Chapter 2
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Chapter 2
“One might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of battle. They are inevitable…” - William Tecumseh Sherman
Before the invading mass of troops could rush the sunken base, a volley of shots rang out from the defenders who had the courage to stay and not flee in the face of the oncoming army. The first line of German attackers collectively staggered to the ground, some men falling into the trench and some dropping like stones in the same area where they had been shot. This did not deter the rest of the unit; Rasmus, among the rest of his surviving comrades, swept into the trenches and immediately overwhelmed the initial French forces, pushing them back while hacking through the wall of enemies who resisted violently, attempting to push the aggressors out and back into the no man’s land. If the battlefield behind him was the most terrible place in the world, the trench was the ninth circle. Around him, German soldiers clashed with French infantrymen, their gray and brown uniforms mixing until they were almost inseparable; the battle was less of a battle than a swirling dance of the damned, shapes blurring and mixing with each other, occasionally letting a stream of red into the air amid the sky that was already thick with screams and inhuman shouts. Rasmus gathered what little courage there was left and swung his rifle to his right. It must have hit someone in the shoulder – he knew this because although he could not see due to the gunpowder smoke and tangle of moving bodies that were crushing him, the weapon had landed with an audible crunch and someone had groaned, careening away like a rag doll. Whether the target was German or French, Rasmus did not care to guess, but reminded himself that the important thing was to not think, but attack. Not think, but attack… Minutes passed as the violent frenzy continued unabated, men clashing against one another with weapons or their bare hands. Soldiers were howling, lashing out with fists, rocks, or anything they could desperately use to replace their bayonets, which were either broken or lost in the river of materials and men lying on the grimy floor. Rasmus was attacked by an enemy bayonet before he had time to move out of its range; it wrenched into his back, driving in with a bust of sharp pain, and slid back out again. For a moment, Rasmus’ world quieted, his ears blocking out all noise as he tried to register his injury in his mind. Then, retrieving his scattered thoughts and focusing, he cried out, lashing out furiously at his unseen attacker as the blade cut into him once more, this time under his shoulder. His foe, a helmeted soldier whose expression was almost as frightened as was Rasmus’, crumpled like a piece of paper and stumbled away, his body crashing into that of another defeated soldier as they both fell in an unnatural embrace. Rapidly, a tingling pain in the area where Rasmus had been hit increased until it had covered the full length of his back, and he knew that he had been stabbed badly. Immediately, he dropped his own weapon and stumbled to the ground, his vision becoming hazy as the pain transformed into numbness, a sensation that was much more frightening than the first. Images crashed together as his eyes became unfocused, and he tried desperately to remain
conscious while slipping away into darkness that seemed to flood his sight. What’s happening to me? Rasmus thought, grabbing onto the muddy wall to right himself and trying to touch his back so he could feel what type of grievous injury he had sustained. Suddenly, a terrible roar emanated from somewhere in the trench and a giant of a man made his way through the battle, heading directly toward Rasmus. It was Karl, Rasmus realized with a soaring feeling. Weakly, he raised his hand to the sky to let his friend know where he was, in case he was missed amid the other men laying in the narrow corridor. “Rasmus! I see you!” Karl yelled and dragged Rasmus, propping him up against the muddy clay wall. By this time, the battle had moved on to another part of the trench, something that Rasmus was grateful for; he would have been killed already if it hadn’t. “I lost Donitz somewhere in the battle – I mean, I can’t find him, “ Karl clarified, looking Rasmus up and down although from what Rasmus could see, Karl’s injuries were far greater. His entire uniform was ripped and there were wounds on nearly all parts of his torso and face. “After I stopped looking for him, I came to find you.” “I wasn’t having an enjoyable time myself,” Rasmus groaned, shifting his back so that the injury was not too pressed against the wall of dirt. “It’s not too bad, is it?” Rasmus asked hopefully, pointing to where he felt the wound was. Karl immediately peeled back his shirt, revealing the injury, and recoiled. “This…” he started, but choked on his own words as his eyes scanned the wound. “This is bad…” He looked at Rasmus uncomfortably, evidently not wanting to tell him what he saw. Fear, accompanied by another stinging pain from that region, jolted