THE FRONT
I've uploaded this story before, but the first time it was in parts, so as a result it was difficult to read. So I've done a favor to my extremely small fan base and am posting the story in one part. It follows the story of Scott, who has been sent to the trenches of Passchendaele in World War One.
Enjoy.
THE FRONT
By Pellicius
The trench was damp, and littered with shell casings, and empty ration tins, and as Scott splashed into the ankle deep mud, several men looked up at him from dugouts, small rooms carved into the sides of the trench.
"Replacement." One of them said hollowly to his fellows, and then lay back down. Scott was shocked, he had envisioned alert _clean_soldiers guarding each and every parapet and shooting down wave after wave of German attackers. But instead they were hopeless, filthy, and for the most part left the parapets alone. A crate of Mill's Bombs sat on the edge of a relatively dry patch of mud, and Scott grabbed two, he hadn't received any with his supplies, and wanted to have them, just in case.
"Come on now, what if Fritz attacks?" He asked, a soldier laughed briefly at that, then another, a wolf, spoke.
"If Fritz hasn't paid us a visit already the rest of the day is likely clear, now come on, sit down." Scott hesitated for a moment, then realized that the wolf was most likely right, and joined him in the mud, shrugging off his pack and setting it next to the crate of Mill's Bombs.
"What's your name?" The wolf asked, his tail disturbing the mud as it swished back and forth.
"Corporal Scott Godfrey." He said, the wolf nodded.
"Sergeant John Wynter, welcome to Passchendaele." He said. Scott smiled, realizing that he had just found a friend. Wynter reached out a paw and Scott was about to shake it when the German shell landed just outside of the trench.
There was a tremendous roar and the ground bounced under Scott, throwing him face first into the mud. He saw Wynter jumping to the side in the corner of his vision, then the front wall of the trench collapsed and Scott felt himself pinned to the far wall of the trench by a wave of mud.
Scott struggled wildly, mud flooding his mouth, then miraculously he was breathing. Scott tried to sit up, but his head sit something solid and he realized with a shock that he had been swept into one of the dugouts and now his head was stuck in an air bubble. Scott sighed in relief, but it was short lived. He couldn't move his arms.
"Shit." Scott swore quietly, trying not to panic, the mud was like cement, imprisoning his body from the neck down. If the other soldiers didn't find him soon then he would suffocate, the air bubble only had a certain amount of oxygen in it, and already it was becoming difficult to breathe.
"Wynter!" He yelled, hopefully he was close to the surface, then perhaps his voice would carry. Scott bent backwards and discovered that he could move his body slightly backwards in that direction. But his head hit the back of the air bubble before he had moved too far, and Scott felt death very close at that moment. The air had nearly been used all up and he could feel his heart accelerating as his lungs pulled in less and less oxygen with each breath.
"Wynter!" Scott yelled again, but the effort made him cough and he stared into the darkness and felt a tear run sideways down his face, tickling his ear. That made him pause, he was buried face up, like a corpse in a graveyard. In his steadily blurring thoughts Scott just had time to appreciate the irony before something sharp struck his leg.
"Ow..." Said Scott dully, his lungs were on fire and he knew that death was very near. Then something tugged on his legs and Scott felt himself being pulled. Mud was again covering his face, but Scott didn't mind, he just wanted to close his eyes and drift.
The daylight was blinding, and Scott just had time to see Wynter smiling triumphantly before he fell unconscious.
Scott awoke in the dim confines of a dugout, the failing light of late evening spilled through the opening hole and Scott blinked several times to adjust his vision. Wynter was talking to a medic outside, a young rabbit who looked like he'd rather be someplace else.
"The corporal suffered some mild oxygen deprivation, but he should be alright...oh look, there he is now." Wynter turned and helped Scott out of the dugout. Scott sat down on the steps of a parapet, not trusting his legs.
"Are you alright, corporal?" Asked the medic, Scott nodded and the medic picked up his medical bag and departed, splashing through the ankle deep mud with obvious discomfort. Wynter looked Scott over and smiled.
