L'appel du Vide (The Call of the Void)

Rain slowly fell in that mud-laden field. To my left, as I strolled along that man-made path, was a wheat field, gold and gleaming whenever the sun shone through the increasing cloud cover. It would stretch out beyond the horizon, the wheat briskly dancing through the breeze. Part of me wanted to walk off this path, and sit among the field and just stay there. Think about things for once. Behind me was a string of men, most of them boys: bushy-tailed and ready for adventure. They would find no such thing here.The field slowly turned mud and smoke. Ruined Earth now littered our path, and all around us turned to grey: bleak, and such a striking turn that one would think they walked into another world. This was Belgium, and the year was late 1914.

You could smell the battles ahead before you could see it. Thousands upon thousands of men, stirring slightly in the cool, damp trenches, with little to no home comforts. Beyond them was No Man's Land, riddled with craters, barbed wire, and rotting bodies. You could hear sporadic gunshots mixed with the explosive power of artillery—the true reckoning that all men feared in this war. I've seen lads stare me right in the eyes before disappearing in a cloud of mud, sparks, and bloody bits. What an adventure this turned out to be. Being a part of a machine gun crew, my small squad and I were ordered to take a reinforced position in order to fend off an upcoming offensive. Our boots sank into the ground under the weight of our Vickers gun, the tripod, the ammo, and all the spare parts to accompany it. For such a machine, it took three of us to carry everything. We even needed seven and a half liters of water for the iron beast that spat out 450 to 600 rounds per minute. One of the boys behind me grunted with great effort, his boots squishing into the mud.

"Stay on the duckboards, you loon. They're built so we don't get stuck in the muck." My boots were heavy on the soaked, dirty boards, creaking under the weight of me and the gun I carried.

"Why did you choose me to carry the bloody tripod? This thing weighs more than a keg, and I can't even drink from it." Thomas was the complainer of the squad, hence why I often chose him to carry the tripod. He had a couple of teeth missing from, what I assumed, was from a rough life on the streets. I imagine he got punched a lot. Our ammo carrier was the quiet one of the group. His eyes were often glazed over. I know he was a school teacher before the war, although I never knew what he taught, or what grade. We called him Tally. Together, the three of us had fought since the Mons during our very first encounter with the Jerries. We mowed them like the grass but they kept coming. We lost a lot of lads that day, and made a retreat across France. It was humiliating. Now, we carry that anger with us, written across every cartridge. Thomas spoke up. "How many do you think we'll kill?" He had no respect for the living or the dead. "We chew up those bastards, good and proper each time!" He tapped my shoulder to get my attention. I turned my head slightly to see him with my peripherals.

"What d'ya want?" My attitude towards him was always short.

"Do you think I can man the gun this time around? I'll have a little bit more control, I can promise you that." The last time we lent him the gun, he emptied a whole belt right over the heads of charging Jerries. We had to have another machine gun squad pick up our slack while I gave him a good thump, and took over from there. Safe to say, I'm always in control. Tally himself had never pulled the trigger. He always said he's quite content to just carry the ammo, and keep the hate coming.

"Never," I say to him. "I got a proper thrashin' from the sergeant for wasting ammo, and I do not want another." I heard Thomas grunt in response. We were getting closer, passing by artillery pieces and stockpiles of shells and supplies. The hustle and bustle of troops going back and forth intensified, as we got closer to the line. Cloud cover carried over the land, dark and moody dripping with rain to turn the land to mud, and to bury bodies caught in the middle of two lines. What lay ahead of us was one of the greatest human achievement borne out of fear and warfare. A trench system so intricate, stretching from horizon to horizon, filled with men and boys. All of them were scared to death of a shot that comes from nowhere, or the whistle of a shell from the heavens.

Thomas once again chimed up. "These boys are lucky," nodding over to the artillery corps. "They just pull a string and BOOM! They kill dozens, they do!"

Once you thought about it, they were pretty lucky. They were far enough away from the front line, and you had a big gun to take care of business. You could see scribblings on the shells: "To Jerry, Love Tommy" and "Catch this!" Things like that. Imaginative bunch, they were. But, we were a machine gun crew, and we were at the front providing indirect fire and defensive fire to cover the boys as they went over the top. My hands had gone numb from the impact of the gun, and my ears were almost constantly ringing from the noise but this is what we do. Weaving around the lads in the trench, we made our way towards our new position. The trenches themselves were rudimentary at best: a mishmash of holes built into the sides for makeshift homes for the regular Tommy. On one side was a raised level of dirt covered by planks called a firestep. A soldier could step up to it to fire over top towards a charging enemy. The walls were covered in either sandbags or wooden planks. It wasn't much, but to these fellows here, it was home, and they were going to hold it at all costs.

Anchoring in at a firestep, we dug a little hole to lay the tripod. Thomas slammed it down into place, and lay some sandbags off to our sides to protect our flanks. Heaving the gun onto the tripod, I secured it into place and leveled it across the field. Tally loaded the canvas belt into the receiver, setting aside extra boxes of ammo that would be needed throughout the next few days. Down the side of the gun, we had scratched in something French that we caught from some major at a rest stop. "L'appel Du Vide." We still don't know what it means, but it certainly flows off the tongue nicely, and it looks even better when the steam rises off the gun after a battle.

