The pungent smell of smoke hung in the air. The ringing in Charlie’s ears drowned out the groans of the dying scattered around him. He moved his hand and felt the cold mud his limp body was caving into.
“Is my uniform wet from the mud or blood?” Charlie wondered to himself. “Am I dead or alive?” A small pained sound escaped his lips as he forced himself to sit upright.
The battle was still raging around him as he dragged himself over to a fellow soldier. It was evident the young man was dying. There was no way to get him to a medical station before it was too late. Perhaps Charlie was dying, too. All Charlie could do was cradle the man’s head while he slowly departed from the chaos of this world. Charlie didn’t know the man well, but he was still unable to leave him to transfer over to the next world alone. The man reminded Charlie of his kid brother, Hank, who had also been deployed in France. Charlie wondered where Hank’s division was — maybe further down the line. The Western Front stretched down through the French countryside into Belgium. Charlie would have liked to visit this land for other circumstances other than the untimely death of an archduke.
Charlie was raised Catholic, but seeing all of this destruction and senseless death made him wonder where God was. He mumbled a prayer quietly for the man’s soul, and for his own soul, and for everyone tied to this “Great War”— Charlie’s mother would be proud of him for remembering the words. A nearby explosion rocked the ground around Charlie, and he was thrust into unconsciousness.
When he awoke he was greeted by a dull ringing in his ears. Charlie sat up with a groan and got to his feet. He was alive — there was no way Heaven looked like this. If anywhere, this was Hell. The world had become ugly in Charlie’s eyes. For many weeks he and the rest of his unit had been living in cramped trenches dug by hand into the Earth. Dirt and stacks of sandbags served as the brick and mortar of the space they called home. Flies hung over the trenches and rats were rampant. The soldiers were lucky if they could find a nook or cranny in the tunnels to shelter themselves with, briefly escaping the brutal conditions they were in.
As he looked around, he noticed that besides the dull ringing, it was silent. A light shower of rain was falling, but failed to wash away the blood shed here. The battle was over and his troops had gone. “They must’ve mistaken me for dead,” Charlie concluded. He needed to find his unit soon. They would have moved forward with a victory or receded in a defeat. As the rain fell on him and poured off the rim of his helmet, Charlie trudged through the field toward the closest town.
As he neared the town, he saw the destruction. The buildings had been left abandoned, crumbling and charred. Walls were torn apart and the brick underneath was left exposed in some places. Faded posters for carnivals and sports matches were pasted on the walls of alleyways. Charlie ducked under a collapsed entranceway and entered a pub. Shattered glass littered the floor and the building was only illuminated by the natural light. He limped over behind the bar and examined the liquor shelf, hoping at least one bottle of whiskey had been spared the carnage. Thankfully there was a bottle of something (Charlie couldn’t make out the French), and so he popped the top and took a swig. With a heavy sigh, Charlie took off his heavy backpack and rifle and placed them on the counter. He sat up on a wooden barstool to give his legs a rest. He noticed his hands were shaking. He attempted to cease their involuntary rattling but to no avail. He took out a cigarette and lit it with a flick of a lighter, hoping to calm his nerves.
His efforts were interrupted by a small tug on the back of his uniform. Startled, Charlie got to his feet quickly and scanned the room. He looked down to see a small girl gazing up at him with round blue eyes. She had curly brown hair and a round, pale face. She wore a pale blue dress, torn at the bottom, and black shoes, lightly dusted with ash and dirt. By the looks of her, she was no more than four years old. Charlie crouched down to her height, not wanting to scare her.
“What’re you doing out here all by your lonesome?” Charlie inquired.
The little girl didn’t answer and remained staring at him with innocent eyes. Charlie glanced at the French inscription on the bottle and nodded to himself, “she doesn’t understand.”