"Glad to see that you're alright, you are taking next watch."
Scott had heard about night watches before and they had practiced them back at Basic School, but it was different when you could actually be killed and Scott felt more than a little fear thrumming around in his stomach as he climbed the parapet steps. The evening light was fading rapidly and as Scott peered through the parapet slit he felt the first drops of an autumn downpour rattle against his helmet.
"Oh Goddamnit!" Swore someone behind Scott, but Scott ignored him, focusing on the tangle of barbed wire and shattered trees in front of him. It was dark and every shadow looked suspiciously like a lurking enemy soldier, ready to fire a round into Scott's skull.
"Wynter?" Scott asked, Wynter poked his head out of a dugout, rain dripping off of his ears, he was helmet less and had his uniform top off as well, revealing a muddy undershirt covered in the accumulation of weeks worth of dirt.
"Can I toss a Mill's Bomb out into no man's land just to scare any Germans that might be hiding out there?" Wynter shook his head vigorously.
"No, if you do that both sides will start firing, then artillery might get called in, and if that happens, anthros will die." Scott felt his ears droop under his helmet, but he remained silent and after a few seconds Wynter withdrew back into his dugout. Scott sighed, it was going to be a very long night.
The dark wrapped around Scott like a cloak, and although his ears were pricked all the way up, and although there was practically no noise Scott was still sure that there were Germans in the dark, waiting for the right moment to pounce and slit his throat with a bayonet.
At Basic Training the instructors had told the recruits, Scott among them, about German raiding tactics. If you were raiding you made no noise at all, no gunshots or Mill's Bomb blasts to tell the enemy where you were. If they heard you, then all it took was one flare, and they would see you as well. And just about everyone who got caught out in no man's land while raiding ended up dead, buried in the mud with no proper grave.
Raids were rare but when they did happen, they were usually nasty bloody little affairs that ended up killing about a dozen anthros and wrecking the section of trench where they took place.
Scott kept all of this in mind as he stared out into the darkness, a little part of his mind urging him to throw a Mill's Bomb. But he didn't, Wynter's words were fresh in his mind and the last thing he wanted right no, in the midst of the dark, and the unnatural silence was artillery and rifle bullets flying around.
As Scott's vision slowly adjusted to the dark, he noticed little details in the landscape in front of him. There were rotting branches and craters filled with mud and what looked like smoke. Then with a chill, Scott realized that what he had thought was smoke was really lingering gas from an earlier attack. Gas could linger in the air for nearly a week if it didn't rain, but from the looks of the mud it had been raining constantly, so the gas couldn't have been there long.
Then he realized that the twisted branch in front of the parapet slit wasn't a branch. It was an arm. Scott choked down a scream and stepped backwards, nearly falling off of the parapet. The arm was badly decomposed, and dull white bone stuck through the rotting skin where shrapnel or perhaps a bullet had shattered it.
Scott tried not to look at it, but it kept drawing his eyes so he gave up and tried to ignore the nausea throbbing in his stomach. Although he didn't know it, he had just seen the true face of the war, and there was much worse yet to come.
The rain resumed again, and the steady tapping noise only served to shatter Scott's nerves further. He raised his rifle and pointed it through the parapet slit and used the barrel to knock the decaying arm out of sight. That made him feel slightly better, but the fear was still there, worming around in his gut with no way to escape.
Scott withdrew his rifle barrel from the parapet slit, then decided to fix his bayonet. That way he would have something much deadlier than just a rifle butt if it came to close combat. The bayonet was eighteen inches long and tapered to a point that was triangular and decidedly deadly. The triangular point was to keep stab wounds open, flat bayonets, like the ones employed by the Germans, tended to be less deadly because their wounds could be easily stitched and bound. But British bayonets, with their triangular points caused wounds that couldn't be easily stitched and continued bleeding long after the stab itself had happened.
