The Lone Danger
New member
Merry Christmas everyone. This is the first story I've posted on this forum. It really has nothing to do with Narnia but I wanted to see what people thought and decided this was as good a place as any to post it. Please tell me what you think. Have a blessed holiday!
To the soldiers of the faith who have, in times past and even now, held their ground against the enemy of our souls, lives and liberty. Who have loved not their own life even unto death.
Especially to David and June Walker: true soldiers, true heroes.
It is very hard to explain to someone familiar only with the southern climates, what an arctic night is like. It is impossible to convey the feeling of total helplessness one feels in the face of unbridled nature in those cold hours of absolute darkness; the unnervingly still air that seems to be breaking into shards from the cold, the ice mist that forms strictly in temperature below negative forty. You feel as though the sky had been torn away and the air had been sucked out into space and all that was left in the empty and cold world was frozen solid.
A solitary figure finds himself longing to be anywhere but in this open empty world and a feeling of surreal dread begins to creep over you. Your breath comes out in thick white clouds and forms ice cycles on your brows and eye-lashes, if you blink too slowly your eyes may freeze shut. It is hard also to judge what is more comfortless to the soul: the utter darkness that shrouds the earth for 16 hours or the pale heatless light of a seemingly dieing sun that does nothing to warm and whose arc across the sky is so shallow, whose light is so weak that is seems to be declaring the conquest of darkness and retreating before the vanguard of night.
Such are the pale and cheerless days; the dark and fierce and deadly nights of the far north. But as unlikely as it may seem to the Western mind, born and bred in climates mild and tame, there are whole peoples, nations and cities of nations who have known no other home and who fear and love the land they dwell in. Such are the Russians. Such is their land.
Private John Isaac Barfield had no need to pontificate on the matter of the cold darkness we have just been describing. Stationed with the 339th Infantry in Arkhangelsk, northern Russia, John had ample opportunity to become acquainted first hand with the frozen reality. He had spent his fare share of time in the trenches of Europe and had hoped that the sudden movement of his regiment meant a soon return home to Michigan. But his hopes, as well as the hopes of many in his company, were soon replaced with foreboding and even terror as they gained word of their real destination. Unbeknownst to the majority of the American people, and to be largely forgotten in the Annals of time, some five thousand American boys were hurriedly whisked from the battlefields of Europe and sent to fight the Bolsheviks in Russia.
On this particular evening Private Barfield was on guard duty. He trudged slowly through the snow, his long winter coat dragging on the drifts. The night was colder than anything he had ever experienced before. Cold and still as death itself. The few stars that shone in the black sky seemed to be so far away and the lonely soldier hardly ever glanced above at them.
His steps crushed the brittle snow that had fallen days before. It reminded him more of dried flour than snow. It was like white dust. It didn’t stick, didn’t pack and wouldn’t roll. What good was there in having a whole world of snow if it was all frozen dry so you couldn’t even make a snow ball? Where was the fun in that?
The whole expedition seemed like that. Pointless, so much like snow you couldn’t pack. The regiment had been sent to guard an important port but the port was frozen so solid that the soldiers hadn’t gotten regular mail in what seemed like ages. They were supposed to have kept valuable stockpiles of provisions from falling into the hands of the Bolsheviks but the handful of soldiers trusted with this impressive task were themselves undersupplied and ill equipped and the stockpiles were dwindling dangerously low by the day. And here he was, John from Michigan and God knows what point it served that he was mixed into all this and doing guard duty on Christmas eve to boot.
The young man of twenty kicked the snow in frustration. It was so dark and cold. The snow squeaked and crunched under his boots. It seemed as though just yesterday he had been at home with his mother and father and brothers and sisters. And they had always had a nice Christmas tree and Mom would always make home made candy and apple cider. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for even a small cup of hot cider. There would be no turkey or goose for Christmas dinner today, though. British hard tack maybe, and it was really hard. Some of the boys ground it up and added hot water to make a gruel. The very thought of it made John’s stomach turn unpleasantly. He would have settled for just a small piece of ham tonight!
Last week a private from his company had committed suicide. The conditions had just gotten to him. No mail, no word from home, the Bolshevik snipers and the constant numbing question: why are we here. The only answer that came was silence. Silent empty words as cold and lifeless as the world around him now.
John had enlisted as a volunteer because he wanted to change the world. He had a vision of a band of brothers in arms standing together against the evil powers in the world, and overcoming them victoriously. But the slaughter in Europe had not been in his vision. The endless flat lands surrounding the frozen port of Arkhangelsk hadn’t been there either. The reason was that neither seemed to have changed or to be affecting anything. The vision had been of change but the reality screamed of a world going on forever as it always had gone. A monotoneous machine grinding to dust the efforts of men who would dare challenge it. It was a distressing new vision.
The soldier clapped his hands together, feeling for sure that the gloves he wore were meant for far warmer climates. He shoved his hands back into the deep pockets of his large coat and tried shrugging deeper into its voluminous folds. Why did all the preachers talk about hell as being full of fire. It might as well be full of ice. John smiled ironically to himself as he imagined the preacher in his home church calling out to his congregation to escape the icey lake of hell! It didn’t seem to have the same force unless you’d done guard duty in an icey hell before.
