There Is No Darkness

The center of his chest was a hole big enough to put my fist in. Mostly red and white and yellow. Splinters of bone. It looked like the bullet had smashed right through his heart.

  “Medic,” Pancho yelled, then yelled again, louder.

  “What is it?” a voice drifted down.

  “We — we have a dead man.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Pancho looked at him for an instant and jerked his head away. “He’s dead all right.”

  “Just a minute.”

  We waited. I took the rag out of his pocket and covered his face with it. That made it a little easier. They say that when medical students do autopsies the first thing they do is remove the face.

  “Hey you.” The voice wasn’t any closer. “Leave him be. We’ll come get him after dark.”

  That was jolly. “Should … should we put him outside?”

  “I don’t think so,” Pancho said. “Why don’t we both stand guard for a while?”

  “Good idea.” I stepped over the body and sat down to look through my gunport.

  “What a terrible thing,” Pancho whispered. “He —“ Someone jumped into the bunker behind us. I grabbed my rifle and spun around.

  “Don’t shoot, bumhole.” It was O’Connor. He toed the body. “Same guy.” He peeked under the rag. “I’ll be damned. I will be damned.”

  I thought that was likely but didn’t say anything. “What happened?”

  “He was going up to see the medics. Maybe it was a sniper.”

  “Naw. That’s a fifty-caliber wound.” He turned the body part way over; there was a circle of blood on the back of its shirt.

  “See, there’s the entrance wound,” he said with detachment. “Higher than the exit wound. Sniper, it’d be lower.” He let the body drop. “Better hope they don’t have a sniper with a fifty.”

  “Just one of those random gatling rounds,” I said.

  He stood up and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Sometimes a cob just runs outa luck. Twice! Would you —“

  Two medics scrambled down to the edge of the bunker. “You guys wanta hand up that meatball? Goddamn lieutenant says we need the parts.”

  “Don’t need no goddamn parts,” the other one said.

  “Listen, I’m a corporal,” O’Connor said.

  “You’re a dightin’ fleet commander, I don’t care, just give us that dightin’ meatball so we can get back to the dightin’ bunker!”

  I grabbed one arm and O’Connor grabbed the other. A dead body is heavier than a live one. The medics took it without thanking us and dragged him away, the toes making parallel furrows in the mud.

  O’Connor kicked mud over the pool of blood and sat down with his back against the sandbags. He lit up a weed and offered us the box. I refused but Pancho took one.

  For a minute we sat and stared where the body had been. The gatling chattered softly and every now and then there was a wet sound when a bullet hit nearby.

  “They must have a ton of ammo,” O’Connor said.

  “Why aren’t we shooting back?” I asked.

  “Well, probably because somebody thinks that they want us to. To use up ammo. That would mean an assault tonight, big one, human wave attack. So we’re saving ammo. But I’m just guessing.”

  He took a deep drag. “That would be nice.”

  “A human wave attack?” Pancho said.

  “Get it over with, one way or another. Rather fight in the trenches, though. Mobility.”

  Down in the valley there was a sudden pair of shots, then several grenade blasts.

  “First contact,” O’Connor said, an edge of excitement in his voice. There was a short volley of rifle fire.

  He stood up and ground his weed out on the floor. “Better go to the command post.” He started up, then turned around. “Say, either of you cobs good with a knife?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Never used one,” said Pancho.

  He nodded and hauled himself out; walked away without hurrying.

  “That man is more dangerous to us than any Blue,” Pancho said.

  I was thinking. “Wait. Suppose he did send us out on a commando raid. That would give us all night to slip away — and when we didn’t come back they’d probably think we were killed.”

  “The only flaw in your logic is that we probably would be killed.” He looked through the gunport. “I wonder if they made it halfway.”

  I used my telescopic sight, scanning. There was a spurt of white smoke and mud, followed by the sharp report of a grenade. I focused on it; the aiming dot was close to the bottom but wasn’t blinking red.

  Suddenly a couple of dozen soldiers jumped out of a trench and started running in our direction. They had blue armbands; their rifles had bayonets.

