September, 1918

Scrabbling. Desperate. Mind screaming. Don’t die. Don’t die! Hit the dirt. Ears ringing. Find cover. Find a hole. Scrabble, scamper in the dirt, on my stomach, looking for shelter, explosions ripping the night, got to find cover, desperate—there! Out of the corner of my eye I spot a foxhole, half-covered in straw and mud. I crawl towards it fast as I can, my lungs gasping, choked with dust and muck, and pitch myself in headfirst.

The sound of German artillery punching through my unit immediately dims. I can hear my own breath again, panting gasps of still, stale air. Hurriedly, I do a quick check for damage: two arms, two legs. An artillery shell had landed ten yards in front of me, and if it hadn’t been for an inexplicable split-second delay in detonation, my belly would have been ripped to shreds. I’m just lucky I had time to get out of the way.

I landed on my back when I fell into the foxhole I landed, ass over tip, and I struggled in the tight confines of the hole to right myself. As I reach out with my hand I feel the cold familiar leather of boot. I am not alone. Pausing, listening, I hear muffled whimpers in the dank of the hole. I fumble for my flash and gun, but before I move, a light is shined directly into my eyes. I use my arms to shield my face. “Identify yourself!” I yell, mustering all the bravado I have left. My hand still moves for my weapon, but the action has become quiet and deliberate. No need to spook him.

“Identify yourself!” I yell again, more forceful. The light is shaking. I realize if the guy was going to shoot me he’d have done so by now, so I crawl on my hands and knees towards the light. There’s something on the floor between me and it, and I realize with some amount of horror that it’s a body.

I grab the light and shine it at its owner. He’s just a kid; the uniform’s American. He’s shaking like a grandmother scared out of her wits. I shine the light on the floor to check on his friend. He’s lying face down; I turn him over. His face has a peaceful look on it, almost serene, happy, but his chest is a gaping mess of blood and metal. I inspect his bars and tag. Collins. I look at his face again. Yup, one of mine. My radioman. Good kid. Quiet. Wore glasses. I looked around for his glasses for a second, then realize absurdly that he won’t need them anymore. Disgusted, I let Collins fall back on the floor.

I turn my light onto the bars and tag of the cowering kid pushed against the foxhole wall. Kerry. Private. I don’t recognize him, but I just picked up a bunch of transfers from the 41st last week outside of Agincourt. He might be one of those. Kerry is looking at me. His eyes are glazed and furtive. I grab him by his shoulders and slam him into the foxhole wall. I’ve seen that look before. “Name! Rank! Division!” I bark.

Kerry blinks. “Wh-what?” he stammers.

I slam him into the wall harder. His hands grab my forearms. Kid has a helluva grip. “Name! Rank! Division!”

“Kerry, Valton! Private, first class! Attached to the 41st—I mean, 76th, sir!” My ruse has worked. His eyes stop darting all about the hole and focus on mine. They’re an unusual shade of gray—never quite seen eyes like that before.

“Valton?” I say, hinting at humor. Try to distract him.

Kerry’s eyes avoid mine. “It’s a family name, sir,” he said. “My grandfather’s. He was Scandinavian. Most folks back home call me Val.”

“Hmm. Kerry. Sounds Irish, not Scandinavian.”

“It was Kergstad, sir, but it was changed at Ellis Island when my parents landed back in ‘98. A lot of families back home had their names changed when they came through.”

“And where is home, Private?”

“Minneapolis. Well, outside it, actually. Grew up on a farm in a small town about forty minutes north of the city. Folkvang.”

“That’s an odd name for a town, Private Kerry.”

“Yes, Sarge, I mean, sir.”

He’s back into routine now. Best thing for him. “At ease, soldier.” Kerry relaxes his grip on my arms and I let go of his shoulders. “Take a deep breath.” He does. There’s little room to maneuver in this hole, so I lean back on my boots for a minute. Outside, the pounding blasts of artillery never cease. “Looks like we’re stuck here, at least for now,” I say. I glance back at Kerry to see how he’s doing. He seems better. His breathing is regular and he’s stopped whimpering. Christ. He looks about eighteen. I stare at his face, trying to remember his transfer, but I go blank. I can see locks of blond hair tufting out of his helmet. His face is youthful, but strong—good Nordic bones. The very picture of a wholesome, homespun Minnesota farm boy.