Rasmus upright, and he decided, squeezing his eyes shut, not to ask. It would be better if he died not knowing what had caused him so much misery at the end. “Well,” he tried to say lightly, although another volley of pain cut his words down to little more than a groan. “All is fair in love and war, and I’m starting to love war a whole lot less after each battle. The wound will heal.” Karl shook his head and grimaced. “You know that quip I made about the spine transplant? We may be needing that soon.” Karl attended to him for the remainder of the battle. At first, he offered him all of the water in his pack, and when Rasmus drank the paltry amount of putrid liquid that there was in the container, Karl scrounged through the other packs on the ground to look for more. An hour passed, then two, and so many more that Rasmus was unsure of whether he was delusional or the battle had already subsided and nobody had bothered to come back for survivors. Either way, the agony of his injury was extending beyond his back to his legs and arms as well, until he could not move save for taking breaths and opening his eyes. The sound of the thundering guns from beyond subsided, and there was a weak cheer, phrases mixed with roars of triumph, from whichever side had managed to wrest control of the defenses. As soon as Rasmus heard German words blended in with the inhuman whoops and shouts of the victors, his heart leapt what little it could. They had won!
Soon after, he heard the sound of footsteps coming toward him and weakly turned his neck, braving every inch of pain that accompanied it, to look at who his savior was. With another great feeling of joy, he realized that Donitz, who had apparently outlasted the battle, was making his way through the wreckage. Karl saw him too and raised his pistol in the air, firing a shot into the smoky atmosphere. “Donitz!” He cried out, and immediately Donitz shouted something back, advancing with his rifle in both of his hands. As soon as he had reached the spot where Rasmus lay, Karl stood up shakily and embraced him. “Donitz,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I thought that you had disappeared in the trenches.” Stiffly, Donitz nodded and looked at both Karl and Rasmus, wetting his lips with his tongue and breathing nervously. “I’m glad you two survived as well,” he said, and Rasmus began to feel another sensation entering his tumultuous mind – uncertainty. There was something to Donitz’s voice, he realized, something uncanny. It was as if his friend was hiding something and wanted to get away as fast as possible before anyone uncovered the secret. As if to confirm Rasmus’ suspicions, Donitz stood straight and looked at Karl directly. “I…I am going to desert,” he said, wavering for a moment before he regained his composure. Before Karl, who stood thunderstruck at the sound of these words, could react, Donitz continued on. “I was lucky to still be alive, and hell will take me before I risk another chance like that again.” He started to walk past his two friends, but Karl grabbed him and shoved him back. “Whaddya mean, you’re deserting?” he asked, and surprisingly there was no coldness in his voice; instead, he stared curiously at Donitz, a peculiar sense of understanding and loathing in his eyes. “We defeated the French, didn’t we?” Rasmus forced himself to remain upright on the wall in order to better see Donitz’ stricken face; there was only fear in Donitz’ eyes. “Yes. That doesn’t mean that they won’t come back with God knows how many brigades of reinforcements, and I don’t want to be here when they do,” the small man replied with one breath, attempting to sidestep Karl once more. Unwavering, Karl stood firm, looking at Donitz squarely. “Then give us your provisions. Rasmus is critically injured and we’re staying put until we get taken back to the field hospital,” Karl demanded. “I need my provisions,” Donitz said as soon as Karl had finished his sentence, as if he had anticipated it. “I can’t go forward, because the French will execute me. I can’t go backward, because the Germans will execute me. All of the supplies I can muster, I gotta take with me.” His voice truly began to break now and he avoided looking at both of his former friends as he grasped his rifle tightly. “I saw death,” he muttered, darkness covering every heavy syllable. “I would rather be shot, tied to a post and blindfolded, than go back there.” Tears started streaming down his cheeks, dripping softly onto the dusty ground below, and his hand moved silently, yet visibly, toward his gun which, Rasmus sympathized, had been forced to gut more than one enemy in the battle. “We can help you,” Rasmus began desperately. He did not want Donitz to leave and eventually face an execution squad, but he knew that the crazed, half-desperate frantic look in Donitz’s eyes allowed for no reasoning. “You don’t have to desert. We’ll get through this, all three of us!” He started to move forward but the sickening soreness in his back grabbed his senses at once and forced him to sit back once more. It was getting worse.
