The Death of Heroes

Beowulf looked at the bleak gray sky above him in dismay. What he would do to smell the clean mountain air and see the span of land back at home. Now he could only see the sky. The grimy brown of the trench walls stretched almost impossibly upward around him. He reluctantly turned his gaze down to the half-filled, cold can of pork ration in his hands. For some reason his appetite seemed nonexistent. Stirring the ration absent-mindedly he directed his attention to the two men sitting with him in the fighting hole. To his left was a man named Marlow, one whose previous mechanic experience had been vital in maintaining and unjamming the post's .303 caliber stationary machinegun. Marlow was contemplatively chewing on a biscuit held in dirt covered hands, his eyes staring ahead at nothing. To his right was Meursault. Beowulf did not particularly understand Meursault or like him for that matter, but he did not seem to have any hang ups with killing and that was one thing Beowulf respected. Like Marlow, Meursault was staring into space but with a glazed blank look that was eerily hollow. He was cradling a lukewarm cup of coffee. Uncomfortable with the silence, Beowulf spoke, "Any of you anxious for the next attack? I can't wait to teach the Germans another lesson about real war."

"I'm glad it has been quiet for so long", retorted Marlow. "I'm tired of fighting and quiet frankly, the Germans are hardly worthy enemies."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well... think about how this started. The disputes over colonies, the patriotic uprising, the alliances... the assassination was completely meaningless compared to all the underlying causes of this war. All of this is pointless if I must speak my mind. We are only fighting the Germans because they are strong enough and equipped enough to wage full scale war. Their allies were the true cause of this war. They hide behind their strong German friends with sly, fiendish grins on their faces. They think they are so clever."

"Aye there is little honor in fighting this enemy", Beowulf sighed. "It has to be done however. We must be the ones to stay and defend the good in this world. It is our duty to be here."

Meursault, who was silent until this point, opened his mouth and spoke in a soft detached voice, "None of this matters. Being here, fighting this enemy. It doesn't matter. We're bound to die sometime."

Beowulf and Marlow stared at Meursault for a scant few uncomfortable seconds. A small grin crawled across Beowulf's face and he said, "Will you ever say something positive you god damned pessimist?"

Meursault was silent once again. Beowulf gave up and turned back to Marlow. "Meursault isn't talking. How surprising."

The sound of chuckling began to emanate from Marlow but was instantly cut off by the unmistakable sound of artillery shells soaring through the air. Quickly and skillfully, all three men dove into their machinegun nest. They curled up in various spots in the dark, the blasts from the artillery trembling the very foundations of the earth, causing them to throw their hands over their heads. After minutes that seemed like hours, the shells slowed and ceased to fall.

The shouts and calls of officers could be heard up and down the trench. The faint moans of the wounded were barely audible in Marlow's ringing ears. Wearily, he picked himself up and mounted the .303. He expertly racked the slide, relishing the clash of well oiled metal components sliding against one another. With a bullet in the breech, the heavy machinegun was ready to unleash its hail of death. Marlow patiently peered down the sights of his tool of war, through the firing slit, scanning for enemy movement. He barely registered Beowulf's presence at his side, ready to feed him fresh ammunition when the shooting started. "They must be about to advance", Beowulf whispered.

"I know", was Marlow's hurried reply.

He then heard Meursault's padded footsteps leaving the nest. "Meursault is out to do what he does best", he said, still focusing on the foggy horizon line.

Beowulf did not reply, but gave a curt nod. Whistles began blowing throughout the trenches. The officers were signaling the enemy's advance. Marlow began to see them through his firing slit. Thousands of them, marching towards the outer defenses in perfect formation. Throughout the trench, forward observers began radioing artillery strikes along the enemy line. Within minutes, artillery began to fall on the German ranks, annihilating man and earth alike. The Germans could not maintain formation under such brutal punishment. They scattered like rats in all directions. Marlow watched the carnage from his position. Whole handfuls of men were snatched into the air. Sprays of red appeared where each shell met the German army and body parts could be seen aloft in the air. Marlow had no time to take in the carnage as the enemy was upon the first line of defense. Quickly clambering over artillery damaged barbed wire, the Germans charged toward the trench. Officers gave the order to fire and Marlow heard Beowulf shout something. Too enveloped in the adrenaline of battle, Marlow did not heed Beowulf and began to fire on the advancing enemy. He watched the men in front of his line of fire falter as deadly lead bullets cut swathes through their ranks. The bodies began to pile up but the enemy kept advancing. Like the endless current of the Congo River, there seemed no end to the German ranks. For every soldier cut down by his gun, there were two more to take its place. The enemy was upon them now. There were too many to conceive, swarming them, surrounding them. Marlow remotely remembered Beowulf urging him to leave the nest. Marlow paid no attention. He fired and fired until his body was numb with the vibration of the machinegun and hundreds of spent casings had polluted the floor. He was still firing when
the searing white-yellow flame rushed into the MG nest and engulfed him.

