The ones who still march

It was getting darker, rain started its pitter-patter against my windshield when I decided to pull over to a narrow road that led into the forest. The next village was 25 kilometers away, and I was too exhausted to keep driving.

I knew this forest from earlier; I had visited the WWI memorial at Haute Chevauchée, with its trenches, bunker ruins, and ossuary. I was happy to be back to this side of France again. I remembered a broad, quiet clearing not far from the road—perfect for parking Lucille, my converted Ineos Grenadier, for the night.

The forest was quiet, only the wind whistling through the canopy. I cooked up dinner and decided against the roof top tent. The wind was too strong. Instead I made my bed in the trunk. I turned the fairy lights on as I curled up with a steaming bowl of pasta, the gooey cheese already melted on top. The rain shifted from patter to pour. I had just enough battery to watch a movie as I ate.

It was then when I heard the first bang. It rattled the side of Lucille. I must have drifted off—my empty bowl beside me, the laptop screen dimmed. My heart slammed against my ribs.

I froze. The fairy lights fizzled and went out, leaving only the dull glow of the laptop screen, which died seconds later.

Another knock—this time on the opposite side. Sharper. Impatient. As if whoever was out there knew I was up and listening.

I counted the seconds, holding my breath. I was so grateful for placing the blinds on my windows earlier. I couldn't see out, but no one could see inside either.

I heard footsteps crunching outside, hurried and hasty. First just one set, then more—multiplying, circling.

Muffled whispers seeped through the walls, in French. I couldn't understand what they said but it didn't sound like anything you'd want to hear at 2 a.m. in the middle of nowhere.

I stayed still for fifteen minutes, maybe longer, until the silence thickened. At last, I peeled back the curtain. Everything was peaceful and quiet out there, only the full moon lit up the branches like a dim lantern.

I knew it was reckless, but I needed air — and to pee. I slipped outside and hid behind the nearest bush. The forest appeared harmless, I almost convinced myself I had dreamed it. The wind picked up again, and I felt a shift in the air, like when summer imperceptibly turns into autumn.

And then I saw him.

He stood by Lucille: tall, blond, his long blue coat buttoned high. A helmet tucked beneath one arm like a turtle. A rifle slung across his back. He was staring at the moon, looking pale in the shaft of moonlight — too precise, like an old photograph that had come to life.

My stomach turned upside down. I felt a chill climbing into my bones. My hand hovered over my pocket where I carry my Swiss knife.

Smoke curled in the air, bringing with it the stench of burned hair. Another figure appeared from the shadows, weapon in hand, gripping his companion's shoulder.

“Philippe, il faut partir. Ils arrivent.”

(“Philippe, we have to go. They’re coming.”)

Their shape melted into the darkness before I could release the breath I didn't notice I was holding.

And then I heard it, too. A high pitched, keening sound like something was rapidly slicing through the crisp air. Then, an explosion followed. Mist billowed through the trees — or was it smoke? Suddenly, more figures broke out from the dark, running from one end of the road towards the other. But they didn't seem to care about me.

I just stood there, rooted in shock. What was happening? Are some people crazy enough to actually role-play war at two in the morning?

Fingers clamped down on my shoulder, hard enough to bruise through my thick jumper. I spun around.

I will never forget that face — so young, desperate and innocent. Covered in dirt and cold sweat, dread written all over it. Like a boy lost in the woods who only wants to get back to his mother.

"Madame, que faites-vous ici ? Vous ne devriez pas être ici, les Allemands sont arrivés."

("Madame , what are you doing here? You shouldn't be here, the Germans have arrived.")

I wanted to continue my "challenge series" called The Veilwood Tales, but I couldn't come up with anything since I read the prompt.

Instead, I got kissed by the muse in the forest of Haute Chevauchée, where me and my boyfriend worked for about a week. It's in the Verdun area where WWI hit France brutally, and it's the reason why the area is mostly covered with forests. There are trenches and bunkers everywhere, the land is still littered with bombs, wires and metallic pieces of fences, shovels and even airplanes. I myself found quite a few bombs while working. I get still get excited about them, but for my boyfriend it's natural. But basically, it's impossible to clear the fields from all the litter, so nothing else can be planted here (there are still some farm lands, though).

Anyway, we were working there, brush cutting a tree plantation. It can be extremely hard to climb up and down on the trenches and sometimes down into large holes, which were created by bombs. It's insane, if I think about it.

On our way out one afternoon, I noticed a well-preserved bunker near the road and asked my boyfriend to stop. We took a look and turned out that it was a maze of trenches (the deepest I ever seen, some places maybe even 4 meters!), with bunkers and an underground road system.

It gave me the idea to write about it one day, and I already had the outline of the story, but it only crystallized in me when I read the prompt for this challenge.

I don't think I ever wrote anything like this. I was always too scared of fusing real history in my writing because I didn't want to fail being accurate. But I started to enjoy leaving my literary comfort zone, and this seemed like a safe first try.

Thank you for reading!⭐