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We laid our names to rest along the dotted line.
We left our date of birth and our history behind.
--
Had anyone cared that night to look to the sky, they would have seen him there, a red presence hoovering in the darkness, always watching and waiting, always feasting on the most violent of thoughts of men.
Had the men in the airplanes payed any attention to the sky, they would have seen him, his red light piercing the thick clouds, making a pathway to the ground for him to be able to see the legendary jump, like he had so many times before in his mind.
He had seen it countless times, the slaughter and the bravery that occurred that night in the land then called France, as men had braved fears and taken leaps out in to the unknown, trusting that what was only fabric would keep them airborne.
The Airborne had been their names, the men who had jumped from the planes through enemy fire, and he had been among them once, another nameless in a mass of bodies hurtling towards the ground under a parachute. He had been among them as they had untangled themselves and set off for cover, hiding from those which they had named their enemy.
He had never been on one side only, always there supporting both. He had pulled the trigger for both the Axis and the Allies, had been responsible for countless deaths, and whenever he had retreated, he had always been drenched in their blood.
Like the planet they had named after him, he had been red, glittering with the liquid the humans carried in their veins and that could be so easily spilled.
He had walked with them as they had gathered in the morning, counting their losses and searching for those that had not yet returned. He had called names of men that had never returned, and he had touched the shoulders of those that had come back to their comrades, muddied and tired, but yet so very much alive.
None of them had ever seen him, had ever known he had been there, but yet he had. He had seen every moment of their lives during the time spent fighting, and he remembered every single man, woman or child that had fallen under the wrath of the element he had once created.
To him, there had always been fascination in the comradeship of the men, of how close-knit they became during their time away from home, and sometimes he had almost envied them, having wished that he had been able to join them as more than a nameless soldier who no one would later remember.
As he had returned for yet another look, there was no saying why he had chosen the two Airborne men, their faces having meant nothing to him the other times he had visited the company from Camp Toccoa, but something with that time had made them stand out, and he couldn't possibly identify what it was.
In that moment, as his eyes laid upon them as they were reunited after the jump, shaking hands and clasping each other's shoulders, he could already see the end, the entirety of their war flashing before his eyes. He could see every man's fate, see which that would grow old, which that would never return home and which that would fight again with him, years later in other wars on other continents.
But those two, their fates so intertwined since the moment they had first met, fascinated him, his eyes staying on them even as he left the Earth in favour of his place in the sky, his focus staying on them, even as they went further into Europe and what had once been cheerful men turned darker, their innocence crushed under the heavy boot of war.
Under the heavy boot of Mars.
–
We were full of life, we could barely hold it in.
We were amateurs at war, strangers to suffering.
“Y'know, she said she was scared for my sake before I left.” Skip's eyes fell to his muddy boots as he spoke, his previously bright smile suddenly dulling as he steered the topic in a new direction.
“Who? Your mother?” There was a try to joke from Malarkey, despite the knowledge about whom his friend was speaking. They had been speaking about her only moments before, the redhead himself having been joking about how he doubted she would wish to be with Skip when Malarkey returned home with him. “Sure she's scared, that's her job, ain't it?”
“Y'know very well who I'm talkin' about, Don. Faye. She said she was scared I wouldn't come back.” His eyes shifted back up for a moment before he continued, fingers fiddling with his delicate rosary. “Sometimes I wonder if she's right 'bout that.” The beads rattled as he curled his fist closely around them, knuckles pressing against his lips as if that would make him able to take the words back, return them and make it as if they had never been spoken. It was strange, the thoughts which popped up in the strangest of moments, and he could almost guess Malarkey's thoughts on the subject before he had spoken.
“Don't be stupid. I've told you we're going back. You're going to help me find a girl like Faye, remember?” Malarkey's eyes searching for Skip's was all that was needed for the other's smile to return, his head with the heavy helmet bobbing in the dim light as he nodded.
“Right. Because you're gonna need all help you can get with that.”
But despite the smile, the knuckles stayed tightly wrapped around the rosary.