Feeling a little bit better about his chances of surviving the night Scott fixed the bayonet onto the end of his rifle and leaned it up next to him, the point reaching up to his nose. The rifle had a round chambered and all it would take would be a squeeze of the trigger to kill an attacking German, but if it came to close combat, where firing rifles could lead to you hitting your own men the bayonet ruled supreme, and on many of the caskets brought back to England for burial the cause of death was listed as BAYONET WOUNDS.
Then, feeling a little unsure of himself, Scott took his trench knife out of its sheath as well and stuck it into the trench wall where he could reach it easily. He had every weapon out except for his Webley pistol, but he didn't trust the little gun, it was delicate and frequently jammed, so he left it where it was, in his shoulder holster.
Then something caught his eye and he turned his head to look. It was a bear, walking up the trench, his helmet was off and in the darkness Scott could just see the rifle in his hands. His bayonet was on as well and Scott felt comforted, he wasn't the only paranoid one in the trench.
He hadn't seen Scott yet, and Scott was about to call out a greeting when the bear shifted his rifle. His bayonet was flat. He was a German.
Scott stood in shock for a second, while the German soldier continued his slow advance up the trench. There were others behind him and Scott saw to his horror that many of their bayonets were bloodied; they had been killing the British while they slept in their dugouts. Scott leveled his rifle and saw the German soldier look directly at him, then Scott squeezed his trigger and the German was thrown backwards, blood blossoming from the hole in his throat. He fell into another soldier behind him and his rifle went off as well. Then more gunshots sounded and British soldiers erupted from their dugouts, many clutching only knives or pistols. Scott leapt off of the parapet, a strange mixture of exhilaration and fear racing through him. He slashed his bayonet at a German, but the man dodged backwards and lunged forwards. Scott saw his own death before him, but the bayonet never reached him. Instead someone else tackled the German and Scott saw the bayonet slash past him as both of the soldiers tumbled into the mud.
Scott fell against the side of the trench, feeling acutely how close he had been to being killed. Then more Germans began to pour over the wall of the trench and Scott knew that this was much more than a raid, this was a full on attack. But the British were fully awake now and any advantage that the Germans might have gained by a surprise attack was now lost. Mortars began to rain down and Scott felt the explosive concussions rattle his teeth. The fight, lit only by the flashes of the mortars and artillery was nightmarish. A British sergeant stood up and shot a wounded German in the face before casually strolling back into the fight as if it was an ordinary every day action. Bodies coated the bottom of the trench, a few of them trying to get back up, uniforms were covered in mud, making it next to impossible to tell ally from enemy.
Bayonets glistened with blood, then more artillery sounded and Scott realized that it was German. Shells hit the support trenches behind Scott's and Scott heard men crying out as shrapnel sliced into them. A fox stumbled past him, blood sheeting down his face from a bayonet wound that had sliced his ear off.
Then, suddenly the shells adjusted and began to hit the front line trench, blasting friend and enemy to bits. Scott huddled behind his parapet and closed his eyes, unable to take the sheer amount of blood and horror. The savage cries of anthros as they butchered each other grated against Scott's ears and he sobbed helplessly, cradling his head in his hands, wondering how anthros could ever be this cruel to each other.
Shrapnel splintered wood near Scott's side and he felt a new surge of fear, he didn't want to die. Then a shell whistled overhead and exploded near the support trenches, showering the fighting anthros in mud and shrapnel. Dozens crumpled, but more men rushed forwards, swinging rifles and bayonets, firing pistols and hurling grenades, killing each other by the dozens.
Nobody noticed Scott as he cowered in the relative safety of the shadow of his parapet, his rifle held diagonal against his chest, the bolt open and no new bullet loaded. His trench knife was still stuck into the side of the trench above him, but Scott didn't notice, he was only focused on self-preservation, he was too young to die.
Then a shell landed near the parapet and the concussion blew the structure down, splintering the wood and collapsing the steps on top of Scott. One second he was sitting against the side of the trench, the next he was buried amid scraps of splintered wood and mud. Scott gasped for air and pulled himself out. His helmet was gone and his uniform was covered in mud. Crawling out of the shattered parapet, Scott felt a hand grab his shoulder and pull him up. Looking up Scott saw a small fox with lieutenant's stripes, he was holding a Webley and as Scott watched he shot an advancing German in the stomach, then looked back at Scott.
