Short Story
Caught in the Crossfire
With every step I take water seeps through my boots, raindrops lightly tap my shoulder as I make my way down the chilling Rue de Luxemburg. My nose is filled with the sweet aroma of dessert crepes and espresso. I nervously rustle through my satchel, re-inspecting my identification papers for the fifth time tonight. The beat of my heart grows more rapid the closer I get to my hostel. I arrive to the front door; it is slightly ajar and is heat radiates from inside. I swing the door open; the rush of warm air envelops me. I exchange a few francs for a key and I open my door to find three other men with five o’clock shadows and poorly cut hair much like myself. Two of them are sprawled out on their beds, one nearly asleep. The third is unpacking his toiletries; he pulls out his ever-ready safety razor, a toothbrush with every bristle on its last leg, and a new bar of soap tucking a picture into his wallet.
“Bonjour.” says the one standing.
“Bonjour.” my voice shakes.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Hugo, and yours?”
“I’m Bruno, this is Bernard and Pierre.”
Bernard and Pierre wave to me, Bernard with his head buried in his pillow, makes the effort of rolling over.
“Where are you from, your accent isn’t local.” Bernard asks.
“Uh, yes I am from Valence, its more Southern France.” I reply.
“Oh, I have traveled there once or twice with my family.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say.
We all share a smile that seems to lighten the mood of the room. With drooping eyelids, and before the rest of us, Bernard falls asleep. Pierre followed shortly after, leaving Bruno and I awake together. We make a bit of small talk. We lie in bed looking up at the aged russet ceiling.
“Are you on duty tomorrow?” Bruno asks.
“Yes, are you?” I respond.
“Yes, is it your first time serving?”
“Mhhm, it yours?”
“This will be my third time. You’ll want to cherish these last few moments of peace. Welcome to war, Hugo.”
For the rest of the night I lay there, restless, lost in my thoughts… Will I be able to pull this off?
As I wait in line at the field house getting ready to check in, my stomach is in knots, moisture gathers in the palms of my hands, my heart is a jackhammer rattling within my ribcage. I continuously study my identification papers. Repeating my name and surname, my occupation, address, age, and everything else that comes along with a typical check-in. My fingers slip against one another as I clutch them nervously. I see Hugo, Bruno and Pierre already have checked in. The room is a sea of horizon blue trench coats and cardinal red trousers; every man in proper uniform. The man in front of me steps away from the desk and joins the other soldiers sitting down; waiting for the train. I hand my information to the receptionist. His eyes travel to meet mine, each wrinkle on his matured face tells a story. After-shave and coffee sink deep into my nose with every word that flows out of his chapped lips. For a minute I forget where I am, but am quickly brought back to reality when he begins with the inquiry.
“Name?” he asks.
“Hugo Laurence Sir.”
“Occupation?”
“Farm worker.”
“Age?”
“20” I reply smoothly.
He continues with many more questions that I have rehearsed too many times.
“Are you prepared to serve in the war for at least 6 months, for the country of France?”
I swallow hard; the lump in my throat prolongs my gulp. “Yes sir.” I say.
Our eyes meet; he looks at me for what seemed like hours, it sends darts down my spine.
“You can take a seat over there.” He says politely pointing to the other soldiers sitting on the bench. I turn my back towards him and start walking in the direction of the other men. I find an empty bench to sit; I pull out a piece of paper and pen out of my satchel. I begin to write a letter to my closest comrade.
Dear Gregor,
I am in. Please burn this letter after reading it.
I slip the letter into an envelope and address it to Berlin, hoping no one suspects anything until it reaches the German postal office. I was sent as a spy because of my shameful aim. When practice shooting I was unable to hit any part of the target that every other man was able to consistently strike at. The only other position that was offered to me was a spy. I am known to panic, thus my general did not want to deal with me. I press a stamp on the envelope and kiss it for good luck before it plummets to the bottom of the mailbox. In time the first train arrives to take a group of solders to the front. We are crowded around the door of the train prodding our way to the front to get a good seat for the three-hour trip ahead. On the bus I make small talk with the other soldiers. I sit next to a man who looks a few years older than me. He is sobbing, as he continuously looks at a picture a woman.
