Reverse: 1999 story · Event stories
Fuga a 3 Soggetti
8 scenes, 778 lines
1. Exhaustion
101 linesThe cannon fire fades as the poison gas dissipates. They rise from the trenches, these men, not yet dead, but not quite alive.
They brush away the cinders and smoke and look out upon the world once more.
That rookie's still in shock.
Hmm ...?
Looks like you haven't snapped out of it either ... Still can't tell if you're just slow or off in your own little world.
Watch your step. Fall into a shell hole and you'll regret it fast.
... Not that you need the reminder. We've been through this palaver before.
As he talks, the soldier snaps off the lower half of his comrade's dog tag before carefully lowering the helmet over his face.
He removed his mask, even with gas hanging heavy in the shelter.
Typical rookie mistake.
Better not to trust your gut to tell you what's safe and what's not when you're so green.
They want the cursed gas gone so badly that they lie to themselves and just pull the things off before it's gone. Now look at them—can hardly recognize the Frontschweine.
Charon takes a moment to study the shadow clouding his vision.
Misery lies heavy on you.
Ha! If I could still feel misery, do you think I'd be standing here right now?
... In the trenches, feelings fade until only the will to endure remains.
Will you say a prayer for him?
Isn't that your job?
There is no faith in me, but if a prayer can ease their pain, one will be offered.
Alright, alright. You go check on the poor bastards over there. This kid's from my hometown. I'll take care of him.
The soldier straightens up before his fallen townsman, as if trying to shake off his informal demeanor.
Charon studies him a moment longer, then turns and rolls his makeshift cart forward.
Heh ... Charon, wherever death goes, you follow right behind.
The bags of dog tags in their hands jingle as the soldiers give him terse nods.
Franz must be cut up. That boy ... he was his teacher's kid—like a younger brother to him.
He trained those rookies every damn day. Taught them how to spot the whistle of a shell, how to time a grenade to the second ...
When fear knocks on the door ... training often disappears.
Well, he did his best. That's all any of us can do.
Charon says no more. With the tag removed, he turns to examine the fallen soldier's barely attached arm.
The soldiers move the body in the same way they always do, by the head and feet, up then down. The cart creaks beneath the weight.
Shoot ... another goodbye.
The soldiers curse and grumble, but Charon's gaze remains fixed on the patch of mud ahead.
A crumpled triangle of black and white sticks out from the mud.
It quivers in the wind, like a fallen petal.
Charon?
I honestly still can't tell if he's daydreaming or just slow in the head.
Charon steps forward and slowly pulls it from the mud.
Hang on, what's this?
A world apart from all this—the mud, the smoke, the shelling, the suffering, and death.
A woman with neatly parted hair holds a bouquet of fresh cornflowers in her arms.
She smiles a tender smile, an unspoken longing hidden somewhere behind her eyes.
Oh? Who's this, then?
I bet she's his wife ... or, uh, maybe his sister? His mother?
Then where is her husband, her brother, or her son?
Might any of you know who this photograph once belonged to?
I can tell you right now, he's not from our company.
Then those elsewhere must be asked.
Charon opens his notebook and slides the photograph between its pages.
Unrest ripples through the nearby crowd.
Charon! Get over here and give us a hand!
We've got a wounded man and no way to move him. We need you, Charon! Get him to the field hospital!
A soldier pats Charon on the shoulder. He turns, quietly following Franz's summons.
Jawohl. He will be delivered.
The moment Charon crosses the field hospital's threshold, a pair of eyes locks on him.
Only once the nurses take the wounded soldier does the watcher step forward to speak.
You're Charon, Eberhard's officer. Is that right?
Yes, sir.
You're a curious sort, aren't you?
A man returns from death itself, then refuses honors and turns down the press bureau.
Did you come to the front just to ferry the wounded and bury the dead?
...
Not the talkative type, I see. Little wonder you turned down the press.
Officers of your rank generally disapprove of reluctance to work with the press bureau.
Hah! Not at all.
Stories of heroism, steel-hearted youths—this is the stuff that sends schoolboys off to die.
They marched off, grand images of Odysseus's voyage in their minds, only to find themselves cast in a tale far crueler than they could ever have conceived.
You follow your own form of heroism, regardless of what "we" stand for.
Some might call you strange, but me—I respect you. I'd like to understand you.
... You are mistaken, Herr Oberstleutnant. There is no ideology behind the actions of the dead.
Only exhaustion. That is all.
A moment passes in silence. The lieutenant colonel's gaze stretches outward, fixed on some unseen, unnamed horizon.
You're an honest man.
Lying simply serves me no purpose.
Four days from now, this field hospital will be packed up and sent to the rear. This is likely to become the front line.
When that time comes, many dead and wounded will be left behind.
They will be laid to rest with dignity.
You've grown accustomed to the helplessness of war, it seems—even to this kind of cruel abandonment.
There are no words, neither angered or reasoned, that can be said to change things.
Though brief, the conversation only adds to the burden weighing heavily on both their shoulders. After a pause, the lieutenant colonel quietly moves to depart.
I have duties to attend to. I believe we'll cross paths again.
Farewell, Herr Oberstleutnant.
Like a gear locking into place, Charon moves to his next task: retrieving the notebook he set down just ten minutes earlier.
With a step and a turn, he retraces his path to where the soldier was lifted onto the stretcher.
In his narrow field of view, he catches sight of his notebook cradled in a pair of trembling hands.