  “Open fire!” someone shouted, and the bunkers around us immediately started firing. I aimed high and squeezed the trigger — the rifle was loud inside the bunker — then cocked another round in and shot again.

  “Lead th’ motherdighters! Bullet takes a second to get there.” We didn’t seem to be having much effect. Then one of the soldiers fell to his knees, dropped his rifle and started crawling back.

  Out of a trench some twenty meters in front of them, Red soldiers popped up and started firing and throwing grenades. Several of the Blues fell immediately, but the rest started shooting back as they ran. Someone shot off a signal gun, and a bright green star glowed over their position. Calling reinforcements, I guessed, but both sides would see it.

  About half of the Blue soldiers made it to the trench, jumping in with their bayonets.

  “Hold fire!”

  Without looking up from his gunsight, Pancho said, “I’m just as glad that we are here and they are there.”

  “Wish it would stay that way. You shoot anybody?”

  “No, I aimed high.”

  “Me, too.” I winced as a grenade went off in the trench. That seemed self-defeating, at close quarters.

  A louder shot, almost as loud as the ones from the other bunkers, stood out from the noise of the battle, and someone on the top of the hill screamed. A sniper. “Now we’re in for it,” I said.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No.” The person he had hit was shouting for a medic. I wondered whether I would have gone to help him, if I were dressed in white instead of mud. They weren’t supposed to shoot at medics.

  I had a sick vision of Alegria having to run out and tend the man, exposed, her life depending on the sniper’s respect for the rules of the game. There weren’t any women fighters, though, so maybe the female medics only worked under cover.

  There was another shot that seemed to come from a different direction, but apparently no one was hit. A couple of seconds later, the bunker above us started firing furiously; they must have seen the shot. They threw a grenade but it fell short, narrowly missing the bunker below.

  “Do you see it?” Pancho asked. I could see mud splashing where the bullets hit, but that was all.

  Then there was another shot, and this time we could hear the bullet whirr over our heads. The bunker above stopped firing. Sensible. Why ask for trouble?

  “There!” Pancho said.

  I thought I’d seen a flicker of motion, too. “Just left of that white rock?”

  “That’s it.”

  After a moment I said, “Are you going to shoot?”

  “It’s not my war … is it yours, amigo?”

  “No.” But staring at that spot, I started thinking about Morality as Arithmetic, or vice versa. What if he lived to kill ten more soldiers, for my not pulling the trigger? I would be responsible for all ten, in one sense.

  But if he saw the flash or smoke and I missed, and he aimed back … I felt more like a coward than a moralist.

  “Do you think what Jake said made sense?” Pancho asked.

  “About the Dean running in and saving us? I wouldn’t put any real money on it.”

  “I fear I wouldn’t either. Should we volunteer for this commando thi
ng?”

  I thought for a minute. “Not yet. They might get suspicious. I would, anyhow.”

  “Wait and see what happens, I suppose. That battle appears to be over.” There was no more shooting there. Seven dead or wounded men lay between the two trenches. A white-clad medic (with a blue armband) walked from body to body. How many more were in the trench?

  There was no more sniper fire. We assumed they were waiting for dark, or for somebody to show himself. I had to pee in the worst way, but decided that stepping outside would be the worst way.

  Pancho stood guard while I tried to sleep. I almost wished O’Connor was here. Did that battle mean, because it involved so few men, that we wouldn’t have the human wave attack? Or could there have been three or four hundred more men stalking through the trenches? It gave me cold sweat to realize that that would make sense: sending a dozen men up to divert the enemy’s attention, while the main body moved in for the slaughter. No, there would’ve been more shots. Unless they’d rushed with bayonets. But we had two hundred men out there, somewhere. How many were in the battle? Nothing like two hundred. And the trenches were a complicated maze; that’s how the snipers managed to work their way in undetected. If two men could sneak through, could five hundred? It didn’t seem likely. It didn’t seem impossible, either.

