Trench Crusade: Faith In A Foxhole

“Put your helmet on. Something is coming.” Sergeant Macduggal told me. I fumbled a bit as I placed it on my head. I had practiced this motion a thousand times before we made it to the front, but this was the first time it might be for real. 

“Put on the whole armor of God,” Johanus recited, his hands steady in his faith. He tightened his helmet under his chin and picked up his rifle. “That ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.”

“Amen,” all we privates muttered under our breath. Sgt Macduggal didn’t join us. He was climbing the ladder, peering over the edge of the trench. His large, gruff presence was usually a comfort, but seeing the veteran suddenly concerned and nervous made all of us worried.

“What do you think it is, Sergeant?” I asked as I picked my rifle up. I checked the bolt, pulling it back just far enough to make sure it would slide smoothly. The rough catch of the action tore at my thumb again, and I pressed the bleeding wound against the cross burned into the buttstock. This fresh blood joined the stain already there.

He was silent, peering over the edge with as little as possible of him exposed. The no man’s land beyond our trench was covered in ruins and barbed wire, with the late afternoon mist obscuring it even more. I hoped that the man had practice at seeing something where I couldn’t.

“Do you think this is it?” Ryan asked me. He gulped nervously when I didn’t say anything right away. He repeated the action I did, cutting his thumb and pressing it to the cross. He didn’t find obvious comfort in the ritual. I turned to him and started to answer, but the sergeant suddenly bellowed, interrupting me.

“ON THE LINE!” he shouted, and we all repeated it as we surged into place. One foot on the firing step, ready to move and fire. I ended up next to Sergeant Macduggal. I glanced at him for any clue as to what was happening, but he didn’t give a single sign.

“I’m not ready,” Ryan whispered beside me. I pretended not to hear him, but I wasn’t the only one close to him.

“Close your heretic mouth,” Johanus told him from his other side. “God and faith are with us, and that makes you ready.”

Ryan looked at him, pale and terrified. I agreed with Ryan, I think, but I didn’t say anything. Faith was what we needed here. Faith was what kept Sergeant Macduggal alive through this crusade.

That and good training.

This was the first patrol for Ryan, Johanus, and myself. The rest of the squad had at least two watch rotations under their belt, and the sergeant had a record-setting nine. Seven days on post, keeping back the heretic scum, and then seven days in the rear. We had been picked up during their last time, replacing casualties, and few of the rest of the squad had warmed to us yet. Johanus’s fervor had won him a few admirers, but Ryan’s cowardice was evident from day one. 

“We’re together and on the side of right, Ryan. That makes us mighty,” I told him, trying to convince myself. 

Motion out of the corner of my eye distracted me and I turned away from my frightened friend. The sergeant had raised his whistle to his lips, ready to blow. My hands tensed on my rifle. The blood-stained cross pressed into the flesh of my arm. It felt warm to me in the chill air of the evening.

No whistle came, no signal to fire. Instead, the sergeant's eyes went wide and the whistle fell from his mouth.

“INCOMING!” he bellowed in his deep, strong voice. He started to leap down into the trench, but the blast hit before he did.

There was no whistle of a falling bomb, no dull thud of distant artillery. I don’t know what the sergeant saw in the mire that alerted him to the threat, but he was too slow.

The fireball blossomed before we could take cover. Not that there was any to take as the bomb hit the center of the trench. The walls of the trench were rent and torn, blasted into a crater. The only thing that blocked me was Sergeant MacDuggal’s thick, solid frame. He slammed into me and I slammed into the trench wall. My helmet hit the dirt, stunning me as my friends got caught in the blast. I lost consciousness.

Time passed while I was lost in that state. That is one law even this war hasn’t seemed to break. I was in agony as I was jostled awake.

I was staring into the lenses of a gas mask, the complex tubes leading down hanging down. There was a symbol branded into the forehead of the mask, one whose angles hurt my head to follow. I tried to push myself away from him, but the pain was too intense.