“I will probably never see her again.” He weeps; “I don’t understand why the Germans had to declare war on us. My sister lives in Verdun; they bombed her house last week. She was home with a two year old and pregnant with another. Why must we constantly be fighting? This whole war has accomplished nothing but sorrow among everyone in Europe.”
I sit there speechless, not knowing what to say, I have never met this man in my life. I don’t even know his name. I try to comfort him with my words.
“The war is not over yet, you will see your wife again, and better days will come.”
Guilt hits me like a brick wall. I remind myself that this is just an act. I close my heavy eyelids and treasure my last few hours of serenity before we begin the fight of the enduring battle of Verdun.
Stepping off the train I take deep breath of air, unlike the air at home it is thick and the reek of mud fills the sky. Quickly, we report to our area of the front dropping off the few belongings we were allowed to carry in the trenches. A General assigns us to groups of five or so men. He supplies us with a gas mask, a few hand grenades, and a bayonet. The man who sat next to me on the train is in my group. The groups disperse in to various parts of the trench. I take mental note of the surroundings. As we reach a stopping point we begin to settle down for the night. A word is not said; we simply sit in utter silence. I scoop a handful of dirt into the palms of my hands and begin to continuously throw the dirt back and forth between my fingers. It keeps me distracted and it slows the rate of my heart. I play with the dirt until it dries out my hands.
The sun hasn’t risen, yet my group is awake. We nibble on bread and jam and puff on cigarettes to pass the time before things begin to go in full force. The stockiest man in our group is the first to speak.
“Get your gear together and let’s head out.” He exclaims.
We jump out of the shelter we dug in the side of the trench.
“Now, he says loudly, let’s go fight some Germans.”
The majority of the group chants back. “Yeah!”
While everyone is fiddling with his uniform and gear, I keep quite in a corner. I pull out more paper and begin to write a letter to the head general.
Dear General,
I am located 2 miles away from the nearest German base camp. So far I have seen inside of the French trenches. The best way to attack would be approaching in from the south. The barbed wire is much less over there and the weapons are heavily located on the north side of the trench. Every soldier is armed with hand grenades and the gun varies depending on the soldier. Nobody suspects anything of me yet. I hope I am meeting your expectations; I will keep you updated on further information I find.
I tuck my letter securely in my coat and proceed with my morning. The five of us meet up with other soldiers. On the way I begin a conversation with the man on the train.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Francis.” He says.
“I am Hugo.” I say.
“It is nice to meet you Hugo. I apologize for my behavior yesterday.”
“Don’t apologize, this is hard for everyone, I understand.”
A part of me feels sorry for Francis for the horrible things that were done to his sister. I resent Germany for that. We talk more about his family and I tell him about mine. I tell him the things that I am able to share without giving too much of my identity away. Francis and I straggle behind from the others.
Out of nowhere a surprise attack occurs. Bombs one after another fly past Francis and I. We drop to the ground and cover our heads. We try to find the other soldiers who are farther ahead, but we are unable to see ten feet ahead because of the dirt flying around our heads. I breathe heavily, asking what I have gotten myself into. Every breath gets heavier. I begin to cough; I am nearly out of air. My heartbeat slows down. My mind begins to go numb; thoughts keep coming in to my mind like waves crashing on rocks. I look around me; everything I see has peeled away from reality, the familiar feeling of panic escalades inside me like an unstoppable snowball building up. I hear a hushed call of my name. “Hugo!” I don’t have the oxygen to respond. I begin to lose consciousness. The ground feels as if it is about to take me away from here. Right before I begin to slip away, I feel an aggressive tug from my gear belt. It is Francis releasing the gas mask from my coat and securing it on my face. He adjusts it just in time before I lose all consciousness. I take several breathes in a row; nearly hyperventilating. Francis checks my pulse, forces me to slow my breathing, and unbuttons my tight coat to let my lungs use their full capacity. I regain my sense of mind. He helps me up, and lets me lean on him until we make it to the nearest shell hole. He drops me in first, sitting me up right properly. He follows in shortly after, he sits next to me in the small hole with concern in his eyes, he does everything he can to help me. A half an hour goes by and I am almost back to normal.
