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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Ostheer
The silence woke Karl up.
He had grown used to the shattering crash of artillery shells or firecracker bursts of gunfire. But even in the lulls, as soon as Döbler’s whispered prayers trailed off, Fuchs would start muttering curses, as if to make up for misplaced devotion with his own pathological compulsions.
It had rained in the night, as Karl’s uniform was soaked through, far more than dew alone would cause. His hands, jammed into his armpits, had passed from cold to pain, but that was better than numbness.
Karl didn’t hear anything at all. He sat up, squelching in the mud.
The earth trench was empty--at least of people. Their rifles remained, and Hohlbaum’s boots, a knife jammed into one from where Fuchs had been trying to cut the toes out so they’d fit his larger feet.
Karl contemplated the absence of his platoon. Boots aside, they wouldn’t have left without their weapons. He reached for his rifle, and slowly raised up to look out of the trench to the east.
Whatever kind of grain the field once grown had been churned underfoot into a slurry of mud from movements back and forth across the acre. Jagged scars in the earth marked where artillery had further disfigured the land. Nothing moved, other than a crow swooping upwards into the grey clouds.
He stood up, swaying a bit as he got his footing. Then he stepped up and out of the trench, wading into the muck that sucked at his boots with each step. The field was oddly empty, too. Hohlbaum--what was left of him--should have been there for sure, even aside from the other casualties of both sides.
He kept walking. It wasn’t far to the other side, where a stone fence provided cover for another shallow trench. He paused to examine the small pile of supplies, rifles, and ammunition there. He took a pack of Belomors and lit one, letting it dangle between his lips as he continued on.
The field gave way to a path, lined with bare trees and carpeted with dirt-brown leaves. Karl wondered again if this had been an orchard a year prior. A little way down the road, he ran into a line of tanks, paint still fresh on the red stars on their sides. He climbed up to peer in the hatch of the first, finding it deserted. When he heard a rustling, he jolted and fell, landing hard.
A horse waited behind the tanks, pulling a panje wagon stacked high with more supplies. The animal whickered softly as he approached, but he rested a hand on its neck to still it. He loosened the harness, and watched the horse amble over to a patch of grass at the side of the road.
Karl kept walking. The barn wasn't much further. One of the big doors still hung at an angle off its hinge, same as when they had retreated five days prior. He pushed the other door open to let more grey light filter in, revealing fat black flies buzzing around dead cattle.
He took one step in, then another, peering into the darkness. Enduring the sickly smell of rotting flesh, he found a lantern, and managed to light it with the stub of his cigarette. He kicked at a pile of hay, climbed up to examine the loft, nudged aside the corpse of a cow. The bodies of the Slav woman and her sons were nowhere to be found.
He flung the lantern against the wall, and it shattered, the oil catching hay alight. Stomping outside, he stiffly sat down against a tree, lighting another Belomor as he watched flames envelop the barn. Karl stayed there a long while, as the sky above faded to darkness. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
The noise woke Karl up.
The last shell must have landed extremely close, the explosion rattling his bones and jerking him into consciousness.
Across from him, Döbler hunched into a ball, his palms pressed into his eyes. Fuchs let out a string of curses, pausing only when he saw that Karl was awake.
“I had a dream,” Karl said.
“A good one?”
Karl listened to the crash of another barrage, thinking for a moment. “There was no war.”
Fuchs grunted. “New officer showed up while you had your dream, and we’re moving out soon. Command wants us to retake the ground we’ve lost.”
Karl thought of dirt-brown leaves and fat black flies. He picked up his rifle. “Okay.”
He had grown used to the shattering crash of artillery shells or firecracker bursts of gunfire. But even in the lulls, as soon as Döbler’s whispered prayers trailed off, Fuchs would start muttering curses, as if to make up for misplaced devotion with his own pathological compulsions.
It had rained in the night, as Karl’s uniform was soaked through, far more than dew alone would cause. His hands, jammed into his armpits, had passed from cold to pain, but that was better than numbness.
Karl didn’t hear anything at all. He sat up, squelching in the mud.
The earth trench was empty--at least of people. Their rifles remained, and Hohlbaum’s boots, a knife jammed into one from where Fuchs had been trying to cut the toes out so they’d fit his larger feet.
Karl contemplated the absence of his platoon. Boots aside, they wouldn’t have left without their weapons. He reached for his rifle, and slowly raised up to look out of the trench to the east.
Whatever kind of grain the field once grown had been churned underfoot into a slurry of mud from movements back and forth across the acre. Jagged scars in the earth marked where artillery had further disfigured the land. Nothing moved, other than a crow swooping upwards into the grey clouds.
He stood up, swaying a bit as he got his footing. Then he stepped up and out of the trench, wading into the muck that sucked at his boots with each step. The field was oddly empty, too. Hohlbaum--what was left of him--should have been there for sure, even aside from the other casualties of both sides.
He kept walking. It wasn’t far to the other side, where a stone fence provided cover for another shallow trench. He paused to examine the small pile of supplies, rifles, and ammunition there. He took a pack of Belomors and lit one, letting it dangle between his lips as he continued on.
The field gave way to a path, lined with bare trees and carpeted with dirt-brown leaves. Karl wondered again if this had been an orchard a year prior. A little way down the road, he ran into a line of tanks, paint still fresh on the red stars on their sides. He climbed up to peer in the hatch of the first, finding it deserted. When he heard a rustling, he jolted and fell, landing hard.
A horse waited behind the tanks, pulling a panje wagon stacked high with more supplies. The animal whickered softly as he approached, but he rested a hand on its neck to still it. He loosened the harness, and watched the horse amble over to a patch of grass at the side of the road.
Karl kept walking. The barn wasn't much further. One of the big doors still hung at an angle off its hinge, same as when they had retreated five days prior. He pushed the other door open to let more grey light filter in, revealing fat black flies buzzing around dead cattle.
He took one step in, then another, peering into the darkness. Enduring the sickly smell of rotting flesh, he found a lantern, and managed to light it with the stub of his cigarette. He kicked at a pile of hay, climbed up to examine the loft, nudged aside the corpse of a cow. The bodies of the Slav woman and her sons were nowhere to be found.
He flung the lantern against the wall, and it shattered, the oil catching hay alight. Stomping outside, he stiffly sat down against a tree, lighting another Belomor as he watched flames envelop the barn. Karl stayed there a long while, as the sky above faded to darkness. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
The noise woke Karl up.
The last shell must have landed extremely close, the explosion rattling his bones and jerking him into consciousness.
Across from him, Döbler hunched into a ball, his palms pressed into his eyes. Fuchs let out a string of curses, pausing only when he saw that Karl was awake.
“I had a dream,” Karl said.
“A good one?”
Karl listened to the crash of another barrage, thinking for a moment. “There was no war.”
Fuchs grunted. “New officer showed up while you had your dream, and we’re moving out soon. Command wants us to retake the ground we’ve lost.”
Karl thought of dirt-brown leaves and fat black flies. He picked up his rifle. “Okay.”