John Whitaker | Inferno

In the heartless expanse of that godforsaken trench, a nightmarish landscape of mire and decay stretched out before Captain John Whitaker's disbelieving eyes. The acrid stench of death and despair permeated the putrid air, while the once verdant earth had long since been reduced to a treacherous quagmire of mud and sullen, lifeless clay. In the midst of this hellish tableau, Whitaker found himself improbably ensconced, his polished boots caked with the detritus of war and his once-pristine uniform now a tattered and grimy parody of its former glory. A lad born and bred in the sun-dappled fields of Kent, he had been seduced by the siren song of adventure, only to discover that the cruel hand of fate had led him to this place of eternal twilight and unrelenting strife.

His squad, a motley assortment of men culled from the far-flung corners of a battered nation, had become his chosen family in this strange and savage land. There was Corporal Dai Davies, always ready with a quip or a jest to lift the spirits of his fellow soldiers, his infectious laughter a fleeting respite in the unremitting gloom. And Private Tommy Thompson, with his angelic tenor voice that could coax the very heavens to weep with its haunting melody. But the war, that insatiable beast, had a way of rending asunder even the strongest of bonds, leaving only shattered remnants and a yawning chasm of grief in its wake.

The attack descended upon them with the sudden, brutal ferocity of a thunderbolt from a clear blue sky. One moment, they were communing in the simple joys of camaraderie and shared hardship, and the next, the very air was rent asunder by the cacophonous roar of artillery fire. The ground trembled and shuddered like the very Earth itself was being torn asunder, as the iron rain of shells rained down from on high, unleashing their devastating payload upon the huddled, frightened men. John shouted commands, his voice drowned out by the infernal din of battle, as his brave lads fought valiantly against the encroaching darkness. But it was a losing proposition, a battle against the very tide of war itself.

He fought like a man possessed, his rifle bucking and recoiling against his shoulder as he poured a hail of lead into the oncoming horde of German soldiers. But for every foe he felled, it seemed as though two more took their place, an unstoppable tide of humanity crashing against the crumbling bulwark of their defenses. Around him, his brothers in arms began to fall, their anguished screams piercing the clamor of battle like the tolling of a funeral bell. Corporal Dai, his face a mask of shock and disbelief, crumpled to the blood-soaked ground as a German bullet tore through his heart, his laughter silenced forever by the cold, merciless hand of death. And Tommy, poor, sweet Tommy, his melodious voice now reduced to a strangled, agonized cry as he too succumbed to the inexorable advance of the enemy. John was left standing alone amidst the carnage, a solitary figure in a sea of broken bodies and shattered dreams.

As the battle reached its frenzied crescendo, John found himself battered and bloodied, his once stalwart frame reduced to a trembling, exhausted husk. He could feel the hot, searing pain of a German bullet as it tore through his flesh, and he knew that he had finally reached the end of his long and arduous journey. As he braced himself for the inevitable, the cold, unyielding steel of a German rifle barrel pressed against his forehead, he closed his eyes and waited for the darkness to claim him.

But fate, it seemed, had one final twist in store for the good captain. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a blinding flash of light, a searing, incandescent brilliance that seemed to set the very air aflame. The temperature soared, and the acrid stench of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils, a noxious haze of black smoke and crackling fire rising from the charred remains of the German soldiers as they writhed and screamed in agony. And there, emerging from the hellish fog of war like some eldritch, vengeful wraith, was a figure clad in the uniform of an ally nation, a man wielding a flamethrower that spat liquid fire with every searing gout.

The figure, face obscured behind a mask of scorched metal and madness, stood over the smoldering remnants of the enemy, the Germans' once proud forms now reduced to little more than burnt and blackened husks. As the last of the them fell, their anguished cries fading into the night, the figure turned a terrible gaze upon the fallen captain. Though the mask hid any sign of facial expression, John could feel the weight of that maddened stare boring into his very soul, and he knew that he had been spared from death only to face an even more uncertain fate at the hands of a possible madman.

"Bloody hell," he whispered hoarsely, his voice a ragged, broken rasp amidst the smoldering ruins of the battlefield. He knew not whether to offer thanks for his salvation or to recoil in abject terror from the twisted, warped soul that stood before him, a creature forged in the crucible of war and tempered by the unrelenting horrors he had witnessed. All he knew was that he was still alive, and that was saying more than his ill fated unit.