Destination Death

France -1917
Second Lieutenamt George Allison ate his breakfast without enthusiasm, his appetite dulled by fear and fatigue. Sickened by the squalor and mutilation around him, isolated from the lower ranks and the fossilised minds of the senior officers, he began to see death as his only friend.

His orders were to make contact with captain Dawes and his advanced party at a farmhouse several miles to the south-west. He set out in a dawn mist which promised a fine summer day; he wondered, as he always did, if it would be his last. Such beautiful dawns seemed to mock the horror of the battlefields, where the stench of cordite and death hung over the unhappy countryside. Vestiges of vegetation lay like islands in the churned yellow mud which had been farmland in happier times. Prematurely leafless trees stood their ground in the face of repeated onslaughts, but the poppies had long since accepted defeat.

The distant crump, crump of shellfire grew louder as he progressed from cover to cover. He suddenly became aware of the steady hum of a motor fast approaching. George dashed fifty yard across the mud and slipped into a water-filled crater. He maintained a tenuous grip on the slippery sides of the hole as he searched the landscape for the source of the noise. Circling his area at little more than tree-top height was a flying machine. He could see the black Teutonic crosses on the lower wings and the ominous glint of steel in the hands of the rear occupant. His fear was tempered by admiration for the technical achievement it represented, and for the crazy people who would fly in such a machine.

As he struggled to prevent himself sliding into the water, he was an easy target for the observer in the rear cockpit. George tried in vain to lift his heave Lee-Enfield, but was no match for the man with the hunting rifle. As the machine circled low overhead, he knew it was only a matter of time before abullet found it's mark. It came like a hatchet blow to the side of his head, throwing him dazed into the water. As he clawed frantically to the surface, the rasp of the motor was suddenly silenced. The lasr circuit had been practically at ground level, and a small hump had intercepted the undercarraige, arresting both movement and sound. Th pilot's war ended in the wreckage of the front cockpit, but the observer was able to pull himself stunned and battered from the rear. George watched as the flyer approached purposefully towards him. Shivering with cold, and half-blinded by blood, he took three wavering shots before sending the German reeling to the ground. Cautiously, George made his way to the inert body, kicked the man's rifle well out of reach and took steady aim with his revolver. But wracked with pain, and sick of the futility of killing, George sank to the ground, accepting the oblivion his mind and body craved.

The smell of brandy stirred life back into George, as he felt a hip flask thrust to his lips. Both he and his adversary had regained enough strength to sit and share thr brandy, and after steadying themselves with a cigarette, they struggled to their feet. Despite the pain and weakness from loss of blood, George knew that he must press ahead to reach the farmhouse, before darkness rendered navigation across the featureless mud impossible. Not a word passed as they spontaneously shook hands, and with perfunctory salutes, stumbles uncertainly on their way.

As the bracing effect of the brandy faded, George struggled doggedly on until the skyline was broken by a jagged huddle of rooftops. The battlescarred and windowless farmhouse, looming through the gathering dusk, filled him with an inexplicable foreboding, as though the building had a sinister significance in his life.

Huddles behind the remains of the farmhouse fence, he thought he must be hullucinating when he first heard The Voice. It was clear and lucid: "Where are you, and why are you there?" the disembodied voice asked with quiet authority. George had accepted death as inevitable, but had not expected madness. He felt compelled to tell his story to the phantom in his head, and recounted his experiences since receiving his orders. As The Voice continued to promp and question him, George accepted his insanity, and forced himself to continue on his mission.

He approched the building cautiously, hoping deperately that Captain Dawes and his men would be inside. After careful exploration of the outside, he overcame his dread of the place and kicked open a door. The captain and three of his men lay hideously mutilated in a grotesue heap. Continually promted by The Voice, he relayed events in jerky, unfinished sentences. His numbed mind was brought back into focus as the clattering of hooves approached and stopped, and the thunder of boots and shouted orders filled the courtyard. He lay with the corpses, hoping to be taken for dead, as two soldiers burst in. One kickes at the inert bodies, and finding an involuntary movement from George, shouted triumphantly as he raised his bayonet.

The few seconds before it fell seemed like minutes as George thought of the many times in his childhood when he wondered when and where he would die, and he even found time to wonder if anyone would care anyway. His contribution the world had been negligable, and would soon be forgotten. He felt strangely at peace, realising that he now new the when, where and how of his death.

* * * * * * *

Through the silent void of death The Voice persisted: "five, four, three, two one - wake up, Mr Penrose, it's all over. Some of your answers were a bit incoherent, but it was a pretty good regression. Would you believe that in a previous life you were an army officer in the Great War?" "If you say so" smiled Mr. Penrose, elbowing himself up from the couch.