“Sergeant Bailey?” Kerry says tentatively, getting my attention. “Sir? What should we do about Private Collins?” He nods in the direction of my former comm. specialist. “Should we…you know.”

I sigh. I hate this shit. “I don’t think we have many options.”

Kerry moves to a squatting position. “I’ll take care of it, sir,” he says. “We…we were friends.”

I nod. I like that the kid is showing some guts. “We’ll both move him out, Private.”

“No, it’s okay, sir, honest—”

I manage a grunt of approval. Even here, in the middle of this damned fucking battle, the kid’s still trying to win my favor. Good soldier. “Relax, Kerry. It’s a two-man job.”

“Right, sir.”

I reach down to grab Collins’ torso and shove him up out of the hole, but I grimace when my hand comes away sticky and smeared with blood. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping the blood on the back of Collins’ pants. I’m sickened, but I hide it from Kerry. Instead I grab Private Collins’ shoulder and we manage to heave his body out of the hole. Just as he pops out of the hole a grungy white feather flits out of his hand, half-floating, half-lurching to the foxhole floor. “What the fuck?” I mumble, picking up the feather. It’s long and white and covered in muck and blood. It reminds me of something.

“What’s that?” Kerry asks.

“A feather,” I reply, holding it up for inspection.

Kerry shrugs. “Probably fell off some bird the Kaiser’s boys knocked out of the sky. The way they’re shooting they’re going to blow up all of France before sunup.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s too big for any birds in these parts. You know, it reminds me…Kerry, you joined us at Agincourt, right?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

“Were you with us when we went to that little tavern down on the square?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, see, some of us guys went out for some leave—just an evening’s R and R. Went to this little place to throw back a few drinks. They had this dancer there—her name…” It escapes me. “Anyway, she started dancing for some of the boys. Never forget it—she had this cape, made all of swan’s feathers. Kind of like this. Think we all came home with a feather or two that night.”

Kerry gave me a look. “You think Collins has been carrying that feather in his hand all that time?”

I consider that thought for a second, and then shake my head and throw the feather to the floor. “Course not. Just seeing it made me think of that, that’s all.”

With more room in the foxhole, Kerry and I sit with our backs against the hole wall and stretch out our legs. The shelling seems worse than ever. “Christ on the cross!” I exclaim. “Don’t those fucking Krauts ever take a break?”

“Sarge?” Kerry asks.

“What?” I say.

“Are you a religious man?”

I bark a short laugh. “Just the sort of question to ask in a foxhole, Private.”

Kerry shifts towards me a bit. His gray eyes peer right into mine. God, he looks so young. Handsome kid. Probably made the girls go wild back home. “I’m serious, Sarge. Are you?”

I shrug. I think about the crucifix nestled against my chest. My wife, Lizzie, gave it to me when I left her at the dock in New York ten months back. “I don’t know, kid. Maybe. Sometimes. Now, probably. Why? You?”

Kerry shrugs. “I never liked church very much. We were Lutherans. Used to have to go every Sunday. I thought it was boring. Stories about floods and wandering in the desert. That’s kid stuff. I always liked the stories my grandfather told me better. He used to tell me these myths from the old country.”

“What, you mean like Greek gods and heroes, Hercules, shit like that?”

Kerry shakes his head. “No, the Norse myths. You know. Dark tales of the north country. Stories of my ancestors. Asgard. The Vanir. The frost giants of Jotunheim. Thor, the god of thunder.”

“Thor, I heard of him. He had that hammer, right?”

Kerry nods, eagerly, like a puppy. Cute kid. “Mjolnir.”

I grunt, close my eyes, think about Thor. “Christ, we could use him right now. He could blast away all those Germans with one swipe.”

