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  Speedloader

  A Snubnose Press Anthology

  Speedloader

  Edited by Sandra Ruttan and Brian Lindenmuth

  Published by Snubnose Press at Amazon

  The copyright for each story contained herein belongs to each individual author unless otherwise noted. 2011. All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  First Kindle Original Edition, 2011

  Cover Design: Boden Steiner

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  You Dirty Rat by Nigel Bird

  Plastic Soldiers by W. D. County

  Cuffs by Matthew C. Funk

  Mori Obscura by Nik Korpon

  Herniated Roots by Richard Thomas

  Crash & Burn by Jonathan Woods

  Author bios

  You Dirty Rat by Nigel Bird

  The guns behind us fell silent for the first time in two days.

  Their constant pounding had kept us awake. Twisted our minds. We hated our artillery almost as much as we hated Fritz. Nevertheless, soon as peace descended, I wanted the roars to return.

  Stopping the barrage like that we might as well have sent a telegram to the Germans - ‘We’re coming to get you’. In case they missed it, smoke-signals from a trench-line of soldiers would have got the message across.

  Me and a rat eye-balled each other. Stared hard and stood our ground until I got bored. I tore off a corner of my sandwich and tossed it over. It picked it up and went at the stale wedge like a teenage boy at a whore.

  “Hungry, eh?” I asked.

  There wasn’t time for it to reply. A boot slammed into its head. Knocked the bread into the puddle and emptied half its brains onto my trousers.

  “Clean that off,” Sergeant Rousseau barked. I looked into his face, the broken veins under his skin like a map of the trenches, the red bulb at the end of his nose soon to be another signal to Fritz. “Quickly.” The man thought having a career in banking and stripes on his arms made him better than everyone else. Damned fool.

  He moved on to inspect the rest of the 327th.

  “Rousseau wants you to meet your maker looking smart,” Bernard Desmarais said, leaning against the wall of woven branches as if waiting for a bus.

  “Wouldn’t want you letting the side down, now,” said his brother, Jean, his huge mole pointing at me from his chin. He threw me a Galloises.

  The brothers were ugly as sin, ruined by acne and eczema the poor buggers. They were crazy with it, and lion-hearted. I always stuck close when we went over and they’d seen me home every time.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and lit up.

  I ran the lighter flame along the seams of my jacket before snuffing it out. Gave me satisfaction to kill a few lice. Galled me to think that the ones I missed were probably going to live longer than me.

  Rousseau returned, his pistol drawn. Stood next to the ladder and looked at his watch.

  “That’ll be us,” Jean said with a smile.

  The brothers hugged tight, slapped each other’s backs then stood ready and eager.

  Rousseau’s moustache rippled as his lip twitched. I counted twenty-four before he put his whistle to his lips and blew.

  Like trained animals we climbed the ladder. Up there like we had somewhere to go.

  I followed the broad, muddy arses of the brothers.

  Five steps and all well.

  Ten, still good.

  Twenty and we were still standing.

  It was like we were under the wings of an angel for a while, calm and safe, like we might actually take their lines without them noticing.

  Still nothing at thirty.

  All hell at thirty-three, bullets flying by like whistling insects.

  I kept tight hold of the Lebel. Remembered loading the eight rounds nose to tail. Placed my finger over the trigger and plodded, trying to keep my body small with it.

  All the while, I kept my focus on the Desmarais boys, the pair striding forward into the smoke.

  My concentration was broken by the bass notes of a shell falling ahead.

  I shouted.

  Bernard and Jean turned then disappeared into a hole.

  Shame it was the same hole the shell wanted.

  ***

  Took me three years to get around to visiting Monsieur and Madame Desmarais. Spent most of that time either laying roads or drinking. Sometimes both together.

  Three years of turning in my sleep, I knew there was only one solution. Took a train to Rouen then a bus up to La Baille.

  The couple weren’t hard to find.

  I took directions from the young lad behind the bar where I swallowed a Pastis to settle the nerves.

  Followed the Seine for a couple of hundred yards and found their cottage.

  An old man worked the land, tilling soil. He raised his gaze from the ground as if it were an effort. Droopy eyes and a stoop made it look like he was losing a battle with gravity. His trousers, on the other hand, appeared to be winning – red braces pulled them all the way up above his pot belly.