“Not until you give us some of your supplies. Rasmus and I need it to survive!” “Get out of my way!” There was the sound of a scuffle and a single gunshot, echoing across the landscape. His ears blasted by the noise, Rasmus cleared his vision with all the strength he could muster and stared ahead of him, shocked. Karl, who had survived the field and the trenches, and had saved Rasmus’ life, was lying on the mud-caked ground. His form was twisted and his face was pointing in the other direction so that Rasmus could not see his expression, whether it be one of shock or fury or merely sorrow. For a moment, Rasmus did not realize that his friend was dead. However, Donitz’s pained face told him everything that had been done. “You…you killed him,” Rasmus whispered, then looked up, his heart filling with the steam of anger. “You killed him!” He leapt forward blindly. Donitz may have been scared and may have acted in desperation, but he had killed Karl in cold blood. Hatred engulfed Rasmus’ frail senses as he punched Donitz in the face; the boy cried out and staggered against the caked wall behind him, holding onto his own bloody cheek as he gaped at Rasmus, one of his hands curling around his rifle. Rasmus drew his hand back for another swing, but as he did so, a second round of pain coursed from his wound. He stumbled forward in shock as the pain from his back flared again, this time becoming more and more intense. It overpowered all of his senses now, shutting off his hearing and descending upon his sight as well. His vision became hazier until he could barely recognize shapes. Still, he leaped forward once more, managing to grab Donitz around the neck and pull him down. Donitz, panicking, pressed the trigger of his rifle again and a shot pounded out; this time, it missed its mark and landed in the dirt wall behind the two adversaries, raising up a cloud of colorless powder that pelted both the men in flakes of muck and grime. Rasmus gritted his teeth and kept clutching Donitz’ neck in an embrace of unbridled fury, refusing to let go. He killed Karl, Rasmus’ brain kept echoing within itself and Rasmus’ rage increased. He raised his fist and punched Donitz squarely in the face, sending him flying back, swearing and holding the palm of his hand toward his bleeding lip. The dust had almost settled now and Rasmus fell back, further weakened by his growing wound; it had begun to agonize his senses again after a short respite and had now started to numb his whole body like a perverse anesthetic forged by his own pain. There was no retaliating blow from Donitz as Rasmus had expected, and there was only silence that was only punctured occasionally by a brief wind that would rise in the trenches and sink again. Struggling to stay conscious, Rasmus did notice Donitz standing in the same spot for some moments, not moving but simply breathing in raggedy intervals. The fatigued traitor rested against the trench wall behind him uneasily, staring down at Karl’s body despairingly, as eerily silent and unmoving as if he were in the position as the corpse that he had created from a man who had been alive not a few minutes ago. He shook his head sadly, then faced Rasmus and lifted his rifle – perhaps he was pondering whether to shoot Rasmus as well – before lowering it again once more. “I didn’t…” he whimpered. “It was an accident…” Slowly, he stopped talking and his eyes widened even more as the full truth of what he had done seemed to flood into his mind like a tsunami. Time itself seemed to not only stand still but move back, inch by inch and second by second, as Donitz backed away, mumbling to himself with the air of a madman. Perhaps he was, Rasmus thought, still stricken by his