“No need for that kind of attitude. Just because I don't have a girl waiting for me, that don't mean I can't get one. You have no idea about what it was like back in Oregon, or any of my skills. You only know what I've told you.” Voice low, Malarkey's smile flickered widely across his lips as he stifled a laugh. Despite the lack of action during the night, they were both well aware that the Germans were close, and that silence was key. They had taken Carentan, cleared the way for the troops coming from the beaches, but they had still not secured the larger perimeter, and so they had not yet been placed in a safe position. Their foxhole in their thin line of trees was the little safe haven they had, just like the Germans had on the other side of the field.
“I won't believe that until I see it for myself.” There was a stifled laughter from Skip's direction as well as he adjusted his position, allowing his shoulders to dig into the soft earth behind his back.
“Me neither!” Penkala's voice ringing out, the third man in their foxhole having stayed silent up until that point, caused Malarkey to groan, his eyes narrowing as he allowed them to take the other two in.
“Don't agree with him, Penk. If you knew anything, kid, you wouldn't be. Now shut up before I throw you to the Krauts.”
We made our families proud, but scared at the same time.
We promised we'd be safe, another lie from the front lines...
–
From Carentan, their feet led them to Holland, their boots hitting new soil after another jump, and once again he was there, among them, watching as they fought for another country. He saw the orange flags waved in the air, he could hear the songs sung to those the Dutch population saw as their saviours, and he felt the hope lingering in the air, even as the fresh faces started dying.
Later, as he had sat among the men in a freezing forest in the snow-covered dirt, he had heard them curse the hope they had once held as they had entered Eindhoven, the genuine happiness they had felt then something they then felt was something far away. As they had watched their friends shiver in the cold, fingers stiff and useless with the lack of warmth, that hope had been nothing but cursed, cursed and shunned by men who had once stood tall and proud in shining uniforms.
–
Our backs against the wall, we're surrounded and afraid.
Donald Malarkey had been the first man to ever spot him, the redhead's eyes having risen to the sky and caught the flash of red. It was rare anyone ever saw him, his disguises always hiding him from the human eye, but that small moment when the American had seen him, had created a chain reaction.
He hadn't said anything, as he had climbed into the truck set to take them all from what had been a moment of respite for the men, and to Belgium, and instead directed his attention to the battle at hand. The cold was already creeping in, numbing fingers and making men shiver in their seats despite the shared heat with those around them, and Malarkey was already then aware that matters were not about to get any better.
The flash of red had, as he had rubbed his hands together and pulled up his shoulders, had then felt like mockery, like something he had been allowed to spot for a second to make him aware that where they were going, there would be nothing like it. The red had been like a streak of fire, like a match struck somewhere far above, and where they were going, there would be no fires or warmth. Winter was coming, and they were going to be in its midst, without sufficient clothing.
Our lives now in the hands of the soldiers taking aim.
–
Skip Muck was the second man to spot him, and that time, it was in all his bloodied glory, where he had stood watching the man gathered around a small fire during what little daylight they were given. He had been happy then, the man who had once spoken about his own death, and believed it was coming, and he had barely even noticed the bloodied man until the red had caught his gaze as Mars had turned to leave.
He hadn't believed what he had seen in that moment, his laughter having faltered as the others had spoken around him, and his eyes had scanned the bloodied man, stood in the shadows, shining red. At first, he had assumed it to be a dream, that whatever that was standing before him had been conjured by his own imagination, but as Malarkey's arm had come to rest around his shoulders, the pressure of it as real as the man before him, he had realised that he had been awake.
Perhaps the man would have claimed more of his attention, had he been alone and allowed a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, but as his attention was craved by the friend by his side, his gaze had shifted, and when he once again turned it back, the man had been gone again. There had been no trace of him, or the fresh blood he had been drenched in, and even as he had spoken of the sight to his comrades and ridiculed for it, there had still been the knowledge that whatever it was that he had seen, it had been something real.
–
But as time passed, the vision of Mars had faded from his mind, and as he was huddled in a foxhole with Malarkey next, there had been no thoughts of it, his mind too occupied by other matters to think of what others only thought a figure of his imagination.
He wouldn't remember again until Mars pulled his soul from his body...