Searing pain flowed over Marlow's body as he ignited from a German flame thrower. The entire dug-out room he was in was filled with flames and smoke. He couldn't breathe or see anymore. He writhed on the ground and though the pain was excruciating, he realized that he was finally about to die. A strange feeling came over him. A feeling he had not felt before. He began to laugh in his mind. He laughed at the irony of it all. The grand irony of life and its meaningless concepts. He felt a strange sense of relief come over him. He needed not think anymore. He needed not remember the things he saw or did. Marlow's blistering flesh sloughed off his bones and he became still.

Beowulf had been assisting Marlow when the enemy broke through the barrier. Loading skills honed from several previous battles, he expertly fed Marlow with fresh ammunition belts. When the enemy started to surround them Beowulf began to lose hope. He remembered yelling to Marlow, "Give it up damn you! We have to get out of here, now!"

Marlow did not budge despite his pulling and urgent shouting. Beowulf knew he could stay no longer. He made it out of the dugout the instant it was smothered in flames. He could feel the heat lick his back as he burst out of the stifling room. Now in the open, he began running down the trench, shooting as he ran, trying to reach the safety of the rear line. German soldiers would appear at the top of the trench walls and some even dropped down into the trench to confront him. He popped shots at the Germans above and relied on his close combat skills to best the Germans who were foolish enough to drop down, clubbing them with his rifle and cutting them with his bayonet. He kept running, hopeful of reaching safety. He felt a bullet slice into his upper arm and blinked away the pain, not faltering in step. A grenade exploded near him and he was propelled head over heels into a shallow ditch in the side of the trench. He lay there, dazed and immobile.

Beowulf felt a dull pain in his lower back. He could not feel his legs. Unable to get up, he lay in the ditch helplessly as a German soldier stood over him. The soldier was silhouetted by the gray sky above and Beowulf could not see his face. The outline of the soldier's helmet seemed all the more menacing, the spike at the top like some heathen adornment. "Is this how it is supposed to end?", Beowulf wondered to himself. He remembered all his feats of courage and strength. He had beaten Breca, and Grendel. He had slain Grendel's mother. He had purged Denmark of its plague, becoming a hero. He had lived his life according to the Germanic heroic code. Beowulf felt a massive sense of fear and sadness wash over him. To have done all of that... only for it to end like this. His ragged breathing stopped as the rusty bayonet was thrust into his chest.

Meursault had left the machinegun nest after the artillery stopped. He carried his scoped Enfield up to the elevated position at the top of the trench. There he went prone and casually looked through the glass of his scope. He scanned the enemy line. "Too many of them", he thought. "We will not live through this", he muttered to himself.

The thought did not move him in the least. What was the importance of human life anyway? In the universal scale, it meant nothing. Meursault slowed his breathing and lined a German soldier into his crosshairs. A young man, no more than twenty years old he assumed. Where was he from? What had compelled him to fight in this pointless war? What thoughts were going through his mind as he marched to his near certain death? Did any of it matter? "No", whispered Meursault as he squeezed the trigger. The young soldiers head snapped back, arterial spray jetting through the air. Meursault worked the bolt of his rifle, ejecting a bullet casing, and lined up his next shot. He methodically picked off several advancing Germans. Many officers were included in his deadly tally. When the Germans broke through the main lines, he was less careful choosing his targets. He shot at random, dropping even more of the enemy. He noticed emotionlessly that Beowulf had fled from the MG nest below. Soon after, flames erupted from the dugout. Did Marlow make it out? It hardly mattered. By this time Meursault had spent all of his ammunition. He put down his rife and sat where he was, waiting for death to come. Soon enough, he looked up to see a group of Germans surrounding him. One of them stepped towards him. Meursault could see the officer's insignia on the soldier's lapel. He stared up at the officer blankly. His stare was met with a heavy blow to his temple. Meursault crumpled onto the ground. He could feel warmth running down his face from the gash opened up on his head. He did not move as the cold, sharp blade of a bayonet was pressed against his neck. None of it matters. This was his last thought before the blade was dragged across his neck, and his blood rapidly pooled onto the dirt below him.

The sounds of battle dimmed as the last of the British forces were in retreat. Scattered shots broke the silence around the battlefield. The unfortunate wounded were being delivered into the hands of death. The invading army rested, occupying previously British trenches, some smoking, some eating, and many sleeping. They rested their nerves that were so strained from combat. Countless bodies lay still in the fields and trenches. Still as the gray clouds in the sky. A carrion bird cawed in the distance.