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.