...!
Its holder looks up. Her expression holds no hint of remorse for handling something so personal.
Is this your notebook?
... It is.
This butterfly pattern is lovely. Do you collect butterflies?
...
Charon says nothing, but the woman doesn't seem to mind.
I've got these two friends I've known for almost twenty years—long enough that we can't even remember when we first met.
We lost our parents young, my brother and I, so those friends were the closest thing we had to family.
One of them became my fiancé—Walter was his name. He died on the battlefield.
The other loved collecting butterflies. Walter and I used to sit under the stairs at his house waiting for him to show us.
He'd bring out his specimens, face lit up like anything as he explained them to us. Those were the only times he seemed truly happy.
I'd been sure he died out there too ... but then I heard these ridiculous rumors that he'd come back to life.
She glances his way, her eyes a piercing blue.
I didn't believe it at the time. But now ... I suppose I have no choice.
... Partita.
Paul ... why didn't you come home?
2. From the Past
101 linesWhy won't you answer me?
I ... am still trying to understand the question.
What? Are you so shocked I became a field nurse? Can't even spit out a proper sentence?
Apologies ... it must be shock. It has been so long since ... I ... heard news of you or your brother.
My brother? His leg was torn up by a shell. They sent him to the rear hospital. He died right in front of me.
I ... I'm very sorry.
No need to apologize. You're a soldier too.
Why did you come to the front?
I want to know how Walter died.
... Searching for the cause of a man's death on the battlefield is meaningless.
No one should die without a reason.
Her words leave Charon silent. For a long moment, he struggles to find the right words.
How long you've spent here is not known to me, but it is clear you're a field nurse.
You ought to know that when faced with artillery, machine guns, and tanks, a man's life is brief and fragile. There is little worth in it.
Walter was struck by a shell—to know that much is a small mercy many are denied.
The words you spoke of Walter's death ... are merely a deflection. There was never meant to be an answer.
That's not true. You know I'm not that kind of person.
You're the one who always brushed us off, dodged the truth, pretended nothing was wrong ...
You're angry.
Why didn't you come home?
In such situations, even if there is no true answer, an answer must be found. Anything will do.
I ... no longer know how.
We need you, Paul. Whether you're the man we knew or whoever it is you are now.
Why won't you come home? Why won't you see your mother and sister?
Why didn't you come to see us after we lost Walter?
... Partita, it is not that there is no desire to give you an answer.
He died right in front of you. So tell me ... what kind of artillery did it?
You have read the notebook. You already know—
No, I don't. There's only the date he died in there.
Shellfire. That's all.
I saw the ripped pages. Why did you tear out the rest of it?
...
The light fades from her eyes. Then, a short, bitter laugh escapes her.
I've had enough, Paul.
I watched my brother take his own life right in front of me.
... Why?
Charon cannot fathom that a man who raised his sister would choose to take his own life.
Partita's eyes hold a bitter edge, yet perhaps it's herself she cannot forgive.
Once the wound got infected, it was like torture—he was just waiting for it to end.
I couldn't save him.
All have done what they could. It wasn't your fault.
A week after my brother died, you sent the letter saying Walter was gone. You mailed it to his house. I ran all the way there.
It was raining that day. I slipped. When I grabbed the letter, I thought the blood on it was Walter's. But it was mine.
... Partita.
Walter didn't die in front of me; I know that ... But, maybe that's why I ... I don't know ...
I went on and on, foolishly, ridiculously, trying to find out how he died.
And now, finally, I'm faced with the one person who knows what happened, and you just avoid me! It's my right to know, Paul!
Denial was not intended, nor was turning away.
You will find it, Partita, even in the wake of such loss. What you truly want to do, or ... what you were meant to do.
But I can't! I just can't!
In four days, this field hospital will be moved. The nurses will rotate.
You can return home. Walter and your brother would have wished for you to stay away from this conflict.
You were never meant to be part of this war.
Don't you see? We're all part of this war now! There's no escaping it!
Before I ever stood here, my life was shattered to pieces. My past AND my future!
Charon lacks the strength to bear her pain. It is all he can do to endure the weight of it.
In the silence, her expression shifts into a form of helpless irony.
None of this changes anything. We're just rearranging the rubble, that's all.
Go back to where they need you, Paul. I shouldn't be taking up so much of an officer's time.
I ... am sorry, Partita. Very sorry.
She simply turns and walks away.
Back in the trenches, Charon's work moves less smoothly than expected. It's as if a stone has slipped into the gears.
Even something as simple as checking for dog tags takes him longer than it used to.
Oi, Charon! What's with the slow hands today? Come on, let me show you how it's done.
... Sorry. Thank you.
That's the last of them. Guess that's our lot sorted for now.
Your graveyard's just a stone's throw from here, which means you don't have to rush off for once. Fancy a few rounds of Skat?
No ... there is no need for cards.
Oh, come on, Charon! Sit down and play a few hands with us.
Save some time for the living for once, will you? Come on!
... I will watch for a while.
Still looking for whoever's in that photograph?
Yes. It will not be an easy task, but the search must go on.
Franz knows half the trench line by name. He'll ask around for you, but only if you beat him fair and square.
Yeah! Go on, all you have to do is win a hand against him! Isn't that right, Franz?
Oh, give it a rest, you schemers! You're just after Charon's rations!
... Rations?
Well, you are out there day and night, scrounging around the battlefield like a proper rag-and-bone man!
