Storm Front - Dark Realm Review

Brian Jackson is an amateur writer who is trying, like many others, to get his words read. He is retired and lives with his wife, Melanie, a published author, in the sierra foothills. Brian is the editor in cheif of DRR.

A storm was coming. Maurice could both see the clouds that allowed only occasional beams of feeble moonlight to pass and hear distant thunder hinting at foul weather to come. He had hoped that the moonlight which had guided him from his front stoop to the weathered stable at his back would prevail to light his way home. However, while regretting the loss of illumination, Maurice recognized that the darkness which hampered the prey could also deter the hunter. For in addition to the inclement weather, of which he was ultimately most aware through his aching, creaking joints, Maurice could sense that the wolf was afoot this evening, not mantled in fur, tooth, and claw, but instead in grey wool and carbine - the regalia of sentries from the local German Wermache barracks of the 8th motorized infantry division, French occupation force.

Momentarily spellbound by the awesome power of nature, Maurice found his attention soon returning to simpler concerns over the German occupation of his beloved hometown -- an occupation which had been both brutal and endless. The victors had lauded over the vanquished, bending them to their will through liberal application of an iron fist. Homes and businesses were searched at whim, property seized, and the citizenry bullied by its careless landlords. Maurice watched his thriving village reduced to a deteriorating hovel in which a broken people grew willing to expended only the minimal effort required to maintain a subsistence living. Rather than improving the situation, recent rumors of the allied invasion of France only caused the oppression to become worse. The ward commandant the town's people had grown to tolerate was replaced by an SS officer of vicious reputation. Incidents of harassment and abuse increased as security patrols were added and a nightly curfew imposed.

Attempting to repress such thoughts and the lingering effects of his most recent ordeal, both of which he knew would bleed him of resolve, Maurice peered across the field before him and found confidence in the fact that the terrain to be traverse was land he'd hiked and played on since he was old enough to walk. There, in the corner of the field, was the place in which he'd first mounted a horse; and there beside it ran a length of fence upon which his friend Pierre broke his leg after being thrown from that same horse. As he scanned the field for more ghosts from his past and present silhouettes of darkness that were out of place, he felt the knots of tension in his stomach loosen and his mind wandered once more. This time he considered the actions that had brought him to this place on this night.

It was a scant half day earlier, while spending a quiet afternoon updating his notes in preparation for closing his small, in-home medical practice, that Maurice was stirred from recollection by a tentative tapping at the infirmary door. Though anxious to begin a quiet evening with wife and child, reading a new book of poetry before the fire, he knew that his conscience would never allow him to enjoy the evening unless he first rose to find what was needed by his visitor. After all, while building his small country practice, Maurice had grown accustomed to the fact that dire emergencies came at all hours of the day and night. Maurice was also aware that too often he was all that stood between the neighbors he loved and death -- death sometimes arriving on something as innocuous as the prick of a thorn, though more often of late administered by the treacherous thrust of a bayonet.

Maurice was trying to hold the interruption at bay long enough to pen a thought half realized, when his concentration was shattered by a simple repetition of the restrained knock. Dropping his pen in exasperation, and spattering ink across the open pages of his notebook, he rose praying that the pending interview would be brief but realizing that chaos might await him on the other side of the door. Maurice walked across the small infirmary, skirting the humble examining table fashioned from an eighteenth century dinning table found in the attic, to unbolt and open the door. Before him was a small cloak room, formerly used to exchange winter and indoor garb upon leaving and entering his home, but which had since been converted to an informal waiting room. There on a wooden bench across from the door rested a dirty and disheveled bundle of rags, revealed to be the hunched figure of a human being only when the bundle shifted to allow a face to peer from its folds.

At first glance, Maurice was unable to place the wrinkled and wasted visage he spied through the tattered layers of garment. The face was familiar, but had obviously been chipped and frayed by the great demands and stresses of a life hard spent. Maurice was about to introduce himself to a perceived stranger when recognition dawned on him causing his blood to run cold.

"Alexandre?" he posed tentatively, moving forward while crouching in order to better see the face of his guest.

"Oui, les doctore," the humble figure choked out in a cracked, ruined whisper. But more was said by the rheumy, red eyes of this little man than by his words. Neither of them spoke for several moments, but in the silent, steady gaze from this aged being, Maurice read that this night he would resume his bout with death, but that this time his own life would be the one in danger.