He looked back toward the girl, but she had vanished. Charlie straightened and spotted the girl darting out into the main road. He grabbed his gear and followed after her. The rain had started to let up and the sun peeked out from behind a gray cloud. The girl ran into a small apartment building which was heavily damaged. Charlie followed her up the creaking stairs and into a quaint living room. The girl had climbed up onto a wooden chair and was pointing at a painting. The painting was hanging crookedly on the wall and depicted a woman, a man, and the girl herself. Charlie walked over carefully and stood behind the girl perched on the chair.
“That’s your ma and pa?” Charlie guessed.
“Maman,” the girl said, “Papa,” recognizing the “ma” and “pa” sounds.
Charlie nodded then pointed at the little girl in the painting. The girl looked at him and responded confidently, “Marie.”
Charlie nodded again and held out a shaky hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Mary.”
Marie corrected him firmly, “Ma-ree.”
“Marie, Marie, I got it, I got it.” Charlie motioned to the woman and man in the painting. “We better find your ma and pa. It’s not safe for you to be out at a time like this — it’s not safe for anyone really.”
Marie stared at him and blinked, not understanding. The tall blond man with a funny hat and uniform must be “American,” she concluded (she had heard her parents use that word before). Charlie recognized the blank look and resolved that taking her to the next town would be the best way to get her to relatives, perhaps her parents if they survived.
“Come along kid,” Charlie said as he turned back to the door. Marie saw him leaving and carefully climbed back down from the chair. Searching around the disheveled apartment, she grabbed a worn teddy bear and hurried out behind him.
In the center of the town was a stone cross, which was left standing. Water pooled around the base of the monument and a glaze of gasoline coated the surface. Charlie led the way out of the town and down a muddy path. He glanced back to make sure Marie was following, which she was. Marie trailed behind the funny American with her bear under her arm. The poor bear was in a chokehold and all the stuffing had moved from its neck to his tummy. Marie studied the soldier, a stranger in a strange land. She noticed his hands shaking despite his best efforts to calm them. His fingernails were embedded with dirt and his hands were stained from gunpowder. He had a few simple rings on his fingers. She remembered her father wore rings like that: one for his family name, one marriage band. Marie concluded that perhaps they were some comfort to the funny American who knew it was inevitable they would get dirty.
After a bit of walking, Charlie took his canteen of water from his belt and offered it down to Marie. She took the bottle carefully with both hands and drank.
“I’m Charlie by the way,” Charlie said while pointing to himself.
Marie looked at him for a moment then nodded like she accepted that was his name. She handed the canteen back and watched it return to its place on the uniform belt. Funny American. After Marie refused to be carried (which would have picked up the pace), they began walking again. Marie looked around at the once-bountiful farm fields now torn up and littered with barbed wire. At least there were pretty stones still scattered on the road. Charlie glanced over his shoulder and saw Marie had fallen behind and was scanning for pebbles. With a sigh of frustration, he turned around and marched over to her.
“What’re you doing, kid? Collecting rocks is only going to slow us down more. Besides, I’ll probably end up carrying them.”
Charlie brushed the stones from her hand which fell back into the mud and cleaned her hand on his sleeve. “Come along, Mary.”
“Ma-REE,” Marie corrected adamantly. She huffed and followed behind him. Her anger was fleeting when the next shiny rock caught her eye and she picked it up.
As the sun began to set, it was clear they were not going to make it to the next town. He still needed to clean his injury from earlier as well. Charlie glanced back at Marie clutching her bear under her arm and a fist full of pebbles. Kids. Over the hill Charlie spotted a little farmhouse with blue painted shutters. Perhaps they would be friendly and allow them to stay the night, or, better yet, maybe they knew Marie and could get her back to her family. Charlie wouldn’t be able to find out because no one was home. When there was no answer at the door, Charlie tried the knob — it was unlocked. Marie ran in under his legs and over to a plush sofa. She carefully climbed up and sat with her bear. Charlie searched their house to make sure it was safe. After scoping out the area, he went to the bathroom to tend to his wound.