The only purpose is to bury the dead with dignity.
Yeah, yeah, we know. But still, you've got to pick up all sorts of things, right? Cigarettes, bandages, parachute silk ...
That kind of stuff is more valuable to us than gold, Charon.
True. I'd swap a medal for a dry bandage and a smoke any day.
Keep it down, Franz—best not let the major hear that.
Ahh, Eberhard couldn't care less about that sort of thing.
As they chatter, Charon methodically pulls cigarettes from his coat and stacks them on the shooting bench.
Take them. No need for games.
Franz lets out a long, dramatic whistle.
Ah, the perks of having Charon among the Frontgemeinschaft.
There is hope that you will still help find who this photo belongs to.
Oh, no need for a trade, Charon. Of course we'll help you look.
That's right, we were just pulling your leg so you'd play cards with us for once.
Ah. Understood.
But the field hospital's getting moved in just four days. You know that, don't you?
Yes ... it is almost time you took your leave.
A rare smile flickers across Franz's face.
Yeah. I'll escort the evacuation team to the rear, then head back for my leave.
But before that, I'll do my best to help you track down who the photo belongs to.
Thank you.
And tomorrow, I'll find some time to help you bury the soldiers. No refusals, no thanks, alright?
... Thank you.
If I didn't know you better, I'd take that "thank you" as a challenge.
3. Delirium of the Dying
102 linesShovels rise and fall as dirt is flung over shoulders.
Soldiers, their eyes forever closed, wait off to the side.
A rare moment of peace. Is this truly how you wish to spend this time?
I'm not just doing this for you. Besides, I told you yesterday not to be so damn polite.
Apologies.
You've picked a nice spot for a cemetery.
Place hasn't been hit yet—still feels like summer.
The front may move in this direction soon enough.
True. The soldiers you've buried might end up blasted to bits in the shelling—or lying above the mud again.
Like ... what's that word again? Sloughs?
Yes, sloughs.
It doesn't matter. Once the shells stop falling, I will return and bury them again.
Then your work'll never be finished.
I don't mind.
Well, I'd rather spend my time thinking about how I'm going to swipe myself a roast goose.
... Many ask me why I continue this task, but never you.
There's nothing to ask, Charon. The rookies are banging their heads on the air raid shelter walls, and the veterans are scrounging for cigarettes.
Just living another day is good enough for me. Who cares about "why"?
... Indeed.
Charon stops. There's a woman in the distance making her way toward him, a medical bag under her arm.
The trees behind cast a shadow, hiding her face from him.
But some must search for meaning, or they cannot live.
Who's the Schwester?
Hello.
Tag, Fräulein. Do you know our Charon here?
Yes, Herr Schreyer.
The unexpected address causes Franz to rub his chin. Partita turns her gaze to Charon.
I'll be helping you bury the soldiers.
It is too dangerous. The field hospital withdrawal is certain to keep you busy enough.
Lieutenant Colonel Wolker gave me permission. You've got a habit of digging up men who are somehow still alive, it seems.
You can't argue with that.
Charon lowers his head and returns to his task in silence.
You were never good at lying. That's why you won't even talk about Walter.
Why won't you tell me?
It was shellfire. Dust flew everywhere, and then he was gone ... in the blink of an eye.
That's not the whole story. I know it.
Her conviction leaves Charon speechless.
First you dodge all my questions, and now you won't even say a word.
Fräulein, Charon's mind works a little slower than most. He might just be taking it all in still.
I see.
She sets down her medical bag and picks up a nearby shovel.
So, you're a man of action now, are you?
Visibly unsettled, Franz also chooses to remain silent.
Fine. Then, I'll keep shoveling right here with you until you tell me the truth.
There is no truth to tell.
Then it looks like there's nothing for us to talk about. Time to get back to it, action man.
As the grave takes shape, Partita makes her way to the cart, Franz following behind.
Together, they carefully lift one of the bodies.
A cough, faint and abrupt. The three of them glance at each other, and Partita looks toward the cart.
Wait, wait, wait ...
Among the many faces piled on the cart, Partita finds one with a little color in its cheeks and gently lifts an eyelid.
... Mein Gott! He's alive ... He's still alive!
Good grief ... I thought we'd checked them all!
She rushes to her medical bag.
Quick, move the bodies off him!
Be careful, Franz. He might have broken bones.
Paul! Don't just stand there! Help us!
Lines from the journal's first pages surface in his mind.
The injured soldier who cheated death has been seen to.
Charon stands, still and silent among the beds and stretchers. The cries of the wounded surround him.
Partita vanishes behind a screen, hard at work. Franz motions for Charon to move along.
Charon averts his gaze from the mangled limbs, nods to Franz, and makes to leave.
Paul!
A haggard hand brushes his coat, then falls back, powerless.
What?
Paul ... Gott im Himmel, finally, someone I know.
Where's Willi? Go fetch him, quick ... He doesn't know I'm in the field hospital.
The soldier's words crackle from his dry throat. His dog tag reads "Fabien."
You are Fabien?
Come on, Paul, I'm not already some nameless patient to you, am I?
Deprived too long of familiar company, Fabien has grown talkative—to an oddly feverish degree.
Never mind. Anna will remember me no matter what. I just have to get my discharge, and then we'll go home together.
Anna promised she'd make me a wreath of Ginster when we saw each other again ...
Who is it you're looking for?
Anna! I want to see Anna—I'll write to her, and she'll come for me. I know she will.
