t feel any pain. Not hit, no wound. He turned to scream at Dale for inaction.

Four black arms were outstretched over Dale. A few gloved hands grabbed on to his collar and a large one covered his mouth. But the rain made skin slippery. Dale managed a muffled cry for help as he was hoisted up. Amid the thunderstorm the scuffle was barely perceptible, let alone a single yell.

Banks jumped off the firestep and caught on to Dale’s leg bindings. His added weight and force almost dragged all the bodies down into the trench.

Another clap, another clang. But stray bullets were common in the trenches. Their comrades were busy with their own tasks.

Banks looked up in time to see a shovel come crashing down on him. He ducked his head to the side of Dale’s knee and the shovel hit his shoulder. He heard—felt—a crack but hung on to Dale.

With a great heave both men were hoisted out of their trench. As soon as Banks could free his functioning arm, he reached for his pistol and fired at one of the figures. The figure fell on his back. A hit.

But Banks saw more of the enemy. Black clad figures emerging out of the ground.

Another shovel hit Banks on the head and knocked him out cold. Dale met a similar fate.

***

Trooper Banks could hardly swallow. His throat was parched and the foul rag shoved in his mouth made him want to gag. The skin on his face felt taut from swelling and blood caking. He was on the ground sat against the dirt wall in his shirt, stained halfway down in blood. His wrists tied together, resting on one hip.

He winced when he drew in a deep breath. His shoulder was indeed broken. He wanted to scream but felt he would vomit instead. He took shallow breaths and sat very still.

He struggled with his vision. The pounding in his head made the world heavy and encumbering. He blinked and slowly made out the yellow highlights in the dark space. The rough surface of the walls caught on the burning light. There was enough brightness for Banks to see he was in an unfamiliar place. The smell of the underground was the same, but the build, the placement of supports, the way the room was dug, were all different.

He’d been captured. In the trenches of the enemy. He was certain of his fate now. This is how his life ends.

Banks’ eyes searched the room for Dale. Where is Dale?

He felt a presence in the room, in a dark corner unlit by the kerosene lamp.

‘Your name is Banks,’ a bodiless voice said in an accent. Metal that must have been Banks’ dog tags clinked together.

Trooper Banks made no reply. He stared into the dark corner. As if emerging from a swamp, a face and then a body unshrouded itself. The lamp made the man’s face a ghastly yellow.

The man approached Banks and kneeled to meet him eye to eye.

‘Your friend is in the next room. How you answer me will decide his fate. And vice versa.’

A gloved hand intruded upon Banks’ mouth and extracted the rag. Banks coughed and retched but there was nothing to expel. He cried in pain as the convulsions made his shoulder move too much.

‘We have bandaged you but you know how limited medical supplies are. We barely have enough for our own.’ The man waited for Banks to collect himself. He had tears in his eyes. The hot tears that rolled down stung the cuts on his cheeks.

Banks heard a scream deadened by the earthen walls. He was sure it was Dale’s.

‘You are brave and loyal. What every army needs. What every general wants. You could have let them knock you out in the trenches but you had to save your friend. You took one of ours.’

Banks had a retort but kept his mouth shut.

‘I can tell you that we had our revenge. A small force took your little post yesterday. A few men lost on your side. Something to brake the monotony, something to you shake you up. You are all very slow, I have to say.’

Banks let out a hoarse sound that was unintelligible.

‘We know a little about you. But you can tell me much more.’

Another scream. Banks’ breathing quickened and almost didn’t feel his broken shoulder and throbbing head anymore.

‘When are your reinforcements coming?’

Silence. Banks didn’t know. But the man saw defiance.

‘Let’s start with something easier. How many exactly are you right now?’

Banks mouthed something. The man leaned in closer to try to make it out. He spat on the man and glared.

The man, unflinching, wiped his face calmly with a white handkerchief. ‘You know we have a term for unmannered things like you. It means untrained dog.’

The man got up and walked to the wooden table. He unwrapped what looked like a canvas roll. Heavy objects made a thud on the table. He surveyed his options and made his selection. A hammer. A very regular hammer.

‘We don’t have much time and I personally am not a very sentimental man. Even though I like you, Banks, I can capture another one like you tomorrow.

A knock on the door came and a simply clad trooper entered. He regarded Banks for a moment. He was very young. As young as Dale. He had the same horror-stricken daze that Dale would sometimes let show. He delivered his message and was waved away. He regarded Banks again as he exited.

‘I am told your friend is cracking. We know some of your secrets.

‘Poor boy is in a lot of pain. I’m sure you can tell. A loyal trooper like you will never leave a comrade behind.

‘I’ll cut you a deal. Tell me what you know and you will both be set free.

‘Lie to me, defy me, and both of you will meet a nasty end.’ The man deliberately weighed the hammer in the palm of his hand to drive home the point.

Trooper Banks, broken, scared, totally vulnerable, considered his bleak future. This man could be lying. Dale wasn’t cracking. He wasn’t being tortured for telling. Dale is being tortured for being difficult. He may be callow but he was no traitor. Even in cooperating there was no chance of release. Captives are never released.

But there was home. Sweet home. Mother and her sweet bread. Milk from the neighbour. The moist blades of grass in between his feet. The sunrises he’d watch from the fence at the front of his home. The same sunrise he didn’t catch the few mornings before leaving home. If he could sit at that same spot one last time.

But that was all miles and miles away. The stale bread in the camp would do. The reconstituted milk would quench his thirst. He would do anything for a bit of milk powder and that sodden dinner of milk and bread.

For all the interrogation and torture he knew they would put him through, Banks couldn’t help by way of secrets. He wasn’t an officer or even a sergeant. Just another trooper down in the dirt. Just a sentry. Someone replaceable in a second. Even with his lowly station, convincing the enemy of his ignorance would be futile.

He closed his eyes and made his decision. No one ever said a captive couldn’t be creative.