The Blessed Calm Of A Maddened Mind

One.

I write this now a broken man, one plagued not by visions of the unreal and imagined, but by that which is so real that its mere existence beckons insanity forward into the minds of those whom have witnessed its horrifying majesty, and from this spring rapture into the mundane, for the mundane is too that which now offers its own horror. Were I to recount the events that foretold my quick descent into the screaming madness in which I now reside, I would be called the very thing which I am; insane. But my words hold no lies, nor do they remove any details of that which I have been present to. My memories, once shattered and frayed by the nascent understanding of what I have seen, now come to me clearer than the finest crystal as I rationalise and attempt to diagnose my experiences as that of a man broken by war, yet this explanation itself does not give me comfort, for I know I witnessed no horror so great that these experiences would manifest in my mind, so I must confess to myself that they were, indeed, real. My writing of this recount comes only as a final testament to my life, as I will depart this earth with no son or daughter to carry my family name. I am the last of my family, a lineage that has been traced so far back as to be named in several works of the great Cassius Dio. I dishonour my family greatly, yet that fact bothers me little compared to what bothers me greatly, that of the things I have seen. I have come into possession of a book, one of fifty, known only as the NES Collective, a series of books, drawings and artefacts that defy both time and location, being wholly unnatural and foreign on this our young planet. The piece that I have come into possession of is that of a drawing, a drawing that to even call to memory brings me great pain. I will muster my thoughts and recount what I have seen, so perhaps this too may be included in the dreaded NES Collective.  

My initial trepidation and worry of joining what was then being so ominously dubbed "the great war" was soon made worse by the view I got of the harbour my ship pulled into. I had done my patriotic duty and signed up the day of my seventeenth birthday, and was soon assigned to the seventh infantry division, third platoon, under the command of major Michael Lamstrum, and was carted off to France a month or so later.  The port in which I arrived with my fellow countrymen was Calais Ferry Port, and from the smell alone I soon determined my service would not be one of ease, though the thought of it being so had never crossed my mind. The bodies of the dead and the slowly dying were littered across the cobblestone roads and the blood of the living and the dead had turned the wood of the wharves a dull brown. I was one of the first to step off the ship and onto the wharf, felt the wet wood beneath my boots creak and groan. I half expected the thing to break under my weight, but thankfully I was spared such a fate. Our section was escorted to a trench that had been cut through a small township. From the moment we crossed from safe territory into the combat zone, I knew my days were numbered. We were met by the sounds of artillery guns before we saw our own forces. God how those guns thundered, the sounds of great tyrannical giants stomping across the battlefield, consuming all in fire and gore. I hear them even now, so vividly. There was no thought or consciousness behind the sounds, or from the guns themselves, but one's mind tends to drift into the realms of fantasy when faced with such a foreign sound. 
My first few days as both a seventeen year old and a soldier were uneventful, in truth. The fear of a German advance was never more than an afterthought when compared to the thought of being hit by a shell. My comrades and I went days without firing our rifles, as we were told to only shoot if we can see a German. I hadn't realised how close our two trenches really were until I finally got the chance to do as my commander said and fire my rifle. He was a young man, perhaps no older than I, with bright blue eyes and a washed out face. I didn't expect to hit him, only scare him back down into his trench, but I did. I saw his head pop up over his trench, dart back down, before he popped back up to fire at us. I didn't even realise what I had done until I felt the buck of the rifle and saw him fall limp back into his trench. I felt sick then, my stomach turned on itself and I remember vomiting on the muddy floor behind me. He was my first and only kill in that trench, indeed in that entire country. 
Days would go by with little sleep and even less food. None of us wanted to eat, none of us wanted to sleep. Madness griped many of us, drove some to strip naked and run into no man's land. The food, in truth, wasn't horrible. It was certainly nothing like I was used to at home in Liverpool, but it wasn't unbearable. For months I subsisted on crackers and two hours of sleep a night, or as little of both until my body gave out and I passed out on the muddy floor. Life was hell, a mixture of fear and hatred. My loyalty to my country often wavered, and I grew angry at my superiors of putting my fellows and I into such a dangerous place. Many times I thought of desertion, but my love for my fellows kept my feet firm and my rifle in-hand. 

