By Rapscallion 01/06/2003
“What do you think you’ll be doing when this is all over?”
Schmidt looked up from his rations and frowned. He’d heard the same conversation repeated countless times. It always ended the same way.
”It’s never going to be over until the French are all dead,” he said.
“Don’t you want to go back to see your opera?” The soldiers in the trench began to laugh. Opera was for officers, not frontline soldiers.
“If all you want from life is Elken Schnokret’s latest song show, then fine. Please do not complain if I like something more cultural.”
“I want Elken herself,” someone said, and the others began to laugh appreciatively. “That said, she doesn’t have the impressive figures of the girls you like. Like them big, eh?”
“They have large lungs,” Schmidt said, keeping his eyes on his tin. It always ended the same way.
“They have to be big to hold out their…”
The rest of the comment was lost in the noise of the air-raid siren. Maybe it would end differently, Schmidt mused as he scrambled for his gun. He wouldn’t have to have a fist fight with one of the morons. He just had to hunker down and survive.
The gathered in the edges of the trenches. The routine was well established. The anti-aircraft would fire hundreds of shells into the air. The planes would strafe the trenches with hundred of shells. A few plans would fall from the sky. A few men would be buried. If you were able to bury someone then you were lucky.
“That doesn’t sound like a plane,” someone said.
Schmidt cocked his head to one side and listened. He was right. The French fighters rarely made a sound before the first strafing run was over, but this was too soon after the siren had sounded. The screaming noise was different as well – not the receding purr of a fighter pulling away from the ground, but a continuous roar.
Schmidt risked putting his head over the edge of the trench. Something fast and sleek prowled the sky, ignoring the puffs of flak that burst well behind it.
“A new sort of plane,” he shouted out. “It’s faster and…”
The ground burst from under his feet. Dirt sprayed into the air and splattered down onto his face.
Schmidt stood up. “Missed me,” he muttered and grinned at the other soldiers.
Many lay in unnatural positions in the mud. Others were spread over several locations. Red stained large areas of the trench.
“Hans? Are you all right Hans?” Schmidt asked, bending down to shake the man’s shoulder. His hand went through Hans’ body and Schmidt fell away. “Hans?”
“Ja?”
Schmidt turned to see the soldier standing next to him. “What the…”
Hans pointed around. Other soldiers were standing up above their bodies. “The bastard didn’t miss,” he said. “We’re all dead.”
Hans sat down on a packing crate and sank through the top. He waved his arms and staggered around until he regained his footing. “But…” he protested, and then fell silent.
Shafts of light burst through the clouds above. The remains of the men stared around.
“No shadows,” Hans breathed. “The light is making no shadows.”
“You’re right,” Schmidt said. “But…”
A figure emerged from the closest beam of light, a breathtakingly beautiful woman in armour, riding a massive horse. The woman peered around at the ghosts and smiled.
“Who are you?” Hans demanded.
“Valkyries,” Schmidt breathed. “They’re here to bear us to Valhalla – the warrior’s afterlife.”
“You are correct,” the closest valkyrie said. “I am pleased that some mortals remember.”
“But that is a legend from foreign lands,” Hans protested. “The Norse believed in you, not us. The priests told us that we would be raised up to heaven if we lived pure lives.”
“Who said that they were right?” the valkyrie asked. She smiled, and Schmidt could see the death of thousands in her expression. “We have many to attend to, so if we can proceed?”
“Will there be feasting?” Hans asked.
“Feasting, wenching, mead and singing,” the valkyrie said, ticking the items off on her hand. “Oh, and more fighting, you’ll be pleased to hear. Right, you’re with me first,” she added, pointing at Schmidt.
The first batch of souls mounted behind the valkyries, unable to resist the summons. Schmidt clasped his hands around the warrior maiden’s waist.
“Right, girls, you know the words,” the valkyrie shouted at the horses sprang into the air. “One, two, a-one, two, three four…”
“This is RTS Four, this is RTS Four…” the valkyries sang in a perfect chorus.
Schmidt smiled. He was going to heaven.