Stream of Tranquillity

Willy never saw the bullet that punched a hole in his head, blew his broken brain apart, and ended his torment. He knew his killer.

The day began like most others that summer – gaunt and haggard young men huddled around wooden ladders while shells whistled overhead. The shelling was among the more tranquil moments. When the shells rained, there was no fighting.

Willy – a brawler all his life – never imagined he’d grow weary of scrapping. That was before his life had descended into an endless onslaught of never-ending battles.

He fought the cold and the damp, the lice and the bloated corpse-rats. He resisted sleep and the ensuing nightmares. He wrestled with the appalling visions haunting his mind. Dreadful visions of atrocities he’d seen and, shamefully, committed. He resisted the desire to speak with the pals he’d enlisted with. Looking into their bleary-eyes was like peering into a mirror. A cracked, warped mirror on the verge of shattering into a thousand pieces. He grappled to keep the creeping shadow of sorrow from consuming him each and every day. Sorrow for the butchered and damned, never to fight again. He fought to keep hidden, the petrifying anxiousness now entrenched in his very being.

All this before a different whistle commanded him to face his most formidable foe.

Willy tensed as the big guns behind fell silent. He glanced over his shoulder. Lieutenant Snodgrass stood in his usual spot behind the men, focusing intently on his pocket watch. Willy gripped his rifle tight to conceal his trembling hands as the lieutenant placed his ACME whistle between pursed lips. Lieutenant Snodgrass would utter no inspiring words to encourage his men to a gallant victory. He reached for the only motivator he knew – his prized, captured Luger.

Willy turned and focused on the battered tin hat in front. He shuffled on swollen, numb feet – SQUELCH… SQUELCH… SQUELCH… SQUELCH. Sweat trickled down the inside of his arm and he would’ve vomited if his stomach hadn’t been empty. He nibbled at a piece of flaking skin on his dry lips, and silently prayed to a god he’d long lost all faith in.

Lieutenant Snodgrass’ whistle joined the chorus blasting along the line. Raking gunfire, exploding grenades, and ear-shattering artillery answered the shrill command to attack.

Willy’s vision narrowed on the tin hat in front as his world descended into chaos yet again. Shrieking whistles, shouts and screams, gunfire and explosions all dissolved around him. It was surreal, like a dream, or more likely, a dreadful nightmare.

The tin hat in front became a man’s back, arse, legs and boots, until all before him was a mud-caked ladder.

Willy knew his purpose – step onto the ladder, climb to the top, race across the desolate wasteland fit for no man, and, if able to, return when the call to retreat sounded. Simple. Just like the countless times before. Yet his feet would not take that first difficult step from their mud sheathing.

The soldier behind nudged Willy’s back and said, ‘C’mon, pal, time to go kill some Jerry’s.’

Willy stood rooted to the mire.

The soldier pushed him to the side and stepped onto the ladder. He turned as he swung his rifle over his shoulder and looked Willy in the eye. ‘Follow me, pal, and you’ll be just fine.’ He winked and smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before scampering up the ladder out of sight.

Willy gave himself a shake and stepped onto the ladder as a deafening blast reverberated right above him. Debris rained down. Amid clods of earth, the disappeared soldier crashed on top of him, sending him sprawling backwards. Willy wrestled himself free from underneath the soldier’s legs, scrambled to his knees, straightened his tin hat, and froze. The boots and legs were missing an arse, back, and tin hat.

Terror descended upon him, pushing and squeezing the life from him.

Chest tight with fear, he struggled to breathe and wanted to tear the clothes from his back. Like his old dog, Bowser, on a hot summer’s day back home, he panted in a vain attempt to get more oxygen into his lungs. His trembling fingers loosened the helmet strap from his throat as rough hands pulled him to his feet.

‘Private McBride!’ The lieutenant grabbed the wavering private by the scruff-of-the-neck. ‘Get up that fucking ladder,’ he ordered, pushing Willy against it.’ ‘NOW!’

Willy  shook his head. He opened his mouth but no words came out. 

Lieutenant Snodgrass skelped the back of Willy’s head, sending his tin hat flying. He flung Willy against the trench wall. Cold, damp earth filled one ear, as warm, wet breath filled the other.

‘Get your arse in gear. Get it up that there ladder. And join your brothers.’ The lieutenant pressed his Luger against Willy’s temple. ‘Do not test me, boy.’

Willy’s legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. ‘Please, boss, please,’ he sobbed. ‘I can’t do it no more, I can’t. Please don’t make me.’

The lieutenant cocked his pistol.

Willy’s eyes fell upon his own battered and beaten tin hat as he bowed his head. He focused on the bright red blood spatters adorning his helmet. They almost looked like a field of poppies – the once thriving flowers of this now forsaken forest. 

‘I’m sorry. Tell my—’

Willy knew his killer. Lieutenant Snodgrass’ shrill cry of ‘COWARD!’ was the last word anyone ever spoke to him.