The Storm

^[1]709 words

The mud, the rain, the water, the earth, the corrugated iron, the barbed wire, the clouds, and the noise. We are here, in this place, this trench, our sanctuary, our Hell. The world was mud, rain, and sporadic machine gun and artillery fire. We spent our days in the line eating, sleeping, standing to, grousing, and delousing. The battlefield was empty, desolate. Everyone ensconced in their labyrinthine defensive networks, trying to stay hidden, trying to stay alive.

It started to snow: the rain gave way to snowflakes falling steadily, then rapidly, floating and then plummeting from the sky in an escalating blizzard. The report of distant guns fell silent as crews took shelter in dugouts and under tarps. The wind began to howl as I brought the collar of my greatcoat up closer to my throat. My breath was an exhaled cloud of steam as I stood there. The rest of the men headed underground to shelter from the storm; everyone who wasn’t on duty quickly disappeared.

Snowstorms like these were nature’s way of breaking the monotony of trench life. The flakes pinged gently off my steel helmet, and my slung rifle was, as ever, on my right shoulder. It was hard to see as the snow fell harder. I blinked constantly as I moved forward toward the trench’s fire step. I had a sudden urge to climb up and look out across no man’s land, even though I knew I shouldn’t. There were strict rules: Don’t look over the parapet during daylight unless you wanted a bullet between your eyes. But somehow the storm made things different. It fell in a torrent around me, turning everything white; I mounted the fire step that would allow me to peer out towards the enemy trench line.

As I looked out, the snow began to cover the desolate interim space of shell craters with a crisp, clean coat of white. The mud and blasted trees were frosting over. A dead horse that lain for months out in the wasteland was soon covered, sanctified by the relentless snowfall. Flakes clung to the barbed wire and nestled on the bed of a shattered wagon, concealing the destruction wrought over the years. I felt like I could breathe again. The air had turned crisp and clean, masking the miasmatic stink of death and industrial warfare.

The technological might of empires had shattered this land, destroyed men, and driven them mad. But even these scars could be covered over and healed, for the man in the opposite trench is not unlike me.

It was like fighting our neighbors, our friends, our brothers. The higher-ups liked it that way; it kept us divided, occupied, angry at one another instead of furious with them. They were secure in their synagogues, progressive citadels, and ivory towers.

I am connected to this place, this land, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn. They are not. They are a commercial elite, a mafia fixated solely on profit and loss that is divorced from the people they purport to govern. Most of them were not even born in the country I call home, and most of them don’t look like me or speak the language of my people. Their ancestors didn’t clear the land, plant the crops, toil in back-breaking labor, love their wives fiercely, or defend their country with their blood. It is time to replace them before they replace us.

These thoughts raced through my mind as I looked up and across the white field of freshly fallen snow. I knew right then and there that my so-called enemies weren’t in the trenches opposite me, but were ruling us as tyrants from afar. I knew they held us in contempt no matter what scripted pieties they mouthed. Our ancestors had changed the land they dwelt upon, and they were in turn changed by it.

A soldier opposite stood up, unarmed, and walked towards our lines. Without thinking, I stepped up and over the parapet. I left my rifle behind. I walked forward. The storm ceased, the clouds parted, and the Sun shined through. Hints of green appeared amongst the melting snow and clinging mud; the sky gradually turned blue. I met him halfway. He smiled, and I shook his hand.

*  *  *

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