DARKNESS PRESSED DOWN on the young soldier as he lay on his back. His body ached, and his head thrummed with pain. A thick paste of bile and something else, something metallic, coated his tongue. Blood. He blinked, but the darkness did not soften or clear. The soldier didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or where he was, but he sensed something was very wrong.
He listened for gunfire and explosions, but the only sound he heard was a low, ringing noise like a distant alarm. Cries for help tore from his throat but suffocated in the darkness, never reaching his ears.
The musty, charcoal-tinged air from his gas mask had been replaced with the sharp, burning smell of chemicals. The memory of charging across no-man’s-land and an artillery-shell blast came back in a rush. He took a shuddering breath. It scratched like hot sand in his nose and throat, triggering a violent coughing fit that pulled fluid from his lungs.
Had he lost his mask in the explosion?
He had to get away. He tried to roll over but couldn’t move. His head lolled to the side. He opened his eyes wide but saw only darkness. The coughing continued. He couldn’t get enough air. The dark world, holding him hostage, tipped. He could no longer tell if he was flat on his back or falling. He tried to scream for help again as more questions assaulted his muddied mind.
Am I still on the battlefield? Why can’t I see or hear? Why can’t I move?
Adrenaline surged through his veins, burning off the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts. He choked on the fluid pooling in his throat. His stomach convulsed, forcing vomit into his mouth.
Breath one produces coughing.
Breath two, confusion.
Breath three renders you unconscious.
Breath four, death.
How many breaths had he taken?
The memory of the officer, eyes bulging and body contorted in pain on the trench floor, surged forward in the soldier’s panicked thoughts as another wave of vomit flooded his throat. His body tensed, and in his mind he screamed, Please, God! I’m not ready to die!
Hands grabbed his shoulders and legs. In his tomb of darkness and silence, he couldn’t see who it was. As he continued to heave and choke, he fought to pull free, but their grip was too strong. In one clean jerk, the hands thrust him onto his side. Vomit spewed from his mouth and burned through his nostrils. He coughed and sputtered until he drew a wheezy breath. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as more memories of the war flashed before his unseeing eyes.
Machine guns firing. Soldiers falling.
Shells exploding. Comrades burning.
Gas clouds descending. Brothers drowning.
Brothers—the young soldier clung to the word like a life raft.
When the retching stopped, the hands eased him onto his back again and wiped his mouth and face clean with a cool cloth. His heartbeat and breathing calmed.
A hand took hold of his arm. The prick of a needle and the heavy pull of morphine followed the gentle touch. As the young soldier slipped back into unconsciousness, images of the battlefield receded like the tide, revealing calmer memories.
Of chalk-white cliffs and clean sea breezes.
Of a brother, a plan, and a promise.