Doomed

With his coat hung up over his head, George managed to devise a rare moment of privacy. He was crouched down in the mud, his rawboned buttocks balanced on a water canteen that was slowly sinking into the ground under his weight.
He pulled his boot with both hands, grunting. It finally came off with a wet sucking sound and the sock came with it. The trench rot had gotten worse, much worse, since he had looked at it three days before.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
George had grown used to the near constant gunfire the Germans were showering down on them, but the roar of a bomb dropping close by made him flinch. He peeked his head out from around his coat to see if anything had been drastically unsettled. You never knew when the walls would come crashing down. Everything looked the same; grayish-brown muddy water on the floor of the trench, crumbling mud-formed walls stretching up to gray sky. It was all he had looked at for weeks.
Passchendaele was a bog. The surrounding German-occupied higher ground looked down on them as they struggled and died. They had been there for weeks and there seemed to be no end to the sodden Hell they had made for themselves.  
George pinched the white, wrinkled skin on the bottom of his left foot. It peeled away, opening a sack of pus. The smell hit his nose in a hot rush, and he gagged. His socks were damp and there were none to change into, so he reached up and took the handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wrapped it around his foot, replacing the wet sock over it and then plunging the reeking foot back into his muddy boot. Nothing to be done but suffer through it.
“Georgie,” Harry panted, pulling the coat off his head. George squinted against the light, as ashy and lifeless as it was.
“We’re up,” he said.
“Today?”
“Yep. Good news is, you won’t have to worry about your rotten foot anymore. Germans will probably blow it off for you.”
A flicker of the bright, impish Harry he had known before Passchendaele winked in and out of his hollow eyes. There wasn’t much left of him in there. They were all being drained of their vitality and there in the blood and dirt it would remain, adding to the rot.
Harry pulled him up by the arm and handed him his rifle. The path to the ladder was a short and narrow one, but it seemed to George that they were going in slow motion. Another explosion shook the walls around them as they started their ascent up to ground level.
A bullet hit Harry in the arm as soon as they were both up and standing. He started to wobble backwards and if George hadn’t grabbed him by the lapel of his coat he would have tumbled backward into the trench.
They started running, Harry gripping his bleeding arm. Bullets dappled the mud around their feet, splashing thick brown water up over their pant legs as they ran. George’s foot had gone from aching to numb, and he had to just trust that it was doing what it was supposed to be doing, getting him the hell out of dodge.
“Harry!” George called out to him as Harry started to veer off to the right, panting and wild eyed.
“Harry! This way!” But Harry was running towards an overturned tree stump and didn’t turn back or acknowledge him.
George flopped onto the ground, his face hitting a puddle with a splash. He inhaled water and flailed around until his arms could find purchase to push himself up. He coughed and gasped for air.
A bullet hit the water near his head, and he stopped moving. The gunfire had stopped, and he took quick breaths in and out of his nose as he lay still, pretending to be dead. His eyes looked around wildly, but he couldn’t see any movement.
Dusk came and the shadows from the spindly blackened trees made it harder to see. Still there was no movement, no gunfire. It seemed things had quieted down, or maybe everyone else was dead.
George lifted his head and looked around. The hulking corpse of a horse lay five meters away. The supplies it had been carrying lay strewn all over the ground around it. A case of ammunition had sunken so far into the ground, that only one corner stuck out, its contents doomed to wait there unused, helping no one.
With shaking arms, George tried to push himself up to a kneeling position, but only managed to lift his torso off the ground. His legs had sunk into the mud up to the knees. He pulled one leg with both arms, but it didn’t budge. He felt his other leg sinking deeper with the effort. His thighs were slick with black sludge now and after a few more tries, he lay back down, exhausted.
The sky was getting darker and still there was no movement.
“Harry!” George tried.
“Help!” No response. He could smell the horse decaying nearby. He let his eyes wander around the darkening battlefield. It was pitted and glossy with water, but here and there little mounds lay still, and he knew they were bodies.
Finally, he fell asleep. In his dreams, the grounds of Passchendaele were covered in soft green grass. The damage from the bombing could just barely be seen where the ground dipped down in circular dents. He was flying over the scene like a bird.
"But no", he thought. "I’m less than that. I’m a feather, a breath of air, riding on the wind over our graves." 
The skeleton of the horse was down there, half sunken, covered in moss but still there where it had fallen.
And then he saw his own body, laying half submerged in the verdant ground, skeletal arms frozen in a desperate attempt to claw itself out.
“George!”
George’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his own name. A shape was running towards him in the darkness. He lifted his head with great effort. He couldn’t feel any of his limbs.