betrayal. His eyes were darting to every side as though expecting an attack and his muck-covered hands shook uncontrollably, even violently, with every step of each of his feet. “How ironic, Rasmus,” he said softly, wiping his brow with a grimy rag that he had produced from somewhere in his uniform, a torn piece of cloth that was as dirty as it was thin. “Everything around here is ironic.” Turning the opposite direction without any further word, Donitz coughed and ran down the trench, away from Rasmus’ dimming sight. All that was left in his wake was the vapor of gunpowder, which slowly ascended into the air, vanishing as well. Slowly, Donitz’ footsteps echoed out of hearing and out of existence as the wind started to quietly whip the dust in the trenches into circles, swirling it until it was but lost spirals of brown and gray. For a while, Rasmus hovered on the edge of life and death, his consciousness being pulled both ways like a sphere of string that was rapidly being untangled by cruel hands. Darkness took the reins and he was plunged into a never-ending void that swirled around him, filled with planets and stars of the distant shores in the universe. Still trying to take breaths, he finally succumbed, his head collapsing back as his eyes opened wide; light shined through the air for a wavering moment, followed by even more darkness. Unprepared you may be, of course, but you are as necessary as frightened, of course…all champions are… The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Desperately, Rasmus craned his head to try to see who was talking to him, but the pain was too much to bear and he could hardly move. Of course, you have duties elsewhere. I will be watching… the voice continued dreamily as if it could not care less the predicament Rasmus was in. He was lifted up, past the soot and smog, into the starry sky above which seemed to beckon to him. It nestled him, surrounding him with a buzzing feeling that he could not interpret, and carried him away from the world with a gust of intangible force that propelled him further and further away from all vision. He was fading out now; perhaps this was what dying felt like, he thought dreamily. The stars were replaced by blackness and complete tranquility, and wind that enveloped Rasmus was now extinguishing itself so that he was simply suspended in the air. Then, as gently as if someone had blown a candle out, all was silent and unmoving.
“One might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of battle. They are inevitable…” - William Tecumseh Sherman
Before the invading mass of troops could rush the sunken base, a volley of shots rang out from the defenders who had the courage to stay and not flee in the face of the oncoming army. The first line of German attackers collectively staggered to the ground, some men falling into the trench and some dropping like stones in the same area where they had been shot. This did not deter the rest of the unit; Rasmus, among the rest of his surviving comrades, swept into the trenches and immediately overwhelmed the initial French forces, pushing them back while hacking through the wall of enemies who resisted violently, attempting to push the aggressors out and back into the no man’s land. If the battlefield behind him was the most terrible place in the world, the trench was the ninth circle. Around him, German soldiers clashed with French infantrymen, their gray and brown uniforms mixing until they were almost inseparable; the battle was less of a battle than a swirling dance of the damned, shapes blurring and mixing with each other, occasionally letting a stream of red into the air amid the sky that was already thick with screams and inhuman shouts. Rasmus gathered what little courage there was left and swung his rifle to his right. It must have hit someone in the shoulder – he knew this because although he could not see due to the gunpowder smoke and tangle of moving bodies that were crushing him, the weapon had landed with an audible crunch and someone had groaned, careening away like a rag doll. Whether the target was German or French, Rasmus did not care to guess, but reminded himself that the important thing was to not think, but attack. Not think, but attack… Minutes passed as the violent frenzy continued unabated, men clashing against one another with weapons or their bare hands. Soldiers were howling, lashing out with fists, rocks, or anything they could desperately use to replace their bayonets, which were either broken or lost in the river of materials and men lying on the grimy floor. Rasmus was attacked by an enemy bayonet before he had time to move out of its range; it wrenched into his back, driving in with a bust