Chapter Text
[Excerpts from the journal of Oberstleutnant Karl Springer . Circa July 1916. Translated to English for convenience .] Entries read as follows:
1st night free. Mid summer 1916, presumably behind French lines.
On watch for a brief time, an hour or so.
I am no longer alone. I am also free from my captivity. Both of which as a result of a Frog [ note, derogatory term for a Frenchman ] no less.
To avoid spending my brief free time lamenting my experiences as a prisoner here in writing, I will instead merely note that I am no longer captured. I have little idea as to how long I was held, but the length of time between my capture by the French and the murder of all bunker occupants was shorter than between that.. incident and my rescue.
I still do not know how he has survived. Where he was throughout that massacre. If he has offered me an explanation I have not understood it.
Henry Clement [ sic, Henri Clément ] is, by all means, a faceless foot soldier. Young. Twenty or so, probably just traipsing into adulthood as he got conscripted. There is nothing about him that would have led me to believe he would survive with more efficiency than any of his superiors. He's a mediocre shot, fumbles equipment constantly - but he has survived. So maybe that judgement says more about myself than it does him.
Given he freed me. It seems as much.
He speaks no German, I no French. Communication is difficult. Though he is apparently willing to pick up odd phrases and parrot them back to me, trying to determine their meaning through situational approval. The gestures between us are, blessedly, mostly universal.
Wave towards oneself = come here
Hand held up, palm forward = stop
Head nod and shakes = yes and no, respectively. [Aside: Though deducing that ja, oui, nein and no were all equivalent made some speech easily.]
Wave hand palm down = back up
Et cetera.
He managed to communicate without words the nature of our situation, bringing me to the exit and gesticulating at the rocks until I nodded enough for him to seem content. We are stuck down here.
With it.
Is it ridiculous to say he looks French? It's an absurd line of thinking. Perhaps I am just scribbling nonsense while he sleeps to find some comfort in my lonesome.
I can hear it in the walls still. It's coming.
He has one of those pencil moustaches. Something out of a propaganda poster. Almost comically French…
Officer he isn't, but he seems to have a plan - as scant as his attempts to explain it have been. I will allow him to enact it as best as I am able.
K. Springer.
[Note, all scored text was done so by Herr Springer and recovered through alternative means]
Later. Still free.
I am alone in " l' administration " again. Henry has left in search of something unbeknownst to me, I suppose he figures I will be a hindrance to him if I cannot understand what he needs.
I say "alone" to prevent my mind from drifting towards the other inhabitant.
I am alone in all the ways that matter. There is no human to l-
I organised Henry's meagre collection of fuel canisters (3) besides the generator, keeping them far from the body of one soldier slumped beside it. Henry has indicated his name was "Free-loo" (I cannot grasp the manner by which the French spell, so his memory must survive through my phonetic rendition instead) [ sic, Sdt Friloux ]. And rooted through his storage chest. He has a mere handful of supplies and one corner of the box seems to be used exclusively to store rotten lumps of meat. I left them where he placed them.
I am looking forward to his return, ridiculously, I appreciate his company. Although, given the situation, it is to be expected. Besides.. he is armed, I am not.
K. Springer.
Later still.
We braved a miserable portion of the bunker even deeper beneath the trenches. The ground itself was alive and writhing, composed of bloated rats. There is something deeply wrong in this place.
Rest (2nd night?).
Henri took up the waking shift this time, while I attempted to sleep.
He has briefly flicked through this journal. I had procured the book from a desk and removed the prior contents. He promptly struck through and re-spelt all mentions of his name.
Henri it is. He nods as I write and underline it, thumbing through the pages of dead soldier's letters as he does so. I am yet to understand why he rifles through them, but they seem to benefit him and so I leave him to it, perhaps his allies' insights are of some use.
Regardless. Sleep did not come easily to me.
I have attempted to rest and the perpetual shelling has been a strange comfort, that there are other people outside of this. My brothers. But the comfort is small and fleeting, I sleep only in fitful intervals. My dreams are dark and auditory, full of phlegm spewing Frenchmen and spitting monsters. Sometimes they are one. Both mean death.
I wake myself screaming. If we were not locked down in this cellar, I am certain it would have drawn it to us. Henri makes no remarks, thankfully and himself sleeps soundlessly, an ideal soldier, though his face is crumpled miserably throughout.
He squints when I write of him, presumably trying to discern the nature of my words.
I presume we will be leaving our outpost to search for more necessities soon. I will try to rest further.
K Springer.
Soldat Henri Clément.
Henri sleeps better than I. So I let him sleep most often when we take rest shifts. He is younger, inexperienced.
He has a head wound.
I discovered it by chance, I was meant to be sleeping and caught him as he examined his hairline in the reflection of a shaving mirror. It needs redressing, but he refuses to use our limited bandage supply on such things. I will keep an eye on it. It's deep, deep enough to cause long-term damage. I am uncertain of the source. Though I doubt our bunker dwelling friend would get in such proximity to one's face without lethal consequences, so I presume it is a result of trench warfare. A shrapnel injury.
It is easier to learn about a man without language than one would imagine. Once universal signs and goals are established, more complex tasks or delegations become simpler. It's also easier to discern fleeting aspects of personality, likes, dislikes - just by watching. I am capable enough at that.
The murderer.
For the time I have been down here unrestrained, I have avoided writing about our.. cohabitant much. An irrational fear of mine. As if writing about it will induce a similar effect to calling for it aloud.
I had only heard it prior to our most recent encounter, had deduced it to have large claws and teeth, skin impervious to bullets (given the havoc it had reaped upon the French without much hindrance during my capture). I thought, perhaps, that witnessing the beast before my own eyes would strip it of some of the illusions my auditory experience had bestowed.
It has made them worse. I cannot transcribe effectively how horrific an adversary it is. Its features are contorted and taut, each segment of its digits, down to the nail, elongated and warped. Its eyes are set far back in its skull, pallid - as if cataract - yet omniscient. It is an uncanny force.
I want to convey to Henri that we need a camera to capture it better than my scrawlings. I have seen some photographs down here, there must be one. I do not wish to be perceived a madman.
My response to its stench has, apparently, also worsened when seeing what produces it first-hand. It's rotten, as if from the inside-out. Decaying corpse-like. And my nose is swollen and blood clotted, and so I cannot begin to imagine how severe it is for Henri.
I also cannot tell how cognisant it is. It behaves as though it is intelligent, but merely in the manner an apex animal may be. Perhaps this level of sentience is all it needs, there is no reason for it to reason with me. With us. In the manner that a human has no need to reason with a cow they may slaughter.
I hope it cannot comprehend the words I write about it.
Though something deep within me, something basier.. more animal, knows it is aware of our collaboration, and that we will defend one another ferociously. More so than the French brother soldiers. We are the last remnants of life here. It can taste the pack animal stench on us, a smell that only arises from sleeping back to back in filth and terror together.
It is not frightened by this. In fact, it is seething with incomprehensible fury. I am yet to understand why. But the malice the beast carries with it is palpable.
It frightens me in the way no man could, it is unknowable and unstoppable.
If we escape. I will demand medical leave. I will go to Germany or Switzerland or Holland, it does not matter - I cannot stand to be on soil spoiled with its presence for any longer.
I am rambling. Everywhere we travel, there are corpses, the only sentient companions are lethal. This is a pantheon of death.
K Springer.