There was another. Your comrade from the front, perhaps.
I just want to see Anna.
As Charon tries to make sense of his rambling, a doctor walking by shoots him a look.
Best not to take what he says too seriously.
Why?
He rambles like that every day. Wound's not looking good, either.
What happened to him?
Lost a leg.
You think I can't hear you whispering about me, Doctor! Stop talking rubbish!
Paul, don't believe him—he's just grouchy 'cause I won't call him "Herr."
He spoke no ill of you, Fabien—simply discussed today's lunch options.
Fabien drops his gaze, muttering something under his breath. Charon turns and lowers his voice.
Will he live?
The doctor, seemingly irritated with his own misplaced concern, lowers his gaze to the medical file.
It's hard to say. Three days from now, we'll be evacuated to the rear. He'll receive better treatment then.
But if his condition worsens before then, we'll have to leave him behind.
Leave him—with some painkillers.
Yes. We're all preparing to evacuate. Frankly, I doubt he'll last that long.
...
... Perhaps it's cold of me to say, but death's just part of the routine here. One bed empties, another fills, and the dog tags pile up like cigarette butts.
... Understood.
The doctor gestures to Fabien with his clipboard.
You can see him off, though I imagine you do that for everyone left behind, yes?
Fabien's murmuring begins to fade, then he gasps for breath, like he's choking back a sob.
Yes.
4. Endurance
83 linesThe night shift has ended, and a wooden plank on the cart has just cracked.
... A new plank must be located.
Remembering Partita is resting in a nearby tent, he slows his steps as he quietly searches for wood in the dark.
This isn't a trench locked in brutal conflict with the enemy.
Soldiers are unlikely to wander here. This silence is just that—silence.
A faint sob gently echoes over.
Then another, and another, the sounds stringing together into a long, fragile cord.
... Partita.
He stands for a long time in the damp twilight.
"She only cries when no one can hear."
He sets the plank down, and, with the lantern in his hand, takes a seat in front of the tent.
Her sobs grow uncontrollable, like a wounded animal.
Words from the notebook return to him. Charon carefully opens its pages.
Fabien ... he looked after all of us back then.
Charon turns the page—to the photo he tucked in there.
Amidst Partita's echoing grief, the woman in the photo smiles on.
To whose world does this photo belong?
It's been a while, Paul.
It's been only four days ... but for a major, four days is not a short time.
Eberhard smiles.
Yet it took less than that for you to get all tangled up in this Partita drama. Franz told me everything.
It is a problem indeed, but not quite so simple.
She joined to find the truth about Walter's death, and somehow chance brought her to the right place.
You don't think she's a witch, do you?
Likely not. A coincidence, nothing more.
His joke meets a painfully literal answer.
If the soldiers knew the truth, they would likely start a ruckus and end up with disciplinary charges for it.
Worst case, they'd launch an ambush and maybe even end up with blood on their hands.
But Partita isn't a soldier. She hasn't seen the true depth of human brutality.
Yet she endures all that comes with war.
Eberhard stays silent, waiting for Charon to speak again.
Soldiers endure it too. Brutality is a means of survival ... and of release.
She moves among the dead and dying, saving those who suffer.
She even sleeps in the woods near the front, though sleep never truly comes.
She endures fear. Endures pain. Endures rage, war ... and death.
She's no different than a soldier.
Eberhard's face tightens. He looks away.
Is it ... bad? Partita's situation?
"Bad" may not be the word ... "unhealthy," perhaps.
Then I'm afraid I have worse news.
What?
She applied for a pistol.
...
...
Did you approve it?
It wasn't mine to approve. Lieutenant Colonel Wolker did it.
A field nurse who buries soldiers alongside Charon requests a pistol for protection. Who would say no to that?
Even without approval, it's not hard to find a weapon at the front.
Imagine if she were forced to scavenge one and ended up with a misfiring gun ...
Then it is best to give her one.
I think so.
But even a pistol requires training.
And even with a weapon in hand, not everyone has the conviction to pull the trigger.
That's the other piece of bad news.
... What?
She completed recruit training before she arrived. Word is, she's a natural shot.
That's why her request was approved so quickly.
... She came prepared.
That she did.
You still have two days until the field hospital moves out. Time enough to persuade her before the nurses rotate.
All that might have changed her mind are dead.
The hems of their coats rise and fall with the wind, as if heaving slow, heavy breaths.
I know.
They died in war. Died in memory.
Died in the fading of every spark. Died in every stirring of dust.
You three were like peas in a pod back then. Though, you weren't quite so affable as you are now, and Partita had an impatient streak, that's for sure.
Walter was the glue that held you together, really. He got along well with the both of you.
...
Whatever the case, you're the only one she might still listen to.
Because you're Paul.
It will not be easy.
Well, you can't expect me to do it. I already got one beating from Partita back in school; I'm not looking to get another.
Oh, about that photo, the one with the woman holding cornflowers—Franz has been asking around about it.
Yes. I ... have been trying to identify her.
Well, I think I might have a better shot at finding out than you.
Alright. Thank you.
Anything else I can help with?
There is nothing. I saw Fabien at the field hospital. He is clinging to life.
I don't think I know him ... An old friend?
Yes.
Stay with him while you can.
Eberhard catches a faint shift in Charon's cloak. It seems as though he is nodding.
It will be done.
5. Fallen Dragonfly
103 linesFabien?
The emaciated young man on the bed lifts his eyelids.