of sharp pain, and slid back out again. For a moment, Rasmus’ world quieted, his ears blocking out all noise as he tried to register his injury in his mind. Then, retrieving his scattered thoughts and focusing, he cried out, lashing out furiously at his unseen attacker as the blade cut into him once more, this time under his shoulder. His foe, a helmeted soldier whose expression was almost as frightened as was Rasmus’, crumpled like a piece of paper and stumbled away, his body crashing into that of another defeated soldier as they both fell in an unnatural embrace. Rapidly, a tingling pain in the area where Rasmus had been hit increased until it had covered the full length of his back, and he knew that he had been stabbed badly. Immediately, he dropped his own weapon and stumbled to the ground, his vision becoming hazy as the pain transformed into numbness, a sensation that was much more frightening than the first. Images crashed together as his eyes became unfocused, and he tried desperately to remain
conscious while slipping away into darkness that seemed to flood his sight. What’s happening to me? Rasmus thought, grabbing onto the muddy wall to right himself and trying to touch his back so he could feel what type of grievous injury he had sustained. Suddenly, a terrible roar emanated from somewhere in the trench and a giant of a man made his way through the battle, heading directly toward Rasmus. It was Karl, Rasmus realized with a soaring feeling. Weakly, he raised his hand to the sky to let his friend know where he was, in case he was missed amid the other men laying in the narrow corridor. “Rasmus! I see you!” Karl yelled and dragged Rasmus, propping him up against the muddy clay wall. By this time, the battle had moved on to another part of the trench, something that Rasmus was grateful for; he would have been killed already if it hadn’t. “I lost Donitz somewhere in the battle – I mean, I can’t find him, “ Karl clarified, looking Rasmus up and down although from what Rasmus could see, Karl’s injuries were far greater. His entire uniform was ripped and there were wounds on nearly all parts of his torso and face. “After I stopped looking for him, I came to find you.” “I wasn’t having an enjoyable time myself,” Rasmus groaned, shifting his back so that the injury was not too pressed against the wall of dirt. “It’s not too bad, is it?” Rasmus asked hopefully, pointing to where he felt the wound was. Karl immediately peeled back his shirt, revealing the injury, and recoiled. “This…” he started, but choked on his own words as his eyes scanned the wound. “This is bad…” He looked at Rasmus uncomfortably, evidently not wanting to tell him what he saw. Fear, accompanied by another stinging pain from that region, jolted Rasmus upright, and he decided, squeezing his eyes shut, not to ask. It would be better if he died not knowing what had caused him so much misery at the end. “Well,” he tried to say lightly, although another volley of pain cut his words down to little more than a groan. “All is fair in love and war, and I’m starting to love war a whole lot less after each battle. The wound will heal.” Karl shook his head and grimaced. “You know that quip I made about the spine transplant? We may be needing that soon.” Karl attended to him for the remainder of the battle. At first, he offered him all of the water in his pack, and when Rasmus drank the paltry amount of putrid liquid that there was in the container, Karl scrounged through the other packs on the ground to look for more. An hour passed, then two, and so many more that Rasmus was unsure of whether he was delusional or the battle had already subsided and nobody had bothered to come back for survivors. Either way, the agony of his injury was extending beyond his back to his legs and arms as well, until he could not move save for taking breaths and opening his eyes. The sound of the thundering guns from beyond subsided, and there was a weak cheer, phrases mixed with roars of triumph, from whichever side had managed to wrest control of the defenses. As soon as Rasmus heard German words blended in with the inhuman whoops and shouts of the victors, his heart leapt what little it could. They had won!