"Who are you?" He yelled over the din, firing another few shots randomly into the melee. It took a few seconds for Scott to find his voice.
"Corporal Godfrey." He said weakly, but the lieutenant heard him and began to drag him away from the fight. At first Scott was confused, then he looked down and saw blood staining his side and thigh. He was wounded.
The lieutenant deposited Scott amid a line of other wounded soldiers and Scott watched him advance back into the fray before looking at the other wounded. There were about twenty of them, all leaking blood through their bandages. A few were dead, but most were alive, despite the shrapnel that occasionally whipped through their ranks, slicing into an arm, a leg, any bit of exposed body.
Scott felt a renewed burst of fear squeeze his heart and he curled into a ball, hoping with all of his heart that he wouldn't die. Tears leaked from his eyes and he knew that he would never forget any of this, no matter ho hard he tried.
Scott didn't know how long the battle lasted after the lieutenant rescued him, but eventually the screams, and the dreadful artillery blasts quieted and soon all was quiet except for the occasional moan from the odd wounded anthro left alive by the horrible fight.
Scott uncurled from the fetal position that he had put himself into and looked around. The evidence of the battle was scattered all around, the corpses had been shredded and sliced and shot to pieces, blood pooled in boot prints and shell holes and steam still rose from the barrels of abandoned machine guns. British soldiers picked their way through the corpses, their uniforms covered in mud blood, and cordite.
Then a soldier paused and looked over at Scott, he looked pleasantly surprised, and to Scott's relief he saw that it was Wynter.
"Wynter." Said Scott, his voice trembling, Wynter looked him over, his eyes pausing on the shrapnel wounds in Scott's thigh and side.
"Come on corporal, we need to get you to an aid station, you're hurt." Scott nodded dully, he hadn't noticed the pain once, there had simply been too much adrenaline flowing through his veins. Wynter helped him up and half led, half dragged him through the trench until they entered a low building marked with the symbol of the Red Cross.
"Alright, just tell them your name and rank, and they'll help you, I need to get back and clear the dead from the trench." Wynter said and gently lay Scott down onto a cot. Scott could barely respond, he felt exhausted and just wanted to sleep and leave the trenches, at least temporarily. He looked back at Wynter and managed a faint smile.
"Thanks." He said, and passed out.
"You my friend, are lucky, the shrapnel merely tore some skin and fur away, however you did have minor stage hypothermia so we are keeping you for observation." Scott nodded, his wounds were bandaged up and he was lying on a cot, knowing with a sort of sick dread in the pit of his stomach that he would soon be returning to the trenches.
After all, as the medic never tired of telling him, his wounds were not serious and in fact were little more than common garden type lacerations. But still, he was getting a Wound Stripe for his injury, and that would delay the process a little. A Wound Stripe was a small brass plate inscribed with the words THE WOUNDED STRIPE, and was to be worn on the left breast of the uniform. It was given to anthros who had been injured in combat and was fairly common among the front line combat troops.
"Sir?" Asked Scott, the medic nodded, then looked over at several soldiers hustling a stretcher in through the door and beckoned for Scott to wait. There was an ermine stretched out over the canvas frame, his stomach had been torn by a piece of shrapnel, or perhaps a bullet and Scott could clearly see a part of his diaphragm. He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to control the nausea that was rising up in his stomach.
"A shell exploded right above our trench, Sergeant Baker didn't get to his dugout in time." Said one soldier, a badger, shakily. He had wire-rimmed glasses and one lens was cracked. But the medic wasn't listening, he had called a nurse over and took the wounded ermine away.
The soldiers left, each one looking at the wounded, envious that at least they didn't have to be in the trenches, braving the shellfire and the constant attacks. Scott watched them depart and silently wished that he would be sent home, he didn't want to die.