... Oh! Paul, it's you!
Yes, it's ... me. My apologies, it was not my intent to wake you.
No, no! It's so good to see you, Paul. It's been lonely here, waiting for so long.
The doctors and nurses are busy. It took some time to find your new location.
Them? Hah! They wouldn't do anything even if we howled the place down.
Are we just chunks of meat, waiting to be graded? Old bandages to be tossed aside?
The people we wait for, the people we love who are waiting for us—no one gives a damn about them.
The doctors can only do so much.
I know. At least ... I've held on long enough to see you ... and Anna.
Anna ... she came?
Yeah, she was here. The Ginster was withered, but she promised she'd come back with fresh flowers.
A troubled look suddenly shadows his face. After a pause, he speaks his doubts aloud.
But the doctors say she never came ... I could've sworn I saw the Ginster.
The little clusters of gold ... Anna placed them on my head and left. Why didn't she say goodbye?
Was it because the doctors took my leg?
No, that is not the reason.
But they keep saying I'm mad ... that no one's waiting, that no one misses me, no one's looking for me ...
So ... maybe Anna didn't come. Maybe she isn't even real at all. I can't stop thinking about it ... It's like my head's splitting in two.
But I can't stop. It's like I'm not in control of my thoughts anymore—like someone's trying to take over my body.
It's horrible, Paul, pure horror! I've become one of those madmen we used to joke about! Even my own memories are playing tricks on me!
You're not mad. But you must let your body heal.
Fabien's lips tremble.
This is worse than death, Paul!
Charon grips the hand Fabien has lifted toward him. Fabien strains to turn his neck to look at him.
His eyes flicker, turning cold and empty.
A chilling premonition creeps up the back of Charon's neck.
... Who are you?
I'm Paul, Fabien.
No.
Slowly but firmly, Fabien pulls his hand away.
You're not Paul. Paul doesn't talk like that.
For a moment, Charon feels as though he sees a crack at the edge of his vision, but when he blinks, it's gone.
Fabien?
Paul would never say the things you do. He was just a schoolboy—a kid fresh on the battlefield, thrust into this hell.
No, you're not Paul at all ... but why aren't you Paul?
... There's no Paul ... Then, what about Anna?
No one came for me, did they? No one at all.
Why are you hiding your face, huh? Why are you pretending to be Paul?
There is no pretending, Fabien ... I ... really am Paul.
His feeble words fall upon deaf ears.
Paul didn't come. Anna didn't come. No one came. They want me to die here alone, all of them ...
He sinks back onto the bed, his voice becoming a broken murmur as he surrenders himself to his fate.
But you came—whoever it is you are. You didn't call me mad ... You didn't tell me Anna isn't real.
And your words are kind ... Why? Why would you be so kind to a stranger? A dead man?
I do not believe us to be strangers, Fabien. You're not alone.
Yes, I am. Day and night I waited, but no one came. I've been alone all this time, and I'll die alone, too.
No prayers, no one at my side, just worms ready to wriggle into my body and eat me from the inside out.
No, Fabien. If the end finds you, I ... will be with you when it comes.
... What? Even though we're strangers?
Charon tightens his grip on the corner of his notebook.
When the dead are buried, no prayers leave my lips.
Death is simply the end of life. Prayers are not necessary.
But if it comforts you, if, in your final moments, you need a prayer to be uttered by your side ...
I ... will try to give you the blessing you wish for.
I heard your conversation.
Realizing she means the words exchanged beside Fabien's bed, Charon gives a faint nod.
Ah.
The field hospital's moving back tomorrow. He might survive long enough to get proper treatment back in the rear.
Her gaze is hollow, like she's looking straight through Charon to someone who isn't there.
You've got something to say to me, haven't you?
Everything hinges on tomorrow. Now is "Paul's" final chance to persuade Partita to leave the front.
Charon knows the one thing that might change her mind, but he hasn't had the courage to face it.
But now, the words must be shaped and spoken, clearly and directly.
... A deal. Let's make a deal. You're a person who honors her promises.
I will tell you the truth about Walter's death, and when the hospital withdraws tomorrow, you will return home.
Promises still mean something to you, don't they?
For a moment, time seems to freeze. Then, it steadily ticks on. She studies Charon.
If you can't even trust me, then who can you trust?
Do you accept? A promise, like when we were children. One you would never break.
A truth too bitter for him to utter. He fears what Partita will do once he tells her.
Alright, it's a deal. I won't break it, I promise.
She senses what's coming but gives nothing away.
Charon clenches his fists, as if summoning the strength to force the words out.
Walter died of friendly fire.
There's a visible crack in her expression.
Who? Why?
A mistake. The intelligence was delayed and flawed. There was no choice but to call in a strike.
I asked who. Who gave the order?
You swore to keep your word.
I know. Now tell me.
You said you could be trusted.
I said yes, alright?! Now stop dragging this out and tell me who gave the order!
It's the height of summer, yet the air hanging between them is cold.
Lieutenant Colonel Wolker.
The frost descends.
Friendly fire is a common pain of war. Sometimes, it is unavoidable.
I don't need you to explain that to me.
She stiffly turns her gaze away.
Charon tries to read her face, but all he sees is a brittle coldness.
Do you still dream, Paul?
No. Since coming to the front, I stopped dreaming of things that cannot be.
I do. I dream of Walter—every single night.
I dream of the pond we used to play at when we were twelve. Walter waits there, hoping to catch a dragonfly for me.
