Three on a Match

Darkness prevails as the last hint of sunlight sinks below the surface of the black horizon. It is a barren battlefield covered in trenches, shell holes and tangles of barbed wire. It is a No Man’s Land. A flare is shot into the sky, illuminating the earth below with a radiant red haze. A lone soldier crouches in a small, shallow shell hole. The hole is cold, wet and muddy and he is covered from helmet to boot in mud. Only the white of his eyes is visible through the layer of caked mud on his long, unshaved face. A cold breeze sweeps through his shelter, causing his already shaken body to shiver even more. He embraces his parka with all his might. This damn, blasted wind is a bloody menace! he says to himself. It has been attacking him all night and he is sick of it. He has been at battle for four days straight now, not a day’s rest. His empty stomach feels like it is slowly burning from the inside out. His dry throat feels like cotton as he painfully swallows. Yes, he needs food, he needs water, but they can wait. There is but one thing that he craves above all else. A cigarette.
He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a wrinkly old cigarette, his last one, his only one; the one cigarette that he has kept without smoking for days now. It has been four days of constant battle. Four days of muddy trenches. Four days of machine guns. Four days of death.  He can put off smoking no longer. Just one cigarette, that’s all he needs to get through this hellish night. He puts the cigarette to his lips. He immediately tastes the harsh sweetness of the tobacco. He stands up and reaches into his pocket for a match. He pokes around inside the pocket; digging through small chunks of mud. But finds nothing. The book of matches he kept inside it is missing. The pocket must have been left opened, he thinks to himself. The pocket is empty, empty like his lungs that long for their grayish remedy.
He reaches around frantically, checking every crevice in his vomit-colored outfit, his heart beating faster and faster every time he finds nothing. Then his heart sinks, he gives up; he is matchless. He has a cigarette, but no match, nothing to ignite the cure to his craving. As he contemplates his hellish situation, the blood red flares that illuminate the black skies pause. Everything darkens. The crescent moon gives but a taste of its full potential to light up the night sky. It is too dark to see more than a couple feet in front of himself. It is because of this darkness that he decides to pursue his goal elsewhere.
Just a few yards across the barren wasteland of black mud the enemy sits and waits with his guns ready. But as long as it is dark the night will be his shield from enemy sights. As long as he is quick and quiet, he can leave his shelter for a short time and get a match. He looks to his left; no more than thirty steps away some of his comrades take shelter. He remembers them from earlier in the night when they first took their positions. There were two of them, surely at least one of them will have a match, he thinks to himself. He takes a deep breath. He briefly contemplates the risk he is taking. If he is caught in the open it will surely be his demise. But he cannot bear the craving. His tender gums water when he imagines the smoke taking over his mouth. He will be left incomplete and unfulfilled if he does not smoke. He will not settle for defeat this night. It is enough for him to take this risk, and he does.
He crouches down as he runs toward his comrades’ shelter. His boots make a loud sucking sound as he trudges through the thick mud. He slows down as he nears their position. After quickly catching his breath he calls out to the two dark figures in the crater in front of him
 “Hey mates, it’s me!”
“Thomason, is that you?” A loud whisper replies.
 “It is.”
“Get in here, b’fore a shell catches you wide open!”
He climbs into their shelter and crouches down next to them, breathing heavily. He can barely make out the shapes of their bodies through the darkness. The one to the left is short and round. The soldier to the right, tall and thin. Their shelter is much larger than his. It is equipped with rows of sandbags and damp, rotting wood on the edges of the opening. The bottom of the hole is covered in black, muddy water deep enough to drown a man’s entire foot.
“Are you mad, Thomason?” the short one asks him in a high-pitched voice. “You might’ve been picked off if one of us didn’t know better and mistook you for a Jerry!”
 “I need a flame” he replies.
“A flame?”
“I’ve got me a fag but I haven’t a match, I must’ve lost them somewhere in No Man’s Land.”
“You’re willing to meet face to face with a Hun’s shell for a bloody fag?”
 “Believe me, I’d die for a smoke right now.”
 “Well it seems fortune is in your favor my friend” the deep voice from the tall one replies. “You came at the right time. We got one match between the two of us, and we was just about to use it.” As the man pulls out the match they uncomfortably crouch, shivering in the cold, damp mud.
“Stand up, it’s all right. Jerry’s sleeping tonight, plus, a night as dark as this you can’t even see your own Johnny when you’re pissing” the short one says to the others.
They stand up. A gust of icy wind briefly slithers through their muddy haven, brushing against their pale, unprotected faces. The tall soldier waits for the wind to pass, and then strikes the match against his helmet. The spark ignites in a bright explosion of orange, yellow glow.
           