"Alexandre, I…" Maurice finally uttered in an unsure voice, needing to end the silence but not knowing what to say. He thought of how confident he'd been a few brief moments ago, rising from his work to minister tried and true remedies to a member of his adoring flock, only to find his senses now in turmoil, roiling amid competing emotions ranging from excitement to fear, shock to awe, and from love to hate.

"No, no mon amie," the visitor interjected, raising a hand clad in a tattered, knit glove to interrupt what, given the situation, he must have known could be little more than meaningless rhetoric. "Say nothing my friend," he continued, taking control of the conversation. "My reason for coming is simple," he said, elevating his posture in obvious preparation for announcing something important. "I saved your life, oui?" he asked, cocking a barely visible, dirty eyebrow in anticipation of a response.

Maurice, unable to sustain eye contact, awkwardly averted his gaze to his own hands that he clasped and unclasped nervously before him. After a pause, he looked up and nodded his head firmly in acknowledgement.

"You owe me your life," the visitor intoned to indicate that no response was expected. "In a stable on a farm not far from here, a young man lies dying," he continued as if now expecting a response, but receiving none. "Maurice, I've come to collect your debt to me," he sighed assuming a tired expression of inevitability.

Lulled by the steady cadence of the old man's words, Maurice felt that he was being hypnotized by the steady, inexorable litany of statements cast his way. However, by their conclusion, he had fully processed their meaning in response to which his mind and body convulsed in rejection.

"No Alexandre, you can't ask me this!" Maurice exploded, standing fully erect. "You shouldn't even be here." he whispered harshly, peering around the cloak room as if others might be eavesdropping. "I'm married now Alexandre. I have a wife and child," he pleaded. "No, you can't ask this. You must go!" he insisted. Maurice continued to express objections to the visitor's arrival at his door, finally losing all sense of what he was saying and all the time hoping he was succeeding in expressing a confidence he did not feel.

At Maurice's first utterance, the old man assumed a look of resignation, as if acknowledging that Maurice must of course be given time to voice a predictable, rote response when confronted by the unexpected. However, as the words of refusal increased in quantity and confidence, and an ever more vigorous shake of the old man's hand failed to staunch their flow, the visitor's expression became steadily grimmer until his mouth contorted in rage and he exploded off the wooden bench like a striking viper.

Like a vicious slap, this exclamation instantly dowsed the fire behind Maurice's words, cowing him like a scolded school boy. In response, Maurice stepped around the old man, and fell to a sitting position upon the marred, wooden bench, eventually dropping his forehead into his hands to lend support to his reeling emotions.

"In a horse stable just outside of the village you knew as Bernard farm, a young man lies bleeding to death," the visitor began. "You would probably prefer not to know how he was injured, but I will tell you that he has been shot," he continued, leaning closer as if attempting to gain intimacy with his reluctant host. "I've done what I can, but I can't save him," the old man explained. "You are the doctor," he finally posed, more question than statement. After an uncomfortable silence, he continued in a tone of curiosity, as if arriving at a question he'd really come to ask this evening. "You must have known that someday I would return, no?"

Yes, Maurice thought, he had known that this man would come. As he reviewed arguments he'd had with the man in the past, he realized it was best to remain silent. How could he explain the horror of seeing young men executed in retaliation for the actions of les resistance to a man who viewed such casualties as a necessary cost of liberation? How could he explain the devastating effects of starvation on children and the elderly to one who obviously lived on virtually no food at all? Ultimately, Maurice was unable to find the words needed to explain how the occupation had bleached every gram of resistance from his bones leaving behind his wife and child as his only country.

The old man remained silent, displaying either the depth of his exhaustion or limitless patience in awaiting Maurice's response. However, glancing aside his gaze was captured by a small window next to the outside door to the waiting room. The gloom of approaching nightfall seen through the window apparently reminded him of the immediacy of this interview, for the old man leaned closer, now obviously weary but eager to bring this discussion to a close.

"You think that I want to be here?" the old man asked. "You think I don't know what you and the other villagers think of me?" he continued with passion. "Believe me, I know that what I do brings danger to all around me," he stated sourly, venom behind his words. "You know I've already paid a high price to learn that lesson," he concluded flatly.

