Ben’s face rested against the mud. Rain fell in thick sheets. He wiped his visor, leaving brown streaks across the plastic, and stared ahead. Gray figures darted in and out of the broth – enemy soldiers, trees, shadows, illusions. Fear took hold of the ends of his muscles and pulled them tight. He reminded himself to breathe.
Down the line, maybe fifty meters away, an explosion shook the ground in front of the jagged trench. He felt it more than he heard or saw it. A muffled thud. A brief tear in the veil exposing a glimpse of flying debris. But the pressure wave hit like a boxer had punched every inch of his body at once.
After three days, he could distinguish the long-range Russian naval artillery from the mortars and cruise missiles, which once belonged to the arsenal of the northern states. The way it rumbled through the clouds. The bite, the heat. He consoled himself knowing that if the line didn’t take a direct hit, the casualties would be minimal. One of the few good things about the mud. It sucked much of the shell’s energy back into the earth. Like the boxer punching through a molasses wall. Uncomfortable and painful but not deadly.
Three days ago, his feet touched ground after a ten-hour ride in the bowels of a troop transport. Forty other guys crammed into a space meant for twenty. Gear, weapons, sweat rode along with them. Twenty-two and he was the second oldest as well as the highest ranking on the transport. The soldiers looked like they belonged in a junior high gym playing dodgeball, not dressed in olive green with rifles in their hands and death painted on their faces.
As soon as his boots touched the earth, a captain in a rain-soaked poncho screamed at him to follow. He never learned the captain’s name. There wasn’t time. A pair of bullets pierced his chest to the left of the sternum. He had the strangest expression. Confusion. Or denial. A few seconds later, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. A sergeant grabbed Ben’s arm and tugged him down.
“You’re in charge,” the sergeant said. “What do we do?”
Two weeks last Saturday, he had said goodbye to Jeremiah, Andrew, and Victoria. Now, the remnants of a forty-five-man unit looked to him for guidance.
“Follow me,” Ben replied, heading towards the sound of falling bombs.
He was amazed at how much of his training he remembered and how little use it was out here. If not for his platoon sergeant and corporal Ebed, who had arrived a week ago himself, his distorted, distended corpse would have provided food for the vultures which visited the battlefield daily. On a particularly gray afternoon, his patrol came across a pack of them circling a dead body. A trail of intestines led away from the corpse. In a blind rage, he chased the birds off. The vultures rose as one. A quick reprimand from the platoon sergeant followed. Within seconds, a volley of enemy fire sailed over their prone bodies, the scattering birds a clear sign to the adversary that something approached.
Ben hardly slept the first night. The rumbling of the advancing armor, a growling bear mixed with a high-pitched mechanical whine, had kept him awake. A company of the armored beasts had nearly overrun their position. The weather conditions had stopped their advance. Another good thing about the mud. The thick tentacles gripped the tanks’ tracks, ripping them off the metal wheels. Even in the fog, the stuck metal became easy targets. Their crews knew it and fired off as many rounds as they could before vengeance came from above. Beautiful white and blue flames surrounded the hulls when the anti-tank missiles struck. A fireworks display to rival any Independence Day celebration. A different type of scream to accompany it, though.
The blast wave continued down the line until dissolving into the muck. The figures ahead continued to sway. A momentary clearing showed bare trees with shredded, outstretched limbs shuddering in the cold. Ben let out a short, stiff breath.
“You OK, lieutenant?”
“Never better, corporal. How’re you holding up?”
“No holes yet.”
The sergeant cast Mel a glance. “It’s only been a week. Give it time.”
Ben couldn’t tell if it was gallows humor or simply a statement of fact. “How long’ve you been here, sarge?”
“Since the start. Served in the last war also. President Josiah was my company commander. Just a captain at the time. A good man. We all knew he was going places.” He kept his gaze fixed downrange, his finger by the trigger.
“Didn’t you come from the Presidential Palace, corporal?”
Mel Ebed nodded. “Spent the last six months there. Honor guard,” he added.
“Why’re you here?” the sergeant asked. “Too many demerits, huh? One of your ribbons out of place? You put the cocktail fork on the wrong side of the plate?”
“Volunteered.”
“You volunteered for this slop?” the sergeant said. “Any chance they’d let me take your post.”