This was the first time I had ever seen one of the heretics. The trooper of hell seemed surprised to see me move. I realized that what had woken me was him pulling the remains of the sergeant off me. The shaking had pulled against me, and I realized that, though I had been shielded from the worst of the blast by the sacrifice of my leader, I was not uninjured.

A thick spike of wood, as big around as three of my fingers together, penetrated my knee and pinned me to the dirt. My ignorance and shock had been keeping the pain away, but now that the wound was obvious, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It flowed over me, and I threw my head back and screamed.

“Sir!” the trooper called out. “We’ve got a live one here!” 

His voice was surprisingly normal. There was no bark of inhuman voices, no rasp as the burning of hellfire. Just a man, serving the darkest powers of Creation.

I looked past him, seeing more like him going through the remains of my squad. Lanterns were scattered about, providing light that danced and flickered over their equipment oddly. They wore canvas robes, stained with mud and ash. Iconography jangled on their chests. I couldn’t tell what was rank insignia, equipment, or blasphemous icons. It was all so unfamiliar.

The rifles that were now pointing at me were not, though. They looked like they could have come from the factories at home. I looked for my own but saw it was in a pile at the center of the crater. 

That is what they were doing to my friends, I realized. They were a scavenging party, taking any equipment they could steal. Helmets, belts, boots, all the equipment we had carried was thrown together. There was a separate pile beside it for the remains of my patrol.

Few bodies were whole. Hands, limbs, and heads were piled haphazardly. As I watched, one of the hell troopers grabbed Sergeant MacDuggal’s arms and dragged him away. Another stopped him and pried his one remaining intact boot from his dead foot.

“What…” I coughed, spitting up blood. My ribs were broken and a cut in my mouth was bleeding. The trench wall wasn’t soft when I hit it. 

And neither was Sergeant MacDuggal.

“What do you want with me?”

“Me? Nothing.” The hell trooper stepped back, though his rifle didn’t waver. The lieutenant, he is in charge. He’ll be here momentarily.”

An officer in the service of hell? The stories about what happened to captives had kept us awake on our march to our position. Fear threatened to overcome me, but I remembered what I had told Ryan.

My friend was dead, though. I could see his hand poking out of the pile. He had the same wound I did, the tear in the thumb from our bolts. Ryan had been spared whatever torments would be visited on me and sent to a martyr’s reward, all without ever firing a shot.

“Please,” I begged the trooper before me. There was a human shape, a human mind in there. I hoped to find a human kinship. “Please, just kill me.”

“Heh,” the man said, a small laugh out of place on the battlefield. “Can’t do that, I’m afraid. The Lt. likes to find alive ones. He questions them. I can do one thing for you, though.” He dropped the hand from the front of his rifle, keeping it pointed at me by pulling it tight to his body. 

“Thought I lost this,” he said under his breath. He pulled out what looked like a dry and desiccated severed hand and dropped it at his feet. There were holy and sanctified tattoos around it, ones only the clergy had. He went back into the pouch. 

“I can do this for you.” He leaned forward and set a cigarette on my lips. “Some cold comfort between enemies.”

“Got a light?” I asked nervously. The cigarette smelled awful, and I didn’t know what horrible blasphemous acts went into making it, but its familiarity at this time was something I could focus on.

“I do,” a deep and cultured voice said. The trooper nodded as another figure walked up. This one wasn’t covered in the dull canvas of the others. His robe was black, and heavy, reaching to the ground. No mud stained it, though, even as it brushed over the churned-up dirt from the explosion. A veil covered his face, but I could partially make it out. He seemed like anyone else. I could have walked by him in the street.

“Do you got him, sir?” The hell trooper asked.

“I do, Archibald, thank you. Back to work.” The trooper saluted and slung his rifle, turning away. He stopped to pick up the hand, placing it back in one of the many pouches he had.

“Archibald was playing a small trick on you, I’m afraid,” The lieutenant said to me as he came close. He knelt down and extended his hand, flicking a lighter open. His hand was lean, I could see the tendons in it. It was also clean, a rarity in the trenches.“He only carries the cigarettes for old-time sakes. He doesn’t carry matches anymore. Once you have seen the fires of Hell itself, little things like that… they bring memories.”

