Chapter 4

The Shadow of Death

Adam had seen corpses before. Corpses of cattle, corpses of horses, corpses of men. He had seen corpses of persons he had cared for, laid out for their wake: washed and combed, delicately clothed and arranged in their coffins, their face and posture telling him they’ve found peace. He had seen corpses of hanged criminals and of attackers shot in self defence, and those men had often looked angry even in death. He had seen even more corpses that ill-fated day at Pyramid Lake when they couldn’t stop the army from fighting a senseless battle against the Paiutes: dead Indian braves and soldiers who looked disappointed and beaten rather than belligerent.

Yes, he had seen corpses before, more than he had ever wished to see; and yet nothing he had seen before had prepared him for what he saw now:

The once luminous green of the late spring grass was matted by drying crimson. Strewn over the field were discarded equipment, single boots and grey and blue rags, rifles and straps, horses and smashed artillery, all in utter confusion. And men. Dozens of men, hundreds of men, maybe thousands of men. Uncountable numbers of men, of dead men. Dead men, lying next to each other in nearly orderly rows, in disarranged heaps, or scattered in chaotic constellations across the ground. Dead men, who, before this madness had started, had been living and loving and laughing, just as he, and who now lay there, their bodies bloated, their faces deformed and discoloured, unrecognisable in decomposition—only what was left of their uniforms giving away to which army they had belonged. Not that it mattered anymore other than for statistics; death had done what the war had failed to do so far: it had reunited them, had made them one again.

Adam slowly walked over the field, carefully avoiding stepping upon flung out hands, shed caps or lost properties that had been private before. He covered his mouth and nose with his blue neckerchief to shelter himself from the overbearing smell of death and decay. It was a futile attempt, however, for the stench seemed to have invaded his system already, had become a part of him. It was where he was, followed him everywhere, or maybe even he was the source of it.

He stumbled, nearly fell, but caught himself just in time to avoid landing face-first into a mess of maggots teeming in the innards of a burst horse. He turned around, nauseated, to check on what had caught his foot, and saw long, bare legs stretched out behind him. Long legs, eerily familiar, belonging to a body stripped of its uniform. Sometimes people searched the battlefields looking for uniforms they could still use, since the army wear was made of high quality wool—better material than most country folks could afford. Apparently this soldier’s uniform had been in good shape, maybe fairly new, and quite obviously not torn: there were no wounds, no blood on the body except for the gaping slit in his scalp and the masses of dried red that caked in his black hair and concealed his face.

The corpse showed no signs of putrefaction: the soldier must have died not too long ago. Adam felt a chill running down his spine. He tried not to think about how long the man must have lain here, maybe conscious but unable to move, waiting to be rescued. He tried not to think about how he must have lost hope at some point and slowly succumbed to blood loss, exposure, and loneliness.

He leaned down to clean the soldier’s bloodied face with the neckerchief he still was clutching in his hand. The least he could do was to try and identify a man who still was identifiable. The blood vanished completely after the first stroke, and Adam recoiled at the sight before him: he was staring down into his own face.

“No!”

He jolted upright on his cot breathing heavily, with his throat feeling rough and his body sweaty. Panicky, he looked around in the dark. No corpses. He was in his tent, and there were no corpses, only sleeping men. The air in the tent was thick and filled with snores and vapours exuded by men. Living men. A nightmare. Just a nightmare. Adam breathed in and out, slowly, deliberately, and forced himself to calm down. The images in his head didn’t go away, though. Those pictures would stay with him for the rest of his days. No one who had seen what he had seen would be able to ever forget it.

This isn’t your war, Adam, he heard Juliet’s voice in his head, and for a second he wished she’d been right. Or that at least she’d been able to keep him from enlisting. And then, for the tiniest moment, he allowed himself to be furious with her for not having played that last trump that would have held him back. If she’d threatened to leave him, he was sure he wouldn’t be here now. He wouldn’t have the nightmares he had, he wouldn’t have the pictures in his head and the smell in his nose, and he wouldn’t feel alone and cold and in desperate need of…her. Her beaming smile, her radiant eyes, her inviting arms, her waiting soft, warm body. Her “right nows” and her raised eyebrow, her ability to let herself go and make him let go, her liveliness and her scent of honey and home.

Suddenly he felt he’d suffocate if he stayed inside any longer. Putting on boots and his warm overcoat, he left the tent and joined a group of men who’d gathered around a campfire inside a square of billets.

“Can’t sleep, either?” he was greeted by the voice of Leopold Hohmeyer, who seemed to spend most of the nights outside.

“Mhmm.”

Someone offered him a tin mug, and then Hohmeyer poured him some coffee from a pot that had been kept warm near by the fire.

“Thanks, Leo.” Adam sat down and drank the strong, bitter brew. He looked up at the star-spangled sky, the only familiar thing out here. Maybe, he thought longingly, maybe right now Juliet was star gazing, too. Henry might have woken her up and after she’d nursed him and tucked him in, she now stood on the front porch and watched the stars, thinking of him.

If she wasn’t still too mad with him.

He sighed.

“That coffee not enough to satisfy you tonight, Adam?” Leopold tugged at his sleeve. “Are you waiting for a falling star to wish upon?”

“What good could a meteor do?” Adam winced at his own bitterness. He looked up into Leo’s face to find nothing but understanding there. It was strange, but being comrades in arms brought an openness and connection between men Adam had never experienced before, let alone would have expected. “I’m sorry,” he said.” I just feel—” Feel what?

“Lonely?” Leo suggested.

“Kinda.”

Leo grinned suggestively. “I’ve heard there are some highly exclusive cocottes in the camp tonight. Maybe one of them can make you feel less lonely.”

“No, thanks.”

“They are the best, Adam. The prettiest, loveliest, finest—”

Adam shook his head. “Give me as many superlatives as you like, Leo, I won’t be tempted.” He smiled at Leo’s incredulous grimace. “I’m a married man, y’know.”

“Most of us are.”

“I love my wife.”

“I love my wife, too.” Leo said, irritated. “But my wife is not here; and sometimes I need…a substitute.”

Adam emptied his coffee mug. “No cocotte, not even ‘the best,’ can substitute for my wife. No woman can substitute for her. And I wouldn’t want that anyway. It wouldn’t be right.”

“But a man has needs. And I don’t mean those needs, Adam. There might come a time, when your needs are stronger than your loyalty.”

“My needs, whatever they might be, can only be fulfilled by Juliet. No other woman could replace her.”

“You say that now, but wait until you—”

“No.” Adam stood and handed Leo the empty mug. “I could never find what I need in another woman. Never.”

He turned sharply and headed back to his tent, mumbling “never” over and over again, like a mantra, hoping that his indignation would be sufficient enough to eventually distract him from the image of his own dead face that rose up in his mind every time he didn’t concentrate on something else.

__________

War is hell. ~William Tecumseh Sherman

 

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 The words given were: meteor, constellation, Leo, superlative, radiant