Pig Men, 1917 Part 5

Pig Men, 1917, Part 5
© 2006, Basil Sands

Here They Come, 1917, part 4

The sun glints off the steel of silvery blades held menacingly in front of the evil looking masks of the Hun soldiers headed my way. 

They rush through the smoke across the mud and upturned dirt of this rain soaked July.  Tall leather boots smashing into the soil, arms upraised, weapons lowering toward our trench, they come at us. 

They come at me. I breathe heavily in my gas mask, sucking up as much air as I can through the long tube that stretches to the box on my chest.

Their faces are covered in canister masks that render them as evil pig like creatures with long snouts grunting and puffing and cursing on every muffled breath. 

A race of round helmeted grey clad pig men pouncing on our race of pan helmeted green elephant men.

I lift my rifle and fire at a bounding shape before me.  The .303 bullet lifts the pig man up into the air throws him backwards into another pig man whose bayonet pierces the first pig mans body and they fall.

I work the breech, loading another round as I turn my rifle to another shadowy figure.  Before I fire there is a boot on the ground in front of me.  I cannot see up past the lip of my helmet but I do see the shadow of the pig man raise his weapon above me, he's going to spear me with his bayonet.

I lift my rifle barrel hard up between his legs and knock him forward, over my head.  The blow sends the pig man tumbling into the trench over and behind me.

He lands hard against the back wall.  The pig man is on the ground, on his hands and knees.  Before he can recover I swing my rifle like a club and hit him on the back of the head as hard as I can.

The pig mans arms buckle and the beasts head falls to the ground, face down in the mud.  I drive my rifle butt against him again, an aimed hit, smashing his neck just below the lip of the helmet.  There is a sickening crack that I feel in my hands rather than hear. 

The pig man's rear end is sticking up in the air.  He is bowing, his knees tucked under his body, stuck in this position as if praying to some unseen god in the mud wall.

I turn back and see the Lieutenant from Newfoundland fighting wildly.  His pistol is gone now.  In one hand is the knuckle knife, in the other he is slashing with a long bayonet, using it like a sword.

Three dead pig men lay at his feet and he slashes a fourth as I watch, nearly beheading the creature with his blade.

Blood sprays skyward from the wound and the Lieutenant laughs like a maniac. 

"Come on!  Send more!  I'm not done yet!"

His shouts are terrifying. 

I think he may be Satan himself, in the trench with me. 

I hope he doesn't forget who I am, and turn on me.

A shadow swiftly crosses my eyes.  There is a thud in the dirt behind me.  I spin to find a pig man almost on me with his bayonet. 

I am able to parry with my rifle and knock his blade away.  My foot comes up and smashes the pig mans knee on the side.  He stumbles and I slash with my bayonet across his neck, then back with the rifle and thrust hard into his chest.

The pig man squeals, and grabs the rifle barrel, trying to pull it out of his chest. I pull the trigger and the bullet sends him off the blade.  He tumbles back and falls, writhing for a moment in pain until his life oozes out of him draining onto the earthen hell beneath us.

Pig men are now pouring over the edge of our trench.  I hear the voice of my training sergeant.  I am back in Edmonton, at the Army Post,  fresh from the prairie.  There are straw dummies hanging from racks in front of our company. 

We rush forward by squads, bayonets pointed forward from the end of wooden practice rifles.

"For God and King!"  he shouts, "Sweep, butt, thrust!"

I follow his rhythmic commands. 

Sweep!  Butt!  Thrust!

The straw man quivers and shakes with every blow. 

The pig men quiver and shake with every blow.

The training sergeant screams, "Kill the enemy before he kills you!"

The Lieutenant screams, "Come on you son's of bitches!  Kill me!"

The elephant men jab with bayonet blades and swing their rifles like clubs.

Steel flashes through the air.

Men's voices call out for their mothers.

Curses and screams fill the sky.

The pig men fall into the trench, bodies piling up.

