Hibernation

It was a descent into the most obscene recesses of hell. The bodies were hardly human, twisted in the agonies of their awful deaths, mushroom-coloured skin stretched and contorted. Empty mouths gaped open, cavernous with unresolved shouts for … what? Mercy? An end to their suffering? Or a last call for their loving mothers who should never have let them be born?

By God he hoped his own people were better than this. But he knew the relief that came from letting go of all that tension and fear and disappointment in a moment of total white-hot hatred. They would make sure not to remember the faces of the boys beaten and strung up for target practice in the town. How they’d joyously rifled the captives’ pockets and ostentatiously shared stolen cigarettes as they discussed the fates of their prisoners. Intoxicated, they had made lewd jokes and masturbated when they found a picture of a young girl amongst the belongings of one of their prisoners. He begged them to stop and they thrashed him so hard he had no jaw left to complain with.

Behind him, he heard a soldier groan, knew he must be doubling up as he retched. He turned to him, nodded, and said “Go back to the road for some air”. He knew the soldier wouldn’t shirk. None of them did, although God knew nobody should ever have to be here. He wondered what joy the Devil must have had in pushing them forward to volunteer. About twenty of them had come on the first day but some couldn’t take it. Now they were sixteen, working together in teams of four, backing each other up, making sure nothing was missed. They had been here for a week now, though it felt like an eternity. How could anybody ever have sinned so badly to end up somewhere like this?

He swallowed, noticing the tang of warm rubber from his mask and the sweet flavour of decay in his saliva. Sweating uncomfortably in his overalls, he tugged where they pulled tight over his knees and stooped over another body. A cloud of flies flew up and banged into his head, while the corpse squirmed with maggots and carrion beetles. It lay on its front, arms tied behind and blackened hands barely attached. The filthy, stained fibres of a shirt were all that remained of clothing. The bastards! He feared what he would find when he turned the poor thing over. But first, he must look for identifying features, take photos, record the location and everything; everything that must be said about this horror.

And then he would begin to make it right again, for this thing that looked like nothing on Earth, who would never know the gentleness of his actions. With thumb and forefinger, he would push the eyelids closed. He would tenderly lift the body into a white bag, wrapping it like a child into a sleeping bag. He would quietly say a blessing.

The entirety of his body and mind were repulsed. He would have run from the wood a thousand times. But for every mutilated corpse there was a frightened mother, a family, a wife or girlfriend. They thought that not knowing was worse, until they knew the truth. He wished they could be spared. Wished they wouldn’t have to live through that life of nausea and nightmares that would take them to the ends of their days.

As the light faded, they walked back to return to the barracks, glad they didn’t have to spend the dark night guarding the wood amongst its shrieking ghosts. All was quiet and they didn’t talk much. What was there to say? All they wanted was a shower, a drink, relief from the smell and taste of that cursed place. They wanted to never live another day like that.

Later, before he drank toasts to the dead with the other lads, he would write to Vira: “Today we have taken food and drink to the survivors in this city. They are in good spirits and cheer and sing when they see us. It is a beautiful city. I think of you all the time and hope for the day when we will be back together again. I think it must be soon now.”

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