“You know who we really need right now?” he says. I look over at him. He’s got Collins’ feather in his hands, and he’s twirling it around. Makes me think of that dancer—she had a funny name. The feather looks whiter, cleaner than it did before. The kid must have wiped it off somewhere, though every inch of his clothes was covered in as much muck as my own.

“Who?” I ask. It’s a common game to play in the foxhole. Anything to distract from the constant slam pound boom of the shelling above.

“The war gods of Odinn. Goddesses, actually.”

“War goddesses? What did they do? Lipstick the enemy to death?”

Kerry laughs, kind of high-pitched, a bit giggly. He covers his face he’s laughing so hard. “No, Sarge. The war goddesses were really strong. Fierce. They could fly and wore scarlet corsets and carried weapons made of pure gold.”

“Well, I suppose we could use whatever help we can get out there.”

Kerry shook his head. “The war goddesses of Odinn didn’t fight battles, Sarge. They came afterwards, after the battle was over.”

“What good is that? What did they come for then?”

Kerry’s staring at me now, a funny little look. His gray eyes catch the faint light from the flash and almost seem to sparkle. “They came for the dead.”

I don’t like this—I don’t like my men talking about dying at all. I’m about to tell Kerry this when a shell slams right near the foxhole entrance. BOOM! Quick as thought Kerry’s pressed up against me, shaking. He’s got one hand wrapped around me and the other buried right into my chest, his fist grabbing a handful of cloth and crucifix. His head is buried right into my armpit.

My first instinct is to grab him back, but I fight my fear and listen. We stay entwined for another second, but it seems like there’s no follow-up to the blast. “Hey!” I say. “Hey! HEY! Kerry, get a grip, kid. Just a lucky shot, that’s all. They haven’t found us. Pull it together, private. You’re not going to die. Say it. Say it!”

“I am not going to die,” he repeats heavily, dreamily, sounding a little funny, a little strange. Still shook up. “I’m sorry, sir,” he adds, relaxing his grip but not letting go. It’s okay—I understand. I’ll shove him off in a second. Better calm him down first. If he panics, he may bolt. Lots of guys hate these confined spaces. But he’s best off here; out there, he’d be dead in a second.

“Finish your story, Kerry.”

“My story?”

“Yeah, about the whoosie-whats-its. Them war goddesses of—whoever they was of.”

“Odinn.”

“Yeah. So, what did they do when they come for ya? Suck out your blood or something?”

“They weren’t vampires, Sarge. They were good guys. When they came, they rescued the hero from the clutches of Hella—she’s the goddess of the underworld.”

“That one I figured out on my own, kid.”

“Instead, they took their champions to the heavens, to a great mead-hall. Valhalla. There, soldiers would battle each other all day. And even though they might hack each other’s limbs off or get chopped up to bits, by dinnertime, they’d be fine, and all the soldiers would go off together to the hall and feast the whole night long.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Well, it was. I mean, sort of. It was all about camaraderie and male bonding and guys just being guys. Stuff like that. The legends said that if you saw one of the goddesses before battle, you were sure to be in Valhalla by nightfall.”

Kerry’s head is nestled into my shoulder now. Well, if it keeps him calm, it’s fine by me. “Jesus, Kerry, your people sure had some pretty funny ideas about heaven. Except for the feasting part, there doesn’t sound like anything there that interests me.”

“Well, there was one other thing.” Kerry’s got his arm around me; felt a little queer, to be honest, but comforting.

“What’s that?”

“Feathers.” Kerry’s got the feather back in his hand; he holds it up in front of the flashlight. That girl—what was her name? “The war goddesses—they wore capes made of swan feathers. My grandfather told me that, if you ever managed to get your hands on one, your deepest wish would come true.”

“Sort of like a dying man’s last request, huh?”

“Better, Sarge.” Kerry absent-mindedly puts his hand on my leg, right on my thigh. I’ve got a scar there from a bayonet wound I suffered last May in the Ardennes. Fucking Krauts. “There were no limits on the wish. The dying man’s deepest, darkest desire would be fulfilled.”

“And then what?”

“Then—nothing. He died. They took him to Valhalla.”

“Where he fought all day and drank all night?”