It is hard to move. 

The straw men are bleeding.

My arms are heavy.

A pig man jumps in front of me.  He slips on the bodies of the other pig men I have killed.

I sweep upward with my rifle butt and knock off his helmet as he falls.

The pig man rolls on the ground, onto his back and raises his rifle to block my next swing.

Tufts of matted yellow blond hair sticks out from the straps that hold on the pig man's face.

I drive my boot into the pig mans belly and he curls up, dropping his rifle.

My rifle swings upward to catch the pig man under the chin, but only connects with his snout.

The pig man's face flies off. 

Under the pig mask, there is a boy.  He has bright blue eyes, and a very frightened expression.  He puts up his hands to protect his handsome young face.  Tears stream from his eyes.

"Nein!  Bitte, nein!  Oh!  Gott helfen mir!"

He closes his eyes, I bring the rifle butt down on his pretty young face, to wipe it away from my eyes.  I cannot stand to see him, I cannot bear to look at him.  I want him to be a pig man again.

Once, twice, three times!

There is no more pretty boy.  There is no more pig man!

My mother looks at me with a ghastly expression and screams.

"What have you done child!"

Horror fills my soul.

The Lieutenant from Newfoundland is standing on top of several dead Huns.  He is shouting and kicking and slashing and stabbing. 

He truly is mad.

But he is alive and still fighting.

Mickey, the lucky Irishman from Boston is staring up at me with empty eyes, held wide open.  His gas mask must have fallen off.

He was a volunteer from America who wanted excitement.  He joined the South Alberta Light Horse at the same time as Bill because they wanted to fight the Hun.  He didn't think the U.S. would ever join the war, so he came up to us to get in the game.

Mickey's intestines are splayed  across the muddy, blood soaked ground, his cold hands frozen in a vain grasp, trying to hold them in.  The bandage that had covered his ear lay on the ground next to his head.

Another pig man falls to the Lieutenants blade.

Footsteps.  Coming near. From above and behind.

I work the breach and load a round into the rifle as I swing around, the blade of the bayonet glinting in the hazy sunlight.  My bayonet goes into the belly of a pig man...no wait, he is another boy...he has no mask...he is real.

He raises his hand and there is a flash of light.  A brick hits me in the chest.  I trip and go back, stumbling over a dead body.

The German boy falls forward, my rifle still stuck through him.  His fall sends the butt into the ground. 

I see the blood soaked blade of my bayonet jutting out from his back.  He is leaning against the side of the trench, but cannot fall to the ground to rest.  The rifle is holding him up, like meat on a stick to be roasted over a fire.

The Lieutenant from Newfoundland is still shouting curses and sending men to the ground.

He is sending them to the grave.

A whistle blows and the German soldiers retreat from our trench.

The Lieutenant, drops to his knees on the pile of Hun dead and weeps.

"Why couldn't you kill me?"  He sobs. "I want to join my friends."

The sharp pain in my chest becomes dull, then fades away.

The handsome blond haired German boy is sitting on the side of the trench looking down at me. The man who was stuck through with my rifle stands up and reaches out his hand to me, helping me to my feet. 

He is smiling.

"My name is Guenther.  That is my friend Walter."  He says.  "Sorry for the way things worked out, but at least we are done with it all."

Mickey and Bill come up behind Walter and squat down. 

"Well," says Bill, "Are you going to stay down there forever? Get up, they have the best coffee in this unit."

We walk away from the trench toward the rear, Guenther and Mickey and Walter and Bill and me and thousands of others.  All friends at last. 

I look back to the trench.  The Lieutenant is still weeping and going over our dead bodies, grabbing ID tags from our fallen Canadian brothers.

Perhaps he can join us soon, and his sorrow will end.

1917 Part 1
Trench Coffee - 1917, Part 2
Deathly Fog - 1917, Part 3
Here They Come - 1917, part 4
Pig Men – 1917, Part 5

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