We sat there, eyeing the horizon and looking for any movement. The mess ahead was a series of crates, barbed wire, both ruined and tangled about. The corpses of a few lay on the field. It was cold, as November was almost upon us; I tightened my coat to my chest with one hand while keeping my other steady on one of the triggers. "Christ, it's cold," I said to myself. "Colder than a witch's tit." Soon enough my hand would freeze to the handle, but I didn't care as long as I could still pull the trigger. I looked around down the zigzagging of the lines and, to my surprise, Thomas was nowhere to be found. Most likely haggling with some private, trying to relieve him of some prized possession to sell to another at a later date.

"That boy," I sighed. "He could talk you to selling him your grandmum, but he doesn't know when to shut, or when to take to soldiering seriously." Looking at my right, Tally sat there quietly looking out over the horizon, eyes still glazed like moonlight over a foggy spring. Quiet as the night air, this one. Didn't talk much, but he did his job. Two polar opposites I was stuck with.

"Tally. What did you do before all this? I know you were a teacher, but how did you get roped into all this muck?" I asked him, my eyes still forward.

I didn't expect much of an answer from him, but it did break the monotony of silence.

"I taught kids," he said to me. "I taught math and literature." He stirred a bit, to make himself more comfortable.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, I loved it. It was what I was meant to do, I felt that. Every day I was in that classroom, I saw those kids look up to me and smile."

"And now you're here. Doing this."

He was silent for quite a while, as if he was back home, perhaps in his classroom teaching his kids.

"I'll never be the same. The kids will never look at me the same. I'll never look at myself the same." He took a moment to catch his breath, and at that moment, I realized that not everybody was a soldier. Some are teachers, some are crooks, some are trying to do the right thing. I felt pity for him. He was in a place he didn't belong in, but he kept doing his job.

"In good time, this war will be over, and you'll be back teaching your kids. Forget all this happened and move on when you're done. It'll be so easy, it'll scare you." That was the best speech I could rouse from my fatherly years, the kind I gave to my kids before I left for France.

"Eh, lads! look at what good ol' Tommo scored!" Thomas broke the moment between Tally and me with his ruckus. He had scored a nice watch that looked like it might be important or handed down through generations.

"Some cook said if I got him a nice watch, we'd get some extra good stuff with our rations!"

"What did you give for this elegant watch?" I asked him.

"Peace of mind! I told him that the great Arthur would be mowin' down the Jerries by the hundreds!"

"I will certainly do my best, lad."

Nightfall. It was colder than before, and the cool air breezed through the trenches, carrying along with the smells of the trenches. Disgusting.

There were reports of movement down the line. Something was stirring in the darkness of the night, and it raised something into my stomach. A height of suspense at what was to come. An order came down the to stand-to and be ready for whatever comes. With both hands on the trigger of my gun, I lay ready to spit out as much as I could muster.

A flare was sent into the night sky just ahead of us, to illuminate the battlefield. We all watched as it soared into the air and it slowly drifted back down. It sparked to life and, in unison, all eyes were focused to down the sights of their weapon. The field ahead of us was crawling with black bodies, numerous as the stars and slithering towards us with malice in their hearts. Before fear could take hold, I squeezed the triggers and let loose a volley of machine-gun fire, chewing up dirt and bodies where ever my eyes drifted. The whole trench line lit up on cue from my fire. Oh, the majesty of British rifle fire. The Jerries would swear that they were up against so many heavy guns with the rate of fire our rifles could dish out. Screaming almost encompassed my suppressive fire, and I noticed my belt was almost running dry.

"Tally! Ammo!" I screamed over my gun. Tally dutifully prepared the next belt of ammo once this one ran dry. I tried to keep my fire as accurate as I could, to cut down anybody within mere feet of our frontline. The click-click of my gun silenced everything around me. I yelled out "Reloading!" to keep everybody, aware that one of the guns was going silent for a moment. All around me, silence. No rifle fire, no screams, no explosives. Just me and the gun. Tally loaded in the next belt and slammed the gun down, and shoved my shoulder that it was good. Once I pressed those triggers, everything came back all at once. One sound I didn't want to hear: "Close combat!" from an officer. You could hear the whistles sounding off all down the line as they raided our trench with rifle fire, bayonets, and crude weaponry. I still did my best to gun down as many as I could, to even the odds for our boys. It was a bloodbath, bodies littered the field and slumped over and in our trench. Boys fighting over bodies and becoming bodies. A round whistled past my head and caught my attention. A rifleman pointed towards me, so I turned my gun to him and let off a quick volley, sending him flying back to the Earth. Brutality all around us, but we seemed untouchable. At first.

