As I Lay Dying

Thirty four

1918

"Two weeks Styles. Can you believe it? Just two more weeks!"

I shake my head slowly, trying to absorb the news we've just been given.

The dug out is filthy, crowded with damp, musky smelling bodies. All the men are chattering excitedly, sharing round rum rations, smuggled whiskey and cigarettes as though it's a party. In a way it is, or it will be soon

It'll all be over.

In just two weeks this hellish place I've come to call a wretched version of home for so long will be gone. It doesn't seem possible. Can I really have only been here for four years? It feels like a lifetime.

Jimmy is in one corner, talking to a group of soldiers, casually using the tip of his cigarette to burn the lice from his jacket.

It's something I do myself, we all do, many times a day but somehow the sight of it suddenly seems obscene.

I stare down at my unclad swollen, peeling feet. Not the worst case of trench foot, but still enough to pain me.  The sight of the it seems to hit home further.

Are we even men anymore?

We live in a world where lice crawling across our skin is an everyday nuisance, barely thought of, dealt with openly without shame. Where fleas bite into your body on a night, rats share your sleeping quarters. We eat near the stench of latrines. I know many officers who treat their dogs better than we have lived, in the name of king and country.

Inexplicably, tears well in my eyes. Are they for me? A pitiful excuse for a man, crawling with lice, stinking to heaven and suddenly realising the pitiful deaths to which I have sunk? Or are they for Luke, gone in his prime when he was so close to the end after all?

Or is it because I'm scared?

The trenches are hell, but it's the hell I know. Outside of here... Going back to England and living a new life free of it... Does that scare me?

I know the answer. Wincing at the sensation I pull the boots over my swollen feet and limp outside the dug out, needing to be away from my fellow soldiers.

Sergeant Marks is already out here and he nods briskly when he spots me. He's oddly detached from his men, few noticed him slip out after he'd delivered the news about the treaty.

"Trench foot, Styles?" He nods towards my limping gait.

"Yes sir."

"Try soaking them in warm water for a few minutes before bed. Make sure you dry them properly after." He nods again at his own advice and continues staring out at the wire that separates our trench from no mans land.

"I will, sir." I lean back against the wall. Several minutes pass before Marks offers me his tin of cigarettes. Once I've taken one he shoves them in his pocket and clasps his hands behind his back, not looking at me once during the whole exchange.

"I should have thought you'd be in there celebrating with your fellow men."

I don't answer. I stare up at the point of the wire that has his full attention. The white mist embraces it almost tenderly and we spend several long minutes staring up at nothing.

"11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It'll be signed and then this will all be over Styles."

"So they say sir."

"You don't believe it?" He glances at me for the first time.

"It's not my place to believe anything. I just follow orders." I say flatly. "I'll believe it's over when my feet touch English soil again, sir."