(021)
Eddie had held off for as long as he could – turns out 5 days was the limit – but after a slew of feverish dreams he’d awoken in the early hours in a cold sweat, and now he really had to go.
He throws the covers back on his centre-bed and reaches for the clothes at the foot of it, dressing himself in his poorly fitting uniform, the fabric scratchy and uncomfortable. He slides his feet into his boots while his numbed and newly-calloused fingers work the shirt buttons to the top, tucking the bottom into his open trousers and over the painful lump protruding from his abdomen. He groans at the feeling of the trouser button gripping him tightly, but knows that if he’s caught looking anything other than impeccable there would be hell to pay. He hooks his rifle over his shoulder but his guts clench and cramp again before he has time to put his ammunition belt around himself properly. He staggers through the middle of his sleeping company towards the door, all the while fumbling with the clasps, a grenade bouncing precariously against his hip in the process.
He clicks the barn door closed behind him as carefully as he can manage, trying in vain to walk with dignity – if not with great urgency – towards the communal toilet, his helmet strap sporadically whipping him across the cheek.
Thank god it’s early. Eddie thinks to himself, stumbling past an erstwhile stable – now acting as another barracks – full of sleeping teenagers like him, away from home for the first time.
He rounds the corner with an increasing haste, the end almost in sight, only to stop short and jump back behind the wall.
Why!? He screams internally. His stomach growls along with him, sharing in his angst.
His destination had been a single plank of wood suspended between two wooden pillars, with two holes cut into it at approximately a human’s width apart, and a pit dug beneath it.
It had been, but one of the holes was occupied. Another new recruit had apparently had the smart idea to go while everyone was sleeping. That, or he also hadn’t been able to hold it. The sudden change in diet and introduction to coffee had been hard for many of them. The boy sat with his balled fist gripping the front of his trousers, his other hand holding his helmet onto his stooped head. Eddie peers back around the corner trying to assess how long he might be, just in time to see a new torrent of dark, watery liquid being shot into the pit.
I can’t. Eddie thinks, eyeing the spot beside him. Their thighs would press against each other, and in the near silence of the early morning everything would be audible. He looks around in desperation for an alternative, his eyes settling on the woods that flank the farmstead. Unthinking, he charges into it. He tries to avoid the nettles and holly ringing the edge of the grass but mostly fails in the gloom of early morning. He misjudges the slant of the ground beneath him and slips, the holly leaves perforating his ass cheeks through his trousers. He bucks onto his side and tumbles further down the deceptively steep hill in a sideways roll, coming to a thudding halt against the trunk of a tree, onto which he only just manages to cling.
The adrenaline had served him well while he was rolling – drawing his attention away from his dire need to go. Now that he had stopped his descent however, it was back with a vengeance. He pulls himself to his feet against the tree and hoists his shirt and normally weighty belts up to his chest, his guts sloshing and gurgling their furious rebellion to near crescendo. Both fists pull his britches just low enough for him to squat, back against the tree, and unleash the bubbling deluge that had been building in him for nearly a week. He shuffles his feet forwards in an attempt to save them from it, but only half succeeds. Relief is fused with a feeling of degradation. A week ago he’d taken toilets for granted, now his best option was a tree digging into his spine while he tried to avoid slipping into his own excrement.
Still, at least it was over now, and the sound of the river drifting past on the gentle morning breeze was actually rather nice.
I wonder if rivers sound the same there?
The idea intrigued and scared him in equal measure. The war had been an ever present throughout secondary school, but he’d never even considered that he might play a part in it. It had always seemed far off, somewhere on the horizon. Something for other people to worry about. But now the horizon was up close, and he was the one who had to worry about it. Another cramp assaults his guts and pours more sludge against the heels of his boots.
When his roiling innards appear to have finished he scans the floor for something to clean up with. When nothing perfect is forthcoming, he scoops a handful of dried, dead underbrush and swipes it between his hairless cheeks, wincing at the sensation. He stands straight in three stages, hopping his back up against the tree twice until he’s able to pull his trousers round his considerably flatter stomach. He looks at his hands – dirty from the fall and from the wipe – and considers the river below, but settles for rubbing them against the earth and then the sides of his jacket. Using his rifle as a staff he picks his way up the hill and back to his bed, pausing at the lip to survey for signs of his superiors before leaping over.
Not a bad soldier after all. He muses to himself.
He pulls the barn door tight gently behind him and tiptoes back through his comrades to his middle bed. He places the rifle against it along with the belt of ammunition, which is all accounted for, minus a single grenade. Eddie doesn’t notice this however. He merely slides back under his covers and returns to his less feverish, but no less terrifying dreams.
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