The Winds of Change

The winds of change are upon us this day. We sit here in this trench, but we can all smell it. The air is dank and foul, the blood and death of our countrymen in the field ahead. We’ll be one of them soon enough, when the whistle blows. It is just a matter of time.

I shiver again in my drenched gear. Throughout the day, the rain has been heavy and cold, and there is no cover. I wipe another drip from my forehead, forgetting it will do no good, leaving a muddy and bloody smear where the wet had been.

We’re out of cigarettes and my hands continue to tremble. I assume it is from withdrawals, but I know it is from exhaustion and fear. The vacant eyes of my comrades are mirrors of my own, reflecting the spectre of death which sings softly in the back of our minds.

Waiting is the way of war, and then, of a sudden, the chaos begins again. Another inch of soil taken is another inch given on another day. We hold the line, waiting for the order, waiting for reinforcements, waiting for the enemy’s advance, waiting to die.

The artillery siren sounds and we huddle closer to our dirt wall for what little protection it offers. The explosions and their whistles surround us, deafening, ringing, flashing. One hits nearby, sending mud and gore and shrapnel into our pit. A quick thud and my buddy is dead, hot metal ripping through his neck and jaw. I can smell his flesh cooking as he slumps down, leaning into me as if for one last moment of comfort. He dies in my arms, his eyes lost yet finally at peace.

I look around and see others screaming in pain, or lost and wandering in shock without limbs, and I notice, in the mud wall just behind my head, a strip of grey no more than an inch long, yet curled and sharp, wedged most of the way in. Six inches, the difference between life and death. Six inches closer and I am dead. Six inches away from my buddy and he is alive, holding me in my last breath.

I pluck the shard out, burning the fingertips on my thumb and index finger a little. So small, yet so deadly at the force it was jettisoned at me. I hold it in my palm and roll it over a couple of times, scraping away the dirt.

The cacophony stops. I look up at my fellows, my brethren. The chaos ends and the waiting begins again. Soon, we all know, the retaliation, the call to arms, the offensive.

I ready my weapon and slide the memento into my breast pocket. Perhaps I can show it to my grandchildren, resting on my mantel as a lost memory of a forgotten war for a forgettable cause. Perhaps my mother will keep it in her purse, the forgotten face of her lost child.

I can barely register the high-pitched whistle as it is blown down the line.

I lift my weary body and go over the lip.