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Under The Bridge
March 17, 1916 - Dark red sky, cold, wet.
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I awoke sometime around 7, possibly nearer 8. It's hard to say—my watch seems to have stopped. It was definitely dark when I came to, still dark now. Townsend was in front of me, taking point. I remember that much. Vernon and Sansome at my back. We’d just entered Courtecon, where we were supposed to hold up for a few days. Then—an explosion, deafening, shaking the ground.
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I must’ve gone down in an instant. A tripwire? Most likely, though I can’t be sure. When I woke, I was on my back and my head was wet. For a moment, I could have sworn I was lying in a puddle, but the ground was dry. My own blood had soaked through my hair, trickling down my neck. A fallen brick? Or the impact of my head against the ground? It doesn’t seem to have done any lasting damage, and aside from the usual hunger and fatigue, I feel perfectly able.
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The battalion had moved on, their tracks already softened by the mud. My rifle is missing and most of my rations except some slightly stale bread have been taken, they must’ve believed me dead and salvaged what they could. I was frustrated at first, but it’s understandable. I have done the same before, many times.
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I bandaged my head as best I could, using the last of my water to clean it and my only dressing. I began walking in what I thought to be the right direction, but then I realised—I’ve no destination. It’s as likely they’ve gone back as it is they’ve pushed forward.
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I’ve found shelter beneath an old stone bridge on the outskirts of the village. The arches are sagging like my own weary shoulders, and I find the embrace of shelter somewhat comforting. Better than being out in the open, and there’s a shallow stream, though barely a trickle now. The water is thick with silt and not the most pleasant.
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I’ve rationed my bread into smaller pieces. If I chew slowly, I can convince myself it’s enough.
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I’m not sure what my plan is now. I’ll rest here tonight and move in the daylight, but for now, I’m alive, and that’s enough.
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March 18, 1916 - Still cold, still wet. Thick fog.
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I was awoken by my freezing cold feet screaming out in pain. It seems to have rained overnight and the water level has risen slightly, just enough to creep inside my boots like a silent, icy snake. The feeling was maddening, as if my own body sought to mock itself. I have removed my boots and socks to rest them in the sun, in the hope of drying. Hopefully then I can warm my feet again.
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The bleeding from my head has stopped, as far as I can tell, but it feels as though it's been torn in two by the dullest wood splitter. The constant throbbing doesn’t let up. I’ve tried to move a little—stretch my legs, get the blood flowing—but a cloud descends in my mind when I try to stand, disorienting me entirely. My body feels sluggish, like it’s made of stone. I’m sure it will pass with time. I am hoping a friendly face stumbles across me soon.
The bread I have left is solid, barely edible, but I have little option. I can’t remember when I last ate properly. I’ve already rationed my bread down to crumbs. I could go out in search of something else—berries, or maybe an apple—but I dare not risk it.
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I heard voices today, from far off, but close enough to make my heart leap into my throat. I would guess at German, albeit with little certainty. I couldn’t see anyone in the fog. I pressed myself into the shadows of the bridge, curving my body to the wall as best I could, hoping they wouldn’t see a sign of movement. I waited an hour, maybe more, silent and still.
I’ve been thinking about home today. It feels like another life. I can feel my head resting on a real feather pillow, dropping down and sinking in, lower and deeper. Those thoughts slip away just as quickly as they come.
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Today seems darker. Certainly foggier. I hope it clears up tomorrow.
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March 19, 1916 - Dark.
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I no longer know if it’s night or day. My grasp on the time has long since slipped. The fog is thicker and the rain heavier. I fear I may never be dry again. I can’t feel my feet anymore. They’ve gone numb, and black. Thin as wire. The cold doesn’t seem to reach them now, nor the pain. My head is another matter entirely, like a hammer striking the inside of my skull with every pulse like a bell, tolling on the hour. The throbbing is relentless. The only heat I feel is the wave travelling from the back of my head through to my eyes.
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I tried to stand, but my vision blurs and my head spins. I can barely see the edge of my own hand when I hold it up in front of me. The world has narrowed to a dull haze of blurs, shadows and shapes that I can’t quite distinguish. I can reach up to feel the stone above me, but I can’t make out its distance by sight.
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I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. My breath comes in shallow gasps now, and my bread is almost gone. I had barely half a crumb this morning, but it didn’t stay down. My vomit is empty and thin, in stark contrast to the water which has become thick and foul with mud and dirt. Hunger gnaws at me like a feral dog, relentless and sharp.
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I hope to be found tomorrow. Time is scarce.
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March, 1916 - Dark.
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I heard footsteps today. Above, on the cobbles. Just one or two, perhaps accompanied by a cart of some sort, its wheels dragging over the stones. I couldn’t make out what was being said but it sounded German to me. Maybe the same Germans who spoke from the fog. Perhaps they have moved into the village, taking advantage of the deserted buildings.
Then I felt a touch, almost like a hand. It was brief and as light as a feather, brushing against my shoulder, just for an instant, its boney fingers curling over. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. I was unsure if it was real, or if my mind had joined the side of the enemy and turned on me. The pain in my head is enough to make me question everything now.
I closed my eyes tight, clenched my fits hard and readied myself for what I assumed would be inevitable but…nothing. The footsteps faded, the hand released its grip and the silence returned.
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I’ll try to move again tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow will be the day. Someone will find me tomorrow.
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But for now, I’ll rest.
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1916 - Dark.
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I can no longer see, the fog is too thick, like black smoke. The pain in my head is unimaginable.
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The footsteps continue to traverse. I daren’t move.
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1916
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It is over. I am found.
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