The Iron Forest

The Iron Forest

By Peter "Thurgood Jenkins" O'Dwyer


Have you ever seen a forest? Of course you have. So you know that if you listen, the trees whisper beautiful things amongst each other. Tales of timeless natural wonders, of weathering the elements and growing ever taller all the same.
When my squad was advancing towards the enemy only minutes ago (or was it days?), we came across a grove of trees like no other. They were tall and handsome, and were not shy at all. Most woods get very silent with men approach, but these trees had no shame. The wind ceased to whistle through the branches only very briefly before unabashedly resuming its conversation once more.
It was soothing and frightening at the same time, they had a sacredness about them that told us we were unworthy of them. They were proud and regal, and not without reason. Chocolate-colored trunks with leaves a shade of green that was rich as it was bright.

It was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen.

Even though we were on the front, and expecting to find the Germans at any time, my entire squad stopped and we spent untold minutes admiring the trees. Even jaded Sergeant Wilson, veteran of innumerable battles, could not look away, and his jaw dropped as far as it could go down, hot steamy air bellowing from his mouth. For those among us who were virgin to bloodshed, the scene inspired us, and for those who had seen the gates of hell screech open, it purified us.
Corporal Lewis fell to his knees, a map tumbling out of his hands.
“This isn’t marked here.” He uttered reverently.
“What?” asked Sergeant Wilson, not paying attention.
“The map! It’s not on the map!”
“What?” asked Sergeant Wilson. This time Lewis did not answer, he merely continued to look on, his train of thought derailed by the scene before him.
“It’s a winter Garden of Eden…” I whispered. Lewis nodded.
“Let’s go and take a look.” He suggested, and we entered the grove.

It was like stepping into a temple made out of a forest. The perfect evergreens formed a ceiling, shielding us from the snow, and we strode between them in awe. It was almost as if some intelligent being had designed the place, every bush and tree seemed to have a purpose to it, like they were consciously placed for maximum aesthetic and spiritual impact. Even the snow seemed to be flawless, its personality changed the instant we entered the grove. It went from bitter slush into an amiable powdery form, generously offering an almost unnatural traction. The air itself also altered its mood. We could still feel the cold, but it did not bother us in the slightest anymore, despite our chronic lack of warm clothing. The air seemed cool if anything else.
All of our excited whispering revolved around one subject; that we had stepped from Armageddon into Paradise…

……………

But something terrible happened

I don’t remember anything else after reaching that wonderful forest. I don’t think I remember my name. All I know is that Wilson, Lewis, and the others are dead, and I have a German bullet in my thigh. I’ve lost a lot of blood. A makeshift tourniquet keeps my blood inside me, but not well enough. You know how those arteries are: it gets the blood where it’s going fast enough, but there is a potentially lethal toll for this highway: God forbid anything should puncture it. Even with the tourniquet I’m leaking badly.
Everyone asks how, why, and when they will die. But does anyone really care where they die? It seems like a moot point at first, after all, it’s not like one will be staying there for long. But when you think about it, it may be an ignored question, but it's a critical one. Where you die has many implications. What will be the last thing I see? Will they find my body? Will it be wet and miserable? Or will it be quiet and peaceful? Location can affect one’s mindset considerably, and your state of mind as you pass on is important. I am keeping all of these factors in mind, because basically at this point, it is time for me to decide where I shall die.
Lying down and perishing alongside the bodies of my comrades has a very tempting allure, but I cannot remember where their corpses lie, so that option is gone. A local ditch is making quite the bid, offering a warmth and dryness “Unmatched in all of the Hurtgen Forest.”
No thank you Mr. Ditch. I am certain you would make a fine grave, But there is something inside me that tells me this is not the place. I must get going though, I have a time limit.

Wait, what was I talking about before? Dammit! Hold on…I've got it...the forest,! Yes of course! Oh if I could die amongst those trees! But where, where could they be?
I begin to limp about in circles trying to retrace my steps, but I can’t remember where I have been before I came here, or exactly where the Forest is. I am absolutely certain it exists, it mustn’t just be a the product of a blood-starved brain, it mustn’t!
As I muck about, I see a little green sprout defiantly poking through the ocean of snow. Aha! Any plant with that kind of balls is sure to know where my objective lies. I begin to hobble towards the Sprout.
“Excuse me Mr. Sprout,” I ask dizzily, my voice hopelessly slurred. “I’m lost and I need some directions..”
“Oh Dear. Where do you need to go?” Mr. Sprout asks. I point off into the distance.
“The trees, you must know them.”
“You mean my parents? Of course I know them! After all, it will soon be time for me to replace them. Do you think I will be as tall as they are?”
“Yes, sure, whatever.” I mutter. I would love to talk, but I do happen to be bleeding out at the moment. “About those tr-”
“I should like to have many birds live on my branches, and maybe I will leave a hollow in my trunk just for them! What do you think?”
“That sounds fantastic. Now, wher-” I raise my hand again but once more I am cut off.
“What about my roots? Shall I make a place for small animals as well, or is that going a little overboard?” Interrupts Mr. Sprout once more.
This time I lose my patience. And I grab Mr. Sprout by the stem.
“I would love to stay and chat, but I really need to get to the grove ,RIGHT @#$%ING NOW,!” I say.
“Oh. Over that hill and across the stream.” Says Mr. Sprout meekly. I release him and bow my head in contrition.
“Sorry about that Mr. Sprout, but I do not have long to live.” Mr. Sprout nods in understanding.
“Have no fear good man, for is it not true that the seed must die in order to give birth to the sprout? You have all the time in the world.” I give Mr. Sprout a salute, and begin to drag myself towards the hill.
“May your roots grow deep and strong, and your branches tall and proud!” wishes Mr. Sprout.
“…uh, thanks” I say. What a silly plant.

