The mask constricted the face and it was the fresh air that the Combatant liked… not the smell of garlic in the air, all the time. The tightness of the air. The breathing, the dirt and mud in the trenches. The dirt and the blood. Always dirt… always gas and always blood.
It’d been that way for thirty-two days, from the beginning of the mortar rain. The rain… the smell… the screams… Bass, baritone, tenor… falsetto. Always screams, then silence. Many whines carrying the mustard and the chlorine, then the crack of explosions. The screams… The silence.
And the colours, in fog. Burnt sienna… Brown, and more brown. The bursting reds and oranges and more oranges. And white lights. And smoke, white, grey, blue, black… And the screams. Limbs lost, red and flesh. Lives snuffed. The cause and constant prime gone, over boundaries.
It’s really the Pawns who are stuck in the trenches, moving slowly forward and backward… on the checkerboard dirt… Brown and red through the yellow fog, and gas masks.
The Knights and the Rooks watch from their distance and grin at the explosions of friendly fire. And the Bishops praise the intervention of higher power… and their Majesties wait on their thrones of bones, wrist-waving, subtly, to the masses in the trenches, all waiting for the next whine, the next explosion… the following falsetto oratorio, stuck on a single note.
And the Combatant listens to the whine of the incoming. Comrades and fellow soldiers, and fighters wait, and listen… The whine shrills. Two medics are rushing by, down through the maze of the trench. A polluted white of a uniform and the gritty red of a cross stop with kits.
“You’re hit?” mumbled through a rubber filter.
“I won’t move!”
“I have to tend to this one over here.”
“Please let me stop the flow.”
The whine prolongs. The incoming has increased. A pounding and a shrill, a cacophony of shouts and screams, and soldiers and medics running through the trenches, flashes in a haze. The stink of the garlic increases.
“Check.”
“Be damned, you’ve forgotten the rules.”
“In nomine Patris. Follow with a volley from behind.”
“This cushion isn’t very comfortable.”
And an incessant beat thumps in the head of the Combatant. And the Medic holds the Soldier’s hand. And the blood flows, and the sounds have stilled, but the lights keep flashing. And the gas keeps rolling, enveloping, and stopping the bugs in its wake. And the Soldier catches a glimpse of the Bishop wiping the hands of the Majesties.
And the Medic keeps holding the Warrior’s hand. And the Soldier asks
“Is it time yet?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
And another whine begins its crescendo, coming from the east. A series continues, two, three, five, eight, too many. The night sky is orange. A Halloween sky and the contrails of the rockets web and mirror the haphazard paths of the trenches in the mud. The explosions multiply and burnt screams echo in the turns of the trenches.
“I have you now.”
“But you’ll sacrifice your Rook?”
“I’ll sacrifice; I’ll execute every piece just to beat you.”
“And we eat of the Body, and we drink of the Blood.”
“You are the Hero.” The Combatant whispers to the Medic.
And the Medic sponges the Warrior’s forehead. The Warrior doesn’t move.
The Warrior is sitting peacefully in a field. The sun is shining and the dog is lying in the tall grass. A breeze drifts from the north. A lone osprey circles slowly above and a faint tone of a cello catches the ear. The green of the field gently folds into the azure of the sky. The Warrior floats.
The Medic fixes the gas mask. Two plumes of yellow fog rise up from the Warrior’s trench. Two plumes the shape of wings.
“You are the Hero.” The Medic closes the kit and covers the youth’s face.
“Checkmate.” The Knight shouts exuberantly. Their Majesties get up out of their thrones, fluff up their cushions and leave the room. The Knave shuts the door.
And the game repeats, again, in trenches filled with dirt… and blood… and bones of youths. Fodder for Flanders. Fertilize the red glory of blood-red poppies.
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