His thoughts suddenly took a new and not unwanted turn. He saw the face of his younger sister Molly, her curly brown hair falling around her ears. The memory became painful as he remembered her smile as she presented him with a blanket she had knitted from wool yarn.
“Take it with you to the army, I made it to keep you warm, to remind you of home.” She had said it with such deep fealt love, with such expectation. The blanket never made it into his bag. It remained folded in a chest with his belongings at hom. John had thought that the white and green and blue stripes would have looked funny amoung the millitary apparrell he would soon be donning. He didn’t want to be thought of as a “Mama’s” boy. He had a lot of respect to gain from his new to be band of brothers. He had left that parting gift at home because… Well, because he was stupid. Molly had spent countless hours knitting the balanket and he had just turned his back, as it were, on the gift. He had said that he didn’t want it to get lost, or messed up in the army, but in the end he felt badly that he hadn’t taken the gift.
And that hadn’t been the first gift he’d received from Molly. She was always giving him things, little things she thought he would enjoy. And he did to be sure. But the thought that troubled him now was the lack of any memory of his that he had done something, anything, really important for her. She had always looked up to him and he had forgotten to give her a birthday present. He had seen a nice dress in France that he thought she’d like and had even meant to go and buy it that evening, but a game of cards came up and he’d forgotten.
John felt sorry that he had not been closer to the younger sister that loved him. He loved her too but had his love been more than words? He wanted to buy her a gift, to bring her home something this Christmas, to tell her he loved her. He shuddered inwardly at the thought that he might not ever see her again.
It seemed ridiculous how one could come half way around the planet chasing the idea of a better world and end up regretting that you hadn’t been more attentive to your younger sister. Is it really necessary to put people into such adverse situations to get them to think about such basic things? John shrugged into his coat again, readjusting the rifle on his shoulder and stomping his feet in the snow. Maybe it was the only way.
This thought made him feel sad in a numbing sort of heart wrenching way so he began to pace in the drifts a little more aggressively, stomping his feet and choking on the heavy frozen air. The thought came to him again of the pointlessness of this whole campaign, the pointless loss of life, the pointless suffering, his pointless involvement in it all. It was like a shot in the dark. Aimed at nothing definite and achieving nothing as well. He clapped his hands again. It was very cold and very dark.
A Walk in the Dark
A Christmas Story
Based on the Experiences of the 339th US Infantry Division during
the winter of 1918 on duty in Russia.By The Lone Danger
A Christmas Story
Based on the Experiences of the 339th US Infantry Division during
the winter of 1918 on duty in Russia.By The Lone Danger
To the soldiers of the faith who have, in times past and even now, held their ground against the enemy of our souls, lives and liberty. Who have loved not their own life even unto death.
Especially to David and June Walker: true soldiers, true heroes.
It is very hard to explain to someone familiar only with the southern climates, what an arctic night is like. It is impossible to convey the feeling of total helplessness one feels in the face of unbridled nature in those cold hours of absolute darkness; the unnervingly still air that seems to be breaking into shards from the cold, the ice mist that forms strictly in temperature below negative forty. You feel as though the sky had been torn away and the air had been sucked out into space and all that was left in the empty and cold world was frozen solid.
A solitary figure finds himself longing to be anywhere but in this open empty world and a feeling of surreal dread begins to creep over you. Your breath comes out in thick white clouds and forms ice cycles on your brows and eye-lashes, if you blink too slowly your eyes may freeze shut. It is hard also to judge what is more comfortless to the soul: the utter darkness that shrouds the earth for 16 hours or the pale heatless light of a seemingly dieing sun that does nothing to warm and whose arc across the sky is so shallow, whose light is so weak that is seems to be declaring the conquest of darkness and retreating before the vanguard of night.
Such are the pale and cheerless days; the dark and fierce and deadly nights of the far north. But as unlikely as it may seem to the Western mind, born and bred in climates mild and tame, there are whole peoples, nations and cities of nations who have known no other home and who fear and love the land they dwell in. Such are the Russians. Such is their land.
Private John Isaac Barfield had no need to pontificate on the matter of the cold darkness we have just been describing. Stationed with the 339th Infantry in Arkhangelsk, northern Russia, John had ample opportunity to become acquainted first hand with the frozen reality. He had spent his fare share of time in the trenches of Europe and had hoped that the sudden movement of his regiment meant a soon return home to Michigan. But his hopes, as well as the hopes of many in his company, were soon replaced with foreboding and even terror as they gained word of their real destination. Unbeknownst to the majority of the American people, and to be largely forgotten in the Annals of time, some five thousand American boys were hurriedly whisked from the battlefields of Europe and sent to fight the Bolsheviks in Russia.
