Black Static Horror Magazine #3

by TTA Press Authors

  Arthur clutched the walls of the trench. He felt dizzy and sick from the noise. At his side, Sergeant Boyd stood and looked out over the bags, his face savage as he took in the effect of the shells on the Boche line.

  "Give ‘em bloody hell, boys!” he shouted. “Give ‘em hell!"

  Malcolm Hubbard nudged Arthur hard in the ribs and pointedly nodded at Boyd. Arthur understood. The sergeant was being reckless: foolhardy rather than brave. Arthur nodded back at Malcolm and reached up and tugged Boyd down before some sniper or fragment of shell took his head off and sent him west before his time.

  The sergeant swore but stayed down. Arthur guessed Boyd knew the time for bravery would come soon enough and so was content to wait with the rest of them for the signal. Arthur knew exactly how the man felt, for no matter how intense the fear, it was the waiting that was the hard part. Once the shells started falling and death was loosed upon the field, all one wanted was for it to be over with, to be free, free from the noise, free from the confinement and imprisonment of the trench, free to face whatever fate had in store for him. Hunkered down in the bottom of these shallow cuts in the French countryside, with the shells closing in, was too much like being buried alive, like being interred in a coffin before your time.

  Arthur's platoon was scheduled to be part of the third wave going over. He glanced at his watch again. There was still over forty minutes to wait before the whistles called them to duty. Forty minutes of hell and its inexorable pandemonic torture. Arthur felt his already numbed and shell-shocked mind begin to dissociate. He found himself falling back into his dream. The nightmare vision of his wife drifting over the bloody fields of mud, the ground under her feet crusted and scabbed with sulphurous, yellow eruptions, like a rancid fat upon the meat of the Somme; Lilly's slender body dressed in flowing, tattered, gore spattered white rags, her face grim and begrimed, her gaze flat and lifeless, all hope extinguished.

  The boom of a shell hitting the line snapped Arthur back to reality. Fear ripped through him as a wave of earth crashed down over the parapet and the trench filled with the evil acidic stench of German explosive. Dirt and dust, rock and stone, and twisted fragments of shell, all rained down around Arthur. His heart lurched and banged against the cage of his ribs with a beat almost too fast and painful to bear. He fully expected to see Lillian floating toward him, her semi-naked body gliding through the cloud of falling shrapnel, arms open to welcome him into hell.

  Arthur sagged back against the wall. From down the line he could hear the anguished cries of the dying and wounded, men calling for stretcher-bearers, and, over this, the commands of the officers to fix swords. At his side, Malcolm was shaking uncontrollably, his face pale as death as he attached the bayonet to his rifle. Just beyond the lip of the trench Arthur could see a column of black smoke climbing into the sky, turning the blue to black. He glanced at his watch for a third time. It was 7:10am.

  "How long we got?” It was Malcolm, still white as a sheet, but resolute now.

  "Twenty minutes,” Arthur answered. The noise made talking difficult. Over the last few minutes the bombardment had grown more intense. The roar of the shell-bursts had quickened into a drumming that shook the earth.

  Malcolm turned away, his eyes going to the smoke above the lines. “Too close that one,” he mused.

  Arthur said nothing. No words were needed. He removed the good luck photograph of his wife from his breast pocket and looked down at the already faded image.

  Twenty minutes. It seemed like no time at all.

  With longing heavy in his heart, Arthur gazed at the brittle reminder of happier times. It was the only thing he had to prove there was still life and love in the world. It had kept him sane through all the madness. And right now, he really needed it to fix Lillian's face in his mind's eye. If this was to be the end, Arthur wanted to remember Lilly's sweet smile and sparkle, not the filth and corruption that haunted his dreams.

  It didn't seem fair. Their life together had only just begun and yet, in less than twenty minutes, it could be all over. He might never see Lilly again. Arthur kissed the creased paper talisman and placed it back over his heart. He didn't want Lilly to witness his despair. She deserved more than that.

  By God, they both deserved more! The sudden flush of anger at the sheer injustice of God's judgement made Arthur spit. He'd be damned if he would let anyone take him from Lilly.

