No Man’s Land

The shells had been falling for three hours when Private Mills discovered that terror, like everything else in the war, eventually became routine. A disappointing development, really, since routine terror was considerably less exciting than the fresh variety and equally fatal.

"They're getting closer," observed Sergeant Davies with professional calm. The next explosion confirmed his assessment.

Davies adjusted his position with the casual efficiency of a man who'd been dodging high explosives for eighteen months. Mills, at six weeks in France, was still operating on raw nerves and maternal correspondence about neighborhood cats - amateur form, really, though enthusiasm counted for something.

"Here they come," Davies announced, as if calling the start of a particularly violent sporting match.

The flamethrowers advanced across no man's land like mechanical dragons with excellent timing and poor manners. Mills had always imagined fire as orange and cheerful - campfire fire, birthday candle fire. This fire burned with professional malice and the sort of thorough competence that left no room for survivors.

"Masks," Davies commanded, his voice already muffled by gas protection that made him resemble a militaristic insect.

Mills fumbled with his equipment, hands shaking from concussive shell-shock rather than fear - he'd graduated beyond fear into that crystalline calm that accompanies accepting one's immediate conversion to charcoal. The mask sealed with a soft hiss, transforming the battlefield into something viewed through dirty spectacles while breathing recycled panic.

The liquid fire swept methodically closer: sandbags incinerated, supply wagons vaporized, various unidentifiable objects transformed into brief, bright memories.

"Well," said Davies, voice barely audible through mask and mayhem, "this promises to be either spectacularly dramatic or disappointingly brief."

Mills gripped his rifle with the desperate intensity of a man clutching good luck charms, though rifles were notably ineffective against liquid fire and good luck had been in short supply since 1914.

The flames reached their trench with a sound like judgment day clearing its throat.

"Gentlemen," Davies announced with dinner-party courtesy, "it's been educational."