He had joined the army because of a lust for adventure, not once thinking that perhaps the gaily-colored recruiting posters were misleading him. He had sweated through Basic School, enduring each and every taunt that the sergeants had hurled at him as he memorized marches and drills, every moment thinking of the medals and acclaim that he would soon be winning on the Front.
But as he thought of that Scott felt a deep stab of self-loathing, he was no hero, he had just cowered behind his parapet when the Germans had attacked while the others had hurled themselves into the fight. He had survived, but through cowardice, and as he thought of that, he wondered what difference he could have made.
As he lay on his cot, he felt the shame running through him and suddenly he knew, he had to redeem himself. And with that thought in his head, Scott stared at the canvas ceiling of the hospital and counted down the hours until he would get his Wound Stripe and head back into combat.
"Redeem myself? What the hell was I thinking?" Scott asked himself, he was back in the trenches, their earthen walls closing in on him as he sat in his dugout and tried to avoid the rain. It had been raining for nearly a week now, but the German artillery had been relatively quiet, usually eschewing the front line trenches for the support trenches where the captains and other higher up officers gathered.
"Corporal, we need you on the parapet, there's someone out in no man's land." It was Private Martin, he was younger than most everyone, only seventeen. Scott looked upwards, he had tried to act confident and tough in order to impress the soldiers he was in charge of, but they didn't care, the only thing they cared about in the trenches was surviving, and that was getting more difficult with each day.
A few anthros had slipped into a shell hole and drowned, dragged down by their heavy packs before anyone could help them. Another few had gotten trench paw, their paws swelling up and shedding the fur, exposing pale, mottled skin. They had been taken to the rear and there was nervous talk of amputations that did nothing to improve general morale.
"Yes private, I'll be there in just a second, just got to lace up my boot..." The medic had advised the men to lace their boots loosely to avoid trench paw, but few anthros heeded that, it just made the boots easier to lose when they were trudging through the deep mud.
Scott finished lacing his boot and was about to stand up when there was a distant crack, Private Martin made a slight sigh, then slumped, staining the parapet with blood.
Time seemed to slow for Scott as his stomach clenched and a sickening sense of surreal disbelief took hold of his mind. Private Martin slid down the parapet steps and came to a rest, on his back, blood bubbling out of his mouth and nose.
Scott fell back against the wall of the trench, the mud enveloping his back. Private Martin was dead, and it was his fault, if he had moved just a little faster then maybe the sniper would have missed.
Scott sank into the mud, watching as several others came charging up the trench, their eyes wide with fear and horror. Scott watched them look for a pulse, but he could tell, they all knew it was too late, Private Martin had already departed from his world.
As they carried him away Scott looked down at the mud, a single raindrop scarred the surface, then with a shock he realized it was a tear. For a second he wanted to just sit there and not do anything, but then a smaller part of him spoke up, and with an inner strength he didn't know that he possessed, he forced himself to get up and take charge.
As he got up, he left his old self behind, he was still Corporal Scott Godfrey, but he had lost all fear, he was reinvented.
Scott walked briskly through the mud, his paws stained with Private Martin's blood. He had caught up with the two anthros carrying Private Martin and had taken his legs, making the dead anthro considerably easier to carry.
"Corporal, we need to see if that sniper's still keeping a lookout on this parapet." It was Wynter, his helmet was off and his ears were twitching whenever drops of rain hit them. Scott nodded and took Wynter's helmet from his outstretched hand. In Basic School they had taught that if you ever got into a sniper battle then he best tactic was to raise a helmet on a bayonet in front of the parapet slit to make it look like another soldier was advancing up the parapet steps.
Scott leaned over the steps and raised the helmet on his bayonet, it was level and looked like it would if an anthro was actually wearing it. There was another distant crack, then the edge of the parapet slit exploded in a puff of mud and rotting straw. Scott withdrew the helmet and handed it back to Wynter, who set it back onto his head with a frown.
"He's still there, what do we do, sir?" Asked a private near Scott, he was a fox, but his red fur was matted with mud and Scott could hardly tell his species.