For a time, both parties were silent, one trying to come to terms with what had been said and the other wondering where to find the energy to continue. Sensing the need to resort to even more unpalatable words of coercion, the old man sighed with resignation, making Maurice flinch in anticipation of the things to come.

"You once said that you loved me," the visitor began anew, coaxing a small gasp from his listener. "That I was the father your own papa could never be," he continued. "If that is so, then do me this service." Having elicited no response, the old man tried again. "Do it for France," he added, vigor returning to his beleaguered voice, but quickly fading as he saw this statement touch no chord. "If you are the doctor you once told me you would become, then do it because you must," he concluded awkwardly, as if finally brought to shame by the unfairness of his words.

Maurice felt his shoulders shake as a sob breeched the clenched muscles in his throat. Within seconds he'd lost control of his oft-guarded emotions and was freely crying into his tightly clinched fists. Apparently sensing that victory had finally been attained and that mercy could now be dispensed, the visitor leaned across the bench and pulled the crying man into his arms. As he held the boy he'd once loved, his defeated expression showed that he knew his touch to be nothing more than a feeble attempt to say farewell to the man whose love had just become his latest sacrificed to the cause.

"Maurice, you must believe that I would never have come unless I had no choice," the old man whispered. Again, he glanced to the fading illumination framed in the window and squeezed the shoulders his arms encircled. "Come, you must be off. Darkness is approaching," he concluded in a tone of encouragement.

For some time Maurice continued to ride the heady brew of anger, fear, and guilt that coursed through his veins. Eventually, he came to believe that the ferocity of his emotion stemmed from frustration at realizing that he had known the visitor would get anything he wanted the moment he recognized his face. Dipping into the depths of his willpower, Maurice was finally able to master his emotions. He wiped salty streams of dampness and rivulets of snot from his face using his shirt sleeve, and looked up into the eyes of his tormenter.

Now his visitor looked away, and in that show of weakness Maurice could see that he had misread an important aspect of the old man's message.

"I can not go with you Maurice," the old man stammered. "I'm too old," he stated haltingly. "I was almost caught sneaking into town and would only bring danger if I went with you now," he concluded, as if pleading for understanding.

Now Maurice was forced to divert his gaze, awash in the feelings of shame enveloping the small man. With a speed belying his apparent weariness, the old man clasped Maurice's hands in a desperate grip and pulled them to his chest.

Maurice could meet the man's eyes. Finding nothing more to say, he pried his hands from the old man's grasp, and rose to prepare for the night ahead. Once in his examining room, he gathered the medical supplies he would need and placed them in his medical bag along with as many of the torn strips of bed linen he used for medical swabs as the bag could hold. Realizing that announcement of this evening's appointment to his wife would only cause her needless concern, he instead whispered a prayer of good night in the direction of the staircase to their living quarters, dowsed the oil lamp on his writing table, and slipped out of the room.

Maurice was not surprised to find that the old man was still in the waiting room when he entered. As he walked past him, he saw through the corner of his eye that the little man had raised his head, his countenance expressing a need for one last simple act of acknowledgement before their shared life came to a cataclysmic end. Although he felt his heart constrict with empathy for the man, his bitter awareness of this night's unfairness, the latest of many similar unfairnesses, prevented his loving nature from relenting to the old man's unspoken demand.

"I expect you to be gone when I return," was all that Maurice could find to say as he donned his winter coat and stepped into the night.

Once outside, Maurice noticed that the old man's visit had been impeccably timed. The sun had set mere moments ago and a full moon visible above the horizon promised a shadowed but well lit passage through the night. Maurice crossed the narrow street on which he lived and disappeared into the dense foliage at the edge of town.

At first, Maurice's footsteps through the overgrowth were tentative since he did not wish to draw the attention of the German sentries posted at regular intervals around the town. It was only last week that he'd heard of a villager being shot as he ventured out at night in search of a goat that had chewed through its tether in search of better fodder. The village leader formally protested what he felt to be an excessive use of force but was summarily dismissed by the new ward commandant with assurances that the same fate awaited anyone else foolish enough to break curfew. It was with this in mind that Maurice took his first steps, treading the dirt and leaves before him with exaggerated care. However, within a few meters of setting out, his feet became attuned to the rambling paths he followed and began to traverse them with speed and confidence. Compelled to cast caution to the wind, he felt that he was reliving his youth, racing through these woods in joyous pursuit of the fierce, savanna predators and bloodthirsty indians he had always known to be hidden in their depths.