I shout with all my strength, telling him to stop waiting, that the dragonfly will never come. But he can't hear me.
So he keeps waiting, and I keep shouting, until I wake up with tears on my face.
Then night comes, and I dream it all over again.
Maybe he's waiting for me to find him ... or maybe he wants me to get justice for what happened.
In war, justice is always the first casualty.
Bullets find their mark, lives end. It is inevitable.
A long silence passes. When she speaks again, her voice is weary.
I need time to think about all of this.
6. Dead Man Walking
102 linesI suppose you're Charon, right?
Yes.
Major Braun said you found a photo—a woman holding a bouquet of cornflowers?
Indeed. Is it yours?
No, it belongs to my friend, Fabien.
... Fabien?
Charon opens his notebook and takes the photo tucked inside.
Then this woman ...
That's Anna, Fabien's wife.
A narrow silver streak stretches across the sky.
Anna is real. Fabien isn't delusional.
Of course. I only just found out Fabien's in the hospital.
His condition is weak, his will lost. He simply waits for death to take him.
The soldier before him points to the photo in his hand.
Give him the photo. Tell him Anna's waiting for him at home.
The soldier gives a confident smile.
That kid knocked out two thugs at fifteen for that girl, knocked on her door with a broken hand ...
Then stood there, black and blue, and told her no one would ever lay a hand on her again.
Understood. This must be delivered to him.
Just as Charon prepares to leave, a distant shout draws his attention.
Through the swirling fog, he makes out the shapes of soldiers rushing his way.
Charon! Charon!
Quick, can you go and get Franz?
S**t, Charon's slow to react—what would he do if he ran into the enemy out there?
Maybe we should just wait for Franz to find his own way back ...
He's been gone a day and a half! That's long enough to count him missing!
Where has he gone?
He heard the photo belonged to someone named Fabien, one of the boys who went missing in the southwest woods a week ago.
That's right—Fabien disappeared around there.
Franz went looking for him. Said he wanted to see if he could find any clues.
He's heading home on leave tomorrow—that's why he's gone rushing off.
That place is hot as anything. Enemy scouts moved in a few days ago—we've already had a few skirmishes there.
Damn rats dug in deep. We haven't been able to flush them out.
I will go.
Really? You mean it?
Why do you think we call him Charon? He walks the front every day burying the dead and hasn't suffered so much as a scratch.
Makes sense. It's not like the ferryman of the dead should be able to die himself.
I will try to bring him back.
Charon traces a fresh path. The silence feels heavy, as though something is about to pounce.
The acrid air reeks of gunpowder, and the trampled brush before him speaks of a chase—or a fight.
But Charon is not afraid. He walks on, the rustling leaves the only sound amid the stillness.
Step by step, he moves forward until he reaches a charred oak—
A pair of arms hooks his shoulders and drags him hard behind a tree.
Shhh! It's me!
His voice is low, but his anger is unmistakable.
Verdammt! You want a bullet through your skull?! We're pulling out tomorrow—I'm not bagging up what's left of you before I go!
It would be a great misery burying you too, Franz.
The owner of the photograph has been found. It's time to return.
You think I'm out here for the scenery? These woods are crawling with scouts.
A bullet scrapes bark and tears through the edge of Charon's coat.
Hmph.
We should have remained silent.
They tracked you, waiting for you to flush me out for them. What happened—have you forgotten how to duck or something?
A single bullet is all it takes to expose the extent of human fragility.
Charon can't comprehend it. Shouldn't Franz's first instinct be to duck and hide when staring death in the face?
Charon!
A bullet comes from the flank, heading straight for Charon.
Franz sees it instantaneously. He tackles Charon into the brush, then rolls clear.
Franz?
Urgh! Verdammt nochmal!
Blood splashes onto the grass. Charon presses his palms against the wound on Franz's back.
You're hurt, Franz.
Why risk your life for a soldier who is no longer a soldier?
Franz ignores his wound, instead shouting in a language not his own.
Priest! This man is a priest! Don't shoot—he's innocent!
The only answer is another bullet. It misses, but barely.
S**t!
Allow me.
What the hell are you talking about?
Ignoring Franz, Charon stands and takes the bullet.
Franz stares wide-eyed as it hits the tree behind them.
He turns to Charon to find a clean bullet hole torn through his coat. The bullet went right through him.
What ... what are you?
A hollow. The soldier realizes—beneath all that fabric lies nothing but emptiness.
Their priest is not even of flesh and blood.
Charon—you!
Charon has already spotted the enemy hidden among the trees.
Caught between disbelief and dread, the enemy falters.
He fires again and again, but all that comes of it are more holes in a coat.
Leave. You cannot kill what is not alive.
After a beat of silence, the enemy turns and flees.
Charon reaches for the bandages in his coat, but Franz stands and steps back.
You can't die ... can you?
His voice is colder than ever.
No, neither living nor dead, this vessel endures without pain, but it can be destroyed.
That's not what I mean. Mein Gott, your sluggishness makes my skin crawl.
Apologies, Franz, for the injury.
Charon, we've been through enough in this damned hell together, haven't we?
I respected you, so I didn't ask why you wrapped yourself up like some madman.
Why the hell didn't you say something? You wanted me to die for nothing? Or just to laugh at me for trying to save you?
No. That was not my intention.
It is difficult for ... me ... to understand what I have become.
Understand what you've become? You read too many books, or just lost your mind?
