Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘Century,’ Pavo called from the head of our pathetic formation. ‘Halt.’

Our sandals slapped down into the mud. We were at the hospital. Braziers and lamps lit the area, and from the light that they cast, flames struggling and flickering in the wind, I saw other bodies of men. We were not the only century dispatched to this task.

We waited a few minutes in the rain. Then, given away by the silhouette of their transverse crests in the darkness, I saw that Pavo had been joined by another centurion. Likely he was the commander of our cohort’s First Century, disseminating orders. Sure enough, Pavo then came down the line, issuing his own orders to each section. Eventually, he reached Titus.

‘Titus, I don’t have another section as salted as yours,’ the centurion began.

‘You can’t dress up a turd.’ Titus cut off Pavo’s speech, his deep voice resigned. ‘Just tell us what we’re doing.’

Pavo did, and as we heard the words, our hearts sank.

‘I was hoping we’d get perimeter duty or something,’ Stumps said, echoing my own thoughts.

But we did not. We were to pull the wounded and dying from the arms of their comrades.

‘Let’s go,’ Titus grunted. ‘Anyone hesitates, I’ll beat the shit out of him.’ The big man’s words were harsh, but well meant. He knew as well as anyone that this task would make our life-and-death struggle in the forest seem like a pleasant walk on a summer’s day. There was no adrenaline here to carry us through the suffering, only the acid in our stomachs and the lumps in our throats.

Titus led us towards the large tent that acted as one of the marching camp’s hospital wards. By torchlight, I saw other sections enter the canvas to our left and right. Titus’s broad shoulders obscured my view as he pushed through the flap, but as I ducked within, I knew from horrid experience what I’d find.

A brazier had been placed in the tent’s centre, its orange flames dancing on the waxed hide canvas. The grey smoke was thick, but it did little to mask the stink of wounds and shit. A narrow walkway crossed the tent’s mud floor, and to either side lay the wretched forms of men with appalling injuries clad in blood-soaked bandages. These poor souls ignored our presence, but their vigilant comrades, eyes burning as they glared at us, did not.

They knew why we had come.

‘You’re not from the Nineteenth,’ a veteran accused us, rising from beside a soldier whose leg had been amputated below the knee.

‘We’re not,’ Titus stated simply.

‘Then what the fuck are you doing here?’ the soldier asked as half a dozen other men of the Nineteenth Legion also got to their feet.

Titus said nothing, which was answer enough.

‘No.’ The soldier’s hand reached involuntarily for the pommel of his sword.

‘You don’t have a choice,’ Titus cautioned him, his tone grim.

‘I have a choice.’ This time, there was nothing automatic in the way that the veteran gripped his weapon.

‘Your friends are already dead.’ Titus grimaced. ‘Don’t join them.’

‘He’s my brother .’ The soldier forced the words out from between clenched teeth, and then his voice began to falter. ‘He’s my brother,’ he pleaded, and I could see that his eyes were becoming as wet as the night. ‘The Germans will show no mercy,’ he finished.

It was Chickenhead who stepped forward, the old soldier moving past Titus to stand alone at the tent’s centre. ‘You’re right,’ he said, meeting the legionary’s tear-filled eyes. ‘They’ll show no mercy here, and they’ll show no mercy in the forest. Do you want to put your brother through that pain? Your comrades?’ he asked of the other soldiers. ‘This campaign is becoming a rout, friends. Give your brothers the chance to go with honour, and dignity. Not as some amusement to barbarians.’

The silence in the tent was as heavy as the rain that beat the canvas. Despite the downpour, screams and shouts could be heard as other men were dragged from their comrades’ sides throughout the camp’s hospital tents.

‘There’s no hope?’ the veteran asked Chickenhead.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke. ‘None for the wounded.’ Instantly I felt their stares burn into me. ‘I heard it from Varus’s lips myself,’ I finished, my skin flushing. ‘Arminius and his allies aren’t coming. We’re on our own.’

‘It’s over.’ Titus’s tone was final.

The veteran recognized a battle lost. Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee and took the hand of his oblivious brother. ‘Forgive me,’ he managed. Tears ran down the leather-like skin of his cheeks.

Then, throughout the temporary ward, other soldiers bade farewell to men they had sworn to protect. Men they had promised never to leave behind, no matter the odds or dangers. Mercifully, the most badly wounded had been placed within this tent, and none were conscious of their abandonment. The same could not be said of all within the camp, and cries for mercy pierced the night, raising the hairs on our already frozen bodies.

‘Report back to your units,’ Titus ordered and, slowly, the men began to file past our section, their heads down in shame. Only two refused to leave, clinging on to their comrades’ stretchers, eyes mad with grief.

Titus handled one alone, lifting him as a father would his struggling child. It took myself, Moonface and Rufus to pull the second soldier away.

‘Leave me! Leave me!’ he screamed, thrashing in sorrow. ‘You cowards! Stand and fight! Stand and fight!’

We threw him down hard into the dirt beyond the tent’s flap. It did little to dampen his rage, and instantly he sprang to his feet and rushed at the tent’s opening. Titus stepped forward and drove a huge fist into the side of his head, felling him like a tree. Then, as the man hit the ground, our section commander rained kicks on his prone form. Finally, the soldier was dragged to lie face down in the slippery filth, a warning to others.

Re-entering the tent, Titus saw the faces of young Micon and Cnaeus filled with terror. The section commander’s blood boiled over at the sight of their naivety.

‘This is a fucking war,’ he snarled, stabbing his finger at the dying men. ‘This is it. This is what you signed up for. Are you enjoying it?’

The boy soldiers had no answer for him. What man did?

‘Out!’ he bellowed. ‘All of you, out!’

We complied with haste, the rain pelting our faces as we stood in the darkness, thankful to be away from the condemned. No one spoke, no one dared make a sound, and so I do not imagine I was the only one to hear Titus’s sword slide clear of its sheath, or hear it puncture flesh, or hear the wet sucking sound as it was pulled free from its victims.

It was a few minutes before Titus rejoined us. When he finally did leave the tent, his eyes were as sunken and dark as a mine shaft. If it were possible for a man to age years in mere moments, then he had done so.

No one could meet his eye. Still no one spoke. Knowing that the horrors were far from over, we merely followed.

Dawn was a few hours away. The century’s rotation at guard duty had come again. During the interceding hours between the hospital ward and the camp’s ramparts, no man had spoken, eaten or slept. Instead, the soldiers of the section sat and considered their own fates. Now even Micon and Cnaeus carried the thousand-yard stare of a veteran, their sight fixed on nothing, yet taking in everything.

So deep in misery were we that not even the chilled rains or thundering winds could disturb our dark thoughts. I was picturing my own death, choking away my life on a cross, when I caught sight of movement in my peripheral vision.

Pavo.