“Harry…” he gurgled through the muddy water.
Harry’s face took shape as he got closer and then the left side of it slumped and the sound of a shot cracked through the air. He collapsed next to George, his twitching face, bloodied from the bullet that went through it, hit the ground and stayed there facing George.
“No! No!” George screamed. He tried to pull himself towards his friend, but he was up to his chest in mud. He bit his lip to stop himself from screaming and lay still, realizing he was in danger of being shot himself.
When his sobs finally subsided, he fell into another troubled sleep, but didn’t dream.
Daylight and the sounds of splashing woke him. George opened his eyes and could see two soldiers from his regiment running across the field.
“Help! Help me!” George cried out. One of them looked at him and paused for a moment and then ran on.
“Wait!” George’s throat was raw from screaming. He knew he was already dead. He had seen men drown in the mud these last few weeks. It was like quicksand. Once you were waist-deep there was no escape, no matter how many men were willing to risk their lives to try to pull you out.
Harry’s face was white and staring. The side of his head was caved in, but most of the blood had been washed away. It was raining again, had been all night.
Only one of George’s arms was free and he had sunk in up to his armpits.
George took a deep, staggering breath and then released it slowly, feeling a kind of warm joy expanding from his chest to his limbs to his head.
“This is good, Harry. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. I feel warm and the ground is so soft.”
Harry smiled at him.
George smiled back.
Blood trickled out of Harry’s slack mouth and George frowned.
“You’re tired. I’m ready for a nap myself. Let’s sleep on it.” George slept.
It was dark again when he woke up.
“What do you call a well-balanced horse?”
“What?” George whispered into the darkness.
“What do you call a well-balanced horse?” Harry’s mouth wasn’t moving, but George could hear what he was saying.
“A well-balanced horse?”
“Yeah,” Harry chuckled wetly.
“I-don’t know,” said George.
“Stable.”
George thought for a moment, looking at Harry’s blank face and then he burst into laughter. He laughed until his ribs hurt, slapping the mud with his free hand.
When his glee finally subsided, he sighed and looked at Harry. The smile dropped off George’s face and he started to cry. Then he slept.
In the cold morning light, he had returned to his senses. Harry was dead, so was the horse and so was he. It was just a matter of how long he wanted to wait. He saw his rifle a few feet away from him, impossible to reach. He tried to move his submerged arm towards his waist to feel for his pistol but it wouldn't budge. He knew it probably wouldn't work after being in the muck anyway. He thought about screaming for help again but didn’t have the energy. He lay his head back down.
A wave of claustrophobia washed over him, and he counted to ten while he tried to control his breathing. When it passed, he let his mind wander.
George looked back at Harry. He stared at him until his eyes burned. Harry’s eyes were dim and milky, but the blue still showed through. 
“You'll be alright,” George found himself whispering. He touched Harry’s cold cheek.
Now he was Harry, looking at himself. He saw himself pick up Harry’s pistol, point it at his own head and smile. He blinked and was back in his own body.
He looked at Harry’s hip and saw the holster there. He reached over with his free hand and gripped Harry’s coat. He pulled him closer inch by inch. He stopped when Harry’s ruined face touched his own. He tried to move Harry’s head with his chin, but it was stiff and wouldn’t budge. He reached for the holster anyway, his nose smashed against Harry’s mouth.
He felt something move against his chin and he flinched back, searching Harry’s face for life once again, but nothing stirred there. After a few more tries he was finally able to unbutton the holster and touch the wooden handle of the gun. He could smell Harry’s putrid insides through his open mouth.
“Come on you…bastard,” George breathed into his dead friend’s face. His numb fingers finally got a grip on the handle, and he pulled it out and pushed Harry’s body away from him.
George lay there panting. The mud was up to his neck now, and he held the gun up and away from the slimy surface that was slowly devouring him.
“Don’t be scared, Harry. I’ve thought this through and…I think this is how it was meant to be. I don’t think, I know. I’ve seen this place long after we’re gone. Maybe it’s because of us that the grass grows so green.”
“Harry-" he gurgled, his face was slowly slipping into the mud, and he had to lean his head back and tip his chin up to keep it above the muddy water.
One of Harry’s lips had split, and his teeth were showing. It looked like he was grinning.
“You want a joke, old friend? One more for the road? Okay let me think.” George pulled the hammer on the gun back and put the barrel to his temple.
“I saw an ad for burial plots and thought to myself, this is the last thing I need.” Harry was smiling at him.
George tried to smile back but his mouth was submerged. Then his nose. He pulled the trigger.
Category:RTWC23
Category:History
Category:Military