I was shaking so hard that the man had trouble navigating the lighter to the cigarette on my lips. His only weapon was a knife through the sash of his cloak. The blade was wide, dark, with a wicked edge. My eyes fixed on it as the cigarette caught. 

“Am I to be tortured then? Do it, cowards. I hold to my faith.” I said as I inhaled the smoke. The tobacco was strong, and some of the pain faded before it. Why did they give it to me?

“Cowards?” the man said questioningly. “You think we are the cowards in this war?”

He brushed some dirt off what remained of the firing step and sat across from me, lacing his long, elegant fingers together. His tone wasn’t one of condescension or anger, but rather actual curiosity. 

“You serve Hell to get out of eternal punishment. You live your life in fear of God’s judgment. His love and forgiveness are available to all, and that terrifies you.”

The cigarette had more in it than I thought. My head was already swimming from the pain and concussion. I decided to antagonize the man into killing me. 

“That is what is at the heart of your armies. Cowardice and fear. You breathe in terror, your very souls stained with it. Each of my friends is worth ten of you.”

He glanced over at the pile of bodies, quickly counting them up.

“No, it seems the six of us were worth your whole squad.”

I had only counted four troopers and him. The sixth member had eluded me until that moment. She came in floating, the toes of her boots drifting inches above the soil. Her clothing of purest black covered her from the crown of her head to the toes of her boots, not an inch of skin showing. Her robe seemed to snap in non-existent winds as she descended into the crater with us.

“Helga is a great equalizer, though.” 

I had heard of the artillery witches, arcane monsters created through blasphemous science. Helga floated across the trench to the pile of bodies and stopped. The acrid scent of sulfur grew stronger than the spilled blood and bile of my brothers in arms.

“Monster,” I said unthinkingly.

“Monsters and cowards. I think I would be insulted if you were in your right mind,” the legion officer said. “My good man, you are the one in service to cowardice.”

“I serve God the most high, creator of Heaven and Earth.” The recitation of one of my enlistment vows steeled me some, and I spit the cigarette out. I could not believe I had fallen for their temptation.

“Yes, the most high Coward.” The man sighed. “I cannot blame you for not knowing. They wouldn’t teach you reality in your schools, would they?”

The casual blasphemy stunned me. I started to recite Psalm 144 but stuttered when I got to the second verse. The enemy office held up a hand, silencing me.

“He is a coward. He sits behind those adamant walls of Heaven, ringed by the entire Host Of Angels, and throws all of creation into the battlelines against us. We are courageous. We are the forces who demand He stand forth and answer for His infinite sins. Who in that scenario is the coward?”

“God is good. Rebellion against Him is rebellion against your own nature!” I said. I coughed again. The tremors made the stake through my knee wiggle, and I almost passed out again. The man snapped his fingers, pulling my attention back to him.

“May I borrow your Bible?” he asked me. I could see a faint smile behind his veil. “As you can imagine, my own is quite lost.”

I said nothing, and he reached out across me. My Bible was intact on my chest, the solid steel cover had protected it from the explosion. He pulled the clasp and I slapped at his wrist weakly. I was no threat, not between my concussion and blood loss. Still, I had to try.

He pulled the Bible from its protective case and started thumbing through it. There was no hiss of smoke, he didn’t burst into flame. To him, it was just another book like any other. My mother had paid a month’s salary to have it blessed before I left for the front, and it meant nothing to this man.

“Ahem,” he said and cleared his throat. “‘I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.’ Isaiah 45:7.” He closed the Bible and set it back on my chest. “You can see that your God even admits he does evil.”

“Torture me if you must, but spare me these blasphemies. My soul is saved, and I shall go to my reward.”

“I do not like torture. I find it distasteful. You never find anything worthwhile, so they just do it for the enjoyment of pain. That is too simple for me. If I wanted to hurt you…” He leaned forward here and placed a finger on the tip of the spear of wood through my knee.