The forest had gone quiet with the arrival of the night, and despite being aware that he was in the wrong foxhole for the night, he wasn't making any attempts at moving. Most of the men swapped foxholes with each other to be able to keep previous conversations going, and it was rare any of the officers payed it much attention. All of them were too cold to care of much other than keeping the body heat and the spirit up in the company, and so there was only reprimands if any of the more serious rules were broken.
“I'm telling you, it's true. They think the third one might be still alive somewhere over there in Burma. Fritz only found out last week.” There was a confident smile on Skip's lips as he took a drag from his cigarette, his assuredness causing Malarkey to chuckle as he shook his head in disbelief.
“I don't believe you. You told me after D Day that three out of four Niland brothers were dead, and that they were sure they all were. Only Fritz was alive, and that's why the lucky bastard got a free ticket home.” Snatching the cigarette from his friend's fingers, Malarkey took a drag, making a point out of blowing the smoke in Skip's face. “Things like that don't happen, Skip. Dead people don't just turn up again.”
“So you mean that the army has never done a mistake, huh? Didn't know you had such faith in them all of a sudden, Don. Hell, I bet you're even thanking them for leaving us out here all winter, surrounded by Krauts.” Pulling his coat closer around him, Skip eyed his friend pointedly. “Besides, according to the news I've had from over there, things are chaos. People being put in prison camps and taken hostage wherever you look. You'd have no idea who was still alive or not.” His smile was now more triumphant as he saw Malarkey waver, and with a low laugh, he snatched the cigarette back, determined this time to keep it. The packet he had in his pocket was growing much too empty for his liking, and so there was no way he was letting his friend smoke the last of his, despite that they usually shared everything.
“You know my stand already. All I'm saying is that I doubt they'd make a mistake that big. They must have some kind of evidence.” Pulling the collar of his jacket up, the redhead adjusted his position, side pressed against Skip as he shook out their shared blanket and covered their legs. “Now shut up, will you? I'm going to get some sleep.”
“Night, Don.”
Skip's low chuckle was the last thing heard between them until the next morning. The next morning that would be Skip's last...
–
The morning had carried frost, the small ice crystals covering every surface it could touch and leaving the soldiers looking like statues until they got their limbs moving. Everywhere anyone looked, there was the rubbing of hands and stomping of feet, and the complaints of how goddamn cold the Ardennes were rung out in the cold air from the moment the first man woke.
The blanked they had slept under was coated with a thin layer, the fabric crackling as they kicked it off to get up, bodies stiff from the hard ground and cold air.
“You look like a snowman.” Malarkey's amused laughter as he laid eyes on Skip was only met with a tired groan, as the other brushed the snow and dirt off his coat, feet stomping the ground in a try to get some warmth back into his toes.
“You don't look much better yourself.” There was a pointed look towards Malarkey's helmet and short beard, as Skip rubbed his hands together and then started to climb out of the foxhole. “Perhaps we should stop calling you Irish, because you look more like a viking that anything else.”
“Very funny.” Following in the other's footsteps, the two set off towards the small canteen area, stomachs already rumbling for whatever food there would be. It was rare it was ever anything nice, not with the limited supplies they had, and so none complained much, as long as there was actual food to have.
Eyes flickered down towards Foy as they hurried back along the lines, darting between the shadowing trees in a try to keep themselves hidden. The last thing anyone wanted in their position, was to catch the attention of the Germans, not when the snow was still sprinkled with blood and fallen trees from the last shelling.
–
He was watching them all that day, flickering from standing in the shadows and watching as the foxholes were further fortified, and following the preparations by the Germans in Foy. He was there when they launched the first shell, the whistling sound of it mimicking the tormented screams of the souls he had already torn from their bodies, and he was there when it hit, the explosion shaking the ground under his feet.
The men throwing themselves into foxholes was a sight he was used to, his eyes following each and every one of them as they took cover, curling up and trying to stay alive. The lack of proper protection made that their only option, the earth and trees and snow what they needed to trust to keep them safe.
In some cases, it worked, men emerging minutes later to inspect the damages fully unharmed, but some were not as lucky, their limbs torn and their blood colouring the snow red.
