Unaware Time Travel || Daniel H. Hill

With a pained gasp, Daniel’s eyes flew open in a panic.

He immediately sat up, kicking his legs against the grass and dirt under him as he searched fruitlessly for his rifle. Upon feeling it resting against his shoulders, his hand gripping the barrel just under the bayonet, he sat on the ground as his gaze flickered from tree to tree, looking for movement. He could only hear his panicked breathing, a rushing sensation in his head as his body sat, coiled, ready to strike at any moment. After a few moments, however, reality seemed to settle in around him. It was warm out–early afternoon, maybe? The birds were singing. Daniel was waiting to hear the distant booms of artillery, to see the smoke off in the distance as he stood up, yet it was…very quiet. He didn’t know if he liked it or not.

In an anxious shuffle, he turned and started to walk through the thicket of trees as he kept his gaze ahead but was hyper aware of any movement in his peripherals. He figured it wouldn’t take too long for them to realize he had went missing, and any time after that with no body to show that he had lost his life in that hellhole, they’d think he deserted. A defector, a coward on the run.

Daniel knew he would be killed for this if he was caught, but he couldn’t take it anymore. The mud, the rats, the bodies of his dead comrades rotting in the trenches… His head itched thinking about it, scratching at his scalp under his hat almost subconsciously.

Eventually, he saw something in the distance. A house, it looked like. Daniel knew he shouldn’t just enter uninvited, but he hadn’t had anything to eat in days, and a safe place to rest for even longer.

He moved forward without thinking about it, not catching onto the subtle differences around him. The orderliness of the stones under his boots, the overly clean wood of the porch, the strange vehicle down the hill from him.

Daniel's held his breath as he pushed the front door open. Unlocked. That’s not wise… His mud-caked boots left dark prints on the pristine floorboards. The air smelled clean here. No cordite, no rotting flesh. His hands trembled as he took in the strange glowing lights without candles. This can't be real. Some officer's fancy house behind the lines? He pressed his back against the wall, listening for the telltale whistle of shells that never came.

The silence felt heavier than any bombardment. Daniel's eyes darted across furniture too smooth, too perfectly shaped, made of materials he couldn't name. Where are the gas curtains? The sandbags? He stepped further into the room, his hands clenched at his sides, the heavy weight of his rifle against his back.

A faint humming came from somewhere deeper in the house - not the familiar drone of aircraft, but something lower, more constant. Electrical? But where are the wires? He could feel his breathing grow quicker, the familiar panic beginning to claw at his chest. He needed to find somewhere to hide before they found him. Before the MPs came.

His eyes landed on a doorway leading to what appeared to be a kitchen, all shining surfaces and more of those strange, cold lights. There were sounds coming from there now - someone moving about. Daniel flattened himself against the wall, his heart pounding so loud he feared it would give him away. Just need to see. Need to know what I'm dealing with.

Taking in a slow breath, he silently pulled his rifle off his shoulder and inched closer to the kitchen. It was there that he saw someone, dressed in odd clothing. He tried to will his hands from shaking as he raised his rifle, using his free hand to slowly push the door open.

“Hands up. Ain’t lookin’ to hurt nobody, just…” Lost? Living out some wild fantasy? “Just stay there.”

Daniel's knees protested as he crouched lower behind a plush sofa that felt impossibly soft beneath his trembling fingers. It was vastly different from the worn one in his mother’s home, to say the least.

The broken window pane lay scattered across the floor, each glass fragment catching the strange, steady light from overhead. No candles flicker like that. No gas lamps either. His eyes darted around the room, taking in colors too vibrant, fabrics too smooth. Everything smelled…for lack of a better term: clean. A stark contrast to the stench of the trenches that still clung to his uniform.

His left hand rose automatically to scratch at his scalp, remembering the constant itch of lice that wasn't there anymore. Where are the rats? This house was way too clean for the civilian ones he had seen near the Front. The silence felt heavier than any artillery barrage, pressing in on his eardrums until he almost wished for the familiar thunder of big berthas.

A floorboard creaked upstairs. Daniel froze, his breath catching in his chest. His mind raced through possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. He could still make a run for it. Go back into the strange, quiet night where carriages moved without horses and buildings stretched toward a sky devoid of zeppelins. But his legs refused to obey, rooted to this spot of temporary sanctuary behind the strange sofa.

The footsteps descended the stairs now. Light, uncertain. Not the heavy tread of military boots. He pressed his forehead against the sofa's cool fabric, trying to quiet the frantic beating of his heart. The door to the room began to swing open…

The rain had been falling for what felt like days, turning the unfamiliar landscape into a churning sea of mud that reminded Daniel far too much of Flanders. Each squelching step sent cold water seeping through the cracked leather of his boots, the damp chill having long since worked its way into his bones until his teeth chattered with it.

He'd been walking for hours. Maybe days? Time had become blurry, bleeding together in his exhausted mind. The world around him made no sense - strange metal carriages moving without horses, buildings that reached impossibly high, people dressed in garments so bizarre they might as well have been from another planet.

Mad. I've gone round the bend at last.

The thought should have frightened him more than it did, but after months in the trenches, madness wasn’t unfamiliar. He should be relieved that he wasn’t walking around aimlessly, dead-eyed and just waiting for the next bombardment.

He saw a house in the distance. No sandbags reinforced its walls, no barbed wire tangled around its garden. Warm light bled through curtains hanging in the front windows. Civilian? Little too clean for it… His hand instinctively went to his rifle, holding it tightly where he gripped it, careful not to grab the edge of the bayonet.

His training screamed at him to keep moving, to find cover in the trees, to treat every structure as potentially hostile. But the cold had become a living thing chewing at his insides, and the thought of another night shivering in some waterlogged ditch made the decision for him. He moved up the garden path like a ghost, his sodden greatcoat dragging heavy around his thin frame. Raising a trembling hand to knock on the front door, he hesitated.

What if they turn me away? What if they call the MPs? Desertion was a firing squad offense. Better to slip in unseen. Take them off guard.

Circling around to the back, he found a simpler door, its handle cool beneath his shaking fingers. It turned it and it opened with a click. Unlocked. Foolish, he thought. Don't they know there's a war on?

The warmth that washed over him as he stepped inside was almost painful. The air smelled of something rich and savory cooking - a proper kitchen smell, not the stale biscuit and bully beef he'd grown accustomed to. His eyes struggled to make sense of the room - strange humming boxes, surfaces so clean they gleamed, colors so bright they hurt to look at. He stood dripping on the mat, a spectral figure from a forgotten war, listening to the comfortable silence of a home that shouldn't exist.

What fresh hell is this?

He gripped his rifle, pulling it over his shoulder so he could hold it in front of him. Ready to raise at any threat. He walked up toward the main part of the house, leaving water and mud on the floors behind him. He approached an open room, and that’s when someone walked out in front of him.

Daniel jumped back, sheer luck keeping his finger from hammering down on the trigger as he raised his weapon toward the stranger.

“Stay back! Not another step. Ain’t lookin’ to put a bullet in you, just lookin’ for some rations.”