On this particular evening Private Barfield was on guard duty. He trudged slowly through the snow, his long winter coat dragging on the drifts. The night was colder than anything he had ever experienced before. Cold and still as death itself. The few stars that shone in the black sky seemed to be so far away and the lonely soldier hardly ever glanced above at them.
His steps crushed the brittle snow that had fallen days before. It reminded him more of dried flour than snow. It was like white dust. It didn’t stick, didn’t pack and wouldn’t roll. What good was there in having a whole world of snow if it was all frozen dry so you couldn’t even make a snow ball? Where was the fun in that?
The whole expedition seemed like that. Pointless, so much like snow you couldn’t pack. The regiment had been sent to guard an important port but the port was frozen so solid that the soldiers hadn’t gotten regular mail in what seemed like ages. They were supposed to have kept valuable stockpiles of provisions from falling into the hands of the Bolsheviks but the handful of soldiers trusted with this impressive task were themselves undersupplied and ill equipped and the stockpiles were dwindling dangerously low by the day. And here he was, John from Michigan and God knows what point it served that he was mixed into all this and doing guard duty on Christmas eve to boot.
The young man of twenty kicked the snow in frustration. It was so dark and cold. The snow squeaked and crunched under his boots. It seemed as though just yesterday he had been at home with his mother and father and brothers and sisters. And they had always had a nice Christmas tree and Mom would always make home made candy and apple cider. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for even a small cup of hot cider. There would be no turkey or goose for Christmas dinner today, though. British hard tack maybe, and it was really hard. Some of the boys ground it up and added hot water to make a gruel. The very thought of it made John’s stomach turn unpleasantly. He would have settled for just a small piece of ham tonight!
Last week a private from his company had committed suicide. The conditions had just gotten to him. No mail, no word from home, the Bolshevik snipers and the constant numbing question: why are we here. The only answer that came was silence. Silent empty words as cold and lifeless as the world around him now.
John had enlisted as a volunteer because he wanted to change the world. He had a vision of a band of brothers in arms standing together against the evil powers in the world, and overcoming them victoriously. But the slaughter in Europe had not been in his vision. The endless flat lands surrounding the frozen port of Arkhangelsk hadn’t been there either. The reason was that neither seemed to have changed or to be affecting anything. The vision had been of change but the reality screamed of a world going on forever as it always had gone. A monotoneous machine grinding to dust the efforts of men who would dare challenge it. It was a distressing new vision.
The soldier clapped his hands together, feeling for sure that the gloves he wore were meant for far warmer climates. He shoved his hands back into the deep pockets of his large coat and tried shrugging deeper into its voluminous folds. Why did all the preachers talk about hell as being full of fire. It might as well be full of ice. John smiled ironically to himself as he imagined the preacher in his home church calling out to his congregation to escape the icey lake of hell! It didn’t seem to have the same force unless you’d done guard duty in an icey hell before.
His thoughts suddenly took a new and not unwanted turn. He saw the face of his younger sister Molly, her curly brown hair falling around her ears. The memory became painful as he remembered her smile as she presented him with a blanket she had knitted from wool yarn.
“Take it with you to the army, I made it to keep you warm, to remind you of home.” She had said it with such deep fealt love, with such expectation. The blanket never made it into his bag. It remained folded in a chest with his belongings at hom. John had thought that the white and green and blue stripes would have looked funny amoung the millitary apparrell he would soon be donning. He didn’t want to be thought of as a “Mama’s” boy. He had a lot of respect to gain from his new to be band of brothers. He had left that parting gift at home because… Well, because he was stupid. Molly had spent countless hours knitting the balanket and he had just turned his back, as it were, on the gift. He had said that he didn’t want it to get lost, or messed up in the army, but in the end he felt badly that he hadn’t taken the gift.
And that hadn’t been the first gift he’d received from Molly. She was always giving him things, little things she thought he would enjoy. And he did to be sure. But the thought that troubled him now was the lack of any memory of his that he had done something, anything, really important for her. She had always looked up to him and he had forgotten to give her a birthday present. He had seen a nice dress in France that he thought she’d like and had even meant to go and buy it that evening, but a game of cards came up and he’d forgotten.
John felt sorry that he had not been closer to the younger sister that loved him. He loved her too but had his love been more than words? He wanted to buy her a gift, to bring her home something this Christmas, to tell her he loved her. He shuddered inwardly at the thought that he might not ever see her again.
It seemed ridiculous how one could come half way around the planet chasing the idea of a better world and end up regretting that you hadn’t been more attentive to your younger sister. Is it really necessary to put people into such adverse situations to get them to think about such basic things? John shrugged into his coat again, readjusting the rifle on his shoulder and stomping his feet in the snow. Maybe it was the only way.
This thought made him feel sad in a numbing sort of heart wrenching way so he began to pace in the drifts a little more aggressively, stomping his feet and choking on the heavy frozen air. The thought came to him again of the pointlessness of this whole campaign, the pointless loss of life, the pointless suffering, his pointless involvement in it all. It was like a shot in the dark. Aimed at nothing definite and achieving nothing as well. He clapped his hands again. It was very cold and very dark.
