This Soil ⌖ n.h. [slow updates]

chapter four

"Niall, wake up."

Niall received a shove, and with that, he woke.

"Is it dawn already?" Niall managed to mumble in a hushed manner as he sat up, rubbing sleep and foreign grime away from his eyes to see William.

"No," William answered, and Niall now noticed anxiousness in his voice. Niall had known this was coming. They had been in the reserve trench for about a week now, and veteran soldiers had told them what that meant. "We're being transferred to the front lines."

As quickly and yet quietly as he could manage, Niall scrambled to pack away his few personal possessions, most of them items that were regulation hand-outs. As soon as he finished, he turned his head to have that of the company orderly officer in his face, startling him, but not noticeably so. The officer wordlessly handed him two shovels and a pickaxe, and Niall accepted them just as quietly. As the party wound its way towards the front lines, Niall noted that it most likely was not simply the threat of enemy shellfire that kept the soldiers silent. They were frightened beyond belief.

As William fell back to be in step with Niall, he barely whispered, "Keep your head down. Most men die on their first day due to snipers."

Niall quirked an eyebrow, hoping that it would convey what he didn't dare speak aloud at this time: how would you know? They were all new; a "fresh batch," as the sergeant had called them. Niall endearingly thought of William as the typical new-to-war soldier. All too eager to drink up every word a seasoned serviceman might utter, and just as quick to report it as if he had experienced it himself. But again, Niall thought these things fondly.

"And I'd shave that hair if I were you," William continued. William himself had sported the buzz cut for some time now, and pulled it off quite nicely. However, Niall rather liked his hair the way it was now. "The lice and nits are awful on the front."

Niall elected to risk a response. "They weren't so bad in the reserves," he whispered.

"Just wait," William retorted. "The things get everywhere. I've seen some of the boys who've come back."

Subdued, Niall answered, "We all have, William."

With that, the conversation that was a terrible thought in the first place halted. As indeed, they all had seen returning enlisted. The living, the dead, and worst of all, the ones in-between.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖

Niall had never been one easily rendered useless.

"Good in a crisis," his mother had once remarked; long ago, when the memory of that comment was not so weighed down with bitter irony. Even so, it rang true- Niall was always one to keep his head. But not this time.

His ears were still ringing. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever stop. Perhaps it would be better if the tintinnabulation did persist forever. The experience had a numbing effect, as if it somehow aided in removing an individual from the situation at hand. Something Niall had never had need of, until now.

He craned his neck to examine his shoulder. That was a mistake. His eyes squeezed shut as he braced his hands on his knees and threw his head forward, trying his best to halt the arising of bile in his throat. He gasped and opened his eyes, and he noticed his breathing becoming labored and irregular.

There were still remnants of blood and other gore on his shirtsleeve.

Niall had always been told that war was glorious. Everyone had. Such ideas were accepted as fact. Yet here he was, trying to forget his first taste of battle. Trying to forget the smell of carnage.