Their blood giving his boots another fresh coat of red.
He watched in silence as the injured was transported away, the torn remnants of legs quickly wrapped up by medics, before the stretchers brought them away for good from the war. Mars had heard their prayers sometimes, the men who had prayed for injuries that would take them home, and some – but not all – had been given their wishes, on the days when he and the God of Death had felt lenient. Because in war, death was either right by your side, or waiting for you back home...
So we found our way back home, let our cuts and bruises heal.
–
Our nights have grown so long, now we beg for sound advice.
The night Skip Muck and Alex Penkala died, was the first night where Malarkey had hoped they would all make it home together.
The thought had passed through his mind as he had watched them laugh, cigarettes lit and bodies huddled close, as the men had spoken together before the first shells came hurtling to the ground.
In a shelling, no one ever cared who they ended up sharing a foxhole with, and that night, Malarkey didn't think he would care, until the news of what had happened to his friends reached him after the shells stopped. He himself had been curled up, hands over his head to shield his face from the flying splinters and earth, and he hadn't even thought anything of either of them as long as the explosions shook the earth. It had not been until later, when Luz had given him the news, that he had wished he had been there with them, if so only to be able to join them wherever they had gone.
–
Skip knew, the minute he saw the bloodied man again, what was about to come, and despite his voice calling out for Luz, the man sprawled on the ground before them as he and Penkala urged him to get up, there was a prayer flitting through his mind the moment before the man tore his soul from his body.
He had seen the hand coming even before he heard the shell, and his eyes had met those of the man towering above him as that very hand had gripped his own and that of Penkala. As the world around them had erupted in a shower of snow and dirt, there was a sharp tug, and suddenly he was stood staring at the remnants of his last resting place.
The sensation of seeing his own torn body made him stay silent, and he stood there staring, even as the bloodied man by his side started to turn away. Despite having been pulled away at the same moment as Penkala, their souls lifted as easily as if they had been children, he was there alone, him the only one seeing the man as he slowly moved through the forest, a fleeting, red shadow among the explosions of light.
Neither spoke, and Skip didn't move as he watched him disappear, well aware that whom he had seen was not the one he was supposed to follow. The man who had torn him from his body was not Death, but there had been the same type of chill creeping down Skip's spine one felt at the presence of Death as their hands had touched. The difference, however, had been that the man's skin had been burning hot and covered in the blood of death soldiers...
He lingered for a moment, eyes shifting over the forest as the shells started to die down, and his gaze fixed on Malarkey, a heavy feeling piercing his chest as he realised his friend was left alone. So many had already died and left the company, and now he was among them, another one who had left their friends to suffer alone.
He could see, even as Malarkey appeared from his foxhole, that he didn't yet know the news, and there was almost relief in that there would be a few more minutes before he would find out what one of the shells had done. For a few more minutes, his mind would have no idea what had occurred, and those few minutes was what Skip hoped his friend would remember. Those few minutes of calm before the world exploded was always those needed to be treasured, and as he turned away to leave, he hoped that that was something Malarkey would remember.
Let the brokenness be felt until you reach the other side.
–
Like all wars, that war would eventually come to an end, and Mars would retreat to his place in the sky, where he would watch the world rebuild itself, the broken men return to their homes and families mourn their dead. From his place, he watched Donald Malarkey return home, the torn rosary that had once belonged to Skip Muck safely placed in his pocket, and, years later, he watched him again as he returned. He was older then, but his footsteps just as unsure as he had entered the Belgian cemetery and made his way to the friend he had once lost to a German shell outside of Foy.
Mars had been there as he had knelt by it, and touched the white cross, and he had listened as the redhead had spoken of the years that had passed, his voice quivering under the heaviness of his grief.
And as Malarkey had risen once more to leave, Mars had followed, his footsteps silent and light as he had walked among the graves, the blood of the men resting there still on his skin, ingrained together with thousands of years of other lives lost to war.
Because Mars was war, and his punishment would forever be to carry the blood of the deaths he had caused, ever since he had first put the thought of war into the minds of men...
–
So we found our way back home, let our cuts and bruises heal.
While a brand new war began, one that no one else could feel.