Mud. That’s all the war was. Least, that’s all Henri Deboue remembered. Bloodsoaked and beaten by boots and bullets, mud was always there. Didn’t matter what side you were on. You woke up to mud, you fought in mud, and, if you could, you slept in mud. The mud was hungry, too. One by one it gathered the bodies of the dead, letting them lay upon it before slowly burying them. And there you stood, feet prone in it, wondering when you’ll get added to the collection. Mud almost took Henry. Almost.
The date was November 18th, 1918. A week earlier the war to end all wars came to a close. France was celebrating, and Paris happier than it had been in decades. Bars and restaurants were filled with merry people. Henri looked through the distorted lens of the bottom of his whiskey glass. The glass was empty, of course. Why was the damn glass always empty? Henri signed before looking up from his seat at the bar to eye the bartender, who was sharing a great deal of laughter with some young men across the bar. Henri shouted at him to get his attention. The chatting ceased, and the bartender hastily came over to Henri.
“How may I help you?” he asked politely.
Henri lifted up his empty glass. “I’ll get another glass.”
“Monsieur,” the bartender said, shifting uncomfortably, “you’ve been here for many hours; I can’t let you drink yourself to hell.”
Henri was angry, and prepared to protest. But anger took energy, energy he’d lost a long time ago. “Fine, I’ll take my leave”, he said, slowly pulling himself off the stool. Adorning himself with his overcoat, Henri walked to the door, opening it. “Enjoy your night, Monsieur,” shouted the bartender.
Henri simply huffed and slammed the door behind him, then began his walk home. How could people be joyous in these times? There was nothing to be joyous about. The dead were still dead, and by god there were so many dead. In the bar, Henri watched others sharing stories from the war and showing off the patches, badges, and medals that were on their coats. Henri remembered the ceremony where he received his own commendations. They called him “brave” and “heroic.” He didn’t feel like what they called him. He felt like mud.
Henri reached the door to his apartment. He went inside, hung up his coat, then went to pour himself a drink. Opening a half-empty bottle of bourbon, he poured himself a shot. He took a moment to simply stare at the amber liquid in the glass. When Henri was on the front, a bottle of spirits was something opened at holiday to commemorate the occasion. Now, it was a necessity. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank, feeling the burn of the drink as it travelled down his throat. Henri still wasn’t entirely sure why he drank. Maybe it was an attempt to stupefy himself into forgetting the miseries that hounded him, maybe he just did it out of boredom. Whatever the reason, he’d drunk enough and realized he was very tired. Henri entered the small bedroom of his flat, changing into night-wear. Beside his bed was a sad little altar of Jesus Christ. When he was younger, praying at an altar was always done after waking up and before going to sleep. The war left his faith buried under a thick layer of mud. The altar now sat alone, neglected. Henri got into bed, shut his eyes, and blocked out his thoughts for as long as he could.
“What’re our plans from here, sir?” asked Marchel. Sergeant Henri Dubois and his battalion of fifty men had been sent on a mission seize a town recently taken by the Germans. If they succeeded, it would be an extremely strategic location that could help the French win. Having travelled for a day, Henri and his men took to an abandoned church to rest.
“In the morning we’ll advance through the woodlands. Hopefully there we’ll be the least susceptible to German patrols spotting us. We’re likely just behind German lines now, we need to be as cautious as possible.”
Marchel sat contemplating for a moment, then spoke. “The men and I were wondering if-”
An artillery shell burst through the roof of the church, killing four men. The church became a sea of confused, shouting soldiers. The Germans had found their battalion. “Everyone find cover and prepare yourselves, we’ve been ambushed!” Henri bellowed to his comrades. No sooner than he said this, gunshots from the outside began shattering through the windows and the walls. Henri’s group managed to fight them off for a short time, but they stood no chance. One by one his men were shot down, their howls accompanying gunfire in a chorus of death. “Sergeant! Please!” Henri heard from Marchel. He raised his rifle to dispatch the soldier about to shoot Marchel. Suddenly, pain ripped through Henri’s leg; he’d been shot. Marchel screamed, then went quiet. He was dead. All of Henri’s men were dead. Two German soldiers picked Henri up.
“What was your mission!” one of them shouted in a thick accent.
Henri glanced at his surroundings. “I’ll die before I tell you anything.”
They threw Henri back into a pile of rubble. Speaking in German, they quickly discussed something. He hoped they’d just shoot him there, but he knew he was likely going to be tortured for information. However, neither of these came. The soldiers finished talking, looked at Henri and smiled, then walked out. He was left in silence. Henri looked around at the church. The bodies of his men were strewn about in all matters of pitiful positions. Three more artillery shells pounded the roof, and it collapsed. The roof fell to the floor, nearly crushing Henri. Crawling through the remains of the church, he managed to escape. However, exhaustion and shock eventually caught up with him. He passed out.
Henri gasped and sat up in bed. It’d been two years since that day. They later told him how he was still alive. How a French patrol managed to spot Henri’s body while on a mission. How it was a miracle he survived. Miracle. Miracle? Henri wished they’d let him die. Would’ve saved him from his life now.
He got up out of bed, heading towards the kitchen. He normally didn’t drink in the mornings, but he felt it necessary today. The bottle of bourbon was on the counter, still open from last night. Henri grabbed the bottle, taking a long sip from it. It burned his throat. Why’d he choose a church that night? That was asking for his men to die. Henri took another swig. His fault, he thought. His fault. He killed them, his friends, his family, his soldiers. He killed himself. Another swig. God must be cruel, letting men die like that in his building. Another swig. Not God’s fault, just Henri’s. Poor Marchel, just 19 years old. Poor Jacques, just 20. William, 19. Perry, 21. Alfred, 18. Boys, not men. Another swig. Henri’s thoughts were slurred. Church, gunshots, scream, church, gunshots, scream, church, gunshots, scream. Death. Henri looked at the bottle. The liquid inside was mud. Furious, he threw it towards the wall. It smashed into pieces. Standing next to it was Marchel.
“Stop torturing yourself, Sergeant," he said, speaking soft and calm.
Tears began to roll down Henri’s face. “I’m so sorry Marchel. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, monsieur,” Marchel replied, “No one blames you. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my fault!” Henri shouted, his sadness turning into anger, “I chose to stay in the church! I’m the reason you’re dead!”
Marchel remained standing in the doorway. “You were only doing what you thought was best. You have to move on.”
“Please, Marchel, tell me how,” Henri pled, gazing at him.
“Find us, Sergeant. Bring us back to our families.”
Henri looked up at him. “I will Marchel. I promise I’ll bring you home.”
Marchel smiled slightly. “Good. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Henri blinked, and Marchel disappeared. Hastily, he went back to his room and changed into regular clothing. He grabbed his coat and walked out onto the street. It was time to meet with the French post war committee.
Henri sat back in the seat of a car, just outside of Verdun, heading along an old road. Excavation of the church had just begun. As the car pulled to the location, memories began hitting Henri. However, he was able to keep them quiet.
Henri found the the identification disk and read it, allowing it to warm in his hand. It was Jacob Gante, who always kept morale high with his trumpet playing. Over the next two weeks, Henri stayed with the recovery team. The bodies of every one of his men were found and buried. The mud was gone.