Across the sea of darkness, adjacent to the three soldiers, a sniper sees a quick flash of light in the distance. With his gray eyes peering through the scope on his long rifle, he immediately sets his sights on it. He has been lying on his stomach in the same position for a long time, for what seems like forever. He had not seen a single movement across the field all night, nothing to attract his attention. He had almost gone mad with boredom. But now, he finally has some action. The cold air pierces through the thick gray trench coat that covers his long body, yet he does not shiver. He remains still. He can feel the cold in his bones; he can feel it in his soul, yet all his attention is now on his newly spotted target: a tiny light in the distance. At first he wonders what it could be, but soon realizes that it is a match, most likely igniting a man’s cigarette. If he fires at the light, he will also be firing at a man’s face. He feels a sense of relief knowing he gets to kill a man for once without seeing his eyes before he kills him. It is much harder to pull the trigger then, but in the darkness, with nothing but the flame of a match, pulling the trigger is like flipping a switch, he will turn it off and move on, no remorse. He remains focused on the match as it flickers when making contact with the cigarette it ignites. It then suddenly moves to the right, temporarily growing smaller as it moves to the next man. His rifle follows the flame. Now, he puts his finger on the trigger.
           
Leaning against a stack of sandbags, the short, round soldier carefully takes the match from the tall shadow to the right of him. The flame diverges between the match and his long white cigarette as he breathes in. He makes a wheezy noise as he sucks the smoke into his lungs. He exhales a big cloud of smoke and pauses before handing the match to his left.
“Thomason. What if we were to share this fag? That’s your last one and I’m just about out as well. If we share we can have one for later.”
Thomason nods with disapproval. He had waited too long and gone through too much to share a cigarette. He wants one all to himself. He reaches out his hand, motioning for him to hand over the match.
“Sorry lad, half a fag just won’t cut it.”
“As you wish,” he replies.

The sniper’s finger rests on the trigger as he peers through his scope at the flickering target. He wants to be sure to fire straight at the man’s forehead, so he focuses on the blackness a couple of inches above the twinkling flame. He is ready to fire. Then the flame suddenly moves once again to the right, leaving his target nothing more than an empty black, fading away in the rest of the surrounding darkness.
 
“Here ya go Thomason, be careful, the flame grows small.” The short shadow slowly hands him the match. He pulls it toward himself, the flame delaying as if it fights to stay in its former position. His heart is filled with relief as his lips tightly grip the cigarette. He takes a second to glance at the flame in front of him. He finally gets to smoke. He finally gets fulfillment. He wants to take time to soak in the relief he feels, he wants it to last, so he hesitates.

The sniper’s finger tightens around the trigger. He will not take another chance. He must fire. He must fire now! He blocks off his breath as it tries frantically to escape his lips. He hears the loud, pumping of blood through his every artery, causing his eardrums to pulsate in sync with his pounding heart. He slowly begins to push on the cold, metal trigger as he focuses intently on the flickering flame.

“You’d better hurry up with that, Thomason!” one of the soldiers tells him as he sucks on the warm tobacco filled paper. He slowly brings the match to his cigarette. As the flame nears the tip, a violent wind charges through the small shelter like a wave sweeping through the tides on the surface of a black ocean, as strong and cold as all the others before it combined, roaring as it passes. It causes the soldiers to tuck their heads under the collars of their parkas. The frail flame of the match flickers, once, twice and it goes out, leaving nothing but a small, bare wooden stick with smoke slowly rising from its tip.

The sniper’s target suddenly vanishes, leaving him with nothing more than a single wall of blackness in front of his eyes. His finger begins to shake as it slowly loosens from its tight grip. His target has vanished. He takes his eyes away from the scope and peers toward the position of the once existing flame in the distance. His eyes pick up nothing but black. He frantically looks through his scope again and again, expecting the flame to return once more. But it does not. He has missed his opportunity and his target has gotten away from him.

Thomason stands frozen in disbelief as he fixes his eyes upon a mere stick, with nothing but a black tip blending in with the darkness of the night. His moonlit eyes open wide with shock as the unlit cigarette dangles from his lips. He returns to the feeling of defeat he felt earlier when he realized he was matchless. Now he has a match, but no flame.
“I must be cursed. I am a cursed man!” He shouts out to the others.

The sniper sits up. He lets out a deep breath, creating a smoke-like cloud of cold air in front of his rough face. He rubs his icy hands together; he now acknowledges the cold he is embedded in. His body still slightly trembles from the adrenaline he felt earlier. He briefly contemplates what happened. He knows it was his fault for missing this opportunity. He took too long. He should have fired sooner. That’s one lucky Tommy he thinks to himself as he gets back into position and continues to peer through the scope at the darkness in front of him. Back to the boredom. Back to the cold; where he will patiently wait for another small flash of light in the distance.