After a little while, he returned to the living room and put his pack down and set his rifle against the brick fireplace.
“You hungry Mar- Ma-REE?” Charlie asked as he walked into the kitchen. “I know I’m starved half to death.”
Marie watched him go into the next room then climbed over to Charlie’s pack. She curiously looked through the bag and cast aside the boring items: first aid kit, a blanket, soap. Just as she was about to give up, she found an envelope of pictures. Quietly, she looked through them. One was of the funny American, Charlie, with a pretty woman. Her hair was done up in a twisted bun, and she had a flower tucked in her hair. Charlie looked a little younger in the photo, but he had a big smile on his face. Charlie should smile more often, she thought to herself. The next photo was of Charlie and the same woman again, but this time she had a round stomach. A baby, Marie knew. The third picture was of a baby, tiny and cute. Marie smiled at the picture and turned it over. On the back was written some English that she couldn’t read.
“That’s my wife and daughter.” Marie turned around to face Charlie when he spoke. “She was born a few months ago. I haven’t gotten a chance to meet her yet myself.”
He walked over and sat down beside her on the sofa.
“I have to admit, I am kind of nervous to go back to them. I left as a soldier, a kid, but I’ll return to be a father. What if I’m no good for her? What if I can’t protect her from things like this war?” Charlie knew Marie didn’t understand, but it felt good to think out loud.
Marie pointed at the picture of the baby and looked up at Charlie.
“That’s my daughter. Her name is Mary,” Charlie said with a small smile. “Mare-ee.”
Charlie read Marie the notes on the backs of the photographs. Though she couldn’t understand him, she was comforted by it nonetheless. Charlie was comforted by reading to her, too. He glanced down at Marie as she curled up asleep against Charlie’s side. Perhaps all this fighting wasn’t for nothing. Perhaps he was fighting for this: Marie’s future and his own future with his wife and daughter.
As the night crept on, the house was silent. The ringing in Charlie’s ears persisted but was a slight comfort. With the dull ringing, Charlie knew he was still alive. No sudden tragedy had taken him, the roof had not collapsed on them, the ground had not crumbled beneath them. Everything was still, other than the persistent shaking of Charlie’s hands and the light breeze outside. No sooner did Charlie feel a small, false sense of security than did the sounds of an approaching car echo in from outside. Charlie got to his feet quickly and extinguished the candle flames. Marie woke at Charlie’s sudden movement and rubbed her eyes sleepily. Charlie put his pack securely on his back and clutched his rifle. Marie too heard the voices, slowly growing louder and closer. With a quick mental run-through of their options, Charlie scooped up Marie in an arm and headed for the back door. Before he could reach the exit, the floorboards of the front porch creaked with the weight of the men. Charlie ducked into a small closet space and closed the door leaving a narrow crack open. Marie clutched onto Charlie’s worn down uniform and they both stared at the narrow slit of light which pierced the dark space they resided in.
Five men entered the farmhouse and made themselves at home. They spoke German and helped themselves to what was left in the food pantry. Charlie’s heart thumped loudly, another sound from which he couldn’t escape. This heart racing sensation was not the same as the giddy anticipation of kissing a girl. Nor was it the exhilarating excitement of riding a roller coaster at Coney Island, knowing you’d be sick after. This was dread. Not only was his life in danger but also the life of the little girl he’d taken under his protection. The only way out of the waking nightmare was through the weathered farm door at the rear of the house. The door led into the unknown, but for once that was more comforting than the horrific reality. After an hour of standing motionless in the closet, Charlie watched as a shadow of one of the men moved and grew bigger. He spoke over his shoulder to his comrades, heavy boots painfully growing louder. The footsteps ceased as a hand reached out and grabbed the knob on the closet. Without a moment to second guess, Charlie lowered Marie down and tackled the bewildered man.
“Run!”