Soon after, he heard the sound of footsteps coming toward him and weakly turned his neck, braving every inch of pain that accompanied it, to look at who his savior was. With another great feeling of joy, he realized that Donitz, who had apparently outlasted the battle, was making his way through the wreckage. Karl saw him too and raised his pistol in the air, firing a shot into the smoky atmosphere. “Donitz!” He cried out, and immediately Donitz shouted something back, advancing with his rifle in both of his hands. As soon as he had reached the spot where Rasmus lay, Karl stood up shakily and embraced him. “Donitz,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I thought that you had disappeared in the trenches.” Stiffly, Donitz nodded and looked at both Karl and Rasmus, wetting his lips with his tongue and breathing nervously. “I’m glad you two survived as well,” he said, and Rasmus began to feel another sensation entering his tumultuous mind – uncertainty. There was something to Donitz’s voice, he realized, something uncanny. It was as if his friend was hiding something and wanted to get away as fast as possible before anyone uncovered the secret. As if to confirm Rasmus’ suspicions, Donitz stood straight and looked at Karl directly. “I…I am going to desert,” he said, wavering for a moment before he regained his composure. Before Karl, who stood thunderstruck at the sound of these words, could react, Donitz continued on. “I was lucky to still be alive, and hell will take me before I risk another chance like that again.” He started to walk past his two friends, but Karl grabbed him and shoved him back. “Whaddya mean, you’re deserting?” he asked, and surprisingly there was no coldness in his voice; instead, he stared curiously at Donitz, a peculiar sense of understanding and loathing in his eyes. “We defeated the French, didn’t we?” Rasmus forced himself to remain upright on the wall in order to better see Donitz’ stricken face; there was only fear in Donitz’ eyes. “Yes. That doesn’t mean that they won’t come back with God knows how many brigades of reinforcements, and I don’t want to be here when they do,” the small man replied with one breath, attempting to sidestep Karl once more. Unwavering, Karl stood firm, looking at Donitz squarely. “Then give us your provisions. Rasmus is critically injured and we’re staying put until we get taken back to the field hospital,” Karl demanded. “I need my provisions,” Donitz said as soon as Karl had finished his sentence, as if he had anticipated it. “I can’t go forward, because the French will execute me. I can’t go backward, because the Germans will execute me. All of the supplies I can muster, I gotta take with me.” His voice truly began to break now and he avoided looking at both of his former friends as he grasped his rifle tightly. “I saw death,” he muttered, darkness covering every heavy syllable. “I would rather be shot, tied to a post and blindfolded, than go back there.” Tears started streaming down his cheeks, dripping softly onto the dusty ground below, and his hand moved silently, yet visibly, toward his gun which, Rasmus sympathized, had been forced to gut more than one enemy in the battle. “We can help you,” Rasmus began desperately. He did not want Donitz to leave and eventually face an execution squad, but he knew that the crazed, half-desperate frantic look in Donitz’s eyes allowed for no reasoning. “You don’t have to desert. We’ll get through this, all three of us!” He started to move forward but the sickening soreness in his back grabbed his senses at once and forced him to sit back once more. It was getting worse.
“Not until you give us some of your supplies. Rasmus and I need it to survive!” “Get out of my way!” There was the sound of a scuffle and a single gunshot, echoing across the landscape. His ears blasted by the noise, Rasmus cleared his vision with all the strength he could muster and stared ahead of him, shocked. Karl, who had survived the field and the trenches, and had saved Rasmus’ life, was lying on the mud-caked ground. His form was twisted and his face was pointing in the other direction so that Rasmus could not see his expression, whether it be one of shock or fury or merely sorrow. For a moment, Rasmus did not realize that his friend was dead. However, Donitz’s pained face told him everything that had been done. “You…you killed him,” Rasmus whispered, then looked up, his heart filling with the steam of anger. “You killed him!” He leapt forward blindly. Donitz may have been scared and may have acted in desperation, but he had killed Karl in cold blood. Hatred engulfed Rasmus’ frail senses as he punched Donitz in the face; the boy cried out and staggered against the caked wall behind him, holding onto his own bloody cheek as he gaped at Rasmus, one of his hands curling around his rifle. Rasmus drew his hand back for another swing, but as he