6

Burial Detail

By six that night, Creel and Burke were back at the trenches and then it was off with the burial detail which Burke was still grumbling about. Sergeant Haines formed up his burial party and they went over the top into No-Man’s Land. They carried gas masks because gas was still clinging to hollows and low spots. German burial parties came within a few yards of them but were ignored as they ignored the Tommies.

The mud was thick and slopping when they stepped off the duckboards, sinkholes sucking men right up to their waists at times and it was a real struggle pulling them back out. The corpses were everywhere, some jutting from the mud and some floating atop it, all of them yellow with gas, blistered, limbs contorted, death-white fingers clutching at their throats, bubbling tangles of yellow vomit hanging from their mouths along with regurgitated chunks of their lungs.

It was ghastly work.

Since sniper fire was not a worry, the men carried shaded lanterns with them and more than once they stopped as scurrying trains of rats came up from flooded burrows and bomb craters, immense things that paid them no mind, squeaking and chewing on the dead, dipping their snouts into freshly gored throats and tunneling into the bellies of corpses.

Twice the burial party paused when the wan circle of light revealed hundreds of leering red eyes watching them.

If I only had my damn camera and some light to shoot with, Creel thought.

The rain fell in a clammy mist and pockets of groundfog twisted around their legs as they pulled their boots out of the muck and carefully took yet another step, the noxious stench of the unburied dead fuming about them. They saw lots of bodies or fragments of the same that had been there a long time, most of them nothing but well-gnawed skeletons. They found the skull of a German in the barbwire, its helmet still in place…someone had put a cigar butt in its teeth. Battle-ravaged cadavers rose from the sucking yellow mud like leaning white tombstones, rats moving in black verminous armies around them. One of the Tommies stepped into a pool of mud and sank into the soft white mush of a dozen bloated Hun corpses. He nearly went out of his mind before they yanked him free.

The night was tenebrous, the air dank and cloying. Now and again, they could hear the Germans cry out as they made some grisly discovery.

“ Bloody hell,” Burke muttered when he stepped on a body and three or four oily rats escaped the abdomen with meat in their jaws.

Creel found a corpse that was moving and Haines, using his bayonet, discovered why soon enough: there was a rat nest inside it. Worked into a mad frenzy, he slashed the adults into ribbons and stomped the blind squirming pups to paste.

Haines told them to don their gas masks when they started to see dozens and dozens of rats creeping about on their bellies like great fleshy slugs. They’d all been poisoned by the gas and were dying in numbers. A couple of the Tommies started kicking them like footballs, giggling as they went sailing away into the brown slop.

About thirty minutes into it, they found three corpses tangled together at the edge of a run of duckboard. They were men from the 12 ^ th and Haines and the others recognized them, despite the fact that they were covered in yellow slime.

“ Look here,” Haines said. “Rats again.”

The bellies of all three had been hollowed out quite thoroughly, even the flesh of their throats were missing. Haines and the others stood around in their bug-eyed masks, swearing and kicking at anything handy while Burke had a closer look. He waved away clouds of flies that were thick as a blanket.

“ See?” he said to Creel, out of earshot of the others, pointing to great gashes and punctures in the bones of exposed ribs by lantern light. “Ain’t no rat ever born had teeth like that. Too big.”

“ Dogs?”

But Burke just shook his head and would not say.

“ Footprints over here…small ones,” one of the Tommies said.

They went over to the duckboard and there was a crowding of muddy footprints on it which was not so surprising except for two things: they were the prints of bare feet and very, very small.

“ Children,” Burke said. “Children’s prints.”

“ Out here?” Haines said, stripping off his mask and mopping his sweaty, mottled face. There was something quite akin to stark horror in his eyes. “No kids…not out here…”

But the evidence was unmistakable: children had been out in No-Man’s Land stalking about barefoot. It seemed inconceivable, but to each man standing there, there was no denying what they were seeing. Sometimes mud could expand in size with the dampness, make prints larger than they were but certainly not smaller.

Nobody said anything for some time and Creel thought that moment would be burned into his brain forever: the Tommies standing around, ankle-deep in the Flanders mud, rain running down those grim gas masks, mist coiling about them, corpses rotting in the muck.

And as he framed that moment in his mind with something quite near to hysteria, a voice in the back of his head said: The prints of children. Children are out scavenging No-Man’s Land by night. Barefoot children. And these bodies have been eaten by something that is not rats or a wild dog, Burke says. You don’t dare make the connection because it would be insane to do so… yet, yet you know something is terribly, dreadfully wrong with this scenario. You can feel it in your guts, in your bones, in the shadowy recesses of your soul.

“ Heard a story once about-” one of the Tommies started to say and Haines jumped on him, took hold of him and shook him wildly. “You’ll shut up with that talk! Do you hear me? You’ll shut up with it!”

After that, solemn as only undertakers can be, they finished up their work quickly, each man suddenly very aware of the long shadows stretching around them and what might be hiding in them. They wasted no time in getting back to the trenches.

For there was something damnably unnatural haunting No-Man’s Land and they all knew it.

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