Through the Darkness: Of Love and Loss Series Book One

1

German Spring Offensive

March 24, 1918, France

Deafening, high-pitched shrieks pierced the afternoon sky. A distinctive and terror-inducing sound heralding death and devastation mere seconds away.

Artillery shells and mortars dropped through the sky and exploded. They threw men, or more often than not—all that remained of them at that point—into the air with clods of dirt and debris into the wind.

The living who remained unscathed pressed on into an unforgiving barbwire gauntlet. Machine guns spewed bullets in wild and deadly abandon.

Should the shards of metal filling the air fail to find their mark in some poor bastard's hide, there yet remained the possibility of greeting death by way of hand grenades, artillery strikes, mortars, and poison gas.

And if, by some miraculous feat, a soldier managed to survive any combination of those obstacles, he still had to deal with the flamethrowers.

Captain Everett Monterose had long since come to terms with the odds stacked against survival in such unwelcoming surroundings. He posed an excellent target as a man with an impressive height of six foot four and a brawny physique.

However, he also proved himself a proficient shot and even more deadly with his knife and bayonet. His skills and an uncanny amount of luck were the only things keeping him from meeting his end, despite the countless opportunities he'd had at courting lady death so far.

Favoring books while growing up, Everett never knew he'd been gifted with such deadly talent until a year ago after joining the army.

Before then, his only weapons had been those of a school teacher. Which were mainly limited to chalk, notepaper, pens, and books. He had an extensive collection of the latter at home, allowing him to always have at least two in his possession. Deadly weapons, to be sure.

He hadn't joined the war because he'd been compelled by a noble idea to help right the wrongs in Europe like so many others before him.

Instead, he'd waited until being conscripted. But once receiving his orders, Everett believed he had a clear idea of what war would be like and approached the situation he found himself in without fear.

How could he not after living with an abusive father up until his mother's death just after he turned thirteen? His life had been brutal, filled with many opportunities that had almost caused his demise.

But even if his hellish childhood somehow failed to prepare him for what lay in store, then surely the fact that he taught school would supplement what knowledge he lacked. After all, war filled the history books, many of which lined the shelves in his private collection at home.

However, within the first half-hour on his first day in France, it became apparent how grossly he'd misjudged the situation. Combining his life experiences with the history books only gave a warped and paltry version of his daily reality.

No mention had been given about living in deadly trenches that became more terrorizing than the battleground itself and all the inhumane horrors surrounding them inflicted by fellow soldiers in the name of 'honor' and 'duty.'

Just last night, he'd stood below a new recruit who crawled up the fire ladder to survey the area once the crossfire died. The reward for his attempts at caution? His head blown off by enemy fire.

Occurrences like those were one reason Everett stopped learning their names. What was the point when they'd likely not live through the day?

Bloody dirt spurted into Everett's face.

Men at his side dropped to the blood-drenched earth with each wild heartbeat. They collapsed like marionettes whose strings had suddenly been cut.

And yet, Everett wiped it from his eyes and rushed into battle. He dispatched every foe he encountered, sure—or to be blatantly honest—hoping he would not make it out of this one alive.

Some of the men beside him were friends he'd tried to laugh and joke with the night before. A vain attempt to dampen the trauma of the whole experience. Other soldiers were new faces he'd only just met.

Most of them, whether a seasoned soldier or green and untried to the ways of war, had at one point within the last two days cried while admitting they didn't want to die.

But not Everett.

After what he'd witnessed, been a party to, and lived through, death would be a mercy. Or, depending on how he would be judged, a penance. Either way, it would be an end.—albeit a violent and less than blissful one—to the nightmare they endured every day.

And, as luck would have it, it looked like Everett's death wish would soon be granted. Several things happened simultaneously, and fought for dominance in what would deliver the final killing blow.

The ominous shriek of a mortar pierced the air just as the first bullet struck Everett in the left shoulder. A thick cloud obscured the battlefield ahead, tainting the air with its toxic, sweet fumes. It burned his lungs and eyes.

"Gas! GAS!" Sergeant McDole yelled beside him, scrambling to don his gas mask. The terror in his voice rang in Everett's ears.

Everyone around him rushed to follow suit.

But in the next breath, a volley of bullets dropped Sergeant McDole to the ground, and his mask fell from his lifeless fingers.

Earth exploded in a blinding cloud of dirt, mixing with the wall of green gas. The power of it knocked Everett's helmet and gas mask off. Shards of metal embedded into his flesh and broke his right arm as he was spun and thrown into the air like a children's rag doll.

Screams of wounded and dying men surrounded him, mingling with one voice louder than the others. It took a moment before he realized it was his own.

Everett crashed to the ground with such bone-jarring force that it drove the air from his lungs and plunged a large, jagged metal scrap deep into his right thigh.

A silent scream of agony and mounting panic from lack of air tore from his throat. Fighting for each breath, he lay stunned and helpless and prayed for death.

The searing pain caused by the gas intensified, and his eyes refused to open despite the desperate urge to do so. Everett clawed at his face, desperate to wipe away the dirt, blood, and poison that burned his face.

Another explosion sent bloody chunks of dirt and human debris raining down upon him, accompanied by searing flames that licked at his skin. Pain consumed the right side of his body, worsened by the stench of burning flesh pervading his nostrils.

A shrill ringing filled his ears. Everett dug his left hand into the wet soil, opening himself up to what he hoped would be another artillery shell destined to end his misery.

The tinny, sharp staccato drowned out all other noise until it engulfed his entire body. Then, suddenly, the noise faded. The ground shook beneath him. Tingling numbness replaced agony, and Everett succumbed to the blessed void of unconsciousness.