Trench Fever

February 1917 - France

It had been raining for three weeks now, and the trench had become a river.

Remi had been given 36 hours of patrol duty.  So far, he had completed 17, all without rest.  That wasn’t too unusual, especially at this point in the war.  Remi knew that the front meant not sleeping for days, and what sleep one did get was restless.  Sleep was reserved for behind the lines, but the men were being forced to spend longer and longer amounts of time in the trenches.  Remi noticed, and so did the others.  He wondered how much more they would be pushed, and how much more of it they could handle.

The wooden walkways that had been placed along the bottom of the trench had all but sank into the mud.  No one had been able to get fresh wood to the front for weeks, and even if they did, any bridge they built would soon be lost to the muck.  Small parts of it still remained, and soldiers crouched on them, hunched over and shivering like beggars.  One man had placed his rifle against the sandbag wall, propping his helmet and coat upon the barrel in an attempt to make a tent.  It almost worked, but the wind drove the rain in all directions, so it was impossible to avoid it entirely.

Another soldier, a boy of 17, sat on the corner of a semi-submerged board.  Remi watched the boy peel crusted fabric from his leg.  A thick layer of mud had caked the protective covering of his boots onto his pants, which did little to protect against the persistent wet and cold.  Once the boy had removed the fabric from both of his legs, he pulled off his hole covered boots, followed by a pair of thick, wool socks.  Remi blinked, then grimaced when he saw the boy’s feet.  They were swollen and nearly purple, with several black and grey spots. One toe in particular looked like it would be crushed if it was touched too hard, like an old grape.  The boy reached for a tin can, scooping out a large amount of white cream and gingerly rubbing it onto his feet.  Once leather boots and better drainage systems were made mandatory, it became a court martial offence to report cases of trench foot, so the officers simply stopped reporting it.  Of course, it still happened, but now the poor sods were just given a container of whale oil, a change of socks, and a warning to stay quiet.  

Remi pulled his knees closer to his chest.  His observation post was a small inlet in the wall, with sandbags piled up the sides, leaving only a slit large enough to see and shoot through.  Remi was perched like a crow on one of these sandbag towers, keeping his feet up near him so they were out of the water.  Even without his extra height, Remi had an advantage against the rain.  His father had given him a pair of high-quality boots, and while he certainly felt the chill and wet, his feet were never so exposed to the elements that they began to rot.  The same couldn’t be said for those from poorer backgrounds.  Remi silently thanked his fortunate birth.

The rain made it hard for either side to launch a proper attack.  Soldiers got stuck, tanks couldn’t move, and No Man's Land looked more like a marsh than a field.  There was, of course, the ever constant shell fire being launched back and forth, but that was expected.  A rather large one landed somewhat close to where Remi was, but he didn’t react.  Only the boy, who was now putting his socks and boots back on, jumped, but even then he hardly paused from what he was doing.

There was a third man in the area, wrapped tightly in his coat.  He was shivering violently, and let out small groans and grunts every once in a while.  He lifted up his face to cough, and Remi noticed a rash on his cheek and forehead; a case of trench fever.  The rain had caused an increase of outbreaks - Remi himself had a mild case a couple weeks back.  The fever was quick and intense and left a man feeling weak and dizzy.  Then came a headache and pressure around the eyes, followed by a rash and intense pain in the bones.  It was debilitating, but luckily it only lasted a couple of days.  Besides, there were worse things to suffer from in the trenches.  One usually recovered from the fever.

Remi looked between them all, not spending too much time lingering on any one man in particular before his gaze wandered.  Occasionally, he would watch No Man’s Land and the German lines for any increase in activity, but nothing ever happened.  The perpetual booms of the artillery and whistling of the shells blended into the calmness, becoming part of the ambience.  Remi removed his helmet, balancing it upside down on his knees so it would collect water.  He furiously ran his hands through his hair before leaning his head back against the sandbags, letting the raindrops land on his mud covered face.  After a minute, he rubbed his hands across his cheeks to wipe off the loosening grime, washing them in the water gathering in his helmet.  He tried and failed to clean the thick, matted beard, a detestable staple of the common French soldier.  The men had limited access to razors or grooming tools of any kind, and it showed. Remi snorted while trying to work out a knot in the thick hairs; he had heard that the civilians called them Les Poilus: the hairy ones.  The sudden stench of a rotten corpse hit his nose, and Remi quickly buried his face in his uniform, letting out a low gag.  The rain and mud had made it harder to retrieve the dead while at the same time making them decompose much faster than usual.