Marie didn’t need to speak English to understand the order. She ran out past the grappling men on the floor and darted toward the back door. The door swung open and Marie hurried out onto the creaky porch. She looked back over her shoulder as the other four men got up from their seats after hearing the commotion. Two of them went to help their friend while the other two ventured outside to see who had fled outside. Marie was ducked down behind the vehicle they arrived in. Her bear and dress became even more dirty from the mud from the car’s tires. The two men searched the farmyard and slowly moved closer to her hiding place. A shot suddenly was released from a rifle, and they returned back inside the house. Marie feared the worst but kept a vigilant watch on the back door, waiting for Charlie to appear. Shouts were heard, and the door was forcefully shoved open by Charlie’s shoulder. He stumbled down the steps to the grass and scanned the dark yard. Marie ran over to him with a quick dash, Charlie lifted her into his arms and ran into the dark countryside. The German men ran outside and piled into their vehicle. They tried to start the engine to chase after them, but the metal beast refused to start.
“Rocks,” Marie said in English as she looked up at Charlie.
Charlie couldn’t help but grin when she spoke and he heard the engine fail behind them.
“Not bad, kid. Not bad at all,” he said.
Marie smiled at the sight of Charlie smiling. She noticed the sweat coating his face and a trickle of blood from a fresh wound near his eyebrow. But he was alive, and so was she, and that was a miracle in itself.
Charlie carried Marie through the dark fields without a misstep. He didn’t allow his legs to tire or his eyes to remove their attention from the horizon. They passed through a small forest of moss coated trees, a gurgling brook and a family of deer. As the sun began to make its much-awaited appearance, its golden rays enlightened a small town and military encampment ahead. Tents were pitched and there were several stations set up in a row. Charlie watched the buildings grow bigger and more vivid in detail as they approached the encampment. Marie picked her head up from Charlie’s shoulder and looked around. The area was filled with soldiers — British, French and American, the injured being tended to and the able-bodied making their way over to greet the duo. A lone, weary American soldier cradling a small child, both in need of a sense of safety. Shouts came from the rear of the crowd, and Marie climbed down from her perch against Charlie’s shoulder. She darted into the crowd, and Charlie sprang after her instinctively. The crowd parted for Charlie. At the end of the path was a man, a French soldier, kneeling on the ground, hugging Marie tightly. His features matched those of the man in the painting: a straight nose, brown hair and broad shoulders. The man, Marie’s father, looked up from his embrace and rose.
“Thank you,” the man said in English with a heavy French accent. “Thank you.”
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he had completed what he set out to do. As the relief washed over him, exhaustion did too. He fumbled over to a nearby tree and sat down in its shade. He leaned back against the tree’s sturdy trunk and allowed his eyes to close.
Charlie felt a small hug and reopened his eyes. He looked down at Marie hugging him and returned the embrace.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Marie said, mimicking her father’s English, “thank you.”
She placed a shiny stone in the palm of his hand. Charlie looked down at the rock and turned it over in his hand, as it shined in the sun’s light.
Charlie let go of Marie and looked at her with kind affection.
“Thank you, Marie.”
The both of them had learned a lot from each other in only a short amount of time. An undeniably unlikely duo, but profound nonetheless. With that, Marie scampered back to her father with her bear under her arm. Marie’s father picked her up and took her over to the town adjacent to the encampment, where Marie’s mother was taken for medical aid.
Charlie watched the two distant figures reunite with the third. He smiled and shut his eyes, imagining his return to his wife and daughter. The ringing in his ears was replaced with the grand cathedrals bells ringing as he remembered his wedding day to his wife.
Emily Logue is currently a sophomore at Penn State and is seeking a film major and creative writing minor. She is from Levittown, PA where she lives with her mom, dad, two younger sisters and her dog. Emily loves movies, books, drawing and writing. Her favorite movies and tv shows are part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. She loves historical books, as well as science fiction stories such as Frank Herbert’s “Dune.”