Through the Darkness Read online

  THROUGH

  THE

  DARKNESS

  A Novel

  By

  B.C. YANCEY

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without the written permission of the author. Making or distributing electronic or printed copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Copyright © 2019 by B.C. YANCEY

  All rights reserved

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  Twenty-One

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  Fifty-One

  One

  German Spring Offensive

  March 24, 1918, France

  Deafening, high-pitched shrieks pierced the afternoon sky, a distinctive and terror-inducing sound heralding death and devastation mere seconds away.

  Artillery shells and mortars dropped through the sky and exploded; throwing men, or most often than not—all that remained of them at that point—into the air with clods of dirt and debris, violently scattering them about like dandelion fluff blown into the wind.

  The living who remained unscathed pressed on into an unforgiving barbwire gauntlet. Machine guns spewed bullets in wild and deadly abandon.

  If they or other shards of metal filling the air failed to find their mark in some poor bastard's hide, there remained the possibility of greeting death by way of hand grenades, artillery strikes, mortars, and poison gas.

  And if by some miraculous feat a soldier managed to survive any combination of those obstacles, he still needed to deal with the flamethrowers.

  Captain Everett Monterose, a man with the impressive height of six foot four and brawny physique, had long since come to terms with the odds stacked against survival in such unwelcoming surroundings.

  A proficient shot and even more deadly with his knife and bayonet, coupled with an incredible amount of luck, were the only things keeping him from meeting his end, despite the countless opportunities he'd had so far.

  Favoring books over any weapon while growing up, Everett never knew he'd been gifted with such deadly talent until a year ago after joining the army.

  Before then, his only weapons had been those of a school teacher, mainly limited to books—an extensive collection that allowed him to always have at least two in his possession at a time—chalk, notepaper, and pens. Deadly weapons to be sure.

  He hadn't joined because he'd been compelled by a noble idea to help right the wrongs in Europe like so many others before him.

  Instead, he'd waited until being conscripted; but once receiving his orders, he believed he had a clear idea of what war would be like, and approached the situation he found himself in without fear.

  How could he not after living with an abusive father up until his mother's death just after he turned thirteen? His life had been brutal, filled with many opportunities that had almost caused his demise.

  But even if his hellish childhood somehow failed to prepare him for what lay in store, then surely the fact that he taught school would fill in what knowledge he lacked. After all, the topic of war filled the history books; many of them lined the shelves in his private collection at home.

  However, within the first half-hour on his first day in France, he'd seen that even combining his own life experiences with the history books still only gave a warped and paltry version of the reality he now lived.

  He'd seen no mention about living in deadly trenches that became more terrorizing than the battleground and all the inhumane horrors surrounding them.

  Just last night, he'd stood below a new soldier who crawled up the fire ladder once the crossfire seemed to die down to survey the area. His reward for attempts at caution was getting head blown off by enemy fire.

  Occurrences like those were one reason he'd stopped learning their names. What was the point when they'd more than likely not live through the day?

  Bloody dirt spurted into his face; more and more men at his side dropped to the blood-drenched earth like marionettes whose strings were suddenly severed.

  And yet, he wiped it from his eyes and rushed forward into battle, killing every foe he encountered, sure—or if he were blatantly honest—hoping, he wouldn't make it out of this one alive.

  Some men beside him were friends he'd tried to laugh and joke with the night before, a vain attempt at dampening the trauma of the whole experience. Other soldiers were new faces he'd only just met.

  Most of them, either a seasoned soldier like himself or the newest recruit, at one point within the last two days had cried while admitting they didn't want to die.

  But not Everett. After what he'd witnessed, been a party to, and lived through, death would be a mercy or a penance. Either way, it would be an end—albeit a violent and less than blissful one—to the nightmare they endured every day.

  And, as luck would have it, it looked like his death wish would soon be granted. Several things happened all at once and fought for dominance in what would deliver the final, killing blow.

  The ominous shriek of a mortar pierced the air just as the first bullet struck him in the left shoulder.

  "Gas! GAS!" Sergeant McDole yelled beside him, scrambling to don his gas mask. But in the next breath, a volley of bullets dropped him to the ground, and his mask fell from his lifeless fingers.

  Earth exploded in a blinding cloud of dirt mixing with the wall of green gas. The power of it knocked Everett's helmet and gas mask off, embedded shards of metal into his flesh, and broke his right arm as it spun and threw him up into the air.

  Screams of wounded and dying men surrounded him, mingling with one louder than the others. It took a moment before he realized it was his own.

  Everett crashed to the ground with such bone-jarring force that it drove the air from his lungs and plunged a large scrap of metal deep into his right thigh.