"Simple, we just avoid sending anyone up there until he loses his patience and leaves." There was a sigh from his right and Scott looked over to see Wynter looking at him grimly.
"Corporal, you leave the master decisions up to me, when I last checked I outranked you." Scott felt a little surge of shame run through him.
"Sorry sir." He said, Wynter nodded and turned back towards the men of his squad.
"I need three volunteers, we are mounting a raid on the German lines directly opposite ours tonight at eleven, does everyone have their watches synchronized?" The anthros checked their watches nervously and after a while everyone nodded.
"Alright, now I need volunteers, brave men step forwards now." There was a moment of hesitation, then one anthro, a rabbit, stepped forwards and walked up to Wynter. Wynter looked at the rest of the anthros with cold eyes.
"I could have sworn that I had a squad of men here, but instead the High Command seems to have sent me school girls!" Scott winced, the barb hurt and a few men stirred as they summoned their inner courage. Then two more anthros stepped forwards reluctantly, and trudged over to Wynter.
"Good, you've found your courage, don't lose it again!" The two men stirred uncomfortably, regretting their decision immediately. Wynter turned back to Scott and looked at him.
"Corporal, you will take charge of the remainder of the squad while I am gone, and in the rare chance that I do not come back, then you will take my position as sergeant, but if you hear gunfire and screams, do not come rescue us, that will just get more good anthros killed, remain in this trench come hell or high water, understand?" Scott raised his arm in a stiff salute.
"Yes sir!" Wynter nodded and walked back down the trench, a few of the anthros looked over at Scott, but none seemed as impressed with him as they were with Wynter.
As he stood besides the parapet where Private Martin had so recently met his end Scott felt the first little prickles of fear in his stomach again, the doubt too. Scott closed his eyes and leaned up against the side of the trench, his paws sinking deep into the mud. How would he survive this war?
The rain continued, pouring down in a seemingly endless shower. It was cold and even Scott's thick fur wasn't doing much to help keep him warm. He was worried, he didn't want Wynter to die, if he did then he would become a sergeant, and Scott dreaded that form of responsibility. He would probably just get everyone, himself included, killed.
"Sir, Sergeant Wynter is requesting your presence." Scott nodded, it was Private Baker, a squirrel who had been in the army since the beginning of the war, yet had mysteriously never risen past the rank of private. Scott nodded and walked up the trench to where he knew Wynter's dugout was.
Wynter was sitting on the steps of a parapet, shivering slightly in the rain and looking miserable. However, he sat up when he saw Scott approaching and banished the discomfort and misery from his expression.
"Good for you to arrive corporal." Scott nodded and shifted, unsure of what Wynter wanted from him. There was a silence for a second, then Wynter unpinned his brass Sergeant's stripes from his right shoulder and held them out to Scott.
"Sir?" Asked Scott, startled, why was Wynter handing over command, was he already that sure of his own death? Wynter looked unperturbed, and when Scott made no move to take them, he merely pinned them onto Scott's left shoulder.
Scott didn't move, Wynter outranked him and refusing his offer could count as disobeying an order, something that could end an officer's career instantly. Wynter clapped Scott on the shoulder and stood up, a little sadness showing on his face.
"It's inevitable, Corporal, nobody survives very long in the trenches." Scott didn't know what to say, Wynter had completely accepted that the raid was going to kill him. Scott looked down at his shoulder and looked at Wynter's Sergeant's stripes and felt a little pang of sadness.
For a moment Scott was tempted to chase after Wynter, but then he remembered the promise that he had made himself in the hospital and steeled himself. Then he carefully unpinned his Corporal's stripes and moved the Sergeant's stripes to his right shoulder. Wynter was down the trench, talking to the three anthros he would be taking with him on the raid.
Scott sighed and wondered if he could lead a squad. Looking over the twelve anthros that he would be commanding if Wynter died. He felt a twinge of doubt in his stomach and trudged back up the trench.