“All I have to do is move this a fraction of an inch and you will know pain like you never experienced before. What is the point of that? No, what I do, you see, is I ask questions.”

“I shall not answer.” I steeled myself. Why would he expect me to tell him anything if he wouldn’t even torture me?

“That is what I expect. After all, God Himself hides from our rightful and just questions. The important thing is that we ask them.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers again. He seemed calm, in repose for the moment. It was like we weren’t on the front to him. He had the attitude of a schoolteacher, almost.

He opened his mouth to continue but stopped as my eyes snapped to the side. The witch floated toward us, every inch of her terrifying me. I cringed backward reflexively, eliciting more jabs of pain from my broken body. 

“Helga, please, you’re scaring the man. We’re trying to learn from each other!” he made a shooing motion with one hand, but the other fell to the knife handle through his sash. It was a familiar gesture, and even with his seemingly calm temperament, I knew that the knife was a well-used weapon.

The witch floated away silently, heading down the trench. We were the only squad deployed to this area for over two miles; she wasn’t going to find anyone. I was thankful that no one would find her, either.

“Now, my questioning is pretty simple, everyone we capture goes through it. No torture, no maiming, no attempts to get you to reject your God. As far as I am concerned, you are welcome to meet Him. But, first, I ask one question.”

“One question?” I repeated, surprised.

“Yes. A simple one, but one that burns inside me every day. Are you ready?”

I resolved to give him nothing, not even a nod. The silence stretched for a few seconds and I saw his lips quirk into a smile through his veil.

“Very well. Let me ask anyway.” He cleared his throat as he crossed one knee over the other, resting his hands on them. His manner disturbed me, this was too comfortable, too casual.

“Why did God send my daughter to Hell?”

“What?” I said, almost against my own will. The inanity of the question baffled me. Nothing about our positions, our logistics, anything military at all. Just a personal question.

“Why did God send my daughter to Hell?”

“How can I answer that?” I asked before remembering to keep silent.

“I know,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t want to ask you. I want to ask Him. But He hides from us and our reasonable questions. You are going to see Him soon, and I hope you will ask Him for me.”

“I don’t…” I said before shutting up. I shook my head, hoping the pain would help me focus.

“I was a man once, a normal one just like you,” he said, gazing off into space. I don’t think he knew if I was paying attention or not. This had the feeling of ritual about it.

“Not a soldier, though, not me. I was a cobbler. I worked in the factory, hammering on the heels of boots much like your own. I filled my quota, prayed my prayers, and paid my tithes. Life was good.

“My wife became pregnant, and the joy of it filled my soul. I would burst into song at work, hymns falling from my lisp at the rhythm of my hammer. Everyone could see it. I was so happy when the factory said I could have three days off to spend with my child when she was born.”

The man went silent here, and I looked around for something, anything that I could use to attack him. I didn’t want to hear his story. I didn’t want to think about the home front, and how good life had been before I left. I hadn’t been married, not yet. My fiance’s family were devout, with a long line of heroes and martyrs behind them. I needed to make my fortune and do a tour of duty, proving myself equal to them. 

That wasn’t going to happen now.

“Three days off the line, can you imagine the bounty? My daughter was beautiful and my wife healthy, both coming strong through the pregnancy. We named her Hope, and we loved her so much it stretched my very soul.

“Faith, hope, and love,” he said and leaned over to tap the Bible on my chest. “He even tells you here that those are the puppet strings He pulls to move you to his will.”

Anger entered his voice, the first I had heard. The wry amusement that had filled him before was absent now, and I noticed the grip he had on his knee. His already pale knuckles had turned white from the tension.

“Three days, and Hope started coughing. Little at first, adorable almost. Until the blood came with the coughs. They prayed over her, anointed her, and called for miracles that should have helped. I scrounged up money for medicine, but it didn’t work. Nothing did.

“Less than a week, and she was gone.” He slammed his fist down on his knee, hard. “You know what she couldn’t do within that week?”

“I… am sorry?” I said hesitantly. This was my enemy, a servant of Hell, but the pain of a father who lost a child was evident.