  I woke suddenly to the sound of gunfire. “It’s down in the first trench,” Pancho said. “Not the slit trench, the first real trench.” The slit trench was a shallow straight one, as opposed to the deep zigzags that scored the valley.

  I looked through the gunport and could see wisps of smoke rising from the trench. Was this the first rank of the human wave? It wasn’t quite dark yet.

  “See any people?”

  “No,” he said, “not yet.”

  The firing stopped abruptly. Then dozens of soldiers came pouring out of the trench — with red armbands, to our relief. “Maybe they caught the snipers,” I said.

  “At least they’re coming back. It will make the night easier.”

  I stretched, then felt a sharp pain. “Lots of targets now. Think I’ll go water the grass.”

  “Me next,” he said.

  The sanitation facilities were one large can, about two hundred liters, across the path. The returning soldiers scrambled by as I stood there relieving myself, some of them with entertaining comments. Some were bandaged and bleeding; some had to be carried. They had got two snipers.

  I traded places with Pancho and watched it grow dark. When I could barely see through the sight, I heard someone approach the bunker and slide in. “O’Connor?”

  “Right. You both awake?”

  “Yes,” Pancho said.

  “Here.” He handed me a heavy bundle; same to Pancho. “Pistol and trench knife. Gladiators have to be brave, right?” We didn’t say anything. “Well, this is a job for brave men.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “You two are going after snipers tonight. Crawl through the first few rows of trenches and kill them silently.”

  “I thought the assault squads cleaned them out.”

  “They’ll be back. They love the night.”

  “Corporal,” Pancho said, “these pistols aren’t silent, are they?”

  “No. You don’t want to use them except in an emergency. Take a few hand grenades; they’re better.”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” I liked that “we”. “At 2225 we’ll fire a double star shell. Two bright flares. As soon as they burn out, get out of the bunker and down the path. You have five minutes of darkness.”

  “Unless the enemy shoots a flare.”

  “True. In which case you freeze, as you were trained. It’s really quite hard to see a man if he doesn’t move. In addition, you’ll find a camouflage kit on the pistol belt. Rub the cream all over your face and hands and the back of your neck.” He rattled something. “These pills both improve your night vision and darken the whites of your eyes. Take one now.” We did.

  “How do we know when it’s 2225?” I asked.

  “You don’t have watches? I’ll throw a pebble into your bunker. If you hear a whistle instead —“ He put a whistle to his lips and blew softly. “—that means it’s called off.”

  “Why would they call it off?” Pancho asked.

  “Need you more here; signs of a mass attack. Did your training cover how to kill a man with a knife?”

  “They showed us.” We didn’t practice on each other.

  “For this sort of thing the best way is to come up from behind, put your free hand over his mouth and nose, and then either go for the throat or kidneys. Throat is an easier target but the kidneys’ll stop him faster. You, with your big hands, you might just choke the dighter until he’s unconscious, then finish him quietly.”

  “Noise is the main thing. It’s likely you’ve got another sniper nearby. Maybe some sappers, too. Best to have one person stand watch while the other goes for the kill.”

  “But surely he will be hard to surprise,” Pancho said. “Surely he is expecting something like this.”

  “Maybe not. We’re sending out a TDU, one of your group who fired at the Field First Sergeant. He will be outfitted for commando work. But one of his boots squeaks, ever so slightly. After they kill him, they will be less watchful.” Carefully shielding the flame, he lit a weed. “Also, it’s best to attack while there’s firing going on. Every now and then the gatling up on the top of the hill will spray the trenches with random fire. That’s a good time to strike.”

  “There’s another gatling covering the break in the barbed wire. He will hold his fire when you go through.” He smoked for a few seconds. “Coming back. It’s safest to wait until dawn. Wait in the slit trench. Hold up an armband and wave it. The gatling will let you through.”

  “But what abut snipers?”

  “There won’t be any left, not if you do your job. But the gatling will lay down a field of fire, just in case.”

  “Is everybody down there a Blue?” I asked.