Sooner than he'd expected, Maurice's flight deposited him at a collapsing fence surrounding an overgrown field, once a pastor for horses boarded in the stables of Bernard farm. Seeing the field and shade of the stables for the first time in years flooded his mind with further childhood memories; memories of more carefree days before having to put away childish things. Remembering the reason he'd stepped out this evening, he scanned the field for signs of danger. Recalling that the farm remained abandoned, most likely due to the fact that it provided few serviceable buildings and was of no strategic value, Maurice decided that it was most likely safe to chance a quick dash to the cover of the stable just a few hundred meters distant.

Maurice arrived at the stable running at a sprint. He threw himself against the weathered wood of the structure, making more noise than he'd wished, and tried to quiet his labored breathing. Once calm, he again directed his senses to his environment and seeing, hearing, and smelling no hint of danger, allowed tense shoulders to drop and his mind to relax. Sliding along the side of the building, he managed to locate the large wooden door to the stable by touch, and finding the door ajar, peeked into its pitch black interior before slipping noiselessly into the darkness within.

Although Maurice felt that he knew well the insides of this stable in which he'd played as a child, he was none the less hesitant to simply walk across a room cast in such complete darkness. Feeling the need to take some action, he forced his feet to shuffle across the floor in an attempt to further his knowledge of the stable's interior. However, within a few meters his initial hesitation was validated when he nearly tripped over a heavy object lying in his path.

"Hello, is anyone here?" Maurice cast into the limitless darkness around him. "I'm a doctor; I've come to help."

Having established that neither the object of his quest nor source of danger was at hand, Maurice returned his senses to identifying a serviceable course of action. To his right, he thought he saw a faint ray of light, as might escape a shuttered lamp. Having no better option, he resumed his shuffling gate in that direction.

Before he had traveled a meter, Maurice found himself driven to the floor by a massive blow to his back and shoulders. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him no option but to relent to rough handling as he gasped for breath. Within seconds, he found himself pinned to the floor beneath a heavy body that drove sharp knees into the small of his back. Over the smell of ancient horse dung and the taste of blood, Maurice sensed his darkened world had come alive with the activity of whispered communication and bounding footsteps. Without a word, Maurice was whisked from the floor to be dragged across stable. Looking up, he marked his destination, spotting a darkened figure holding aside a fold of blanket to reveal a corner of the stable warmly lit by the light of an oil lamp. Maurice was dragged through the opening and once again lost sight of the world as he was dropped to the floor.

After taking a few moments to recover his resolve, Maurice lifted his gaze to gauge his new surroundings. He found that he now lay in a small room formed by two walls of the stable and blankets hooked over nails in the walls and supports to prevent the escape of light. Huddled close together in the corner of the makeshift room, leaning against the stable wall and clutching hands beneath arms, sat two young urchins and an old man, each dressed in rags similar to those worn by the visitor to Maurice's infirmary.

"Hello, I'm a doctor," Maurice uttered, hoping to forestall further assault. "I've come to attend to a man who's been wounded," he continued, expecting this statement to elicit words of welcome.

In acknowledgement of his introduction, the disheveled man before him raised a arm and pointed to the far side of the tiny room, as if he would rather not have even made this meager response to the pariah at his feet. Maurice aligned his sight with the direction the finger pointed and found a body lying near him, enshrouded in moth-eaten blankets, and shaking as if recently plucked from a frozen lake. As Maurice realized he was observing the object of his journey, he also realized that he should have noticed the figure immediately upon entering the room for the ferocity of the it's shaking.

Maurice pushed his body above the muck covering the floor and crawled to the shivering figure to determine its condition. Pulling the blankets aside, he uncovered the face of a young man, and opening the shroud further found blood oozing past a filthy garment tightly bound to his bare chest. Realizing that there was little he could do, but determined to take some action for show if nothing else, Maurice turned to his assailants displaying a practiced show of calm and confidence.

"I'll be needing my bag," he began, but no sooner was this expressed than his bag was slid across the dirt and straw of the floor to come to rest at his knees. Before Maurice could utter his next request, he noticed a pail of water and sliver of soap lying on the floor beside his patient.