Mr. Sprout called it a hill, but is was more like a cliff. The ascent is steep, and I’m out of breath after only a few feet of scampering. In some places I have to climb on all fours. More than once, I slide backwards.
The entire time, my addled mind ponders the worth of my final mission. Even when I try to occupy myself with different thoughts, those wonderful trees push them aside rudely and demand my attention.
It’s not just the beauty that keeps it firmly in my mind, it’s the resilience. It withstood my memory loss, and it withstands my doubt. It’s tough as Iron. The Iron Forest.
But maybe my unwavering devotion is misplaced? I mean, I’m slogging up a hill towards a grove of magic trees because an over-talkative plant told me so.
No, he didn’t tell me it was there, he told me where it was. I know it is there, I KNOW it. I don’t think I know anything else, and if it isn’t real…God! Better to be a madman with a purpose than to just sit around and wait to the end. I will die in that winter paradise, one way, or another.
I suppose that is what faith is like. Why am I so certain? Perhaps I knew where it was all along, and it was all a conversation within my own mind. All I know is that I needed direction, and I got it.

At last, at last, I hoist myself over one final little lump of snow and I’ve reached the summit. I sit down, exhausted. Despite my altitude, I can’t see those trees. I slam my fist against the ground.
But once against, that almost absurd faith reappears. Besides, I wager that if the Iron Forest is not there, it’s not like I would find out that they were never real in the first place. The question now is: will I ever find it?
I know that I may not have enough time left to make a proper descent, and so if I truly mean to reach the bottom and complete this leg of my quest, I must slide down. But this side of the hill is just as steep as the one I just climbed up. Perfect, another gamble. Live out the rest of my time in moderate comfort here, or make a tumble down a perilous slope, risking agonizing injuries.
And why should I leave the top of the hill? The view is beautiful, and this is the best spot to die I've seen yet. Maybe I will just stay here, and forsake the possibility of a greater but less tangible paradise. But I’ve already paid for half of the ticket, so I might as well see the show.
With that in mind, I fling my dying body over the side of the hill. I hit the slope hard, and then the slide begins.
Snow flies into my face, and I begin to spin. My stomach drops inside my belly as I hurtle down the hill. I grip my helmet with one hand and keep the pressure on my tourniquet with the other. God forbid I should lose it! My speed builds, and I smash through snow bank after snow bank, over and over and over and over…
Then comes one final heart-stopping bounce and I plunge into a deep pile of snow.
For long seconds the world swirls about like a kaleidoscope. Finally the dancing sparks inside my head politely take their leave and I can hear the splashing of moving water nearby. Just like Mr. Sprout said there would be. I feel vindicated, and approach the bank of the stream.
But this is going to be harder than it looks. The water has not frozen, probably because of its motion, but there are notes of ice in the stream, and it is several feet deep. Wading through is simply not acceptable, as I can’t afford to get any colder.
As I begin to despair, I spot some rocks sitting in the water. They are slippery, but I might have a chance of keeping dry by hopping across them. Just the excuse I was looking for to make an insane crossing of possibly fatally cold water.
Alright, let’s do this. I lift my foot gingerly and prepare to take the first step. Dammit, it's shaking violently. Dammit!. But even if I turn back, I've already sacrificed my second choice on top of the hill. So I bring my heel down and I plant my foot on the first rock.

I slip off immediately.

I should have known. I close my eyes and groan inwardly as I topple into the frigid water. The pain is so intense that every ounce of air in my lungs rushes out noiselessly. Searing. I had no idea that coldness could sear. My body is immobilized with pain, my nerves completely intimidated by the relentless chill and I begin slip under the water…
NO! I will not die here, not when I am so close! This thought seizes control of my body and my cold-shocked limbs begin to thrash about, first aimlessly, then as I regain control of myself they start to move rationally and I flop onto the shore.
If anything could be worse than falling into freezing water, exiting it is most definitely a contender. The cold air touches my soaked clothes and drains them of any remaining body heat.
Getting wet in subzero weather is a death sentence. My wound is probably not going to be my killer at this point. I will be dead of Hypothermia probably within the next half hour, if that. I have very little time. In the name of speed, and adding a few precious seconds to my ever-dwindling lifespan, I’m going to have to sprint the rest of the way.

Make no mistake, my “sprint” at this point is nothing more than a frantic and determined limp. I fall every few feet, and I know that each time I collapse I may never get back up again. The icy air stings my lungs, and my injured respiratory system begins to mass-produce phlegm. Within merest seconds, I’m wheezing like an emphysemiac, drool dribbling from my mouth and nose. I ignore it as best as I can and keep clawing forward.
When the sensation of freezing to death leaves me, I am filled with joy and terror. I can move faster without being dragged down by my protesting members, but I know in my heart that I have entered Stage Three Hypothermia. Fatal within minutes. I begin to wobble forth more desperately.
The sound cuts out first. I can’t hear my feet clumsily smack the ground as I make my race against death. I begin to slow down. My vision is beginning to go too, things have lost their color and are getting blurry.
Just as I begin to faint, I see something in the distance. Something proud and regal. My heart beats faster, and I find somewhere the strength to get back up again. I start to run, actuallyrun, with more speed than humanly possible…

……….


...They found him a few days later, in the middle of a field that looked like the surface of the moon. He was curled up in one of the seemingly infinite shell craters that blemished the area. They would have felt sorry for him, as he was drenched in his own blood and frozen almost solid. But they didn’t.
There was something about his expression that was soothing and frightening at the same time, something that simply could not be explained by hypothermia-induced euphoria. His face was stretched into an impossibly big smile, and his dead eyes glittered. It was like he died staring into…into…

…Heaven…