Kerry nodded. He’s playing with the buckles on my vest. His gray eyes—something stirs in me. Memory. Maybe I have seen something like them before. “Yup. Until Ragnarok.”

“Ragnar-what?”

“Ragnarok. The last battle. It’s what all the soldiers of Valhalla are preparing themselves for. The end of the world.”

To be honest, Kerry’s story was starting to creep me out a bit. “Jeez, Kerry, that’s some fucked-up myth.”

“What would you wish for, Sarge?” he asks, a shy request. “If you had your deepest desire fulfilled, what would it be?” His gray eyes peer right into me. He smiles. Attractive kid. Something familiar about those eyes. I think of my wife, feel a bit guilty about leaving her behind a few weeks before Christmas.

“My wish?” I say. I shrug. “To end this fucking war and go home, kid,” I reply, chucking his chin, trying to seem friendly.

“I don’t think that’s quite true, sir,” Kerry says quietly. He sits more upright; his hand moves up my thigh, but his eyes are so intense, I don’t really notice.

“Why do you say that?” I ask. Frankly, this kid’s just a bit annoying.

“Cuz you’re a soldier, Sarge. Battle. War. Glory. There’s a part of you that likes it. There has to be. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you signed up. Volunteered. There’s something about the threat of being blown to fucking bits at any given moment that makes you feel strong. Makes you feel alive. Makes you feel like a man.” Kerry’s face is inches from mine. Those gray eyes looking right into my fucking soul. If I wasn’t his commanding officer, I’d probably have punched him by now.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I spit.

“Don’t I?” he taunts.

“You’re just some dumb hick kid, right off the farm, thinking that war is all glory and parades and kisses from pretty French girls. I’ve been out here less than a year and I’ve lost more men that I can count. I left my wife back in New York. I’m out here fighting for my country. That’s it. And you tell me I fucking enjoy it?”

“Yes.” There is an intensity in his voice that frightens me, just a bit. “You like the power. You like the fight. You’re not a husband and a father, Sarge. You’re a soldier. You like that you’ve left all that other shit behind.” I’m angry; I’m confused. I feel warmth in the pit of my stomach. “You’re a soldier,” he says again. “You like the camaraderie. You like the closeness. You like the men. You like it here. With me. Don’t lie to yourself, Sarge. I know it’s true. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

“‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here?’ What the fuck does that mean?” His mesmerizing gray eyes stare back. His hand clutches that damned feather, all white and clean and full of life now, a few stray tendrils brushing up against my skin, tickling my lip. His other hand shifts. It’s warm. It’s warmth. And I realize with horror it’s no longer on my leg.

It’s on my cock.

I open my mouth to speak—to yell, to order—but Kerry kisses me, shoves his tongue into my mouth, his hand grinding my cock in my pants. I squirm briefly before remembering myself, remembering who I am. I throw him off me. “What are you doing!” I roar. But Kerry’s hand keeps working magic. He’s unbuckling my pants. I try to stop him. I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t. A quick flash of khaki and my flesh is exposed, rigid and embarrassed, and locking into my eyes one last time, Kerry dives between my legs and swallows it whole.

I want to pull him off. I try. I feel so weak. I lean back. I think of my wife. Lizzie. I think of that dancer. I think of her long, long legs, her full, bouncing tits, I think of her hips winding around me. I think of anything but this. What was her name? Valeria? No that’s his name, Kerry’s name, Valton. I’m getting them mixed up because he’s doing to me what only one other person has done to me, a person I never think about, a time I’d long forgotten, but here, now, suddenly, it comes rushing back. I try not to think as Kerry’s head moves up and down on my lap, his mouth warm, his hands strong, his lips fire ecstasy. I want to fight, but I surrender, moaning, softly, giving in to temptation.

He stops.

A fumble; the clink of metal being unbuckled. I see it glowing in the dank of the hole; white, hard, fleshy, unyielding. Those gray eyes again. “I know what you want,” he whispers.

