The Sweetness of Hell

Mid-Afternoon, April 3rd, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
The shells--like rain they fall: steadily, vigorously, with great splashes of dirt and blood upon their impact. Never-ending is the torrent of metal flung between the trenches; those noxious metal canisters that release Lucifer’s breath; those that explode, tearing His nails through the air and meeting with flesh. All day yesterday and through the night the downpour continued as it does even now. I hope not to die in this pre-dug grave.

Mid-Afternoon, April 3rd, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
The sound--like a banshee writhing in agony, it splits my head and drives the memories of blithe days past, deeper into the darkness. Day after day the enemy is shelled, their screams drifting over the lake of smog that has settled between us. We gas them, they die; we shell them, they die; we shoot and shoot, and they die. When is it our turn? When do we taste the sweetness of death; rest, in a trench-less hell?

Late-Evening, April 4th, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
The shelling has stopped, the air once shrill with whines and whistles, now an eerie calm. Dim shouts float in and out of the fog, carrying orders too distorted to hear. I, as Captain, have informed the men they will go over-the-top to-morrow, following a shell barrage of our own upon the enemy. We are to gas them in the night. I suspect they do not possess the correct equipment to deal with this blend. We are executioners; killing husbands and fathers; sons and brothers in their sleep whilst they dream of loves they shall never see again.

Late-Evening, April 4th, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
We are to sleep with our masks on to-night. As my Commander expects a gas attack. We will be safe though. Interesting, to feel safe when The Devil is your neighbor.

Early-Morning, April 5th, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
A thick smog has settled in the enemy’s trench, as it seeps down into the hole we hear screams. No mask can filter this gas, it burns and sears the lungs and throat, turns skin to bleeding pockets of pus and slowly chokes its prey. They will all die. Where will their souls go? Are these righteous men? Or will they join us in Hell? For certainly that is where we will rest, having done Satan’s work for him. Surely there is a tenth circle for our kind……at least it will be warm.

Early-Morning, April 5th, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
I will die today. Oh God don’t send me to the lake of fire! I can feel it in my lungs already…… anyone who says death is painless, is a liar. It hurts. My mask didn’t help, blood has clogged its filter, it lies on the ground below me, panes shattered, gas floating in and around the empty eye sockets. That is what The Devil looks like. I don’t want to see it anymore. Don’t make me go there God! Please! It hurts.

Mid-Day, April 5th, 1916: Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.
Gas doesn’t kill; it envelops. Those whom it claims become part of it. As I gaze out over our conquered enemy, the remaining wisps of noxious mustard cling to barbed wire. They hold the souls of the dead. I can see them, still wearing their masks, guns slung over shoulders or resting on the ground, they cry and weep in horror at our fate. Then the wind picks up from the west and blows them up to heaven, leaving the living in the bitterness of victory, in this sweet hell we call war.