They broke through our right side, and were pushing down the line towards us. It wouldn't be long until they would reach our position, and we would have to fight as best as we could. Explosions landed all around us, rocking our eardrums and throwing us back. Our gun was thrown aside, now useless. I struggled to get back up to my feet; my whole body ached and I couldn't hear much anymore. I slowly gazed around to see Tally get up to his feet and drift over to where I lay. I could see he was mouthing something, but I couldn't hear what. He fell down to his knees, grasping at this chest as a bayonet was thrust deeper. The blade withdrew from his body and he was thrown on top of me, and face to face we lay. His eyes staring into mine, they grew cold and distant with each passing second. I felt him pass away, his soul flying to the skies of that early morning. I lay there for quite a time until the battle was over. My hearing came back to me, albeit very hollow and minute.

I had learned that we pushed them back in the early hours of that morning, and reinforced our lines. Thomas survived because, of course he did. I even learned he saved some boys. He came up to me afterward.

"So, what happened? How did he die?" he asked, hoping that I could relay some information on his heroics.

"Like a stuck pig. He was kicked onto me by some German, but I didn't see who. I swear on it, I will find that bastard. I don't care if I have to join a raid, I will kill him." Vengeance now soured my veins and drove me to this thought of nothing but smashing his head in, suffocating him in the mud or even torturing him with fire and rats. This I swore, as I stared into his dying eyes.

December came along, and things were at a standstill for the most part. We got our weapon repaired and set into a more reinforced position, so if those bastards tried that again, they would have a damn difficult time getting through us. Snowfall greeted us, and the frost gripped our flesh with an iciness that would make the reaper shiver. Christmas would be soon. You could see in everybody's eyes they wanted this to be over by Christmas so they could be home with their families, enjoy a nice warm fire and a home-cooked meal. But we were still here, in a freezing meat grinder, fighting for inches.

The most remarkable thing happened when Christmas rolled along. There was an impromptu cease-fire, called by the boys on both sides. They first exchanged freedom to gather the dead to bury, a respect that was sometimes honored and then came a slow meeting and shaking of hands. Gifts were exchanged and laughter was had. You almost forgot you were in a war, and that the day before, you were trying to kill that person. Thomas came up to me with a bottle of something—Schnapps I think it was called.

"Lookee here, some Jerry gave this to me with all smiles. It's not half bad; certainly bites the throat!" He took a swig and offered it to me. I looked the bottle up and down, and thought, "Why not? it's Christmas." I downed a good portion of it and handed it back. Thomas looked impressed with my fortitude.

"I drank long before I met you, lad." I told him as I watched the festivities. "I hope he's out there," I thought.

"I think I found your man," he said, his tone quiet as a mouse."I'm not sure but I think it's him. If not, that's one less Jerry we gotta fight tomorrow." I know what he was implying, and I'm not sure what Tally would think of me but I knew it had to be done.

"Let's go get him. Bring that bottle and some food."

We mingled our away through a soccer game and other festivities. The Brits and Germans playing nice was a sight to behold.

"That's him, the fellow by the small Christmas tree. I heard he took part in that raid and killed a few fellows with a bayonet. So, how you wanna do this?" he asked me. I could see that he was fairly calm, and some part of me thought that he'd done something like this before, perhaps back on the streets of London with whatever gang he ran with.

"How do you want to do this?" I asked him, thinking it was better to leave this sneakery up to the sneaky.

"Well, we give him the bottle, and let him drink as much as he wants. We can lead him away somewhere quiet and knife him real good. Make it slow and painful for Tally." I could see that he was experiencing.

"Alright, you lead the way then." Tally would have been ashamed if he could see us.

We approached the German, and he took note of us. His face covered in dirt but he was cheery

"Ah, Frohe Weihnachten, Großbritannien! Merry Christmas, Great Britain!"

"Yeah, have a drink, lad!" Thomas handed him a bottle which he took with great joy. He downed the whole bottle in one go, and let out a great belch. Thomas enjoyed that, and let out a raucous laugh. Plying him with food and booze, the German stumbled around a bit, singing something in German, and we followed behind. His fellow comrades laughed at him and continued on with their celebration. He fell face-first into a crater with a sickening slush. You could hear muffled laughter from the crater. I looked at Thomas and nodded. This was the place to do it. Hopping down into the crater, we hauled him out and took a good look at his face, all covered in mud. His eyes glazed over and his body was swaying. Both of us took our knives out and stuck them into his ribcage. Thomas covered his mouth and twisted his knife with a disgusting utterance of flesh being torn. I kept my knife in place, and felt the warm blood spill out onto my hands. I sat there for a moment, and thought about my actions and what I had done. I had killed a man in cold blood, and it was different than war. This was different. I hadn't felt a thing before when I had gunned down hundreds of Germans because, at that moment, it was my job too do it. But this wasn't my job. This was fury and sad vengeance, and I hated myself for it. I pulled the knife out quickly and let the blood free freely to the frozen ground, wiping off my knife and my hands, I carried myself out of the crater, and let Thomas do the rest of the work.

In this war, people did bad things that would make God cry in anger. On this day, I killed somebody and I regretted it, and I shall forever regret it until the day I die. Come tomorrow or the day after, I await my justice and the call of the void.