  I walked over and put out my hand.

  “Pierre Baltus,” I told him. My name didn’t seem to register. Why should it? “I was in the 327th at Verdun.”

  There was a trace of recognition in the old man’s face. He took my hand and shook.

  “Desmarais. Come and meet my wife,” he said, gesturing to the cottage as if he needed moral support.

  At the door, the old man shouted over my shoulder. “There’s someone to see you. From Verdun.”

  Madame Desmarais came to the door, squinting as she moved into the light. I could see straight away where her son’s got their ugliness. Her eyes were too small and her nose too big, like she’d been a lizard in a past life.

  She wiped flour off her hands onto her tabard and pulled me in. “You knew my boys?”

  “I knew them. Good lads they were.” I took off my hat as I entered, straight into the kitchen.

  The evening light didn’t seem to stretch to the indoors, a couple of low flames on the oil lamps allowing me to see around.

  A big lump of dough like an island in the middle of a sea of flour occupied the table, an open bottle with a couple of small glasses next to the mess.

  From the pot, simmering on the stove, the rich smell of stew filled the air. Made my mouth water.

  Madame Desmarais must have seen my nostrils working. “We’ll be eating soon,” she said. “Would you join us?”

  Typical poor. Always willing to share.

  It had been a long day. I’d forgotten about food. “I’d love to.”

  Monsieur Desmarais pulled out a chair and I sat.

  He seated himself over in the corner on the dimpled cushion of an armchair, picked up his pipe and scraped out the charred remains of the previous smoke.

  The old lady handed me a wooden bowl filled to the brim with a stew the likes of which I hadn’t seen since
I was a child then passed me a hunk of bread on a plate.

  “Tuck in.”

  I did.

  The rabbit was so tender it was fit to wean a child. I nodded my appreciation at the couple who watched on intently.

  Madame Desmerais passed me a glass of cider.

  I raised my glass and sipped. Tasted like the apples had just been picked from the tree.

  Soon as I finished, I told them what I could remember.

  I took them to the hole where I watched the shell explode.

  I remember checking myself over to make sure it hadn’t taken a bite out of me, then crawling over on my belly, elbows pushing back the heavy mud and muttering prayers under my breath.

  Could hardly bear to look inside when I got there. Had to, though.

  Mud and blood covered their faces. Made it difficult to tell who was who.

  Bernard sat, Jean lay face down.

  I rolled in. Saw straight away the stare of death in Jean’s eyes.

  Bernard just sat, still as night.

  “Cigarette?” I offered.

  No reply.

  I lit up anyway. Needed both hands to do the job.

  The smoke calmed me down, like it had swirled round my head and into my fingers and toes. Removed the smell of butcher’s shop from my nostrils, too.

  Another soldier jumped in.

  I pointed my gun ready to fire.

  Just my luck that it was Rousseau.

  Should have pulled the trigger.

  He reached over. Snatched the cigarette from me and threw it away.

  “No time to rest,” he screamed, flecks of spittle catching in his moustache. Couldn’t see the trench map now the rest of his face had coloured. “Get the hell out of here and cut those bloody wires.”

  Neither of us moved.

  “Desmarais, shift that square arse of yours.”

  He didn’t budge. Just held tight to his brother.

  Rousseau leaned over. Took a handful of Bernard’s jacket and tried to lift him to his feet. Moved his face in close. “Now,” he shouted.

  Bernard brushed the Sergeant’s hand away and threw Jean over his shoulder. Straightening his legs, he walked right out the back of the hole towards our trench, stepping over the bodies of our fallen as he went.

  Rousseau fumed. Shouted at him using words I couldn’t repeat in front of a lady.

  Next thing he was telling me to advance.

  Soon as I raised my head over the edge, I drew enough fire to drop an elephant. I fell back and leant into the land, the cool of the earth connecting to me like it wanted me to stay.

  From somewhere on the left came the whistle for retreat.

  Never heard a sweeter sound before or since.