Remi finished his impromptu shower, dumped the water out of his helmet, and placed it back on his head.  He crossed his arms and laid them on his knees, resting his mouth against the fabric of his sleeve.  He focused on the man in the makeshift tent, this time tuning in on his thoughts.  

Before enlisting, Remi didn’t put much effort into controlling his telepathy.  He simply read people’s thoughts at will, had telepathic conversations with his family (though he was thoroughly warned to never use it with anyone else but them), and didn’t mind when stray thoughts wandered into his head.  Once he got to the front lines, he very quickly realised that in order to save his own sanity, he would have to learn to control his telepathy.  Being able to hear the general’s thoughts proved useful, landing him a position as a sniper and as one of the best soldiers in his company.  However, hearing the desperate and gruesome thoughts of the dying, or having German ideas which he couldn’t even understand, or hiding in a bunker with 15 other men who aren’t sure if they will survive, not being able to distinguish his own doubts from the others, was nearly maddening.

It wasn’t an easy process.  For 18 years, Remi had let thoughts come and go, and now he had to build up some sort of system for regulating the ones he wanted while blocking the ones he didn’t.  He was already able to block out the thoughts of weak-minded people, or at least quiet them down significantly, but now he was surrounded by men under extreme stress, and eventually, constant death.  Those thoughts were stronger than anything he had ever imagined possible.

Eventually, Remi figured out tricks.  If he himself was thinking very hard about something, other thoughts were blocked.  This was the first method he discovered, and with Claude’s help, he began to use drawing as a way to direct his focus.  After a few months, he was able to put up this “mental wall” even when he wasn’t focused on drawing.  He still wasn’t able to block out the thoughts entirely, but they weren’t nearly as loud or intrusive.  Over time, the wall became stronger, and he was able to listen to or block thoughts at will.  It wasn’t entirely effective, though.  There are just some thoughts that are simply too strong, and these he is forced to endure until he is able to expel them, or they disappear on their own.

Remi squinted at the man in the shabby tent.  The scent of mildew from the fabric of his sleeve filled his nose, but that was preferable to the smell of a corpse.  The man in the tent seemed to be thinking the same thing, which made Remi smile.  Sometimes he wondered if intruding on others people’s thoughts subtly influenced them.  The man then started to think about food, and Remi was reminded how hungry he was, as well.  The rumour was that the communication trench was too flooded, and no trucks, animals, or even people could get through.  Remi had also heard that the road which they used to get from behind the lines to the front had been shelled and needed repairing.  Whatever the reason truly was, the men had been without rations for 2 days, and everyone was starving, save for the rats.

Suddenly, the man’s thoughts became fuzzy and distant, but shortly after Remi felt like he was floating through the sky.  He relaxed slightly, closing his eyes for a moment before breaking off connection with the other man’s dream.  The man in the tent was lucky enough to fall asleep, but Remi was hesitant to use his telepathy on people when they were sleeping, as dreams changed too wildly and unpredictably.  He shifted his attention to the boy with trench foot, but quickly changed his mind once Remi realised he was thinking about sex.  The only other thoughts Remi could listen to were those of the man with trench fever, but his were just about how much pain he was in and how he wished his illness would just pass already.  Remi shook his head.  Lately, the fever had become more aggressive, causing men to recover for a few days before being struck with the disease again.  It seemed like this was the third relapse for this fellow, and he was starting to wonder if it would ever go away.

Remi sighed and stared back out across No Man’s land.  The afternoon air was thick with fog and smoke that hung over the earth like ghosts, and with the combination of overcast skies, the world was doused in grey.  An explosion shook the trench walls, but it was just the shockwave, which posed no real danger.  Remi almost wished a real bombardment would start, just so that there was something different to do.  Almost.  He pulled out a small pocket watch and checked the time - 3:18.  Claude had promised he would come around at 6 with at least a loaf of bread and some company, and, if he got lucky, some rum.  Remi’s mouth watered.  That was still almost 3 hours away, though, and there was no guarantee that Claude would be able to find any food at all.

Pulling out a cigarette, Remi struck a match and lit it before inhaling the smoke deeply.  Learning to light a match and keep a cigarette lit in pouring rain was arguably the most useful thing he had learned in the army so far.  He exhaled through the slit on the sandbags, watching his smoke mix in with the fog.

This war had to be over soon.