The Dead and the Dying

The Dead and the Dying

On the edge of a forest clearing somewhere in the Ardennes Forest, two men sit in a foxhole. Two soldiers. Two friends. Two soldiers in the middle of a battleground, in the middle of a war, in the middle of Europe, in the middle of nowhere.

Snow falls slowly and without ceasing from the sky. The snow falls to the earth. Some is caught by the outstretched branches of the trees as the outstretched arms of greedy men catch money. The rest lands on the ground, fortifying the already bountiful covering. No sun shines down through the thick clouds to diminish the cold gnawing at the woods. The two soldiers sit in their foxhole rubbing, shivering, trying to stay warm. The woods are silent. The woods are silent—except for an occasional cough from one of the soldiers in his hole. But for now, the woods are silent. Then, as a knife tears through cloth, a sudden sound penetrates and replaces the infective silence. Not the sound of a sharp cough, or even that of a spoken word; but a low, quiet sound which is, to the two soldiers, as loud as a siren. It is the quiet rumbling of many engines in the distance. To the men, it sounds as the starting up of a meat grinder for which they are the meat.
In their foxhole, the two soldiers turn and lean forward, peering apprehensively across the clearing—across the three hundred feet of death separating them from that meat grinder. The coughing soldier, even as he coughs again, cocks twice the .30-caliber machine gun positioned at the head of the foxhole. The other soldier grips his rifle and cleans the site with shaky fingers. Then, both men sit still and wait nervously.
From their left comes a would-be encouragement. “Hold steady, boys.”
Even as the words reach the men, the trees across the clearing begin to thrash about wildly as if they are fighting to contain a monstrous beast. For a brief moment, the men hope the trees will win their struggle. Then the trees collapse and, like a flood, out pours the Enemy.
From the men’s right comes the expected order. “Hold your fire, men!”
The men, obedient soldiers, hold their fire and watch as the Enemy swarms across the measly three hundred feet separating the raging monster from the two men in their puny foxhole with their worthless weapons.
The Enemy is halfway to the men, and the men are thinking only of flight—or fight. Finally, the anticipated command rings out. “FIRE!!”
The forest explodes in a blaze of sound, light, and death. The Enemy staggers—then strikes. Trees topple; dust fills the air; and blood covers the ground, staining the snow. The two soldiers in their foxhole fight madly. Sweat, blood, and dirt blur their vision as they mash their triggers, jam ammunition into their guns, and mash their triggers again in a sickening routine. Finally, the Enemy begins to retreat.
Then, even as he turns to run, defeated, the crippled beast sends one last snarl in the direction of the foxhole and its valiant defenders. There is a deafening explosion, and the air is filled with a crimson slush. The dust settles. In the foxhole, one man lies still, staring blankly at the treetops, his chest mangled, lifeless. Beside him lies his friend, guts filled with shrapnel, mouth filled with blood, still clinging to a tiny thread of life. He needs help, but he has no strength to call for it. He lies in the foxhole, next to his friend; and, like a grisly stargazer, watches the gentle snow fall from the clouds above.

On the edge of a forest clearing somewhere in the Ardennes Forest, two men lie in a foxhole. Two soldiers. Two friends. Two friends in the middle of a battleground, in the middle of a war, in the middle of Europe, in the middle of nowhere. Only two—the Dead and the Dying.

The Unfinished Limerick

There once was a young man named Pete

Who unwittingly swallowed his feet.

. . .

All 'Round the Dreadful, Eerie Place

All 'round the dreadful, eerie place

Death has shown his ugly face.

All the leaves fall from the sky;

Soon they'll wither and they'll die.

But, thankfully, it is not done;

Still shines the splendid, golden sun;

The leaves now fly in squadrons gold,

Because the wind is strong and cold;

And although winter soon will call;

Still bask we in the wondrous fall.

Introduction

The once orderly and peaceful forest is now twisted and deadly. Huge splinters of wood fly through the air like daggers as trees topple and shatter into pieces. The usually calm, gentle breeze is permeated with screams and the loud reports of gunfire. The ground shudders as shells puncture its surface. A shredded and bloody tangle is all that remains of the once thick and lush undergrowth. Bullets spatter the earth, filling the air with clouds of dust. Every sense of order the forest ever knew is now gone. The air is saturated with the stench of death. Amidst the chaos, a young man lies in a pool of blood, half hidden behind a fallen tree. Two figures crouch over him.

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He feels nothing--except cold. A sickly, death-like chill has seized his entire body. Except for his stomach. His stomach is warm. He can feel the warmth slowly spreading, as if warm water is streaming from his belly button. He shivers. Everything is silent, except for a faint static in the depths of his consciousness. His vision is blurred. Two shapes loom over, and in the distance he hears a voice. The voice sounds like a drowning person trying to call for help. It sounds like it is trying to say, “Hang on!” He is so cold.
Something touches his stomach, and he recognizes a new feeling. Pain. His muscles tense, and he screams. He screams because it hurts. He wants it to end. He feels as though he is sinking into darkness; and as he sinks, some cruel, heartless person is mashing his insides. He screams again. It hurts so bad.
Then--it stops. The pain and the cold dissolve. It is over. He feels only warmth, and it feels wonderful. He is glad that the pain is gone, and that the ice has melted from his bones. Now, he only feels tired. He will take a nap, and then he will be okay. He smiles and drifts into a peaceful sleep.

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The two men fight desperately to save the man that lies on the ground between them. One is a big man, the single chevron on his shoulder marking him as a private first class; the other man, a thin medic. Blood gushes from the wounded man’s midsection. It has been blown to shreds. He is nearly cut in half. The two men try to apply pressure to the wound, but it is too big to cover. He screams and starts going into convulsions. The two men try to hold him still. He screams again. He screams so loud.
Suddenly, the man’s muscles relax. His convulsions cease. The big man falls back in despair. The medic quickly places his hand on the still man’s neck. He feels nothing. It is over.
The two men sit there for several seconds, unmoving. A single tear slides down the thin man’s face and falls. The tear lands on the dead man’s cheek, just below one of the cold, lifeless eyes. The crying man places two fingers on the silent man’s eyes, and shuts them. He rips a dog tag from the dead man’s neck and slips it in his pocket.
All around the pitiful group, chaos still reigns supreme. The chaos of war. But on the face of one man, lying between his friends, is peace.

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A short distance from the group, nearly invisible in the tall grass, lies a helmet, momentarily forgotten. On the side of the helmet, two words are written in white:

“NOBODY DIES.”