Not This Tide
by Eric Neher
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The electrified gas began to break through the unconscious sanctuary. The green meadow that had once been his home began to fade, retracting, leaving the desolate remains of a horrific reality in its place. Lieutenant Roger Stripling lay motionless, refusing to open his eyes, clinging to the fantasy like a buoy for lost souls.
A moment of terror seized him as he realized that he had lost his rifle, leaving him helpless. Did this matter? The gas engulfing him would kill him long before the enemy could. Quickly, he opened his eyes and shut them. There was no pain.
He again fluttered his eyes and felt only cool air. He gambled on a deep breath, filling his lungs only to feel a sudden calm. Oh, Father, what have we done? he thought.
The old man would no doubt be sitting by the fireplace in the overly stocked library with Lieutenant Stripling’s mother, waiting for news of his ambitious son. A son who, by all rights, shouldn’t be here. A father who, within the deepest crevice of his cold heart, knew that he was mostly to blame for his son’s successful enlistment. Stripling could picture the old man’s face and the eerily stoic expression it contained. No concern or worry would dare trespass upon that terrain; all emotion was off-limits.
A sudden clarity struck like the hoof of a stallion gone mad: this entire situation was vicarious. His father was too old to earn his military laurels, and his son could never hope to accomplish the world-renowned popularity that the old man received. Did these fixations warrant possible disaster?
As time passed, the reality of the dreadful possibility became difficult to avoid. The numbers continued to rise. So many lost for so little gained. Did they die for paternal honor? Did they lie rotting between the lines to make their fathers proud? Or perhaps it was the lure of personal glory. Maybe it was both; two motives melded into one that lingered like a virus, waiting patiently for moments to flare.
All these thoughts were cut short by the blare of a horn, causing Lieutenant Stripling’s eyes to slam open. A canopy of darkness hung in place, a blackness revealing no stellar light. The blowing sound of the trumpet lingered for a moment and then was gone, leaving complete silence. Where was the shelling? Where was the sound of free-spirited blind bullets?
He slowly lifted his head, looked from left to right, and lowered himself. He raised his head again and then held, allowing himself a more prolonged gaze. There was nothing; it was as if the empty sky had swallowed the world. Reaching around, he located his Lee Enfield rifle. He rose to his knees, slipping the strap over his shoulder.
The night was absolute, revealing no horizon. After a moment of struggle, he freed his torchlight. The narrow beam from the small fishbowl lens shot out for a few feet and died within a rolling wall of shadow. A thin mist swept the ground, drifting over his leather riders like a stream. An urge to cry out gripped him, followed by an onslaught of panic. He placed his hand over his mouth before the sound could escape.
The distance between the lines was only a hundred yards, or at least it had been when the whistle had blown. It had been 7:00 a.m. with the sun just beginning to clear the eastern line. How long had he lain there? And what had happened? He remembered climbing the wall, Sergeant Harris collapsing to his right, and the screams. The ground had been slush littered with barbed-wire barriers protruding from pools of ice-cold water. But now his uniform was dry, the air was warm, and the screams were gone.
He would have to find his way back to the trench, but the direction was impossible to determine. He slowly rose to his feet, cocking his head and listening, hoping for any sound, be it distant gunfire or German voices. Anything that might act as a gauge, but the silence was overwhelming.
He thought back to the horn. Had that been real? Or was it a hangover from some horrific dream? He couldn’t be sure. The truth was it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he would have to move. He couldn’t stand out here alone and unprotected. Lieutenant Stripling slowly turned in place, allowing the light to reflect off a rolling void.
Stripling was familiar with fear; it had become a part of his soul, integrating his very being since arriving at the front, introducing itself as a new reality. And yet this was something new. An alien terror gripped his spine, wrenching it to the point of pain.
A sudden scream, inhuman and guttural, broke through the darkness. The Lieutenant spun around, gripping his rifle, his breath coming in heaves. He would have to move, find a shrub or a hole in the ground, anywhere but here. He again turned in place, hoping for a gauge, anything that might offer direction. Another scream produced hooks down his spine.
What was that?
Growing up, he had spent plenty of time walking along the shoreline of the channel, camping near the forest line of Pernell’s valley. He had heard the cry of solitary Right whales and the choir of gray wolves; their silhouettes lined like statues along the ridge of Greene’s hill. All of these produced a mild fear, but nothing like this. They were natural, expected and hoped for. This terrorizing cry now ripping through the darkness was anything but natural; it contained a tortured pitch, anguished and hungry.
The sound came from behind Stripling, which helped him decide which way to go. He offered a silent prayer and began to move forward, aiming his light at the ground a few feet ahead. The rippling cover continued, drifting over the hidden terrain.
He had only managed to go fifteen feet before his beam caught a shadowy form rising from the blanketed ground. Stripling made his way over and knelt. A hand breached the mist, bloody and curled. Dangling between the fingers was a leather strap. Stripling pulled it free and saw that it was an I.D. plate. He shined the light and read:
Thomas B.