  A deafening blast tipped the world on end and threw down the parapets. It wiped all the blasphemous thoughts from Arthur's mind as the ground heaved and rolled under his feet. Massive explosions ripped open the French countryside. The blasts tore open the enemy wire and spewed out a dome of blackness that rose like a huge poisonous toadstool to stain the summer sky. Arthur stumbled and fell to his knees. Dust and debris filled the air and choked him. Down the line he could hear the whistles and cries, and the wailing of the pipes like demons calling for blood. Men were scrambling over the bags, climbing the battered walls of the trench to assemble on the field above. Arthur climbed to his feet, his legs unsteady, his rifle clutched in bloodless hands, and clambered over the top to join them.

  The ground of No Man's Land was a pitted hell of shell holes and craters: livid red wounds gouged in the flesh of the earth. Everywhere Arthur looked there was carnage. Bodies littered the ground, torn and lifeless, bleeding and dying. Ahead, through the smoke, Arthur watched in horror as the entire second wave fell. The men cut down by the Boche Maxim guns before they had taken a dozen steps. The world had been reduced to chaos and death, fear and loathing. To Arthur it seemed like his nightmares had seeped into reality, bled through the divide, until the waking world resembled nothing more than the hell of his dreamscape.

  The line moved forward. The men in formation, pace steady. Arthur swung his rifle up and chambered a round. There was no escape. It was all real, indisputable and true. This time there would be no awakening from the nightmare. It was time to go. Arthur pushed aside his fear and stepped off the boards. Mud sucked at his boots. Smoke stung his eyes. From all around, he could hear the continuous sputter and hiss of machine gun bullets as they streamed passed. The line was disintegrating rapidly, the men disappearing into the smoke as they pulled ahead or fell dying and dead. The rifleman directly in front of Arthur fell, his face gone. Brain and blood splashed Arthur's tunic: the wool over his heart suddenly stained black. He began to run. What had started out at a march had, within moments, become a mad dash. From somewhere nearby he heard an officer shouting for them to keep together, to hold the line. Hold the line.

  When Arthur reached the German wire he was alone. The line had broken. The X-shaped metal stakes and posts rose up before him, stark and hideous. The wire, rusted black, was a tangled web about four feet high and some thirty or forty feet across. In places it had been twisted and frayed, contorted into unholy configurations by the trench mortar bombs as they had opened pathways through the entanglement. Men lay scattered in the mud at his feet, their bodies choking the gap through which Arthur ran. From all sides he heard shouts and screams and the terrible groaning of the wounded. All words and sense were lost amidst the cacophony of the battle. There was nothing but smoke, the raw crump of explosion, the piercing whistle of the shell, and the bone-jarring rattle of the Boche machine guns spitting death.

  As he burst free of the wire, Arthur caught a glimpse of movement. He twisted and raised his riffle, but the smoke refused him a clear shot. His nerves screamed. His finger tightened on the trigger. He had to shoot. Shoot now. Now before it was too late. It was kill or be killed. He didn't want to die.

  The smoke cleared. There!

  Arthur felt his knees go weak. A captain from D company led Malcolm Hubbard, and a couple of others from C company, out of the smoke and over the top of the German parapet. Relief and horror flooded Arthur's system. His hands shook as he lowered the Lee Enfield to his side. He had been so close, little more than a hair's breadth, from killing his best mate, from shooting the men of his own platoon.

&n
bsp; At the lip of the parapet, Malcolm turned and raised a hand in greeting, a smile on his face as he caught sight of Arthur below him. The happiness Arthur saw in Malcolm's face made him want to weep, his eyes and heart suddenly full with joy at finding his friend alive and well. With one smile, Arthur was no longer lost and alone and hell's grip was lessened. Maybe there was hope after all?

  The bullet hit Malcolm in the neck. It snapped his head backwards and lifted him up onto his toes. Bright crimson blood burst from Malcolm's throat as he collapsed to his knees, his eyes puzzled and his smile gone forever. The front of his tunic was awash with spilt life; a red gush bubbled and frothed from the gapping wound and sprayed out from between Malcolm's fingers as he tried in vain to stem the bleeding. Arthur stood frozen in time, unable to move or help, as his friend died before his eyes. When the sound of the shot finally caught up to the moment, it was all over.