His fingers guide me, his hand strong, secure. I clear my mind. I don’t want this. I don’t want this! My mouth opens. Scrabbling. Desperate. The smell of grime and musk and man fills my lungs. I move as if I am no longer in control of my body. Not in control! I have no will, only desire, only action, only this moment as Kerry moves my mouth up and down over him, again and again, filling my every sense with him, filling my every memory with this one moment. Scrabbling. Desperate.

Desperate for him. Desperate to taste, to know. Memories tug at the back of my mind; I push them back. Think of nothing now. Think only of him, only of sensation, only of this. Think of the taste of his cock as it pushes in and out of my mouth, fills my every sense with him, with Kerry. I see him, I hear him, I smell him, I feel him, I taste him. I think, perhaps, I think…

He stops me. We kiss. Soft lips, urgent but gentle, warm and hot but cool, kisses like I’ve never had before, real kisses, satisfying, this is it, this moment, this life, this man, this war…we kiss with mouths open and closed, tongues free and wild, our hands roaming independent of our minds, hands moving where they will, touching, feeling, our mouths constant, in motion. How long this goes on I do not know. I do not care. I do not want it to stop.

He spins me around. He is behind me now. We lean up against the earthen side of the foxhole. Strong arms secure me. I feel his flesh against me. Against my hole. This. This I never…I think of long ago. I think of a summer spent by Cayuga Lake. I think of Kerry. I think of James.

Kerry’s voice burns in my ears. “I know what you want, sir,” he whispers over and over. “I know your desire. Trust in me, sir.” I do. I trust him. I feel him up against me. Pushing inside. I surrender.

One leg is wrapped around me; Kerry thrusts inside. I moan. Again. I scream. He thrusts some more, and I realize, quite suddenly, that the night outside has become as still and soft as sunrise. “When they come for their warriors,” Kerry whispers in my ear, thrusting into me—yes, desperate, more!—“they grant him his deepest desire, his last great wish. It is to honor him, to give him what he could never have in life. Is this what you wanted, Sarge? Sir? Tell me. Is this what you wanted?” He wraps his fist around my own rigid flesh. His lips find the flesh of my face, my neck. I feel dizzy, almost faint. “Yes,” I say, not a word, not a whisper, but a simple declaration of truth.

Kerry pushes into me harder, moves his fist in time with his hips. I am in heaven. Harder and more. Desperate. I’m desperate for him.

“Tell me,” he hisses. Thrust. “Tell me what you wanted, Sarge.” Thrust, thrust. His voice trips with honey. “You need to say it. Say what you’ve always wanted, Sarge. Say it.”

“I want—this,” I say. Thrust. “I want you.”

Thrust. “More.”

Yes, more. Thrust. Thrust. “I want—”

“Say it.” Thrust.

“Love me,” I whimper. A prayer. Thrust.

“I do,” he says, and I sob-sigh with relief. “I do, I do, I do love you sir, I do.”

“Yes, love me, yes, oh, Kerry, harder, Kerry, love me, more, yes!” I shout as my cock explodes in his gentle grip. White spunk shoots out of me in feathery bursts. Feathery—feathers—her name, what was her name?

“Sarge,” Kerry says, gentle, lovingly. He is cradling me in his arms now. My head is in his lap. I stare into his beautiful gray eyes. This is the man I love.

I am in love with a man.

“Sarge,” he says again, more urgently. Pain now, in my belly. Intense. My hands are wet—I hold them to the light. Spunk? Red. Blood.

My belly is wide open, my guts half-spilled onto the dirt floor of the foxhole. Trembling, crying, I look at Kerry. He glows—he’s all white—all except his gray eyes, gray eyes like a dancer’s, gray eyes so familiar to me. “My brave warrior, I have granted your wish,” he spoke. He? She. She spoke. Her warm tones echo in my mind. “Soon you will sleep, and when you wake, you will be with me, with all of us. In our hall. In Valhalla.” She touches my forehead, covers me with a blanket of feathers.

“Sleep,” I whisper. “Kerry.” I’m dying. Images flashing. Feathers. Kerry. Warmth. Hard flesh. Gray eyes. What was her name? I suddenly remember.

Her name was Valkyrie.

 

© 2005 Michael G Cornelius - Contributor's Bio