Reena’s weekly prompt is the above picture: Let the muse take you from dark windows to light, till you see something that resonates with you. So many things keep happening behind windows – of buildings and our minds.
Ground rumbles and shakes
Raining shells light up the night
Manmade death rules all
Dark dreams
In the black
Of the night
Dark dreams grow
Fueled by memories
Of past mistakes,
Sufferings,
And hurts
Don’t let them
Suck you down
Into Hades
Allow the splinters
Of redeeming light
To bring you back
This is an extract from The Soldier and the Radium Girl
This book has been languishing for a year as I did not want to write an American courtroom set of scenes. I had an epiphany yesterday and have come up with a better ending that doesn’t require courtroom scenes. So, the writing is back on … and, this extract fits the prompt.
“There are no trenches,” the words came down the line of men marching through the darkness towards the unknown ‘front lines’ ahead. “The front lines are a series of outposts.”
“Keep it down,” Sarge growled, “Are you trying to get us all killed?”
What the hell is an outpost? I kept moving, my boots clumping heavily on the soggy duckboards, my bowels twisting into a tight ball, and my feet lumps of ice in the wet shrouds of my socks.
Thank goodness I kept all four pairs of socks, I thought.
“Companies F and H go to the left here. Follow your sergeant to the dugouts.
“Companies E and G, keep straight onwards,” the words floated softly down the line.
Looking up, I realised I could see dark grey shadows moving through the thick mist. Morning had arrived.
The dark grey sky had softened by the time we reached the first outpost and one of the four platoons peeled away from the group. Bypassing the next low-slung grey hulk, my platoon continued until a third materialised out of the dimness.
“Follow me,” Sarge’s hissed softly, moving out of the line and towards the concrete bunker. I gazed at it, fascinated, and a row of round holes, set into the concrete wall, stared back at me. We followed him down some steps leading to a wooden door.
The dark underground room was large and smelled of churned earth and sweat. After lighting the lanterns, each man found a space to stash his gear.
A whistling sound ripped the air apart, followed by a thunderous burst as the shell hit the ground somewhere nearby. I sat down hard, my legs soft jelly. More whistling, more terrific bursts that shook the earth beneath us. Then it went quiet, a horrible loud silence in the aftermath of the explosions.
We all sat quietly breathing deeply for some minutes, five, ten, I don’t know, and then a cheery, heavily accented “Hello” brought us all scrambling to our feet.
A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the light grey mist.
“Hello, I’m your neighbour, Lieutenant Laurent. I would like to offer you some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Sarge accepted. Our field kitchen would take some time to set up, so this invitation was well received.
The French served us hot biscuits and coffee with condensed milk. I cannot describe the deliciousness of the biscuits. Soft and light, they melted in my mouth and were a far cry from the hard biscuits included in my ration packs. The good food, together with the lively conversation among the men of the French 219th Infantry, was warming and welcoming. The strange numbness I’d been experiencing since the earlier shelling faded.
I wonder if I can get the recipe for these biscuits. Kate could make them; she has a light hand with baking.
This short bit of relief from the shock of the early morning attack that welcomed us to the front lines ended when Lieutenant Laurent stood.
“It is time to start work for the day,” he grinned, his stiff black moustache coming to attention at his words.
Two platoons were directed to work on preparing dugouts a bit back from the front-line posts.
The rest of us were divided up into patrol units comprising a mix of American and French troops and within thirty minutes had left the advanced post.
“Is this a railway line?” I pointed at the metal tracks.
“Yes, the railway overlooks the canal,” a Frenchman called Aubert said. “We are going to check the Bosch aren’t attempting to repair any of the bridges that cross the canal. We’ll also check our defences.” Aubert also had a little moustache. I watched it undulate as his mouth moved. It was strangely fascinating.
There were no signs of activity at any of the bridges. They lay wet and shining beneath the sullen grey sky that seemed to remain unchanged despite the presumed progression of the sun beneath the cloud.
At 4.30 P.M. we approached the last bridge for the day. The clouds parted, and for a moment an errant ray of sunlight shot down, throwing up a dazzling flash as it hit something lying in the dirt on the other side of the bridge.
Without pausing for thought, Big Mouth rushed across the bridged and snatched up a spiked German helmet – a pickelhaube.
“Get down,” yelled Aubert, collapsing down and throwing his arms protectively over his head. We all dropped, squelching into the thick mud, face down.
Nothing happened. After a few moments, finding I was still alive, I looked up towards the bridge.
Big Mouth stood frozen, right in the middle, shining helmet in hand and a surprised expression on his face. It wasn’t clear to me whether his surprise was due to Aubert’s reaction or that he was still in one piece.”
roberta-writes.com 