Maurice washed his hands in the pail of freezing water and dried them on a patch of relatively clean cloth discovered on the back of his shirt. After carefully laying out the contents of his medical bag, he preceded to care for his ailing patient. His initial examination of the boys wound showed that it was even worse than he'd expected. The bleeding could only be stopped by forcing clean rags into the hole in the boy's chest after having cleansed the wound.

Maurice labored into the night amid whispered exchanges and bitter snorts of laughter from his captors. Once or twice he recognized a word of the exchange; such words as "traitore" and "simpathetique" hinting that he was the topic of their conversation. Once, pausing to mop his brow, Maurice looked to the old man across the room and saw through the dirt stained face a look of such loathing and disgust that he was sure the man was expending considerable willpower simply to refrain from bounding across the room to slit Maurice's throat from ear to ear.

Through the use of compresses and a tight binding wrapped several times around the young man's chest, Maurice was able to staunch the bleeding. Having no sulfur powder or other means to disinfect the wound, he cleansed the wound as best he could with soap and water. He did administered several doses of a mild anesthetic, insufficient to the task, but one of the few drugs left unpilfered by the Germans due to its limited effectiveness. Either due to the medication or loss of blood the young man slipped into unconsciousness.

During the bulk of his ministrations, Maurice had been absorbed in his struggle to save his patient's life. However, having cleansed and bound the wound, his focus returned to his own well being when he found there was nothing else for him to do. By the impatient sound of shuffling and murmurs Maurice assumed that his companions had also sensed the doctor's usefulness was at an end. Finding the anxiety of anticipation to be worse than the potential reality of a swift death, Maurice turned to confront his countrymen.

"I've done all that I can," he began. "This boy needs surgery as soon as possible to keep the bleeding from resuming," he continued. "At the very least, he should not be moved for a day or two," he concluded.

Having nothing more to say, Maurice glanced at the faces watching him as he packed his bag and wiped the worst of the blood from his hands onto the unused portions of the dressings before him. The man across from him, obviously the brawn of the outfit if not the brains, stared back as if he too was unsure how to proceed. Then, with a burst of speed, contemplation having ended, Maurice was once more yanked from his feet to be thrown out of the tiny, make-shift room into the depths of the stable. Rising to a sitting position, Maurice was struck painfully in the chest by what he realized must be his medical bag and plunged into darkness.

Stripped of any vestige of dignity, and cursing himself for ever having ventured out this evening, Maurice rolled to hands and knees, and having found his medical bag by touch, rose to begin shuffling in what he believed to be the direction of the stable door. Behind him, he heard the banging and pounding of violent activity which he interpreted as an indication that his warnings against moving the patient were being ignored.

It seemed to take an eternity to shuffle across the floor to the far wall of the stable. As Maurice did so, he was plunged back into silence, his captors apparently having vacated the premises. During his journey through darkness, Maurice received several painful barks to his shins from unseen obstacles in his path, each such occurrence prompting him to slow his pace for a time, but the need to find an end to the darkness ultimately hastening his pace toward the next painful encounter. Maurice eventually found the far wall of the structure and by once more sliding across its splintered boards was able to locate the unlocked door and slip out into the night. There, he relished a much needed gasp of fresh air.

Maurice stood for a considerable time, surveying the field he must again cross, reviewing his actions of this night, and wondering if there was anything he could have done differently to have avoided or improved his situation. Having grown accustomed to the sound of distant thunder, his frazzled nerves were unprepared for the blast of lightning that lit the field before him and send a wall of sound vibrating through his bones. Deciding that the warmth of his den at home would be a safer place to consider this evening's adventure, Maurice started across the field at a slow jog. As he approached the unruly fence at the far side of the field he was pelted by the first heavy raindrops of an eminent downpour.

Once again, Maurice's journey through familiar terrain was conducted with haste and with little need of guidance from his conscious mind. His feet carried him rapidly through the night as the clouds broke releasing their entire watery essence in one mighty deluge. Maurice was forced to slow his pace as the trails he crossed became slippery with mud and minor depressions in his path turned to pools. Every step taken was attended by stroboscopic flashes of lightning and what little sound he made was masked by a riot of thunder. In addition to making footing precarious, the rain and wind conspired to permeate the simple garb Maurice had hastily donned before leaving his home. Finally sensing that he was nearing his village, and thus susceptible to discovery by unsympathetic eyes, he came to a halt, kneeling in the mud behind a bush and pulling his coat more tightly around his neck to suppress the increasingly violent quaking of his frozen extremities.

