The mud crawled into their mouth and nostrils as they clawed their way through a mass of dead soldiers, covered in the once warm blood.
The night was a blanket of black stretching out across the ground where valiant men took a final stand. Accompanied by its gloom was a tight silence, so tight it was difficult to hear his breathing and the slushing of mud beneath their chest as they crawled.
But then again, Vincent’s whisper sounded like a gust of wind in Bamo’s ear.
“Go without me, Bamo. We cannot both make it–”
Bamo clasped a hand over Vincent’s mouth, staring at the outline of his face, dark skin blended with the black of night. “We’re going to cross that ridge to safety together. Now shut up. You’ll draw them here.”
Bamo’s muscles ached with a fatigue like he had never felt before. The dead weight of Vincent wrapped around his arm made their crawl slow and painful. Just a little more, Bamo thought. Our wives will kiss their husbands again. You’ll see your daughter again, Vincent. We’re going home.
“Bamo. Bamo stop.” Vincent said, grasping for Bamo’s arm tucked under his armpit, his voice as faint as soft gasps. “Before we reach the ridge I would’ve bled out. My legs are shattered from my thighs down. I won’t let you die for a hopeless cause.”
“What are you failing to understand?” Bamo said, matching his tone, struggling to stop him from breaking free. “I am not leaving you even without a fighting chance. I will not cross that ridge without you. I will not! Do you hear me?”
Bamo gripped his arm and stared into his watery eyes, voice cracking, lips trembling in the cold air. “You’ve bled for me where men ran. Picked me up when I couldn’t walk. Why won’t you let me be there for you?”
Bamo saw what he thought was resignation in Vincent’s dark eyes and then let himself be dragged across the muddy ground.
“The medical aide at the camp will address your wounds. You will not die this night.” I swear on the grave of my mother.
Bamo stopped, Vincent’s half-unconscious body slung over his side. His ears caught something. A faint thump in the distance. The soft splatter of boot on mud behind them. They had come to check for survivors after the onslaught.
He turned to Vincent and placed a muddied finger over his lips. If they moved, they would hear. It sounded like it was just one soldier. But in his state, Bamo could not take him head-on. Plus, in the murky moonless night, he couldn’t tell if more lurked close by.
The soldier was quiet, blending with the coal-black night, careful not to alert any survivors of his presence. But as he closed in, Bamo could see his outline with a long rifle pointed low like an extension of his arm.
His fingers itched for his short gun strapped to his side, but he remained still. The sound of boots on mud drew closer. He would pass over them. He had to.
The man, clad in all black, sploshed past with careful steps and halted mere feet away from them. Lightening flashed, shining a whitish blue light on Vincent. From his knees below, his legs were gone, now torn trousers and strings of flesh hung loosely.
Bamo remembered the ear-splitting explosion flinging Vincent like a threaded doll. It still rang in his ears even in the deafening silence of the night. A crackle of thunder followed by another flash of lightning revealed Vincent’s stark, pale face. He was dying.
His blood loss was too much. They couldn’t stay here much longer. He had to do something. Slowly, he untied himself from Vincent and turned to face the soldier in black, back turned to him. A quick turnaround showed no one but the man. Alone.
He dragged himself closer to the man, swallowing and blinking away mud, the sound of flowing sludge like the rush of a river in his ears. The man turned periodically, but only saw dead bodies scattered across the field. When he returned to scanning the distant ridge for any sign of movement, Bamo would start up again. It was hard and slow work, but he was close now.
He reached for his knife tied to his ankle, sluggishly unsheathing it. He stood, knife tight in his grasp. He would need to be quick before the man could raise an alarm. As he took a step closer, raising his knife, the man turned.
Bamo dove and they both went down into the filth, rolling and fighting over the knife. The rifle had flown off the man’s hands as the knife had flown off his too. He had one hand curled around the soldier’s neck while the other pressed over his mouth. Please. Die.
A knee to his gut sent the air out of him. He rolled over to his side. His heart beating in his ears suppressed all sound. The man got up on his knees and hands, gasping for air. He tried to call out, but all that seemed to come out was a soft whisper. Yet the dingy night carried it like an empty drum.
Bamo grabbed the rifle off the ground and slammed the butt into his head, flinging mud with its swing.
A large wound appeared on the side of his head, spurting dark crimson, his eyes wide and distant. Bamo knelt with a splat, eyes closed, panting. Sounds of barking pierced through the cold air. His eyes shot open. Lights shone in the distance; more men were approaching. Did they hear him?
It didn’t matter. They needed to move, now. Bamo ran to Vincent, the boots sinking in mud, heavier with each step. He dove for Vincent, falling with a splash.
“Jeka lo! Right now!”
He tried to lift him but his muscles screamed in protest. They both collapsed back into the mud. Bamo cursed. They were not leaving this place. Then they must make a stand. Long enough to get a miracle.
He reached for his shotgun. But it was gone. He turned to Vincent. He had it in shaky hands pressed against his temple, finger pressing slightly on the trigger.
“If you run, you’ll make it just in time.” He said, voice weak and cracked. “I’m already dead, Bamo. Let me do this for you this once.”
The barking drew closer. The lights began to bloom brighter. “No. Vincent please…”
Vincent closed his eyes. As dawn broke across the horizon, its warm light tearing through gathered clouds, tears trickled down his dirty cheeks. The sound of the shot rang clear and through, echoing in the morning air.
Vincent stared blankly as if in shock, letting the gun drop. More shots rang in the distance. From the West, out of the ridge, a mass of armed bodies, brothers in blood, fired at the coming soldiers. They returned the fire, shouting incomprehensible commands.
Vincent looked up at Bamo with a blank stare. “What’s… What’s happening?”
From behind them, footsteps splashed in the muck. Bamo dove over Vincent, spread wide like a human shield. But when he looked up, he saw an arm extended to him and a broad welcoming smile.
“You’re safe now men.” Sergeant Obi said, still pristine in his uniform knee-deep in sludge.
Calvary. Bamo let tears fall as reality washed over him. We’ll live.
Read – It Happened Twice – A Short Story by Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia, Nigeria
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