Any Time

I’m in a bunker, on my own. It’s dark and damp, no more than the bare basics, even by 1915 trench-warfare standards. The outside world is a wasteland. As far as the eye can see is no man’s land, including the trenches themselves. None of this is a place for any man. Crows are the only inhabitants of the rancid cesspit between us and them - a world of dead trees, dead horses, dead land and dead men. The broken souls and tattered sanity of so many lay as thick as the mud under the fog which seems to seldom lift. Perhaps this is for the best, for what use is it to witness such a menagerie of lost life at every waking moment. From my cell in the trenches the most I see is the changing shades of grey light beyond the wooden door.

You may wish to ask why I am held captive by my own men? It is simple: I shot my captain. It was two days ago now. The lot of us were lined up, ready to head over the top, to gain a vital ten yards and win the war! More likely we’d become fertiliser for whatever life reclaims this once green land, should this war ever end. Our captain, a man named Walter, was giving us our orders, trying to inspire us to victory. I’ve no idea how many men he had sent over the edge to die before, but I could not stand for it to be any more. With one swift movement I drove my bayonet into his stomach. It poked out like a crimson tongue through his back. I felt nothing but relief as he stared at me with as much indignation as there was shock and pain in his eyes. Some men stood frozen in place, others had already started frantically to grab me and try to stop what happened next to no avail. In the commotion I pulled the trigger whilst Walter was still impaled. I will spare you the details of the aftermath, for it hardly bears remembering, though I fear it is scorched permanently onto my retinas. I can only apologise to my comrades who saw it too.

I have committed murder, but I cannot pretend to feel remorseful. I would rather sit in this cell and peacefully awaiting execution than die fearfully out there. I know how this will end. I have already had the verdict of my court-martial that I will be shot at dawn. It’s soon. The night is giving way to another dreary day. I have found it soothing to watch the simplicity of light changing. It’s so regular and yet so fascinating. My mind has been clearer in the past day or so than any time I was a free man following orders, I even slept soundly, and my hunger doesn’t bother me. With so little time left why would it? Oh sweet dawn, I will see you soon.

It is something of an uncharacteristically glorious day blooming beyond my day. The sounds of machinery and gunfire have taken a backseat for the time being. Dawn has passed and I’m still here. I feel less at ease now. They can’t have forgotten about me, and tens of people saw me commit my crime directly so the verdict is no less than certain. These thoughts start to gain pace in my mind, gradually whipping up into a whirlwind of questions as to what the hold up is. I am a man with a noose around my neck, waiting for the trap door to open.

Eventually I hear footsteps approaching my door with purpose. They stop abruptly and the heavy bolt creaks, the door swinging open to let in the precious sunlight. A captain with whom I am not familiar is filling the cell doorway. This is it, my fate has arrived. The calm I experienced previously is returning now and I let out a small sigh before speaking:

‘Is it time?’, I ask plainly. The captain grunts. He has a cigarette between his lips and takes his time inhaling deeply. Small embers flutter to the ground, losing their glow mid-air. He soon drops the smoking butt which sizzles on contact with the wet muddy floor. His eyes pierce through the blue haze of bitter smoke haloing his silhouette. He has a spiteful smirk on his lips.

‘On your feet, soldier’, he says in a quiet voice which dispels my calm in an instant. His distasteful smile sours further at my discomfort. ‘No, it is not time’, he tells me. Clearly my confusion is evident as he continues without hesitation: ‘you will be shot at dawn, you know that. Dare I say you have accepted it?’. He looks down, his grin growing ever more contorted and gruesome. His shoulders jerk up and down as if he is stifling a laugh. Recapturing my gaze his eyes bulge, his teeth are on full show and grinding rhythmically. I’m sure I see red among the nicotine stains. He is leaning forward, far taller than I am, he even seems to be growing and I cower, shuffling backwards, but finding only a solid wall behind me. The fresh and warm air which first came through the door is now acrid, smoke filled and chilled.

‘I-I-I, I know I must be punished’, I manage to force out the words through shivers of cold and fear. The captain, still looking demented and malicious, let his jaw drop open and a cavernous laugh flows like chlorine gas over a black pulsating tongue.

‘Yesss’, the words are serpentine and tinged with gleeful mocking laughter, ‘you must be punished. But what punishment is certainty of relief from hell? No, that won’t do at all. Yes you will be shot at dawn’. He pauses and continues his taunting laughter, pitch black and oily spittle flying from his lips as he does so. Widening his eyes, his devilish grin suddenly decays to a snarling face of disgust. ‘You will be shot at dawn, but you’ll never know which one until the knocking comes to your door. You may have just days, you could be here for a year, you may be here forever!’. I’m trembling in the corner as the captain, suddenly looking completely normal again draws a pistol and fires a shot into the ceiling. As the debris showers me he slams the door shut. The sunlight is reduced to a low glow creeping under the door and through the cracks, and I sink lifelessly to the ground, quivering and cold.

Time begins to pass more slowly than ever.

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-Jamie