  “Yes. We have some units in nomanland, but they’re all over by the other hill. If you hear or see a group of men, it’s probably a Blue sapper squad. Throw a couple of grenades at them, from hiding. If they’re Reds, they’re disobeying orders.” Severe punishment, I thought. “Any other questions?”

  “Just this,” Pancho said. “Why us? This sounds like the sort of job you would give to experienced soldiers.”

  “I only have five mercies in my squad. I want to save them.” He turned as if to go, then said: “Well, that’s not the whole story. I shouldn’t tell you this. You must have done something to get the Field First pissed. He asked me to put you on a dangerous assignment. Do well and you might get on his good side.”

  I wasn’t sure being on his good side would be much of an improvement.

  “Your friend, the other one, has a similar assignment.”

  That would be Miko. “He didn’t say why?” I asked.

  “I’ve told you too much. But no, he didn’t. Good luck.” He left.

  We listened to him tiptoe away. “Not very promising,” Pancho said.

  “Sounds like they want to get rid of the evidence,” I said. “Wonder what they have lined up for Alegria and Miko.”

  “Should we desert them?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. “We must. There’s no chance for any of us unless we can get word back to the Confederación.”

  “I suppose.” I heard him settle in. “Wake me when you’re tired.”

  I went back to the gunport and watched the scenery grow slightly more clear as the pill took effect. But I was dazzled whenever a star shell burst. There wasn’t too much action. The gatling down by the wire fired a few rounds once, and a sniper returned fire, but his bullet just ricocheted off the gun’s metal shield. One flare caught a Blue in the open, and though several people fired at him, he managed to roll to the safety of a trench. His rifle looked larger than ours, with a heavy ‘scope and a bipod near the muzzle: a sniper. So we would have at least
one to contend with, or avoid.

  O’Connor had given me an idea. If necessary, I could choke a sniper into unconsciousness, and still stop short of killing him. Though it would be better simply to sneak around them.

  Pancho woke up on his own, and in whispers we outlined a preliminary plan.

  Nomanland was a rectangle about two kilometers long by one wide. The longest close trench was the third one out, which would take us to within twenty meters of the perimeter of nomanland. We would go straight to the third trench and follow it all the way to our right; then get out and run for it. As far as we could tell, there wasn’t even a strand of barbed wire there, though there might be alarms. They said that putting one foot outside of the perimeter was desertion; automatic death penalty. Maybe that was enough to keep most people inside, where the death penalty was at least delayed.

  I don’t think I slept for more than five minutes at a time, with flares and gunfire and terrible dreams waking me up. I was mortally afraid, and so was Pancho; in the light of one flare I saw him staring down at nomanland, his jaw muscles bunched with tension, rivulets of sweat beading on the dark camouflage paste.

  Finally the double star shone, and a pebble rattled off the top of our parapet. We strapped on our pistols and knives and, as soon as the flares winked out, scrambled out of the bunker and made our way down the path as quickly and quietly as possible. Going through the barbed wire, I almost had a heart attack when the gatling opened up. But he wasn’t shooting at us; it was support fire, evidently, to keep the enemy’s heads down.

  Pancho and I had both done a lot of hunting, so moving quietly was second nature. I felt terribly exposed, though, as we crept over the ten meters of open ground between the slit trench and the first of the main trenches. There were no flares, luckily, and we lowered ourselves into the trench without incident. We had to go to the left about a hundred meters, to get to the cross-trench.

  We came to within about three meters of a sniper before we saw him. He was in a sort of alcove cut in the side of the trench, and he seemed totally absorbed in his business, luckily for us.

  We couldn’t risk sneaking behind him, though. I made a patting motion to signal Pancho to stay put, and in a couple of quick steps I was on the man. I clamped both hands around his throat and leaned into him, jamming him up against the wall so his thrashing wouldn’t make too much noise. The only sound he made was a faint squeak, like a kitten. Eventually he stopped struggling, and went limp. I gave him a few more seconds and lowered him to the ground. I slipped the bolt out of his rifle and put it in my pocket, then motioned to Pancho.