The Smell of Victory.
“Smell that boys? Now that is the smell of victory.” The Sergeant and his four remaining soldiers all inhaled deeply.
“Gas,” Samuel said, raising an arm so that he could cover his mouth with the grimy sleeve of his patch-work uniform.
“Gas?” Lawrence asked, inhaling again to see if he could discern the smell within the air. After deciding that indeed he could, he made a note in a small, black book.
“Gas. There’s always gas!” Daniel Tailor grumbled, tugging a heavy mask over his youthful features and throwing himself to the ground.
“Gas masks on, this way boys!” With that, the remaining soldiers covered their faces and dropped to the scarlet field, gulping deep breaths of air as they followed their sergeant. The men, if they could be called that, crawled through a field damp with blood, sweat and last night’s rain towards the enemy trench.
“Shouldn’t we go the other way?” Lawrence asked, awarded with a third mouthful of gas and a coughing fit that sent more tears scorching trails across his dirty cheeks.
“For God’s sake, Lawrence, where’s your gas mask?” the Sergeant demanded.
“He left it at our trenches, sir,” Jack said.
“Oh so that’s why he wants to go back,” Daniel sniggered.
“That’s enough,” the Sergeant said. He wriggled a little further through the filth and peered over the top of the enemy trench before dropping in. Just as expected, the men they’d recently killed were slumped in heaps of mud, half buried a short distance from a small crater where they had previously stood.
“What now, sergeant?” Jack asked, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the sound of gun-fire, explosives and Lawrence’s violent coughing.
“Switch uniforms; and make sure you get one of their gas masks, Lawrence,” the Sergeant commanded.
“With them filthy corpses?” Daniel asked, glaring with disgust at the torn, muddy, blood splattered fabrics wrapped around the bodies.
“That’s an order Lieutenant. Let’s just hope that there’s enough of our men down to make a likely scenario.” The soldiers reluctantly obeyed until there were four enemy soldiers and one General – “That’s awfully ambitious of you, Sarge,” – standing in a valley of death. A brief body count revealed that there were twelve of the enemy down and six soldiers and a sergeant from the ‘other’ side.
“Likely scenario indeed. We killed more than that and lost fewer men,” Daniel grumbled.
“And so we should in a surprise attack. How in hell did Benderson and Scaper end up in the trench?” the Sergeant asked.
“I think they were planting mines, sir,” Samuel said.
“Mines? But mines weren’t part of the plan!” The Sergeant threw his arms above his head in frustration and gesticulated wildly as his rant faded to a sequence of unpleasant expletives.
“Where did they plant the mines?” Jack Mathews asked, wetting his dry, cracked lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Standard procedure is to plant mines at the front of the trenches,” Lawrence said, making another note in his small, black book with the stub of a pencil.
“Sarge. Hey Sarge!” Daniel snapped, motioning for the men to move back, away from the trench wall.
“Yes? Oh yes, I see. Good call lieutenant.”
“What’s the plan, sir?” Samuel asked.
“We blend in until we have a chance to go back over the top. In fact, Lawrence just got promoted.” The sergeant unpinned the enemy general badges from his acquired clothing and gave them to the dark haired man whose deep, brown eyes were now hidden behind a gas mask. Shaking a little, Lawrence attached them to his uniform and saluted, receiving a similar action in response.
“Their badges aint worth buttons and brass. Got to be a pretty big crime too; impersonating a Southerner that is,” Daniel said in a harsh, grating voice with just a touch of outrage and more than a dash of envy.
“I’m honoured but why me Sarge?” Lawrence asked, ignoring the lieutenant.
“See that Southerner weaving his way through the trenches? Well he speaks in Southerner code and he will be expecting his general to respond in the same manor. Our scholar here…” The sergeant’s words were drowned out as an explosive was launched from a neighbouring trench, just out of sight. By the time the Sergeant and his men had reclaimed their upright positions, a Southerner of about fifteen years was crouching in the trench beside them.
“Feneram Oricf.” The boy saluted and then drummed his chest, both expression and features disguised by a layer of grime. How fortunate that the Sergeant and his men were hidden behind similar masks.
“Vhau Mewt?” Lawrence asked.
“Fooe Mewt. Shf Morthernert zrf qetreatinh. Xov zne xous qegimenu zrf sp keae z einam bhargf. Rp rayt shf jinh.” The boy took out a small scroll of parchment and Lawrence nervously broke the seal, scanned the page and then nodded.
“H geas zne nbez.” The boy saluted and drummed his chest again before hurrying away.
“Well?” The sergeant took the piece of parchment and then crumpled it in his fist when he realised it was written in code.
“The Northerners are retreating and we’re to lead a final charge,” Lawrence reported.
“When” The sergeant asked.
“Now,” Lawrence said. Silence.
“Orders, Sarge?” Daniel prompted. The sergeant remained silent a moment longer and then let out a mournful sigh.
“Come on boys, there’s no other option. When we reach the other side, our side, we turn and fight.”
“And what if our men fire on us?” Daniel pulled at his looted uniform.
“Better they kill us than we kill them,” Jack said. The sergeant nodded and Lawrence called out ‘Bhargf!’ before they set off at a run towards the other trenches. Samuel was the first to die – he slipped in the sweat and blood filled mud and the many pairs of heavy, steel capped boots trampled his body; neck and spine crunching under their feet. The other men forged on and the Southerners eagerly began to fire their guns at the retreating Northerners who turned and returned fire. A bullet ripped through the sergeant’s shoulder and he leaked blood like a ruptured balloon loses air. Then a second bullet took Jack in the chest. For a moment he ran on, propelled forward by the other soldiers and a frantic adrenaline until suddenly he collapsed, all but his outstretched, twitching arm on enemy territory.
Daniel screamed in anguish and raised his gun, open firing on the other Northerners. Three fell before the sergeant smashed his head open with the butt of his gun.
“I’m sorry,” the sergeant said. He turned and sent a spray of bullets into the mass of Southerners before he too was killed by one of his allies; shot in the back by a Northern man.
Lawrence froze. He could not bare to kill a Northerner but neither did he turn on the Southerners. Soon the battle was done. Corpses were laid like a blanket across the field and less than fifty men remained, grouped behind their wise and loyal general.
“Smell that boys? Now that is the smell of victory,” Lawrence whispered.
“Feneram? General?” A Southerner asked, the second word seeming foreign on his tongue from lack of use. Lawrence turned, his hand closed around an object, fingers caressing the bumpy surface. He strode further into the centre of the group amidst cheers. He began to smile, a manic, nervous smile that stretched his gaunt face. And then he pulled the pin.
Shrapnel, fragments of fabric and tender flesh hung in the air beside the stench of gun-powder. That boys, that is the smell of death.
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