After seven months, five days in the trenches, I was given a chance to leave and undertake a mission of, what my lieutenant called, "the greatest importance in the war effort."
The mission details were kept from me, but I was quickly escorted away from my post by two officers. We walked through miles of muddy trench, from the front lines to the rear, then to an automobile waiting for us. I had fortunate enough to grow up in a house of wealth, and that fact alone is what afforded me the opportunity to not only drive such a vehicle, but own one.  My father was only the latest in a long line of mineral merchants, dealing almost exclusively in diamonds, rubies, emeralds and the like. this had garnered my family a sizeable fortune, one that was shared between my father and his brother, my uncle. Upon entering the vehicle, I was told by a man wielding a thick London accent that I would be taken to Paris, then to London where my father resided. I was enraged that my father, whom had forbade me joining the war, was now pulling proverbial strings to see me removed from the war and abandoning my fellow man in the trenches. I asked the two officers to please excuse me, that I might leave and walk back to the front lines, but was met with a large hand on my shoulder and a stern and soulless look from the officer seated next to me. He spoke in a low tone, so low that his vocal cords might break glass with its guttural sound. It told me that my orders were from the top, not specifying from whom exactly they originated, or from what rank. To disobey a direct order was treasonous, and I at that time was not overtly familiar with military law, so I accepted his words outright. Do not think my intention to return to the front lines from whence I had come was due to some overwhelming patriotism, or some undying loyalty to my fellow man. In truth, it was merely to spite my father, but the loyalty I had to my fellow soldier was indeed a factor in why I wanted to return, and why I felt guilt crush me as I drove away from that town, now trench. 
The thought of leaving my brothers in arms alone to die out there was as much sorrowful as it was frustrating, as I was unable to return. 
I arrived in Paris perhaps a day or so later, after exiting the vehicle at another town and boarding a train bound for the capital. When I entered Paris, I was met with the same dull and grim faces worn by most everyone I had seen since joining the war. The shells had wrought damage upon this beautiful city as well, reducing icons of art and architecture to naught but rubble. From Paris, I boarded a boat bound for London, and arrived in quicker time than expected. I was taken to a bunker beneath Downing street through a series of subterranean corridors and passages, starting from a small door at a London train station. An hour of working between the two officers led us to the bunker, and I was welcomed in by three armed guards wearing the uniform of the Queen's Guard. I entered, following the leading officer, and was met with a large circular room, with a large wooden table in its centre. Around the table were twelve men, my father among them. I was motioned at by my father to take a seat, and I did so without question. One of the men looked at the guards, nodded, and the guard closed the door with himself beyond it. What transpired next, how vividly I remember it, laid the groundwork for my mental state. 
My father spoke first, and I will recount all that was said. 
'Gentlemen, this is my son, William. I have taught him all that I know and think he will be a perfect asset to our group.'
A man with a large collection of chins around his throat welcomed me with a smile, to which I politely smiled back and thanked him. My father looked at me in a way I could only describe as giving me his full attention, an act he hadn't done since the moment of my birth, I think. 
'Son. We have found an area in the Amazon jungle near Peru, an area we believe holds great archaeological secrets.' Was all my father said next. I found it strange beyond words how utterly queer this situation was. I was dragged from my post and told to go to Peru for something holds no true value to the war effort. I felt rather offended, truth be told. I voiced my concerns, told my father what I thought of his little cabal of merry-men, and politely declined. I was quickly, and rather harshly, told by the fat gentleman that welcomed me that my decline wasn't optional, that he was giving me a direct order. I did as I was asked, replying with a "yes, sir" in a sheepish voice I dare say I'm not too proud of.