Attrition
It's a cold, raining day in February. My name is Henri Arbour. The year is 1916, and I wake to find myself drowning in my trench along Western France. I escape my damp dwellings with a soaked, freezing coat and a pack of cigarettes. I pray they were on a high enough shelf that they're dry enough to escape my tremors. Counting on my luck, they weren't. But you could look at my luck either way; I was lucky enough to not catch a bullet yet during my year in Hell, but luck would probably have me catch trench foot. To me, that would be worse than getting shot to death. But today, luck was more or less on my side, as I found but one smoke that would light. Lucky me. Beliveau, my only friend left of the group of old pals that accompanied me to this horrid swamp of mud, blood, and decay, soon came to greet me with his dead expression. He was the only person who wanted to be here less than me, ******* was he scared. Whenever some'd go over the top, he'd be in the corner ******* himself. Can't blame him. The roar of those machine guns goes quite appropriately well the harrowing slaughter they cause. Jesus, listen to me, that must've been the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard, and yet, I can't help but laugh a little. A bit psychotic, huh? But that's what this ******* war'll do to ya, make ya cynical as Hell. With all this digression, I missed what Beliveau had just said. Funny how the mind tends to wander more out here. “What?”, I asked, slightly uninterested. “I said a new shipment of rations just came in.” Instantly a glow came to my face. Heh, so deprived that I get this excited at the mere thought of not having to **** some disgusting rodent just to get some food in my stomach tonight. Pretty sad, huh? I wouldn't know, not anymore. I was especially happy because the last shipment that was supposed to come a month ago had been fire bombed on the way. Tonight, we'll rejoice on this small personal victory. If only we could drink away our sorrows as well, but that'll be another day. One when this ****** strife is just a distant memory that we're all trying to suppress...
- - -
It's now late March. I've been slowly losing sanity this past month, partially due to sleep deprivation, partially due to the things I've seen, the two being closely related. All month long our trench has been getting bombed, just shell upon never-ending shelling that just seems to go on and on through the never. Two weeks ago, I saved Beliveau, but at a mental cost. I noticed him talking with some other guys and saw him laugh. I called him over and asked how he seemed so relaxed. “I really don't know, I just-”, before he could finish there came a burst of light from where the others were standing. The blast hit us pretty bad. The images, though, those were visions of pure Hell on earth. What I saw in that seemingly insignificant instance in time, I can't-I-I won't ever-. For all this time my body had been raw, but now my mind was following in suit. My body is slowly becoming a shell, housing dark, black emptiness.
- - -
It's mid April now and sleep has become a distant dream. The shelling stopped, but my mind has been becoming consistently unhinged. I can't stop thinking about the incident from a month and a half ago. It's now quite evident that I'm quickly losing control of my psyche. I can't escape these images no matter how hard I try and I'm losing my grip on reality. I can't even remember my own name. What was it? Henri Ar-Ar, or was it- no, no, I have no idea now. Exhaustion is taking over full force now. I can't tell if I'm just falling asleep or dying, can't tell the difference anymore, but all I know is that it's comforting. If I just close my eyes maybe I'll wake up in the morning, or maybe I'll let go and just slip away. In the morning I woke to a loud bang and then nothing. My eyes were to blurry to see anything and scent seemed to be my only sense still in able use. It was hotter than usual, which caused everything to have an even worse rotting smell. Suddenly my hearing returned. I began to hear voices in German. A soldier started to poke me with the **** of his gun to see if I was still alive. In a panic, I grabbed my rifle and began stabbing wildly with my bayonet, still unable to see quite clearly. I was still alive, so I-”H-Henri...” Oh God, b-but, no! It had all been a dream. When I opened my eyes, I saw blood dripping down the barrel of my gun, and as I panned up, I realized what I'd just done. Beliveau was dead.
- - -
It's been three days. Beliveau was still dead. Last night my comrades decided to exile me over just shooting me in my twisted head, on account of being a traitor. It was worse than death, cause now I'd live with the guilt for the short five minutes left in my life. It was something I never imagined happening when I came into this war, but was quickly turning into a horrifying nightmare. In the morning, they sent me packing into No Man's Land with just a revolver and six rounds. I leave now, lost to this dying world around me. “Beliveau... I'm sorry. Sorry all of our friends died, sorry you witnessed so much before-before... sorry.” This ******* war has taken everything from me. My body's battered, my name is gone, my mind is obliterated, and I'm in oblivion. I can't-I can't-I, “ping”, gone. “Ahh!...”, Heavy Breathing. I wake to the sound of a train running over tracks. I'm unrelieved. It's mid April, 1916. My name is Henri Arbour. My personal Hell begins.