  Stillborn, hope died. It bled out of Arthur like the blood from Malcolm's throat and hell reclaimed its hold. There was to be no escape. A scream rang out. It tore loose from Arthur, involuntary and terrible, and rent his heart. All his loss and pain, all his grief and terror was contained in that ululating cry. Arthur charged. Hate filled him. It fuelled him, drove him forward until the ache in his heart distorted and transmuted into a bloody rage.

  The German parapet was piled high with corpses and Arthur stumbled and tripped on them as he climbed the reinforced fortifications. At the top, he leapt over the trench without pause. It was no use to him. It offered neither shelter nor fulfilment: the Boche artillery would have the range and Fritz had already abandoned it. As he touched down on the opposite side, his boots slipped in the mud and his legs went from under him. Arthur slammed down hard, the breath knocked out of him by the impact. Winded, he thrashed and struggled to stand. His mouth was full of the metallic taste of blood. He must have bitten his tongue. On either side of Arthur, as he strove to regain his footing, holes opened in the ground, the mud and turf blown four or five feet into the air by machine gun fire. Stones and shrapnel rang on his helmet and stung his flesh.

  His bloodlust forgotten, Arthur ran for the cover of a nearby shell hole. As he reached the lip of the crater a hand-grenade bounced at his feet. The grey tin cylinder attached to a foot long wooden handle flipped into the air and exploded. The detonation threw Arthur over and down the wall of the crump hole. It tossed him like a rag doll, somersaulting head over heels, amidst a cascade of mud, rubble and dirt.

  He couldn't move under the weight of the fallen earth. Dirt choked him. His mouth and nose were plugged with mud. In a blind panic he pushed up through the spilled soil and broke the surface like a swimmer, gasping for breath, spitting and clawing the fowl muck from his airways and eyes. His uniform was in tatters, his helmet gone, his rifle lost, and blood ran from a thousand cuts down his back and soaked his breeches. He could feel the strength drain from him as he crawled free and shook off the grave dirt. The shell hole spun around him like a vortex sucking him down into the void. The light faded, darkness crowded in and Arthur fell into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  When the dark of oblivion released Arthur and he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the burning white magnesium brightness of a starshell. It drifted down through the evening sky, high overhead, and lit the depths of the crater with a stark, dusty illumination that made the shadows flicker and dance macabrely.

  Arthur sat up. His legs were numb from cold. The stagnant water that covered the floor of the shell hole was freezing and had leeched all feeling from his muscles. Mud squirmed between his fingers as he pushed himself backwards out of the water onto higher ground. His back and shoulders stung from the shrapnel wounds as he slithered and struggled up the crater's sloping wall. The back of his uniform hung in shreds and the fowl slime of the pit covered every inch of him: slick and stinking.

  As soon as his boots were clear of the water, Arthur collapsed. He lay back and attempted to catch his breath. The cold, combined with shock and his injuries, had sapped his energy. He felt drained. Above him, beyond the starry radiance of the drifting flare, the sky was black. It seemed true night had fallen whilst he had been unconscious and something about the darkness seemed oppressive to Arthur.

  He lifted his head and looked around him. The stark light from the starshell had dimmed from its previous brilliant white. Now it was no longer directly overhead the shadows in the pit had thickened, although the illumination was still bright enough for Arthur to realise he was not alone.

  Directly opposite lay two men, both dead. The corpses charred and twisted beyond all recognition, far too badly damaged to tell if they'd been friend or foe. Various other body parts littered the base of the crater, in and out of the water, tossed like spoilt fruit into a midden.

  To Arthur's left was the body of a young corporal from his own regiment. The boy barely looked old enough to shave. And with his youth brought to an abrupt end by gunfire he never would be. Right next to the British lad was a German boy. This time a bayonet wound to the stomach had been the cause of death. In war they would have been enemies, two boys from different lands, with different beliefs and backgrounds. But in death, or so it seemed to Arthur at least, there was no difference between them.

