Session 18 - I Need To Know, Will I Make It?
TW: implied/referenced abuse, mention of sex work, unwitting cannibalism, semi-graphic descriptions of large amounts of dead bodies, existential themes, themes of mortality, disillusionment, child death
I fucking hate it here. We have been in the trenches for less than a week, and I already doubt Iāll make it to next Friday. There is an anger burning in me, but it is numb and hazy with exhaustion. If this journal is ever recovered by my family members (God forbid), I would like to congratulate them. I assumed I would prefer shooting and killing people to being surrounded by shouting, fists, and alcohol. I was wildly incorrect. Congratulations, Father! You, the worldās most hateable human pond scum, are preferable to trench warfare!
But I digress. Thereās a substantial amount of information to record, much of which sounds like it was invented by a madman. That madman would appear to be God.Ā
There is a small town nearby. Our most recent mission involved being sent to this town to uncover and stop a suspected illegal trade of valuables. It was a nice little town when we arrived, but of course we immediately ruined it by being there. Our new Sergeant, Nate, immediately resorted to mugging someone (a 17-year-old boy). Absolutely nothing useful was found, but we did discover some jewelry and what Iām told was a love letterā¦ from another boy in Switzerland. This alone leaves me with a few questions, such as whether or not that Swiss boy was from the unfortunate town we accidentally unleashed hell upon, but it also validates a few things that Iāve been pondering since I joined the Army. I didnāt realize men could fancy other men, but the rumor of the contents of that letter puts a little more tangibility to something in my heart.Ā
Our Sergeant then proceeded to steal an old womanās jacket and purse. There was medication and bread in her bag, and a singular hard candy in her purse. The absurdity is almost as great as the absurdity of looking at Varnish for more than a minute.
There were three places we thought might have information on the crime we were trying to uncover: a brothel, a cafe, and an orphanage. We elected to go to the orphanage first. I donāt remember much of the orphanage, mostly because my mind became fuzzy as soon as the volume grew and a horde of French children swarmed us. I do not like children. They have never done anything to offend me personally, but they are loud. One child is tolerable. Two or three become annoying. Four or more and my head feels like it might explode. I stood in the back with my reality buzzing quietly while a few of us talked to the lady who ran the orphanage and Terri dug a trench with the children. I find it very odd that both he and Varnish, who are the two most outwardly violent and alarming members of our unit, are also shockingly good with small children.
I also donāt recall much of the brothel, which is where we went next. I remember the name of the woman who ran it as being Solenn Boutet. I only remember that name because she held herself with a distinct confidence that made her impossible to ignore, although I think if I were to be tasked with picking her out of a crowd, Iād be completely useless. We came away from that encounter with a few poppyseeds and meager information. I believe there may have been some swindling involved on our part. I donāt know, and I donāt actually care to.
The cafe was my favorite place in the town. I donāt remember the people who ran it very well, but I remember that they had sandwiches. They werenāt the best sandwiches Iāve ever tasted by any means, but they were better than trench rations, which have all been lentils so far. I HATE LENTILS. Never before in my life have I encountered lentils, and if I survive this war I know that I never want to see one again for as long as I live. I am already distracted enough by the sensation of my puttees squeezing my legs in the most tightly uncomfortable way possible, and now I must also choke down a food that I hate. I think they may begin haunting my nightmares, all things considered. The cafe and its sandwiches and apple juice were like holy water to a damned man.Ā
We then proceeded to go to the local butcher shop, which was closed. There was a strange man behind the shop with a demeanour that I can only think to describe as āratlike.ā After a convoluted series of events that involved using Terri as a living weapon, he pointed us in the direction of a German field hospital. We encountered a few German soldiers on the way there, and nearly lost Terri to a soldier with a flamethrower. We likely wouldāve engaged in further combat, but were chased off by a Corpse Monger emerging from the trees. Like any group of sensible people would do, we fled the area immediately and left the Germans to handle it on their own while we hid in the remains of a brewery.
This breweryā¦ I can hardly think of it without immediately feeling sick. It was unnamed to us ā if it even had a name to begin with. There were guards outside, who we spoke to. After Leon ā the one who doesnāt talk and has extra eyes ā convinced them that we were also guards, they warned us not to go inside the building. Of course, this was suspicious, so we all snuck around and went in through a side door.
I canāt even put into words the stench of bodies being boiled. The things we have been eating? The oil used in any cooking for miles around? People. Itās made of people. Bodies piled everywhere, machinery working, horror creeping over every one of us. People. We have been consuming people.
Where do the dead in our trenches go? Now we know.Ā
This was the operation we were looking to dismantle. We wove among the piles of dead and rot, setting up grenades around the perimeter. Then a criminal spotted Terri, and our cover was blown. As we fled from the rain of bullets, I saw Terri slam the head of a guard into a nearby boiler. Human flesh has a melting point.
As we ran for our lives, I looked back only once. There was a man with a gun aimed directly at my face. His finger pulled the trigger, but right before I joined the masses on the other side, the grenades finally detonated. Body parts in varying states of decomposition rained down upon us. I blacked out, and my memory only faded back in just two hours ago. Paula, our nurse, was trying to get me to consume just a small amount of food. I didnāt want to.
āCormac, you need to eat something,ā she said.
I replied āI donāt think I can.ā
So we sat, and she fell asleep after an hour, and now I am writing this. I am hungry, but the thought of food makes me sick. I canāt close my eyes, or I see the inside of the brewery again, and I jolt back to reality. People are talking all around me, but the sounds are meaningless. I canāt even understand their words, as though Iāve forgotten English entirely.
Truth be told, I have made a very disturbing realization in the past 24 hours. It is this:
Someday, I will die. Be it tonight, tomorrow, next week, or a year from now, I will die. This war will kill me. This war will kill us all. We were lied to. We were fed tales of heroism. We bought them, and now we have joined the slaughter. When we join the dead, no matter how hard we fight, our bodies will mean nothing. Our lives will mean nothing. Our names will mean nothing.
Every last one of the bodies in that brewery was the vessel of a human soulā¦ but now, they are only sources of trauma and disgust that will keep me up at night. Some were my age, or perhaps even younger. Barely done being children. What kind of world are we living in, if there are people who let children die?
I donāt want to rest. I donāt want to close my eyes, if it means I might never wake up again. I donāt want to relax until Iām certain Iāll make it to tomorrow.
I have to know if I'll make it.