did so, a second round of pain coursed from his wound. He stumbled forward in shock as the pain from his back flared again, this time becoming more and more intense. It overpowered all of his senses now, shutting off his hearing and descending upon his sight as well. His vision became hazier until he could barely recognize shapes. Still, he leaped forward once more, managing to grab Donitz around the neck and pull him down. Donitz, panicking, pressed the trigger of his rifle again and a shot pounded out; this time, it missed its mark and landed in the dirt wall behind the two adversaries, raising up a cloud of colorless powder that pelted both the men in flakes of muck and grime. Rasmus gritted his teeth and kept clutching Donitz’ neck in an embrace of unbridled fury, refusing to let go. He killed Karl, Rasmus’ brain kept echoing within itself and Rasmus’ rage increased. He raised his fist and punched Donitz squarely in the face, sending him flying back, swearing and holding the palm of his hand toward his bleeding lip. The dust had almost settled now and Rasmus fell back, further weakened by his growing wound; it had begun to agonize his senses again after a short respite and had now started to numb his whole body like a perverse anesthetic forged by his own pain. There was no retaliating blow from Donitz as Rasmus had expected, and there was only silence that was only punctured occasionally by a brief wind that would rise in the trenches and sink again. Struggling to stay conscious, Rasmus did notice Donitz standing in the same spot for some moments, not moving but simply breathing in raggedy intervals. The fatigued traitor rested against the trench wall behind him uneasily, staring down at Karl’s body despairingly, as eerily silent and unmoving as if he were in the position as the corpse that he had created from a man who had been alive not a few minutes ago. He shook his head sadly, then faced Rasmus and lifted his rifle – perhaps he was pondering whether to shoot Rasmus as well – before lowering it again once more. “I didn’t…” he whimpered. “It was an accident…” Slowly, he stopped talking and his eyes widened even more as the full truth of what he had done seemed to flood into his mind like a tsunami. Time itself seemed to not only stand still but move back, inch by inch and second by second, as Donitz backed away, mumbling to himself with the air of a madman. Perhaps he was, Rasmus thought, still stricken by his
betrayal. His eyes were darting to every side as though expecting an attack and his muck-covered hands shook uncontrollably, even violently, with every step of each of his feet. “How ironic, Rasmus,” he said softly, wiping his brow with a grimy rag that he had produced from somewhere in his uniform, a torn piece of cloth that was as dirty as it was thin. “Everything around here is ironic.” Turning the opposite direction without any further word, Donitz coughed and ran down the trench, away from Rasmus’ dimming sight. All that was left in his wake was the vapor of gunpowder, which slowly ascended into the air, vanishing as well. Slowly, Donitz’ footsteps echoed out of hearing and out of existence as the wind started to quietly whip the dust in the trenches into circles, swirling it until it was but lost spirals of brown and gray. For a while, Rasmus hovered on the edge of life and death, his consciousness being pulled both ways like a sphere of string that was rapidly being untangled by cruel hands. Darkness took the reins and he was plunged into a never-ending void that swirled around him, filled with planets and stars of the distant shores in the universe. Still trying to take breaths, he finally succumbed, his head collapsing back as his eyes opened wide; light shined through the air for a wavering moment, followed by even more darkness. Unprepared you may be, of course, but you are as necessary as frightened, of course…all champions are… The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Desperately, Rasmus craned his head to try to see who was talking to him, but the pain was too much to bear and he could hardly move. Of course, you have duties elsewhere. I will be watching… the voice continued dreamily as if it could not care less the predicament Rasmus was in. He was lifted up, past the soot and smog, into the starry sky above which seemed to beckon to him. It nestled him, surrounding him with a buzzing feeling that he could not interpret, and carried him away from the world with a gust of intangible force that propelled him further and further away from all vision. He was fading out now; perhaps this was what dying felt like, he thought dreamily. The stars were replaced by blackness and complete tranquility, and wind that enveloped Rasmus was now extinguishing itself so that he was simply suspended in the air. Then, as gently as if someone had blown a candle out, all was silent and unmoving.