Rising cautiously from cover to peer around him, Maurice's conscious mind was finally provided an opportunity to catch up with the demon that had been guiding his racing footsteps. He recognized the small rolling hillocks around him, and knew that the village, and his home, was only a few hundred meters away. Although familiar, the landscape revealed through flashes of blinding light presented an eerie, disquieting vision. With some effort, Maurice was able to set aside his unease at the violence of the storm and bolster his spirits with the realization that he would soon be away from the terror and cold that had been his constant companions these past hours. Instead, he would soon be nestled in the loving company of his wife and child.

Anxious to conclude his journey, Maurice rose fully upright and made what he considered his first undeniable mistake of the evening. Too eager to allow his innate survival instincts to continue guiding him, his excitement instead drove him from his hiding place and down the sodden hillock on which he'd perched. Within a few meters his pace was approaching a sprint. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he realized his peril, but never-the-less tried to redirect his momentum to traverse the hill to his left rather than plunge into the knotted berry vines at its base. Showing no regard for regret or prayer, the sodden hillside refused to provide traction, and Maurice watched his feet fly over his head as he landed on his back, slid through mud down the remainder of the hill, and was buried deep in a mass of tangled vines.

Maurice's heart sank at the horrendous din produced by his body tearing through twisted vines and years of accumulated debris. Leaving him physically unscathed, his uncontrolled clash with nature left his confidence and self control in taters. Once all motion had ceased, Maurice was overcome by a wave of panic that forced him to struggle with the vines pinning him, needing to free himself, and wanting to be home as soon as possible. He didn't even realize that his senses had stopped registering the terrible noise he made extricating himself from his prison of thorns until he found himself once more standing amid the relatively quiet din of the storm. Too tired to minister to the cuts and scratches that ran black in the pouring rain of night, Maurice did registered his inability to do so when he found that his cherished bag and medical equipment remained buried somewhere in the brambles behind him.

Turning his battered frame to resume his intended course down the hill, Maurice was frozen in mid-stride by a vision that appeared in a flash of lightning over the next rise. Captured in black silhouette, all details obscured in shadow, stood the sculpted image of German Wermache light infantry soldier. Maurice stood in awe, feeling as if he was viewing a military recruiting poster through which he was gaining insight into the enemy bluster regarding race superiority. The wraith before him presented a pillar of strength, clad in the belled helmet and great coat distinctive of the German fighting man and standing confidently at the ready, baring the distinctive shade of a carbine. Initially paralyzed like prey caught in the beam of a strong lamp, Maurice was flooded with dread at the great danger he'd be in should that silhouette be facing his way.

Halt, weitermachen in der steiderbon!" Maurice heard shouted from the hilltop, and with such little prompting his feet were once more possessed, plunging him into the dense foliage by his side. Maurice ducked low, almost coming to a crawl, more to dodge the vines and branches that tore at his head and shoulders than to avoid the stinging heat of impact from the shot that rang out from behind. He lost all sense of direction plunging through the foliage, painfully aware of the racket he made but desperate to put distance between himself and the booted feet crashing through the nearby bushes. He had decided to reduce the noise he was making by moving slower, feeling that he could soon lose himself in the brambles if he could only move a few undetected meters away, when he was brought up short by an end to his cover and nothing but bare hillside ahead.

Hearing the footsteps were nearly upon him, Maurice exploded from the bushes to sprint for the top of the hill. But again, the fates conspired against him, causing traction to elude him amid the mud of a near landslide that sent him tumbling back to the foot of the hill from where he'd begun. Maurice rolled to his back, hoping to sit up for a second attempt at the hill, but instead observing the pursuing soldier step from the bushes and in one smooth motion raise his carbine to sight it along Maurice's own line of vision. Maurice found solace in the fact that at such close range there could be little error, and therefore no pain involved in receiving a bullet to the skull. Realizing that his end was near, he released his burdened brain from further concern and thoughts of escape, freeing it to follow its whim, and ultimately marveling at the wonders it was able to uncover given so little time.