“Are you alright comrade?” he asks.
“I will be.” I respond.
Bombs cut through the air one by one piercing the innocence of my ears. I despise the noise of the combustion. We no longer know if the bombs are attacking us or if we are fighting back at the Germans.
“We were hit with gas; I should have told you to have your mask more accessible. The gas attacks are the worst in my opinion, they drag every second making it seem like an hour. It creeps in your lungs and fills your body with ruthless pain. You’re a lucky one. Most don’t live after being exposed to the gas for the amount of time. If I didn’t see you struggling in time, I might not be talking to you right now.” Francis explains.
“I owe you Francis, I can’t thank you enough, you saved my life, and you brought me to safety. I just met you and you have done the greatest thing a man can do for another. You have kept my heart beating. Thank you Francis, I owe you the world.”
Francis and I sit in the shell hole together until dusk. We wait for the commotion to calm down. After hours of waiting and worrying, it is finally safe enough to make our way to the trench. When we reach the trench we spot other soldiers waving us down. We reach them and they create an opening for us to come in through.
An unfamiliar face begins to question us.
“Where have you guys been? We have been worrying about you; it is a relief to see you. The Germans attacked again with gas, we have found 126 dead. We are missing forty-five. Well, forty-three now that you have arrived.”
“We fell behind the group and we were caught in the middle of the attack. We are lucky to have survived.” Francis explains.
He insists we go eat some dinner while it is at last calm on the front again. We gorge on bread, cheese, and beans. One of the worst yet most satisfying dinners I have had in a long time. I take out the note I had written early in the morning. I read it over and over until I can recite it. Francis who hardly knows me at all, who believes in me as a comrade, a friend and as a French civilian saved my life today. If I send this letter, he will never see his wife again, and he will be a buried, perhaps right next to his sister. I take out a match from my coat. The spark warms my frostbitten nose. I hold it to the corner on my paper and watch the flame eat away at the paper. The words disappear before my eyes. I have failed my country; I have let them down as a secret spy. I will not turn myself in and they will believe I had died in battle fighting against them. Fighting for them. The flame grows as I put it on the ground. It litters the sky with ashes and at last, I feel warmth. I stomp the fire out before the flame grows. The scrambling of men interrupts me. I am ordered to draw the gun from my side, which I have dreaded taking out since the day I started the military.
“Take cover!” the General shouts.
All at once every French man aims his gun toward the Front Range. Machine guns are handed out in no time at all. I look to the left of me to find Francis. His gun is aimed, and I have never seen such a focus in his eyes. I observe him for a long time; his eyes are tired like every other man out here. His helmet is too big for his petite head, it is drooped to the left of him. I refocus my attention on the front. While others are shooting, I am watching very closely. In a shell hole 100 meters away, I see something, someone. I notice something on the side of the helmet that stands out from the rest of the Germans. A familiar red strip is painted on the front of the helmet. I would know that stripe anywhere. Gregor received it to be identified as our group leader before I left. I can hardly believe that I am so close to him, yet I have never been farther away. I watch Gregor take aim at someone. It almost looks as if he sees me and is aiming his gun toward me. I look at his eyes; they are pointed directly to my left; directly at Francis. Knowing Gregor has never missed a shot, I begin to panic. I try my hardest to stay still while I aim at Gregor. I look at Gregor one last time; I look beside me to see Francis. Without a thought through my mind I begin to aimlessly shoot in the empty abyss of air. I hold my machine gun in the direction of Gregor. I don’t stop until I am out of ammo. Tears well in my eyes. My heart aches. My soul is a castaway in a sea of betrayal. The dust clears from the shooting. The red striped helmet lays face forward on the frozen ground.