“You wouldn’t last a minute there,” Ben said. “Not your cup of tea. Besides, we need you here. Without you, we’d all be eating breakfast with the reaper.”
“You have a funny way of saying things, lieutenant.” The sergeant turned towards him. “But you’re alright for a college guy. As for you, corporal, you’re a damned fool.”
“A fool, perhaps,” Mel said. “Not a damned one.”
The sergeant ignored the comment. “Did you ever meet Josiah?”
“A couple times. In passing. We made small talk once. Something about a knuckleheaded sergeant he used to command.”
“I was a knuckleheaded corporal back then,” the sergeant said. “Which is about as far up as you’re gonna rise if you keep this up.”
Mel smiled as though anyone could see him. “Met a bunch of other people too. I loved it when the first lady came around. Beautiful yet down-to-earth. She had the loveliest hands.”
“That’s what you noticed about her?” the sergeant asked.
Mel pressed on. “And Jeremiah. I don’t know if you know about him. He’s a preacher guy. We called him the prophet. He dropped by a few days before I transferred. I asked him to pray for me.”
“Jeremiah?” Ben said. One eyebrow rose. “Skinny guy. Looks like someone stole his favorite toy.”
“Yeah,” Mel said. “You know him?”
“He was my best friend at college. Small world.”
“Getting smaller,” the sergeant replied.
A distant explosion caught Ben’s attention. He checked his watch. “It’s been eight minutes since the last shell. I think it’s safe to say the attack has ended for now.”
“Could be they’re taking a coffee break,” the sergeant said.
“Could be but I need to head back to my last position, see if I can find my radio man. We got separated in the last barrage.”
A red glow flushed over the sergeant’s cheeks. “The only time that s.o.b. should leave your side is if his body’s too cold to move with you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ben said.
“Yeah, me too,” the sergeant said. He watched Ben prop himself up. “Why don’t you take the corporal with you. You can use him on radio duty if needed. You do know how to work the radio, don’t you corporal?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Then, go.”
Ben and Mel took off through the mud, as close to crawling as they could on two legs. Twenty paces away and Ben turned to Mel. “You do know how to use the radio, right?”
“Twist a few knobs,” Mel said. “Press a few buttons. It can’t be that hard.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
The line, what they called the trench, was merely a series of loosely connected foxholes, dug in haste after the last retreat. The two ran between a pair of muddy pits and threw themselves in, nearly landing on the radio operator. Steam still rose from the holes in his body. Ben couldn’t help but wonder if he had found the source of this interminable, damnable fog.
He turned the body on its side. The nose and upper lip were missing as though someone had cleaved them off with a single swipe from a dull blade. Another gash the size of a deck of cards tore across his neck. Parts of the radio and two other soldiers lay next to him. A chunk of metal, the mortar’s calling card, lodged into the muck by Ben’s foot.
Mel already had the handset by his ear, speaking to a non-existent operator. He tossed it aside.
“It’s dead. What now, lieutenant?”
“I need to communicate with the rest of the platoon, see who’s still available.” He couldn’t bring himself to say the other word.
“Any idea where they are?”
“We were in the middle when the artillery started. I’d say some are off to our left and some to our right.”
“That’s why you’re the lieutenant.” It didn’t sound sarcastic when Mel said it. “Which direction do you want me to go?”
“You go back towards HQ. Get me a head count and meet me back here in fifteen. Tell everyone to stay put. I’ll head northeast. See if I can find some of our guys and set up a security perimeter. Last I recall, the Russians had concentrated their main forces there. The MGT went that way. I heard them firing a few minutes ago.”
“You sure that was our machine gun?”
Ben doubted himself for a second. The fog distorted sound as much as it blocked his vision. The Russian guns mimicked the M240, so it could easily have been one of theirs. He decided not to let the corporal in on his doubts.
“Yeah. It’s ours.”
“Alright, lieu. Fifteen minutes. If I’m not back, it’s because I found an all-night diner and stopped for a bite.”
“Bring me back a tuna on rye if you do.”
“Roger that.”
Ben turned his head and stared into the falling darkness. He reached out to grab Mel’s arm. “Hold on,” he said.
“What is it, lieu?”
Ben spun his gun in front of him. A finger on his free hand went to his lips then pointed to his one o’clock. Mel turned in that direction. A few seconds later, a dark figure flung itself into the foxhole. It sat up and immediately threw its hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot. Friendly here.”