What does "understanding yourself" have to do with any of this?
I trusted you, Charon. I thought we were brothers-in-arms!
Franz—
ENOUGH!
I have nothing else to say to you.
Thankfully, the bullet barely scraped Franz. He lifts his rifle and walks away alone.
Charon stands in the undergrowth, his hand slowly dropping from his pocket.
7. Burned to Ashes
105 linesYou and Franz had a fight?
He was wounded. I brought him back.
He avoids answering the question.
Partita opens her mouth, but her face quickly darkens. Charon turns his head.
These past few days been treating you well? You'll be busy tomorrow when the hospital clears out.
Guten Tag, Herr Oberstleutnant. May it pass without incident.
Even Charon, often criticized for his slowness, senses something unusual.
You are unarmed?
Not every day you see an unarmed officer in the trenches, eh?
He smiles.
The war will be over soon. I'm just waiting for retirement ... my granddaughter's due any day now.
I'd rather not carry a gun again. Maybe I'll never need to.
Your wife's letter ... I remember a pub. Laughter and beer to replace bullets and blood.
Yes, she knows me well. Once I give up this uniform, all I want is to run a simple pub.
Chatting with regulars, cracking jokes, a few hands of Skat ...
I'll waive a tab here and there—give them a reason to bring all their friends and family around.
Franz would certainly come.
Tell him to come, then. I'll serve him up a bratwurst, free of charge.
We've been at war too long. It's time to remember how we used to live.
Charon glances at Partita. She stands quietly nearby.
Partita knows what he wants to say, but she can't stop herself.
Lieutenant Colonel Wolker, you ordered that shelling, didn't you? Even though the intelligence was wrong. You killed your own men.
You killed my fiancé, Walter.
Wolker turns slightly to face her.
A girl who could've attended school alongside my daughter, and yet she looks at me like I'm the enemy.
Well, I suppose I deserve it. Though, I've rarely had such an encounter.
There are surely thousands of girls like me throughout the fatherland. You just haven't met them yet.
Yes, yes, you're right. I've prepared myself for that.
You'd better have.
The lieutenant colonel's gaze follows every trace of coldness and hatred on her face. He smiles bitterly.
Walter was young, but he had a good head on his shoulders—a sharp and thoughtful lad.
When he first arrived, he wouldn't even fire his weapon. Ah, but he certainly was no coward.
Don't you dare try to play on my emotions.
We're just the treads on a tank, Partita. We're ordered to advance, and we crush everything in our path.
On the front, it's win or die, and when someone dies out here, it's never just one person who pays the price.
I regret Walter's death—more than the men who ordered the advance.
So you're shifting the blame now? Telling me it's some other bastard's fault?
Of course not. War is a river of hatred and death. I stepped into it. I must accept the price.
If you want to kill me, so be it—but you'll have to step into that river too.
So, Partita, if you're ready for everything that comes with that, then pull the trigger. I won't stop you.
Partita's lips tremble. She tries to speak, but the words fail to come.
The lieutenant colonel turns and barks the name of a nearby sergeant.
The firearm you asked for has arrived, Partita. I've come to deliver it to you myself.
She takes the pistol and lightly tests its weight in her hand.
Charon watches as the lieutenant colonel leaves, then turns to Partita.
He's just an old man awaiting his retirement.
Oh, so you're going to preach to me too?
Taking his life will only cause you to suffer.
That's it, Paul. Get it all out. After all, how often do you get the chance to sound so noble?
Remember our deal? When the field hospital leaves, you leave the battlefield.
She keeps her eyes on the pistol, perhaps studying its parts, or perhaps lost elsewhere.
With everything that's happened ... is there even anywhere for me to go back to?
I hunted for the truth behind Walter's death because I needed a reason to live.
Even if that reason was absurd ... or based purely on hatred.
But Wolker still gets to go home.
Partita, you can go anywhere you wish—anywhere but this battlefield.
I have nowhere to go. Nothing else to live for.
Why people choose to live is something beyond my grasp, but the soldiers who walk beside me choose it every day.
Some wait to embrace their family again; others dream of tending gardens after the war.
For some, even drowning themselves in schnapps from dusk till dawn is a reason to carry on living.
The living set goals, and death laughs.
But you must have one, all the same. You simply need to find it.
Not everyone can bear this kind of pain—or the torment of the endless questions without answers.
Paul, you know better than anyone that none of this means a thing.
You already admitted as much. You're only saying this because you pity me.
Maybe my reason for living is ridiculous, but is enduring suffering purely for the sake of living any better?
With a flick of her wrist, the magazine ejects. She empties it, leaving only one bullet.
She puts the rest into Charon's pocket, then lifts her gaze to meet his.
Her eyes are calm.
Time for me to go.
...
Why's everyone looking so grim?
The soldier cuts into the conversation.
The hospital is moving out. The time has come for us to part ways.
Did you give that photo to Fabien?
He will see it soon.
Good. Give my best to him, won't you? ... Have you seen Wolker about?
He is down in the bunker.
Partita takes a few steps backward as she tries to slip away unnoticed.
Ah, well, his gun's fixed—good as new. I brought it back for him.
Seems the lieutenant colonel only trusts his own pistol. He refused to accept any of the spares.
His words hang heavy in the air.
What do you mean?
I thought he said he was done with all this! He said he wasn't carrying a weapon because the war was ending and he was going home!
Eh? What are you two talking about?
