Richard Matheson: Other Kingdoms

On December 7, 1917, the United States declared (that word again) war on Austria-Hungary. No way out of it now.

I was shipped overseas on a small British liner. We slept on a lower deck, officers getting upper berths. The food, to be charitable, was god-awful, the smell even worse, the water barely drinkable—there were moments when I almost regretted not taking the Captain’s offer to assist me. Almost.

It took thirteen vomitous days to arrive in Brest. There, empty of stomach, we were transported in French “forty and eights.” (Box cars—forty hommes, eight chevaux —horses.) Traveling in said style, we were taken to the British sector and, there, driven in small, old, rattly, drafty trucks to “the Front”—euphemism for Death Zone. There, bolstered by cheap French champagne—seventy cents a quart at that time, five dollars a quart when demand exceeded supply, or when the French discovered that we had more money than we knew what to do with and didn’t want to get blown up with currency in our pockets. At any rate, we paid it.

Thus, in late December of 1917, I “entered” the trenches. That was how they expressed it. “Entered” the trenches. As though it was a stage direction. Which, in a way, of course, it was. The problem being that the play was a one-act tragedy-farce starring us. With no hope of a happy ending. And, conceivably, no performers remaining to take final bows. Until the next season, when an all-new cast was called upon to emote—or die.

So, physically, mentally, and militarily unprepared, I entered the trenches.

How do I describe “life” in the trenches during World War I? Historical-Pastoral? To quote Polonius: Tragical-Historical-Comical? Pastoral-whatever? Who knows? I am not the Bard of Avon. I’m Arthur Black. Perhaps Hamlet plus Macbeth plus King Lear plus any other gory play penned by Shakespeare. Too bad he didn’t write The Inferno. That would have come closer.

I won’t go into many details here. I’ll save them for later in my story. Correction: my account . All I’ll say, at this point, is “By golly, it was fun!” Minus a few small elements. A thousand rats, for instance. We shot them, pounded them with shovels, et cetera. Not too many, mind. They did warn us of impending bombardment: They vanished beforehand.

Speaking of bombardments—another element I’ll sketch in at this moment. Where we were had been, so I was told, woods and farm fields, which were soon artilleryized (my own word) to a forest of splintered tree trunks.

Shell shock .

Explosions, you see, create a vacuum, and when the air rushes back in, it creates a bit of a stir in the cerebro-spinal fluid, which has a tendency to—how should I put it discreetly?—make a fellow grumpy. No problem. Grumpy doughboys were removed from the line and treated, with gentle loving care, at one of the many glamorous resorts in the Gallic countryside. That may be an exaggeration. It is. Bleeding from the ears and shrieking with pain, they were removed from the lines and probably never seen again.

Now I’m giving you details. Sorry. One more. Dawn attacks by representatives of the Triple Alliance—Germany, Austria-Hungary, Luxembourg. They were admirable opponents, since they had been preparing for nine years before the rest of us. Been discussing it since 1888.

No more grisly details until later. You Arthur Black fans, hold on—you’ll have your demented appetites whetted, I assure you. For now, I will confine myself to more technical information. (You Arthur Black fans may choose to skip the next section. Though, if you do, I will summon forth the Great God Horribilis to suck the marrow from your bones. So there.)

Moving onward. Life in the trenches was not really fun, by golly! Less than fun. Two million of us went to France. Fewer than two hundred thousand came back. Does that give you a hint? It took a long time for me to escape the distress of memories.

The trench I lived in was five feet deep with three more feet of sandbags. I am glad it was a French-British trench. I was told that the American trenches were only four feet deep, which could scarcely prevent one’s head from being blown off. We had a fire step, which allowed the bravest of us to fire at the Huns or hurl hand grenades. We were good at that because of baseball experience. Strike three, good-bye, Mr. Kraut! At least that was my Arthur Black fancy.

The Brits, knowing better, placed proper emphasis on trench life. Hand grenades, machine guns, and mortars were more their style. Plus, warnings about the Germans’ proclivity toward same. Good for them. If it weren’t for their cautioning words, you could be looking at a collection of blank pages. MIDNIGHT NOTHING by Arthur Black.

Walking past Harold Lightfoot that afternoon changed my entire life.

I say “walking.” It was closer to slogging, the trench floor being three inches deep in mud. Sunday afternoon. Either the Germans were observing the Sabbath or they were temporarily out of ammunition.

At any rate, I splashed brown viscous goo across the legs and lap of the young man, sitting, unnoticed by me, cleaning some kind of weapon. I say “some kind” because, following its mud immersion, there was no way to distinguish what kind of weapon it was except that it was as long as a rifle and disgustingly splattered. “ ’Ey you BF, mind your step! ” were the rotund young man’s opening words to me.

“I’m sorry,” was my immediate response.

“Well, you should ruddy well be,” he charged. “Cleaning this shotgun isn’t all beer and skittles, y’know!”

I needed subtitles on that one. “Shotgun?” I ventured. In a French trench? By a British soldier?

“Yes, shotgun!” he snapped at me. “That blow you up?!”

“No, I—” I was lost in the language again. All I could do was repeat (with an extra word), “I’m so sorry.” I tried to smile as best I could. “I didn’t realize…” I pointed toward the trench floor. “The mud. It’s so deep. ”

My renewed apology—and, I assume, my smile—did the trick, broke the ice, assuaged the injured party, whoever he was. “Well, all right,” he said. He smiled back, the sweetest smile I’d ever seen since Veronica’s. It charmed me. I put out my hand. “Alex White,” I told him.

He held out his hand. The smallest hand I’d ever seen since Veronica’s. But strong. His grip was steel. “Harold Lightfoot,” he said. I almost laughed but managed not to. Lightfoot? The strangest name I’d ever heard since—since what? Captain Bradford Smith White, USN? No, Dad was the strangest person. Almost. Hang on.

“So where you off to, Alex?” he inquired. “Perambulating? Catching the sights?”

I laughed, a little. He also spoke a language I understood? “No,” I said. “Just stretching my legs, I guess.”

“It is quiet,” he said, as though he understood my comment.

I decided that he must have. “The Germans must be praying,” I said.

He chuckled. “That could be,” he agreed. “But praying for what?”

“Our destruction, of course,” I answered.

He chuckled again, more volubly. “That’s for flaming sure,” he said. He sniffed aside and gestured toward the wooden soup-supply box he was sitting on. “Care to join me, Whitehead?”

“White,” I corrected. “Thank you.” I sat next to him on the box. “Very generous of you.”

“Oh, bollocks to that,” he said. Language again. (I smiled—wanly—as though I “got” that, too.) “I could use a little company. Don’t know a bleedin’ word of French. And the Tommies are KBB.” Seeing my face, he added, “Sorry. KBB means ‘King’s bad bargain.’ Rotten soldiers. Got it?”