Concrete Macaroon

A constant pressure to push with nothing left to expunge has haunted me for three days.  

So little energy left, so little fluids left, so much hunger.  

I’m not alone with dysentery; half the chaps have it. How can we not with open latrines, vast swarms of flies getting into everything, dead or dying lying about in the wisp of open land between our trench and the Turks.

Counting them would pass the time at least. Millions of little slate colored bodies with wings zipping about from dead man to latrine to mouth within minutes. 

How can I contemplate yet another meal? 

How can I deprive my belly of something to push out?

I stare at the tin of Jam and my dark green ration bag, both under a blanket of flies so think that only knowing they are there allows me to see them at all.

The last time I tried to have dinner I couldn’t do it.  I tried to eat, but could not bring myself to do it for the flies.  When I opened the tin a swarm immediately covered the jam.  I could not see it through their undulating bodies.  Putting my overcoat over myself, I tried to pick out the flies.  I could not keep them all out, but some stayed outside of the coat.  Spreading the jam on the biscuit with my left hand, I held my right over it, hoping to keep a few off of the surface.  Upon opening my mouth in the hope of putting the jammed concrete macroon inside, my throat was swarming with flies pushing against my palate, gums and cheeks from within.  I just couldn’t bear it, and threw the tin with the biscuit over the parapet while spitting out violently what liquids I still had within me.  

I can not do that again!

“Pass me the net” I call out to Ackman, figuring that if I set the kit up right, I can jam the hardtack from within the fly net, keeping most of the damned buggers at bay.

Placing the fly net over my head, I pull the netting down so that it’s resting upon my chest, shoulders and back.  
My hands grasp the tin and ration bag.

Which should I open first?

I set the tin down within the swarm again as I focus on the ration bag.

If I can get out a biscuit,  put it on my shoulder, and then work on the Jam, I may be able to do this all inside the net.

Lifting one biscuit out of the bag with my left hand, I bring it up to my right shoulder. I slip the biscuit under the net, brushing off the flies as it enters my little sanctum.

It worked, I have the teeth breaking dry biscuit on my shoulder!

Within a mass of frenzied flies lays the rest of my dinner.  Searching for the jam, my hand brushes across countless aerial and grounded beings before touching the tin.

How about if I open the tin under the net? Then the flies can’t swarm in.

I lift the tin so that it’s flush with my sternum, slipping it’s metallic form under the net while I’m careful not to let in too many flies.

Damn, there are some in here now! 

I could try to get them out. Or, I could eat.

I don’t have the energy to get them out.

Placing the tin under my chin with my left hand, my right pulls on the tab from outside the net.  As the metal lid peals away the couple of flies within the net dart for the jam.

At least there are only a few in the jam now.

I hold the tin with my right hand from outside the net, slipping my left to pick up the biscuit before dipping it in the jam. 

So close!

My hand comes up toward my mouth.  Instead of opening fully, I keep it closed, letting the jam and fly spotted biscuit pry its way in.  Two flies push against my lips, hoping to follow the jam they love into my mouth.

No, you can’t come in!

I bite down on the biscuit, hearing a crack I hope was the hardened bread rather than my decaying teeth.

It worked! No flies for dinner!

Shutting my eyes for one moment I simply listen to the buzzing, knowing full well none of it is coming from within my own head.

I open my eyes to stare out of the net toward the fly covered wall of my bivvy.

You’re free to be where I cannot see. Flying about from Turkish Trench to where the maggots eat of putrid stench.  You touch every last drop of waste, and then sit upon my biscuit for taste.  I dare not think of where you’ve been, for I’m about to empty my Jam tin. Please make me sick so I can leave this place. Otherwise, I feel I may not see the end of this race.

Soldiers from Australia and New Zealand (The Anzacs) were among the least provisioned in the 8 months of the Gallipoli campaign of 1915.  Provided with hard tack biscuits, canned bully beef, and watery jam, many came down with dysentery and typhoid.  Vast swarms of flies fed off of rotting bloated corpses lying between the trenches, the hastily dug and often overflowing latrines, and the lice who were the permanent occupants of all of the clothes worn by the fighting men on both sides.  Over 25,000 men lived within a less than six square kilometer area hugging the sea with no fresh water or places to properly bath. Oh, and the Turkish snipers would shoot you if you came out into the open, or the random shot from enemy artillery could hit you. Not to mention the risk of patrols or actual battle. One soldier, Ion L. Idriess, is quoted as saying “Of all the bastards of places this is the greatest bastard in the world.”

Tribute

His mouth in an open roar, the grime covered lion of the north stares toward the distracted police officer who stands straight as a nail atop the stairway leading away from the Colonnade du Congress. 

The lions are too dirty.

The officer gazes at some unknown person or object down Rue Royale.

Keep looking that way you collaborator.

Guarded by the unkempt and unyielding lion, I walk around his platform, slipping the small collection of spring flowers from behind my back so they are always on the other side of my body from the distracted police officer.

How could the Germans keep us from honoring my brothers from The War?

I approach the front of the Tomb at the base of the column, laying the flowers down directly atop the plaque for the fallen which lies in between the statues for Freedom of Association and Freedom of Education.

We can no longer gather together, nor teach the proud history of Belgian soldiers.

Pausing for a moment, I offer the unknown soldier, and all he represents, my prayers on this anniversary of the end of The War. My chest heaves, pushing me forward so I’m bent over the plaque, as tears well in my eyes.