He looks like he's just heard a joke he doesn't understand.
He's not retiring; he's just moving to the rear. Why would he quit now?
They're putting him up for a medal—he'll be a full colonel by fall.
The fog in Charon's mind thickens.
You guess at what you don't know, don't you, Willi?
Charon, I'm the man's orderly, for heaven's sake. I know him.
Perhaps, at this moment, Charon shouldn't be questioning Wilhelm. Perhaps he should be watching Partita.
That damned liar! That sneaky, two-faced swine!
But would stopping her really change anything?
Partita—
She slips into the bunker as swift as a breeze.
Words enter Charon's mind in a stampede. The world starts to spin.
"Walter is dead."
"'Friendly fire,' they said. But nothing about it was friendly—not when they dropped it while we advanced!" "Verdammt! Why didn't I pull him into the crater when I had the chance? Verdammt nochmal! Verdammt!" "I could've had him—just one more second and he'd still be here!"
"Gott im Himmel ... what do I tell Partita? How do I tell his mother?" "I lived ... and Walter died?"
"Or should I tell them I'm sorry—that he should've been the one who lived?" "It's true ... it shouldn't have been him. He was the one who kept us going, kept us smiling."
In the echo of the shot, it all falls silent. The noise, the whispers, the thoughts—everything.
Charon sees the lieutenant colonel clutching his chest, red pouring out from between his fingers.
Partita turns to Charon, her face now calm and distant.
Both the living and the dead fall silent.
8. Fugue of Tragedies
81 linesPride killed him in the end.
Do you wish you'd stopped her?
I ... don't know.
Partita's set to be executed before the hospital pulls out today.
No one in the company was willing to pull the trigger.
So we drew straws. Franz pulled the short one.
A heavy silence falls. No one in this world will ever know Charon's expression in this moment.
What happened with that photograph?
Fabien has passed. He will be put to rest beside the others in the hospital that could not return home.
His commander and friend casts him a silent glance, unsure of what to say.
Upon return to the field hospital, he was already gone.
The photograph ultimately failed to find its way into his hands. He died never knowing that Anna awaited him at home.
Eberhard, finally overcoming his indecision, pulls a crumpled letter from his pocket and hands it to Charon.
Wilhelm gave me this letter. It came in from the rear this morning.
Their house—Fabien's and his wife's—burned down about a week ago.
... What? Why?
Bad news reaches the rear every day. Not everyone in the fatherland can bear the waiting.
Fabien ...
Vows were broken. He was alone when death came for him.
<notShowInLog>Vows were broken. He was alone when death came for him.
Franz shielded a ghost from a bullet, but all that can be done is to apologize.
<notShowInLog>Franz shielded a ghost from a bullet, but all that can be done is to apologize.
Partita chose her path. Ours is a deal that no longer has meaning.
<notShowInLog>Partita chose her path. Ours is a deal that no longer has meaning.
Nothing of what is done here has any meaning at all.
You're not sorry you didn't stop her?
The soldiers escorting the withdrawal linger nearby, chatting and rolling cigarettes between their fingers.
Partita sits quietly off to the side, back straight, gaze unwavering.
As Charon approaches, the soldiers flanking Partita rise and give him a brief nod.
Charon offers them two packs of cigarettes. They politely decline and leave.
The weather's nice today.
Not like the day you and Walter left, all rain and fog.
I could hardly make out your faces through the car window back then.
Have you found peace?
She smiles.
Peace?
Throw a handful of dirt into the abyss, and all you'll hear is the echo.
That's all there is.
Enough about me, Paul.
What about you? Will you keep burying the fallen?
Yes. This road knows no end. As long as war remains, so shall it continue.
Hah ... You never talked like that before you became a soldier.
So, you came to the front to become a philosopher, did you?
... No.
What happened, Paul? You haven't cracked a single joke since we ran into each other again.
You've turned dull.
Apologies ... Laughter's toll feels unbearably heavy now.
Even among the dead, there are those that cannot rest.
Well, at least you can still make fun of yourself—even if you do sound serious.
The soldiers begin to stir, their eyes drifting toward the two of them.
Partita notices and stares back at them.
You know I'm not some clueless little Fräulein, don't you?
Of course.
... I've figured something out about you.
Something you haven't realized, or maybe refuse to acknowledge.
... What?
It doesn't matter. Thank you, Charon.
His fingers twitch slightly.
I hope I'm not the last person to see the pain inside you.
I hope you one day find who you truly are.
"There is no 'me' left to find." That is what he wishes he could say, but the words fail to materialize.
She stands up and walks toward the soldiers.
Partita—
She doesn't look back.
Charon watches as Franz picks up his rifle. Noticing his stare, Franz turns away, as stiff and cold as stone.
Something stirs in the space where his innards should be and spreads through every inch of him.
Each throbbing wave of it racks Charon with unease, but all he can do is watch as Franz loads the bullet.
Franz's expression is blurred, distant, unfamiliar—as though he's hiding behind a soldier's mask to execute his duty.
And just like that—it's done.
Franz doesn't even glance at Charon. He simply slips into the line of soldiers and boards the transport.
The convoy roars to life, grinding over scorched ground and dying weeds.
Silence returns.
Only the dead remain, awaiting his hand to bury them beneath the earth.
Fabien, Partita, countless others—the young, tortured faces of war.
He walks alone to meet them, to carry out his last and only duty.
He raises the shovel and plunges it into the earth.