“Lieutenant Ahikam, Bravo Company. Who are you?” The barrel of his rifle threatened the middle of the intruder’s chest.
“Private Gabriel, Alpha.”
“What are you doing down here?” Ben asked. “You were supposed to be holding the line southwest of the airport.”
“The Russians overran the position twelve hours ago.”
“Why doesn’t anybody know about it?”
“Communications were destroyed. The captain sent me to deliver a message. Do you mind pointing me towards HQ?”
Ben indicated to the south.
“Great,” Private Gabriel said. “Hey. You don’t happen to have any chow on you? I haven’t eaten in a lifetime.”
Mel pulled a half-eaten MRE out of a pouch. “You can have this. It’s lasagna or stew … or chicken salad. I can’t tell which. They all taste the same to me.”
The soldier tore into the meal. “Thank God I found you,” he said between bites.
“Yeah,” Ben said and made as if to leave.
“Don’t go.” The private spoke as if he were a commanding officer.
“Sorry, private, but I’ve got business to attend to. And I don’t take orders from you.” He rose to his feet.
“Don’t go,” the private repeated.
Something in his tone froze Ben. Mel glanced back and forth between the two. He had heard the same thing.
“What is it, private?”
Gabriel folded the empty wrapper and put it in his pocket. “You’re not safe out there.”
“It’s war, soldier,” Ben said. “We’re not safe anywhere.”
“Stay here until it’s over.”
“That might be a little while, and I don’t intend on remaining in this foxhole until the Russians surrender.”
“Lieutenant Ahikam, I’m asking you to trust me. Stay a minute.” He twisted his head towards the clouds. “They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
Mel spoke up. “I think we should stay, lieutenant.” The faintest hint of nervousness colored his words. “Just for a minute.”
Ben sat back down. His hand rested on his weapon. Mel turned his head to the side and listened. A soft moan, as though the mist had come alive, whispered through the gray.
“There they are,” Gabriel said. “Right on time.”
“Who? Where?” Ben asked.
Gabriel signaled with his chin. “I suggest everybody duck.”
A whistle, followed closely by the roar of a fireball, shattered the short-lived truce. White flashes with blue hearts exploded all around. Heat as from the hottest oven washed over them. Ben buried his face in the mud and covered his head with his hands. Over and over again, explosions rocked the earth. Each one shook his body. Each blast wave smashed his organs against his ribs. His own lungs seemed to suffocate him as he gasped for any bit of fresh air he could find. His world a furnace.
Overhead, jet engines shrieked across the sky. Moments later, thousand-pound bombs hit the ground like angry fists. Mud and tree, flesh and bone filled the sky and showered the already flooded earth. Ben curled into a ball and cupped his ears, but the booms penetrated his feeble defense. All he could think to do was pray. Man-made lightning crashed all around. Chemical fires burned wood and stone and anything they touched. He called out to the God in heaven and hoped he could hear his shouts over the detonations and the roar of the flames. But the pounding continued. Jets screamed. White and blue tongues licked the sky. Ben rocked back and forth and thought of nothing.
“Lieutenant!”
Ben felt someone tap his shoulder.
“Lieutenant, I think it’s over.”
Ben raised his head to look at the corporal.
“It’s over,” Mel repeated. He checked his body. “And I’m still in one piece. You doing OK, lieu?”
Ben examined himself. Other than a ringing head, he seemed fine. “I’ve been worse,” he managed to say. “Where’s our friend?”
Mel looked around and shrugged. “He must’ve slipped out during the bombing.”
Ben peeked over the edge of the foxhole. Fires lit up the area so that it was almost as bright as day. The private was nowhere to be seen. “I guess so,” he said. “Hope he makes it to HQ.”
“I wonder how he knew about the airstrike,” Mel said. “Especially if communication at Alpha has been out.”
“Maybe it was a pre-planned attack,” Ben offered. “Those were our bombers after all.”
“How could you tell?”
“It didn’t sound like Russian ordinance. The bombs came awfully close to our lines, though.”
Ben lifted his visor and rubbed his face. Through the smoke, scattered bodies, hundreds, maybe thousands, rested in haphazard mounds. One man staggered towards the foxhole. No more than fifty feet out, he stumbled forward and fell, the Russian insignia on his collar melting into the mud.