The sky was glowing. Yes, it continued to erupt in flashes of blinding light, but such flashes had become less frequent and in the interim visual stillness, the distant sky could be seen to glow. As Maurice watched, he noticed that the glow was not constant. New sources of glow were added as old ones faded away. He looked up to see if his emissary of death showed any awareness of the beautiful sight behind him, but saw that all the soldier's concentration was still directed toward the killing shot aimed his way. Then, as Maurice watched, the soldier showed signs of distraction by opening the eye he held tightly shut and raising both eyes to the heavens. Directing his own attention skyward, Maurice was able to perceive that the heavens were singing; but no, it was more like whistling.

The next few moments of Maurice's life seemed to play themselves out in slow motion. The soldier looked as if he intended to dive upon Maurice to land the telling blow rather then rifling it from his carbine, but instead he was launched into the air as the ground beneath his feet accompanied him skyward at the forefront of a massive explosion. The sound of the blast was deafening. Maurice felt the heat of the resultant fireball hit his face with such intensity that he knew all his facial hair had been incinerated. Clods of dirt and broken branches were hurled against Maurice's chest and head, lending volume to the force of impact that laid him flat in an instant. In the aftermath of the assault, Maurice remained stunned, unable to protect himself from the debris pelting him from above. Wanting nothing more than to lie on the damp earth to either die or mend, Maurice's instincts forced him to wakefulness when he recalled having seen more than one glow in the distance and he sensed the night again whistling beyond the ringing in his ears.

Maurice managed to role onto all fours and crawl for the cover of the bushes he'd left moments ago before the world around him tore itself to pieces. Even through his already damaged hearing, the sound was deafening. The earth threw itself skyward amid balls of flame as if hell was making a push to claim the surface of the planet. Maurice threw his arms over his head to protect his body but could do nothing for his nerves which were forced to attend a ride through raw misery. Certain the barrage would never end, he suddenly became attuned to the screeching coming from his own mouth during a pause in the assault.

Recognizing that the delay in the hellish onslaught might only be temporary, Maurice rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered in what he thought was the direction of his village. Tramping through deep mud and foliage, driven by panic and a desire to die at home, he paid little heed to his surroundings and as a result was thrown hard to the ground upon stumbling across an unseen mound of earth at the bottom of a gully. Barely able to lift his face from the muddy pool in the base of the depression, Maurice was futilely trying to raise himself when he was frozen in place by the sensation of something reaching out of the pool to grab his leg. Maurice screamed, pushing himself upright and digging his heals into the mud to extricate himself from the grasp. There before him, half submerged in the pool, lay the German infantryman.

Maurice's first instinct was to get to his feet and run from the man who had so recently tried to kill him. However, seeing that the soldier was unmoving, and then noticing that one arm of his uniform was horribly tattered and soaked in blood, he felt compelled to force himself back down the bank to do what he could to either save the man's life or ease his passing.

Returning to the dying man's side, Maurice's first action was to pull the man from the pool of muddy water in which he lay. Tugging at the lapels of the dying man's uniform, he was eventually able to move him a meter up the hill to drier ground. He determined that the man was still alive based on the groans and cries that accompanied his efforts. Maurice next undid the buttons of the soldier's tunic and began to peel the heavy clothing back from his chest and arms. As he struggled with the heavy garment, Maurice was once again reminded of his recent brush with death when a German Lugar pistol fell from the folds of the man's uniform. He picked up the pistol, intending to throw it away into the bushes, but deciding it may yet be of service this evening instead slid it into the waist band of his flannel trousers. Finally removing the heavy outer coat, Maurice found that the soldier's arm was not merely damaged but was missing. In a rare instance of good fortune this evening, the clay-like mud into which the soldier had been hurled had served as a poultice, staunching the copious flow of blood which should have been streaming from the injury.

Maurice ceased his ministrations to his fallen enemy when his still ringing ears became aware that the heavens were again singing -- but that this time the singing had become a scream. Assuming that the initial barrage had most likely been used to establish range, and that having found the correct range a full assault was about to begin, Maurice dove into the muddy pool trying to pull the soldier behind him.