  A silent scream of agony and mounting panic from lack of air tore from his throat. Fighting for each breath, he lay stunned and helpless and prayed for death.

  Searing pain caused by the gas intensified, and his eyes refused to open despite the desperate urge to do so. Everett clawed at his face, desperate to wipe away the dirt, blood, and poison that burned his skin and eyes.

  Another explosion sent bloody chunks of
dirt and human debris raining down upon him, accompanied by searing flames that licked at his skin. Pain consumed the right side of his body, worsened by the stench of burning flesh pervading his nostrils.

  A shrill ringing filled his ears, and he dug his left hand into the wet soil, opening himself up to what he hoped would be another artillery shell destined to end his misery.

  The tinny, sharp staccato sound drowned out all other noise until it engulfed his entire body. Suddenly, the noise faded; the ground shook beneath him, tingling numbness replaced agony, and he succumbed to the void of unconsciousness.

  Two

  Three weeks later, Walter Reed Army Hospital

  April 17, 1918, Washington, D.C.

  "Get your FILTHY HANDS OFF me," A man cried out, his voice trembling with fury.

  Elyria stood and took a few cautious steps toward the commotion down the hall. What on earth was going on? Knowing she'd get an earful from Head Nurse Winters if she saw her anywhere other than her designated place, she clenched her hands into fists and walked back to her chair.

  The ‘Throne of Commiseration' Daphne had named it. Elyria shook her head and let out a wry laugh. After sitting for over six hours each day, not much commiserating went on between her backside and the hardwood seat.

  She'd once asked for a pillow, but according to Nurse Winters: "Pillows are only for the dying, and since you, Miss Ormond, are most assuredly among the living at the moment, you can do without."

  Discomfort aside, and provided she remained sitting upon her ‘throne,' Elyria could do what she'd fought so hard for—that of providing comfort to the wounded and dying men returning from the war in France.

  Being blind certainly had its disadvantages when it came to volunteering in the hospital, but at least she could still be useful; even if it only meant holding a soldier's hand to help ease their last few moments of suffering.

  A stream of curses fell from the man's tongue, searing the air and bringing a blush to her cheeks. Unable to help herself, Elyria prepared a flimsy excuse just in case Nurse Winters intercepted her and walked toward the commotion.

  Between growing up with her older brother Stephen who currently served on the frontlines, and the time she'd spent volunteering at the hospital, she'd come to expect a degree of foul language from the wounded soldiers. But, goodness gracious, this man's inventiveness could give most of the other men lessons.

  "TOUCH me again and I WILL-"

  His agonized scream cut off whatever else he'd been prepared to say, followed shortly after that by the clang of a bedpan crashing into a wall before clattering to the floor.

  "CAPTAIN Monterose!" Head Nurse Winters exclaimed, her voice full of outrage and a tremor of unease. "You will behave yourself! There are women present."

  Monterose growled, sounding like he'd suddenly become possessed by a demon.

  Nurse Winters gasped and muttered a few unladylike curses under her breath, before stating in a sharp tone, "Act like an animal, and you shall be treated like one."

  "Then tell your goons," Monterose groaned, his voice growing weak and filled with suffering, "to leave me…the hell alone!"

  "Unfortunately, we are unable to abide by your wishes," Nurse Winters seethed. She paused, no doubt in an attempt to calm her notoriously short temper, and then said in a milder tone, "My goons, as you so charitably put it, are simply trying to do their duty. A feat that will be made all the easier if you do yours and cooperate."

  A water pitcher slammed against the wall, shattering upon impact.

  "That is ENOUGH, sir," Nurse Winters barked. "You're fortunate there's been a delay of our shipment of supplies, or I'd have you sedated the remainder of your stay. Bind him to the bed before he does himself or someone else serious harm."

  Elyria drew closer, quieting her steps and the noticeable tap of her walking stick to a dull thud until she stood just outside the door.

  Two sets of tentative feet cautiously made their way across the room to Captain Monterose. Stewart, one of the male orderlies, said, "It's for your own good, Captain."

  "You lay a hand on me…again…and I swear you'll live to regret it," Monterose growled, his voice tight with suppressed tears.

  Elyria backed up a pace and hid behind the wall at the note of danger and violence in the Captain's voice, surprised when none of the orderlies or Nurse Winters did the same.

  Had she misread the threat from the man sounding like a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike?

  She didn't need to wait long to find out. Ten seconds later, the distinct sound of flesh striking flesh broke the tense silence of the room.

  Stewart fell back with a curse and collided into the bedside table, which sent both him and the table crashing to the ground.

