Louis the Radio Operator

Deep within a wet, diseased trench, seated unenthusiastically on a rough wooden stool, a rugged French radio operator hangs over his precious tool. He rests his head on its cold exterior, hanging one hand over the top as the other droops flaccidly beneath him. Each breath he takes causes a small bit of condensation to show on the hard metal top of his radio, passing the time he observes the distance of each plume of condensation, seeing how far he can get it. For hours now he's been hearing the grinding sounds of war thundering out over the battlefield that rests not too far away, but not to close as to be worried just yet.

His orders plant him firmly on his stool and to wait for a transmission from the frontline that rests in chaos only a few hundred meters away. He begins to tap his finger gingerly on the side of the radio with one hand while using the other to tap his ID tags, one tag with the name 'Louis' etched into it. Soon, after a disorganised tapping of the tag and radio, Louis began to harmonise his taps with his heartbeat, ignoring the fact that for a while now, he'd been hearing the rumbles of war creeping ever closer...a little too close.

As he lay there waiting, Louis had not taken note of the fact that the sounds of the hell he sat just below and a bit away from were now almost right overhead. However, it wasn't long until this trance-like state was broken, his radio suddenly blaring to life, crackling and spluttering out static before a harrowing voice from the other side bellowed in terror.

"...BONJOUR?... Éclair23? this is Éclair22 do you copy?" The voice took an extremely terrified tone causing Louis's spine to tingle with discomfort. The voice sounded so young.

"Bonjour, received Éclair22? This is Éclair23" Louis hastily but calmly replied, now having snapped himself up into a poised position ready and alert to his duty.

"Dieu Merci...Our division...surrounded...Sausages everywhere...Artillery, NOW!..." the voice began to break up as more and more hellish noises could be heard sparking through the radio.

Laced in between the sounds was screaming that proclaimed horrors unimaginable to an unhardened veteran, of which Louis was not. He listened closely as the sounds of German voices grew louder and louder whilst the young radio operator cried pleas for mercy, home and his mother before a few brutal slaps of an unidentified sausage could be heard, accompanied by one final earth-shattering scream, followed by an end to all transmissions from the young operator's radio.

Louis's heart shuddered as it was likely that he had just heard a fellow soldier die via sausage for the first time. He was shaken but remained content on the outside as his duty was not complete. His orders were to wait for a transmission and act accordingly based on the information given. Knowing the situation was dire and heading the screech for artillery yelled out by the now-deceased operator on the frontline, Louis knew what had to be done. Scrambling from his stool and knocking it carelessly onto the muddied ground, he raced for his trench coat, throwing it on with a hurried demeanour then bolting up a short flight of crudely dug steps laced with now rotten wood that ascended to the surface where he could inform his commander of the order.

Once Louis had reached open air, he gazed up at the sky for a moment, his eyes filling with water as smoke rolled intensely into them. He witnessed a sky packed with clouds so grey they dampened the sun and smoke so thick it looked a tonne weight. Escaping his daze quickly he dashed along an active trench line, soldiers from all walks of life lined up with their rifles pointed over the trench, loaded with the freshest batch of weaponized baguettes the French bakery arms factories had to offer. Every click of a trigger and crack of a skull were enough to make Louis's stomach turn, yet he pressed on towards the artillery positions.

On route to said position, moments before arrival, a fellow soldier just beside him was struck by a dazzling streak of culinary death as a German sniper from an undetermined distance and hidden location had successfully blown the poor mans head clean off with weaponized bratwurst. Pieces of blooded meat and skull flew in all directions, the body of the soldier collapsing back onto Louis, blood spurting out onto his dark blue uniform and splattering his pasty white cheeks a deep crimson red.

Louis was screaming inside, wanting to let it out but dared not lest he lose control and not deliver the orders in time. He swallowed what felt like a football-sized lump in his throat, forcing it with great difficulty down his now sandpaper-like oesophagus and shoving the body of the unnamed solder off. Before moving on, Louis swiftly swiped the fallen man's tags, worried that the situation may never see the men who fell here recovered. In war he still felt part of the brotherhood which now collapsed in droves all around him. Preserving the identity of a man whose sacrifice was too great to repay was the least he could do. Pocketing the tags, he pressed on, wiping sausage and skull shrapnel off his face, causing the blood to become more evenly spread over his ghastly pale complexion.

Louis, now panting like a well-worked dog, reached the artillery positions, his commander and artillery crew hunched down behind empty crates of Artillery Baguettes. His commander gestured him over and Louis responded fast, dashing over and sliding across the sludge-like mud beside them.

"Speak!" roared the commander, his face reddened with frustration at the dire situation.

It took a moment for Louis to muster the composure to speak, his throat so sore from fear. "Y-Yes Sir, Artillery, now. We need to fire our artillery as fast as possible. The front line is lo-" His speech was interrupted by an extremely loud, vast sea of voices.

Out of nowhere, no man's land sprung to life with shouting, it getting louder and louder by the second. Before anyone could react, an armada of German soldiers with Vienna Sausage fixed bayonets began pouring over into the trench just feet away from where Louis and his commander, along with the artillery crew were huddled. They watched in horror as the German swarm plunged their sharpened Vienna Sausages into the flesh of the once-mighty Éclair23 regiment. Bodies were torn apart and cries so harrowing even Hell grew cold for a moment. Wailing could be heard pouring out of the dying men of Éclair23. Louis's eyes grew wide in terror and his skin became so cold it could rival the temperatures of the arctic.

Louis's commander proclaimed in a voice reminiscent of a man who'd accepted defeat that, "Tis too late, our positions are lost, our last stand is now. Show no fear in the face of the Devil, four one Kraut slain is a duty well done. VIVE LA FRANCE!" His tone was eerily calm while speaking up until his cry of French longevity at the end.

Just after finishing his speech, he drew his pistol from a worn holster strapped to his uniform and stood to fire his only clip of hardened mini croissants into any German unlucky enough to be caught in his gaze. Alas, before he'd even had time to pull the trigger, a low thump was heard behind him, and subsequently behind Louis and the artillery crew. Louis's eyes followed the sound as did the artillery crews, both parties laying eyes upon a Marzipan cluster bomb.

"Dieu ait pitié...God have mercy." Louis muttered under his breath in a beyond shaky tone.

In mere seconds, darkness befell him. Pain was but a mere inconvenience to him now, as in such overwhelming quantities in so few seconds it had lost all power. Louis's body flailed backwards like a ragdoll; the completeness of his form uncertain... his fate unknown.