Nightfall came early in Passchendaele, the sky was overcast and light fled much earlier as a result. Scott sat on the steps of an unoccupied parapet, feeling an intense sensation of sorrow go through him. He looked over at the stripes pinned to his right shoulder and wiped them free of moisture.
"Sir?" Asked someone from the darkness, Scott squinted at their dim form and saw that it was a new anthro who had arrived to replace Private Martin. Scott struggled with the name for a second but then gave up, there was too much he had to do.
"Yes Private?" Scott asked, trying to sound confident and calm. The anthro tugged a boot free of the mud and shifted to a spot where the mud wasn't as deep.
"You need to organize the watch, Mr. Wynter just asked me to tell you that, sir." Scott nodded, the anthro had used Mr., the term for a soldier who had no official rank. But thinking of that just made Scott feel even sadder, he was benefiting from Wynter's impending death, something that caused him intense guilt whenever he thought about it.
But he couldn't just sit there and feel sorry for himself, he needed to be a leader, Wynter had given him his stripes after all, an officer didn't do that to just anyone.
Scott stood up, tugged his rifle strap over his shoulder and followed the anthro back to the rest of the squad. They were bidding farewells to the four soldiers about to depart on the raid.
Wynter was standing well back from the three enlisted anthros, his hands clasped behind his back, and his tail dragging in the mud. He looked bemused, he had made his peace, but didn't know if the others had.
Scott stood quietly for a second, then cleared his throat loudly, the squad immediately quieted, recognizing him as their new Sergeant.
"First order of business," began Scott, he tried his best to sound cheerful, but instead his voice came out strangely false, and a few of the anthros looked at him, knowing that he was just as scared as them. "The first order of business is organizing the watch, who is up?"
A fox raised his hand and Scott sent him up to the parapet, it was eight o' clock, the fox's watch would be done at ten. Scott picked a few others at random, who hadn't had watch recently and was about to walk away when something stabbed him in the thigh.
He winced at the pain, and reached into his pocket, the pin of his Corporal's stripes had come undone and stabbed into his thigh, drawing blood. There was one more thing he had to do.
"Which one of you has been here the longest?" Scott asked the assembled anthros, Private Baker immediately raised a hand.
"If you don't mind me asking, sir, but why?" Scott showed him the Corporal's stripes in silent response. Private Baker nodded and stepped forwards as Scott pinned them onto his right shoulder.
"Thank you, sir." Said Corporal Baker, and stepped backwards to join the ranks of his comrades. A few looked jealous, but most looked relieved, they obviously liked Corporal Baker, and were happy that he was an officer. Scott smiled weakly and looked at Wynter, who was checking a pocket watch. The raid was scheduled for eleven; there were three more hours to go.
It was time, the raid was upon them, and Scott felt fear run through him even though he wasn't even going. He could only imagine what the participants were feeling. Wynter patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
"Don't miss me, just try to survive." He said, and with a quick hand gesture, determined where a ladder was to be placed. The four anthros would climb up the ladder, and being careful to stay close to the ground would advance towards the German lines.
Scott saw one of the anthros, a silver fox, check a locket. That little intimate sight made Scott feel a new surge of sadness. But he didn't have time to linger over that, the men needed to be ready for battle in case the Germans launched a counterattack. If they did, then Scott would have to place his men well because hand to hand fighting would again decide the fight, as it had before.
Scott felt a shiver go down his spine, just thinking of that nightmarish battle and fervently that the raid wouldn't elicit any type of response from the enemy.
The ladder was positioned and Scott tipped his helmet at the four men, it would unlikely that he would see any of them again. The night was deathly quiet and Scott watched as the four anthros lined up at the base of the ladder, the silver fox taking the lead.
He reached the top of the ladder, turned to help his comrade up, then a gunshot split the night and the fox was hurled from the top of the trench, a hole the size of a saucer in his side. Blood bubbled from his side, then something small dropped down among the gathered anthros and the world exploded.