  “He wasn’t a coward?” Madame Desmarais asked. “Did you hear that, Emile? Our Bernard was no coward.” Her eyes were wet, tears dripping onto her tabard. Made her look like she had some kind of infection.

  He was no coward. I knew it and so did they, but it wasn’t going to repair the damage.

  “Retreating without permission they said. A disgrace to the uniform and to France.” The old man clenched his teeth onto the stem on his pipe.

  Manners prevented me from puking. I held the food in my stomach by sheer force of will and decided not to tell them anything more.

  ***

  On the train home I was haunted by memories.

  We were out by the chateau where the military brass camped out.

  It was like an Easter procession they way they headed for the post. A couple of infantry marched ahead, then there was Bernard, head held high. Just behind them, a priest muttered in Latin. Must have known he was wasting his breath on this one. Another couple of guards took up the rear.

  Rousseau had the job of leading our squad. Made sure it was men from the same unit that did the shooting so we could spread their warning. Marched us in like we were about to do something splendid.

  By the time we were in position, Bernard was already tied.

  Rousseau checked the knots that held Bernard to the post. Looked like he offered him some final words.

  Bernard spat in Rouseau’s eye when he offered him a blindfold, the crazy sod. I wanted to cheer. So did everyone else, it turned out.

  Instead my eyes watered.

  It was all so wrong. I remembered pointing my gun at Rousseau in the bunker back there.

  Thought about blowing his head off right there in front of the generals and the rest of the scum lined up for their morning’s entertainment. Didn’t though.

  Something got in the way. Fear, I suppose. I guess it was me who was the coward just then.

  Rousseau wiped off the spit. Turned and marched to where we were lined.

  At least his moustache had the grace to tremble.

  He took out his sword and lifted it into the air.

  The injustice had me shaking. I could hardly keep the gun straight.

  As the sword was raised Bernard winked at me. Like I was forgiven.

  As it fell, the triggers clicked. All except mine.

  I cursed my rifle. Said it jammed. Not that it did Bernard any good – he was slumped at the post like someone had removed his spine.

  When I got inside I unloaded. Picked out the bullet that should have gone and slipped it into my pocket.

  I’ve had it with me ever since.

  ***

  Still had one piece of unfinished business. A little job over in Tours.

  Took a room at the Hotel Du Nord. Cost more than I wanted to pay, even with the discount for a week’s stay, but I needed to be opposite the bank.

  On the windowsill, a bottle of Bordeaux and a platter of sausage helped to pass the time as I watched. The wine was too new, the sausage had me chewing more than I like, but it wasn’t important.

  Rousseau didn’t come out for air until the end of day. He’d grown an extra chin and put on an extra tyre round the belly, but I’d have recognised him no matter how much he’d changed. His suit looked expensive, but he wore it like a scarecrow, jacket too tight, trousers a little short.

  Still had the watch chain and the shiny shoes, though.

  It took 3 keys to lock up.

  When he was done, he turned and bumped an old lady. Took off his hat and practically bowed before her, as aware as ever of rank, then marched off up the street.

  I too, was done for the day.

  I closed the shutters, lay down on my bed and blew smoke into the darkness.

  ***

  I’d fantasized about the moment on many occasions, tying the bastard up and having him begging for mercy, watching the piss puddle at his feet. Taking my rifle and the bullet that had Bernard’s name on it and shooting him right between the eyes.

  It was never going to end that way, more’s the pity.

  Instead I got up early on the Thursday, while bakers still worked their ovens and the sweepers cleaned the gutters.

  I waited at the bank. Leant against the door.

  Rousseau strolled up whistling some happy tune. Turned into me.

  I waited for recognition to show on his face and then raised the gun.

  The first shot was enough.

  I bent down and placed Bernard’s bullet in the pocket of his waistcoat, then stood and popped another into his skull.

  A little of his blood sprayed my leg, a little of his brain, too.

  I waited for him to tell me to wipe myself clean.

  The order never came.

  Plastic Soldiers By W. D. County

  The Bad Man comes into the room with a short, chubby man that reminds me of a pig – round nose, small eyes, ears too big for his bald head. Pig licks his lips and points to me.

  The Bad Man says, “He ain’t a virgin.”

  Pig looks disappointed and points to Greg.