The Cracksman

(I decided to share some short stories I wrote in my youth. Or, like, at least this one.)

A man impales a cork on a metal skewer, holds it in the fire. Flames lick the metal, sooting it, blackening the cork. When the cork has cooled, he rubs it on his face, his hands, the shiny parts of his rifle, the medals on his uniform. He seems particularly disgruntled about having to soil his medals that way, and his rifle, which shone before as brightly as a newly minted penny that has never changed hands.

I had things somewhat easier. My rifle was an old, scavenged model, made from wood and pig iron, that only shone when wet. Medals I lacked, although I had received two patches, one for being conscripted and one for not deserting, which were waiting in my breast pocket to be sewn on. My hands and face were already a uniform gray, what with the caked-on mud—in fact, my whole body was gray, save for a pink ring chafed clean by the waistband of my jockeys. There was no moon. “Come on,” the blackened man said, dropping the cork into a puddle in the bottom of the trench.

We slipped out onto the field, rifles slung over our shoulders and clipped to our belts, so they wouldn’t come sliding over our heads as we crawled. This clip made it impossible to ready your rifle quickly, but that hardly mattered, as we were under strictest orders not to fire them at any cost. I had a box of grenades, which I pushed ahead of me with my hands while I snaked forward on knees and elbows. I could hear an occasional shot from the Corolonian line, followed by panicked chastisements. “Show some hustle, soldier,” the corked-up officer snapped. I followed him. He appeared to have sat in some chalk dust, or dry clay, before going over the top, for the seat of his trousers was dusted white. I tried to think of where in the trenches the clay could possibly be dry. I followed his bright buttocks winking in the dim starlight as we crawled. We were a good thousand yards from the Corolonian trenches. I saw the white buttocks in front of me disappear suddenly; there was a splash, and some cursing. “Mind the crater,” the officer called, but I had already crept closer to ...