The world returned in small shreds, a boot here, a bloodied bit of uniform here. And a fiery pain in his stomach. Scott tried to sit up, but something hit him in the head and he cried out weakly as he heard anthros speaking in some foreign language.
"Bastards, let me out!" Scott tried to yell, but his voice cracked and whoever it had been who had hit him just laughed. He said something else and then Scott felt himself being carried to a chair. He opened his eyes fully and saw a mouse sitting in front of him, fully bedecked in a German colonel's uniform.
"Let me go." Scott said, the pain in his stomach was fierce and he could see a mass of bloody bandages covering his torso. The colonel merely laughed and offered Scott a thin German cigarette. Scott just continued staring at him with abject hatred, sot he colonel put it away and began to speak.
"I am Colonel Maus, and my men captured you during a raid on your trench, according to your pack and your stripes, you are Sergeant Scott Godfrey, am I correct?" Scott nodded, the pain was twisting and turning within him and he could feel blood dripping through the bandages onto his thighs and feet.
"You were wounded by shrapnel from a grenade, but you were still obviously alive, so my men carried you back to our trenches, stitched your wounds and kept you from dying, I'd appreciate a thank you." Scott looked at the mouse incredulously, the man had ordered a raid that had likely destroyed his entire squad, he was now a prisoner God knows where, and gravely injured as well.
"No, you killed my squad and gave me a belly full of shrapnel, I will not thank you, you Kraut bastard!" Colonel Maus made a hand gesture and a soldier behind Scott grabbed his arms, securing him to the chair.
"Sergeant Godfrey," said Colonel Maus, his fur bristling with anger, "four of my men died transporting you here, my battalion is now at half strength as a result, and if you continue being ungrateful I will undo your stitches and spill your innards onto the floor, do you understand?" Scott felt a flash of fear fun through him, he didn't want to die, he was only eighteen, barely out of childhood.
"Yes Colonel." Said Scott, the pain was getting worse, but he didn't complain, that might count as being ungrateful to the Colonel, and he had no doubt that the Colonel really would disembowel him on the spot if he proved to be trouble.
"So, now that we have that out of the way, I need to know a few things from you, Sergeant." The German soldier holding Scott's arms tightened his grip and Scott found that he couldn't move as much as an inch in any direction. Colonel Maus leaned close to Scott, his breath smelled faintly of mint cigarettes and Scott wrinkled his nose, he didn't like smoking.
"How many men did you have in your squad, Sergeant?" Scott looked back at Colonel Maus, the pain made him wince for a moment, then he found his voice and answered.
"When I was first promoted I had thirteen, then one died from a sniper attack, so when you attacked I had twelve." Colonel Maus nodded, satisfied that his prisoner was cooperating.
"How many men were in your platoon, Sergeant?" Scott, exhausted from pain and weak from blood loss, told him. Colonel Maus lit a cigarette and minty smoke filled the air, Scott wrinkled his nose, but the Colonel kept smoking. He looked at the soldier holding Scott and motioned for him to loosen his grip.
Without the soldier's support, Scott slid halfway out of his chair, the movement eliciting a new wave of pain from his mangled stomach.
"Thank you Sergeant, you have been most helpful, now lets get you to bed and see if we can't find a little morphine for your pain, think of it as a reward." A nurse rebandaged his wounds, but Scott kept his eyes shut during it, he had no desire to see his cut up stomach. It was mid morning at that point, but Scott still slept, his dreams punctuated by nightmares of the trenches of Passchendaele.
SPRING 1959
A wolf walked along the defoliated field that he had fought in so long ago, wondering if he had truely ever left it. He was dressed in an old uniform and was accompanied by dozens of other aging anthros, all here to remember when they had been soldiers, fighting in the mud and blood. Then he stopped and knelt on the ground, there in front of him was the site where the front line trench had been, where he had walked and hid and killed so long ago. And there he knelt and took from his pocket a set of rusted Sergeant's stripes. He buried them in the soft loam, not minding the pebbles and pieces of shrapnel that scraped against his fur.
"Thank you Wynter." He said quietly and continued walking.
THE END