  Over to his right, huddled in the shadows at the edge of the pool, a body seemed to move. Arthur pulled himself into a sitting position. The light from the flare had all but gone now and he had to peer through the increased gloom to be sure he'd seen what he thought. There were two dim shapes over there. One was definitely a goner, but the other—

  Arthur scrambled around the crump hole as fast as he could, skirting the gruesome detritus and slipping and sliding in the mud. His injuries and fatigue ignored in his urgency. Someone was alive.

  It was Captain Floyd.

  "Sir?” Arthur reached out and gently touched the captain's shoulder. The officer looked in a bad way. Blood had soaked through his trousers and begun to pool beneath him where the jagged tip of the man's femur had poked through both the flesh and cloth of his left leg. There was matted blood in the captain's hair, and a nasty dent above his right ear.

  "Sir?” Arthur repeated.

  The man groaned and cracked open pain dazed eyes.

  "Captain Floyd? It's Corporal Watts, sir."

  "Watts, have you seen them?"

  Arthur slumped down beside the man and closed his eyes as relief flooded through him and almost undid him. The captain was proof not everyone was dead. Proof, in Arthur's mind, that beyond the battlefield, away from the Somme, life continued.

  "Have you seen them?” The captain grabbed at the tattered wool of Arthur's sleeve, his grasp urgent and insistent. “Have you seen them?” he repeated. “Tell me."

  "Sir?” Arthur asked, confused.

  "Them,” the captain barked. “The women."

  "Women, sir?” Arthur felt like a parrot, but he didn't know what else to say. The captain's fingers were steel claws. His eyes burned with an intensity that scared Arthur. Was the man mad? He had seen men lose their way and become unhinged before. For some the proximity to such ever-present death was too much. Had the captain lost his wits, or was it the result of the dent above the captain's ear? Had the blow scrambled his brains? Was it the pain of his injuries talking?

  "Yes! God damn you! Women! Devils!"

  "No sir. I've not seen any women, or devils, save the Hun."

  "You're sure? Absolutely sure?"

  Arthur nodded. “Yes sir, I am. There are no women about up there, just corpses and wire and more crump holes."

  The tension drained from the captain's body and he fell back into the mud, his fingers slipping free from Arthur's arm: the surge of strength brought about by his desperation to seek answers gone. “Thank God,” the captain said. “I thought for sure they would be coming for me."

  "Don't worry sir,” Arthur said, humouring the officer, “you're safe now. We'll be back behind the lines in no time.” Arthur inched away from the captain. “I
just need to make sure the way's clear.” The man may not be the full ticket but Arthur knew he would still have to get him home. You didn't leave a man behind, even if he was barking.

  At the lip of the crater, Arthur peered out into the night. In darkness it was near impossible to gauge a safe route through No Man's Land, if such a thing even existed, as all reference points and detail was obscured. Arthur thought their best bet would be to go at dawn. Then at least there would be enough light to see by. If things looked bad at first light, then Arthur would use the daylight hours to map their path and they would just have to lay low another day. He only hoped Captain Floyd would be up to the task, whichever way it went.

  Arthur scanned the field, his eyes straining for any recognisable feature or trace of danger. From off to his left, he thought he saw something flicker and flit between the raised X of the wire and the nearest shell hole. He frowned and stared into the pitch-black shadows filling the depression, but the hint of movement was neither repeated nor clarified.

  Nerves, Arthur thought. He shook his head, to clear his vision, and checked the immediate area once more. It didn't hurt to be careful. If all he had to worry about was his eyes playing tricks on him, fine, he would be a happy man. If it was anything else, Arthur wanted to know now, not find out later when a bayonet slipped between his ribs and stopped his heart.

  He twisted around in the dirt and searched the area to his right. In the distance, just at the edge of Arthur's vision, he once more thought he saw movement. A blur of dirty white drifted between the shadowed pits and Arthur felt his skin crawl as the memory of his dream resurfaced. His heart pounded and a cold sweat broke out over his skin. He flung himself down and pushed his face into the soil. He didn't want to see that image again, not ever. His hand crept up to his breast pocket. His fingers closed on the material and felt the comforting shape of the photograph stored there. The talisman calmed the pace of his breathing and slowed the beat of his heart. Arthur raised his head and looked across the gap between craters.