Free Hymn From A Village by Nigel Bird

the puddle and emptied half its brains onto my trousers.
    “Clean that off,” Sergeant Rousseau barked. I looked into his face, the broken veins under his skin like a map of the trenches, the red bulb at the end of his nose soon to be another signal to Fritz. “Quickly.” The man thought having a career in banking and stripes on his arms made him better than everyone else. Damned fool.
    He moved on to inspect the rest of the 327th.
    “Rousseau wants you to meet your maker looking smart,” Bernard Desmarais said, leaning against the wall of woven branches as if waiting for a bus.”
    “Wouldn’t want you letting the side down, now,” said his brother, Jean, his huge mole pointing at me from his chin. He threw me a Galloises.
    The brothers were ugly as sin, ruined by acne and eczema the poor buggers. They were crazy with it, and lion-hearted. I always stuck close when we went over and they’d seen me home every time.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said and lit up.
    I ran the lighter flame along the seams of my jacket before snuffing it out. Gave me satisfaction to kill a few lice. Galled me to think that the ones I missed were probably going to live longer than me.
    Rousseau returned, his pistol drawn. Stood next to the ladder and looked at his watch.
    “That’ll be us,” Jean said with a smile.
    The brothers hugged tight, slapped each other’s backs then stood ready and eager.
    Rousseau’s moustache rippled as his lip twitched. I counted twenty-four before he put his whistle to his lips and blew.
    Like trained animals we climbed the ladder. Up there like we had somewhere to go.
    I followed the broad, muddy arses of the brothers.
    Five steps and all well.
    Ten, still good.
    Twenty and we were still standing.
    It was like we were under the wings of an angel for a while, calm and safe, like we might actually take their lines without them noticing.
    Still nothing at thirty.
    All hell at thirty-three, bullets flying by like whistling insects.
    I kept tight hold of the Lebel. Remembered loading the eight rounds nose to tail. Placed my finger over the trigger and plodded, trying to keep my body small with it.
    All the while, I kept my focus on the Desmarais boys, the pair striding forward into the smoke.
    My concentration was broken by the bass notes of a shell falling ahead.
    I shouted.
    Bernard and Jean turned then disappeared into a hole.
    Shame it was the same hole the shell wanted.
    ***
    T ook me three years to get around to visiting Monsieur and Madame Desmarais. Spent most of that time either laying roads or drinking. Sometimes both together.
    Three years of turning in my sleep, I knew there was only one solution.
    Took a train to Rouen then a bus up to La Baille.
    The couple weren’t hard to find.
    I took directions from the young lad behind the bar where I swallowed a Pastis to settle the nerves.
    Followed the Seine for a couple of hundred yards and found their cottage.
    An old man worked the land, tilling soil. He raised his gaze from the ground as if it were an effort. Droopy eyes and a stoop made it look like he was losing a battle with gravity. His trousers, on the other hand, appeared to be winning – red braces pulled them all the way up above his pot belly.
    I walked over and put out my hand.
    “Pierre Baltus,” I told him. My name didn’t seem to register. Why should it? “I was in the 327 th at Verdun.”
    There was a trace of recognition in the old man’s face. He took my hand and shook.
    “Desmarais. Come and meet my wife,” he said, gesturing to the cottage as if he needed moral support.
    At the door, the old man shouted over my shoulder. “There’s someone to see you. From Verdun.”
    Madame Desmarais came to the door, squinting as she moved into the light. I could see straight away where her son’s got their ugliness. Her eyes were too small and her nose too big, like she’d been a lizard in a past life.
    She wiped flour off her hands onto her tabard and pulled me in. “You knew my boys?”
    “I