“She couldn’t accept the Gospel and find eternal life,” he continued, ignoring me. “Some priests try to sugarcoat it, but it is in His own words. ‘No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”

He stood suddenly, and I felt the menace of the man. This was a man who had not only seen the gates of Hell, he had walked forward and pledged to serve them. Heat rolled off him in waves. I flinched backward at his sudden movement, pulling the stake against my ragged bones. He didn’t notice my pain as he was caught up in his own.

“That is where my daughter is,” he said, spinning suddenly to point across the trenches. I couldn’t see it from my prone position in the shell crater, but I knew the horizon would be stained faintly red by the fires of the inferno and the industry that would support it.

“The greatest reward your God would offer me is eternal service bound to him, while my daughter, my beautiful Hope, is over there. I enlisted that day and deserted within a week. I journeyed to find her, even if it damned me. I fight to have eternity at her side because no torment the devils could devise is worse than Heaven without my Hope.”

He went silent, dropping his hands to his side. All the energy and rage left him. The man seemed exhausted. I glanced around and saw that all the troopers had stopped and were watching him. If he asked this every time they captured someone alive, they must have seen it before. They were still, almost reverent. I wondered if those in service to Hell could feel empathy.

“Why did God make me love her so much that I had to hate Him?” the man said in a whisper, almost at the edge of my hearing.

“That…” I said into the silence. My ribs ached and I had to pause to hiss a painful breath. “That is a second question, you said you only ask one.”

He looked at me through the veil, dumbfounded. I could read the shock in his pose. The veil bulged as he huffed a single breath, then another. It turned into laughter, real laughter, and he threw his head back. His laugh was warm, comforting somehow. It was a father’s laugh.

“I like you, kid. Too bad you picked the wrong side.” He waved and two troopers came forward. One stood at my feet and the other at my shoulder, and I realized they were preparing to lift me. He started to turn away, but I shouted at him.

“I don’t have an answer!” He turned back, holding out his hand in a signal to stop the two troopers. “I don’t not really. They tell us God works in mysterious ways, that He has a plan for us all.” My eyes fell to the pile of meat that was once my comrades and friends. Was this part of His plan?

“I don’t see much of a plan in this war. I don’t know if He… if He wanted to send your daughter to Hell or if it was a fluke. If this is all out of His control, what do we fight for? And if it is in His control…”

I trailed off as the implications of finishing that sentence hit me. God’s plan was set in stone from the first, and we all had to do our part. But if He was so great, why did I need to have this splinter through me? Why did devout Johanus die right beside the coward Ryan? What was the point of it all?

“I’ll ask Him.” I swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I swear it to you. It is a fair question. I cannot give you the answer, but I will ask it.”

“You know what that truly means,” he said. It wasn’t a question, for we both knew I did. “That is what we want, here on our side. That is the heresy that damns us eternally. We want to question God.”

Silence stretched between us. He turned fully back to me and drew the knife. It seemed to drink the little light the lanterns provided. It was the color of a hole cut in reality, to a darkness that wasn’t part of Creation.

“I can end this for you. I can spare you the journey to our rear, spare you the things they would do to you there. Just do one thing for me.”

“What is it?” I asked, though I already knew what he wanted.

“When you find Hope, please tell her Daddy is coming?” He leaned forward the edge of the knife against my throat.

I nodded and he sliced. I didn’t even feel it as I faded away, permanently this time.

The hell priest leaned back, sheathing his knife. The blood pumped from the young soldier's throat, but none stained that blade. He looked at the corpse for a second before turning away. The two troopers fell upon it and started looting. Another approached him, saluting.

“I just got to say, sir, I love when you do that.” The hell priest nodded and the trooper dropped his salute. 

“It is getting almost too easy. One little sob story and they renounce their faith and are ready to question God on the spot.” The hell priest sighed. “Well, he is in for a rather rude surprise.”

Helga floated up beside him, cocking her head slightly. The hell priest shook his head. 

“You’re right, I might need to fashion a new ruse. How does a beautiful young wife, stolen by heretic raiders sound?”