Your sacrifice will be redeemed. We will be free again.

Raising my eyes toward the eternal flame, I’m shocked to see it’s orange hue flickering in the morning breeze.

They have not extinguished you.

They cannot extinguish you.

Backing away with respect, I wait until my feet are past the base of the lions before turning away from the tomb.  Immediately my eyes return to the police officer at the top of the stairs. He is now facing directly across the street toward the Tourism Office.

Honor, my friend, Honor.

Running my hands down my uniform, I straighten my lapel and trousers before returning to my post. 

We may be banned from honoring our War dead, but as long as I’m in charge of this tomb they will be honored.

Directly after Belgium surrendered to Germany on May 28, 1940 the NAZI occupation forces instituted several restrictions on the Belgian people, including an edict banning tribute to the dead from World War I.  Germany was humiliated by Belgium in World War I, and had no taste for those responsible for that humiliation to receive any honor. Despite this edict, Belgians continued to pay their respects to their fallen from the previous war.  These early acts of non-violent resistance led to the creation of a resistance movement across the country, forces that eventually cooperated with, and played a meaningful part in, the liberation of their homeland in 1944 and 1945. After the war two additional plaques were added to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier honoring the dead from World War II, as well as those who have fallen since. On  November 11 each year the King of Belgium visits the tomb, honoring all of the people who perished for the country. 

Orders

Smoke fumes forth from across the airfield while the distant roar of German fighters dissipates as they return to their bases to refuel and rearm for another strafing attack. Our fighter fleet was destroyed on the ground, not having been allowed to take off.

Why can’t we get up there and fight them!

So far the Germans have not destroyed all of our bombers, probably figuring that they’ll get those next. Since our fighters cannot intercept their planes they can now destroy our air and ground forces at their leisure.

Running toward me from the radio shed, Listova shouts “Orders from Moscow, we’ve got a mission!” as he hands me a slip of paper.

Bomb German positions in Osovets, Visna, Belsk and Kleshchelye. 

YES! Finally we can get off our butts and take this fight to the Germans!

“Let’s get going!” I yell out as I see crews starting to gather.

We’ve still got eleven working bombers. We can do some damage, even without fighter escorts.

“We’re fighting back now!” I shout above the pitched discussions among the bomber and fighter crews.  

“Sir, what about fighter crews, we’ve got no planes.” One of the fighter pilots asks.

Our bombers are lumbering beasts, practically undefended without fighter escorts. 

“If you want to fight, find a bomber gun to man.  Otherwise, sit here and wait to die.” I retort.

Four targets, we’ll either have to split up, or carry out multiple missions. 

“We are soldiers of The Red Air Force. We will not shy away from the Germans, letting them take our country. Attack them. Destroy them. We’re attacking Osovets. I don’t want that town to exist when we’re done with it!” 

Ura, Ura, Ura! The crowd of men shouts in unison.

This will be their chance to feel like they can do something, as useless as that something is.

I wait for the cheers to die down before shouting, “We leave in 20 minutes. I expect every crew to be ready.  Let’s go!”

Men scurry across the base, preparing themselves for the mission.  Ground crews begin prepping the four Ilyushin DB-3Fs and seven Tupolev SB-2s.

I gather my gear before heading to my DB-3F.  My crew is fervently preparing the bomber, loading ammunition, topping off the fuel, and checking the engines. 

What a great crew I have. 

“We’ll be ready to go in seven minutes, Sir.” Patriolov shouts in my direction while leading a team of ground crew to load the ten FAB-100 bombs into the bomb bay.

 Acknowledging him with a nod, I look across the field to see the other bombers prepping as fast as they can as well.

We might just make it into the air before the next German attack wave arrives.

Walking around my plane, I look over its fine lines, precise welds, and x-ray inspected rivets.  

This is a beautiful aircraft.

My crews are beginning to man their planes. I turn to look back at mine one more time, not realizing that someone has approached me from behind.

“Sir, I’d like to join you on this mission.” A  youthful, almost childlike, member of the ground crew asks.

I don’t even know his name.

“Of course, you can man the machine gun in the ventral hatch.”

“Thank you, Sir!” he smiles from a mouth missing several teeth.

We head toward the plane together. 

I look over at his smiling face. My arm wraps around his shoulders. 

I cannot say goodbye to my son. Thank you for offering me this one.

Early in the morning of June 22, 1941 the German Air Force (Luftwaffe) began Operation Barbarossa, a massive invasion of the Soviet Union. The initial phase of the attack included the almost complete destruction of the Soviet Air Force (VVS) on the ground. Stalin would not approve Soviet planes to fly against the German attack for four hours, by which time most of the Soviet fighters, and many of its bombers, had been destroyed. Ordered that afternoon to bomb the enemy, Air Force Lieutenant General I.I. Kopets followed these orders, knowing full-well that he no longer had any fighters to escort his bombers. The crews of the slow Russian Ilyushin and Tupolev bombers stoically and honorably flew from their bases without the expectation of returning alive. Luftwaffe Field marshal Albert Kesselring was quoted later as saying that shooting down the Soviet planes was as easy as “infanticide.” Within twenty-four hours, the Soviets had lost all of their front-line bombers. Kopets, at this point without an air  force to command, committed suicide rather than face Stalin.