  Nurse Winters screeched commands like an angry cockatoo before running from the room, threatening she would return with Major Buchanan.

  The second orderly—most likely to be Doyle since he and Stewart were never out of one another's company—crowed in delight. "I got him, Stew!" However, his jubilation turned into a shout of pained surprise before he too went tumbling to the floor.

  "Take these damn things OFF ME," Monterose rumbled, his voice strained. He struggled against his bindings, causing the bed to creak in protest. "I'm NOT some damned animal to be tied up!"

  "Get his right arm next, Stew, so he can't use that cast as a weapon again," Doyle groaned. "He's knocked my favorite tooth loose."

  But Monterose continued to fight and managed to land another blow.

  Stew stumbled away, and breathing hard he wheezed, "I say we let the Major deal with him."

  "I DEMAND you RELEASE ME," Monterose raged.

  The agony and utter helplessness in his voice tore at Elyria's heart and brought tears to her eyes.

  Stewart and Doyle fled the room amid weak shouts and tearful curses from Monterose. Elyria turned away, doing her best to appear uninterested and invisible.

  Two more small objects she couldn't identify thunked against the wall before she worked up the courage to enter.

  To say that the man intimidated her or made her afraid would be an understatement. And yet, some unnamable force propelled her forward. She took one cautious step after another into the room littered with broken pottery that crunched underfoot, using her walking stick to help navigate her way around the broken bedside table.

  Wisps of hair blew into her face when a pillow flew through the air, barely missing her, before landing with a soft thud. The washbasin followed soon after, falling harmlessly to the floor on her left. She stopped, wondering for the briefest of moments if she'd lost her mind.

  "I told you to get THE HELL OUT of HERE," Monterose hoarsely shouted.

  He was much closer than she'd thought. If she reached out, would she be able to touch him? Or perhaps the more important question should be whether she stood close enough for him to land another punch?

  She chewed on her bottom lip and decided to take her chances—and instantly regretted it. Like a blind fool, which she most assuredly had just proved herself to be in every sense of the word, she'd assumed Stewart and Doyle had restrained all flailing appendages before their hasty departure.

  The cast Doyle had complained of loosening his favorite tooth, thudded into her thigh hard enough there would most assuredly be a bruise.

  Fearing the Captain would find the strength and desire to try again, she braced her walking stick against the side of the bed and thrust out her hands in search of his arms.

  Three

  Everett lashed out against the new vanilla and rose-scented menace but ended up with both his hands caught in a soft yet uncompromising grasp. He had no doubt they were hands belonging to a female, which gave him pause.

  Neither one of the goons had had a gentle touch; he doubted they even knew what the word meant. Had the battle-ax they called Nurse Winters returned, determined to bring him to heel? No, her harsh tone proved she didn't have a soft bone in her body, and she'd smelled of disinfectant. Growling low
in frustration, he tried to pull his hands free, but she held him tighter instead of letting go.

  He opened his mouth to let loose a volley of profanity in the hopes of frightening her away, but she released his left hand before he got out a single syllable. He grunted in approval.

  Now if only she would let go of his right; the damn thing hurt like hell. "Release me," he snapped, tugging against her hold.

  "Do you promise to calm down, Captain?" The woman asked, her voice breathless and slightly trembling but oddly pleasant-sounding—unlike Nurse Winters.

  He had an excellent reason to be upset, something she should be aware of just by looking at him. "If you even dare restrain me, I swear I'll-"

  "You'll what, Captain?"

  Everett struggled to think of a threat he'd be able to carry out in his current condition but came up empty. The damn woman had called his bluff and won.

  Fire coursed through his veins and consumed his body; the agonizing pain only grew worse the more he struggled. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging the raw, burned skin before being soaked up into the damp bandaging covering his eyes.

  The torment he'd endured for the past three weeks since being wounded reached new heights, thanks in large part to the clumsiness of Stew and Doyle. The stupid idiots had dropped him not once, but twice while transferring him from the ambulance stretcher to the hospital gurney.

  And they dared to wonder why he didn't want them to touch him.

  Then rabid Nurse Winters had exploded on the scene and escalated it beyond what anyone would willingly endure.

  He used to pride himself for his easy-going, slow to anger manner—the direct opposite of his father. For as long as he could remember, he'd striven to be someone more inclined to be a peacekeeper in any confrontation.

  But things had changed; hell, he had changed and lying there simmering with rage, pain, and despair he saw himself becoming far too much like his father and wanted to weep.

  Muscles spasmed and bones ached with such incredible sharpness it stole his breath, further increasing his misery.

  He ground his teeth against a wave of agony, but a strangled groan tore free of his throat despite his best attempt to bite it back.