The subsequent assault was truly hellish. During the barrage, Maurice lost all sense of time and space. He remembered digging his fingers into the mud beside him in an attempt to bury himself in a protective coat of earth. He remembered finding the coarse material of the soldier's uniform beneath his clawing fingers, and pulling the solder toward him, this time to cover himself rather than to protect his patient, and being pleased when the soldier's body rolled atop him to shut out the night. Along with the somewhat muffled sound of explosions, Maurice now heard the solder's mumbled dialog spoken in a language he did not know. As the barrage continued, Maurice heard the solder groan with each impact of sodden clods of dirt and other detritus thrown up by the ever worsening assault. At one point, Maurice discovered that he could hold back the cold by squeezing the German, causing his wound to open and bleed warmth over his own body. As the bombardment intensified, Maurice heard fragments of either steel or woodland debris embed themselves in the body above him and ricocheting off the soldier's helmet.

At some point the soldier stopped whimpering. Still later, the barrage ended, although Maurice was unaware of this fact while the pounding of explosions continued to echo in his ears. Eventually, Maurice slept.

Maurice woke to find himself shivering with cold and struggling for breath. Able to easily slip his arms through the mud in which he'd been encased, he pushed against the weight pressing down on him and was able to shift the solder's body far enough to allow the intake of air along with a small avalanche of sodden earth. After taking in several needed breaths, he pushed harder and was eventually able to exhume himself from his makeshift grave. Sitting upright, the first thing he noticed was that the sun had recently risen. Lying beside him was the barely recognizable form of the soldier who had died in the night and in so doing had unwittingly saved the life of his prey.

Maurice was prepared to sit in his ditch allowing his blood soak in the warmth of the sun, but he was distracted first by the sound of heavy vehicles passing near and then by the memory of his family that he longed to see. Once more finding reason for action, Maurice forced his aching joints and muscles to elevate him from the earth and support him in limping in the direction of the sound of traffic.

Once out of his ditch and able to view his surroundings, Maurice was brought to a standstill. The countryside that he knew so well had been transformed in the night. Trees lay on their side and bushes and weeds in piles. The earth had also been everywhere thrust up to lay in untidy piles. The countryside looked like a lunar landscape, pockmarked with evidence of the concussive evening just past. It was this scene which turned Maurice's familial longings to thoughts of dread.

Pushing ahead, Maurice stepped out onto the side of the road which ran past his house on the way to town. However, rather than the quiet country road he knew, he found a crowded thoroughfare, choked with traffic composed of military vehicles both wheeled and tracked. Maurice stood mesmerized as vehicles continued to pass, churning up the muddy roadway, and soldiers clad in unfamiliar green uniforms trod by in ragged formation. Maurice realized the vision he must present, clad in muddied, bloodied, and tattered clothes, standing with his mouth agape as if he'd not only lost his way but his sanity. But as one of the men clad in green called to him in a language he did not understand, concern etched into his face, Maurice found himself consumed with worry not for himself but for the ones he loved. He turned and ran at a feeble pace in the direction of home.

Even before he reached the edge of town, Maurice could see the truth of the fact his mind was unwilling ton comprehend. His lungs burning with the effort, he staggered up his front walkway into the still smoldering pile of rubble that had once been his home. There was no sign of life amongst the ruins. Maurice fell to his knees and cried.

He had no idea how long he remained there crying over his many losses. He ignored the steady stream of vehicles and foot traffic behind him, nothing existing but the destruction of his life that lay before him. His misery was interrupted when the shaking of his sobs managed to dislodge the Lugar pistol from the waist band of his trousers. He was shocked back into reality by the metallic clatter of the gun landing on the disheveled stones of his walkway.

Not thinking of what he was doing or intended to do, Maurice reached down and picked up the pistol. He then stood, turned, and walked to the roadway.

To: Mjr H James, Cen Com, 5th Div, US Army, Eur
From: Cpt S Davis, VI Corp, 5th Div, US Army, Eur
Time: 1800, Sept 14, 1944
Subject: Adv Stat Lubet

Bombardment conducted from 0300 to 0400 by III Art Corp, 10th Mech Div, US Army, Eur. VI Corp, 5th Div, US Army, Eur advanced into Lubet at 0500 encountering no resistance. All German personnel previously fled. Only act of resistance came from enemy sympathizer shot while attempting to attack infantryman with German supplied pistol.

Storm Front by Brian Jackson