324534
P
(R S)
The young man was from another unit, most likely a late attachment for the assault. How many men lie scattered under this fog? A hundred? A thousand? The only proof of their snuffed-out hopes and wasted dreams lay pressed on plates tied around breathless remnants of what might have been.
Stripling placed the chord back on the dead man’s wrist, remembering that he had lost his. It was the last letter he had sent to his father before the battle began, pleading with him to purchase a replacement set. Of course, the old man would. It was the least he could do for a son marching to coveted glory.
A movement sent a shock wave through Stripling. One finger from the dead man uncurled like a warming serpent coming to life, pointing off into the black. Another chilling howl burst through the darkness.
Stripling stepped away, his eyes darting from left to right. That scream was close, maybe only fifty yards away, though it was impossible to tell on this hellish night. A sudden orange flicker ignited in front of him, and he noticed it was in the direction the finger was pointing.
A scuffle broke out behind him like the heavy footfalls of some wild animal catching his scent. Why would he think such a thing? Could it not be soldiers searching the field for survivors? They would head for the fire if so, but his racing heart disagreed.
Stripling made for the flickering light, tripping and stumbling occasionally on shallow craters and hidden limbs of the fallen. The air had grown heavy, and the smell of rot was like a stagnant swamp. An occasional breeze managed to slice through the emptiness, but it was foul and offered little relief. He continued, pausing to listen, hoping that whatever was following had lost interest or had moved on to someone else.
This thought brought with it a moment of guilt: the body of Thomas P. lay within the path of the hunter. Would it satiate itself on his fallen comrade? What an insane thing to ponder. There was no beast, no monster tracking. Stripling was in shock and was most likely suffering from some injury inflicted by the concussion of a shell, or perhaps he had been struck by a bullet. But where was the wound? Where was the pain? Oh, Father, what have we done?
The flame grew, becoming brighter with each step he took. Distance and time were lost, becoming imaginary, an irrelevant gauge in a dark world. Stripling turned his beam, catching a glimpse of hovering crimson disks. They blinked once and were gone. It was still there, this beast of unknown origin. Following him. But that felt wrong. If he was being hunted, then why was the thing waiting? An idea formed, but he wasn’t sure if he could muster the courage to try. Stripling stopped and lowered the torchlight, closing his eyes.
A wretched sound burst like a siren, jarring inside his head. All courage evaporated, and Stripling began to run, his beam bouncing in the darkness, his breath like a furnace. His mind raced with a certain clarity fueled by panic. The beast wasn’t hunting him; it was herding him. From behind, he could hear the steady footfalls of the pursuer, its heavy steps impacting the hidden ground, but they grew no closer as if content with merely pacing the terrified man, matching him step for step.
Stripling was lost in a nightmare, fleeing from an unknown into an unknown. Suddenly, he emerged from the darkness and found himself a few feet from a campfire, and he wasn’t alone. A group of men were staring into the flame, some standing and some sitting. All wore uniforms, and Stripling noticed a few were regaled in the Bavarian tunic. He approached cautiously, lifting his rifle. They didn’t seem to see him, or they didn’t care.
“You can lower that, sport,” said one of the men from across the fire. “They don’t work.”
Stripling moved closer, allowing the barrel to drop. “What’s happening here?” he said.
“That is the question,” said the man, approaching Stripling. “You seem to be late to the party.”
“What unit are you from?” said Stripling.
“The Royal Irish Rifles. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I was a captain.”
Stripling glanced at the man’s collar and saw that all rank was missing. The man smiled and then pointed at Stripling’s coat. The emblems on his shoulder were gone. He looked around at the men and saw it was the same for them all.
“How is this happening?” Stripling said, finally.
“We’ve been wondering the same thing.”
“I was chased here,” said Stripling, “by something.”
“We all were,” said the man. “By the way, my name is James Denton. You can leave out the ‘captain’; I don’t think it matters anymore.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a hunch, lad,” said Denton. “And your name?”
“Lieutenant Roger Stripling.”
“Well, Stripling, welcome to whatever this is.”
Denton turned and led the Lieutenant to the dancing flame.
“Strange thing about this fire,” said Denton. “I’ve been here for a while, and it hasn’t changed. The logs haven’t burned out, and the heat stays even, not too hot or cold. It just is.”
“I don’t understand,” said Stripling.
“I don’t either. None of us do.”
“Perhaps you should tell him what we do know,” said one of the Germans.
Stripling glanced over at him with surprise. “Your English is good,” he said.
“I don’t speak English,” the German said.
“That’s one thing we know,” said Denton. “We all understand each other, but we don’t know how. Are we speaking German, or are they speaking English? Or maybe we’re not speaking at all.”
“How is that possible?” said Stripling.
“How, indeed?” said Denton. “Another thing our German friend discovered is that we all are missing our I.D. tags.”
“I left mine at our base,” said Stripling.
“How unfortunate,” said the German. “At least yours is accounted for. I couldn’t tell you what happened to mine.”
“Nor could I,” said Denton. “Which is strange. Another odd thing is that none of us can remember what happened. What do you remember?”
Copyright © 2025 by Eric Neher
