The Grave by Orville R. Emerson. The end of the story was first
brought to my attention when Fromwiller returned from his trip to Mount Kemmel with a
very strange tale, indeed, and one extremely hard to believe. But I
believed enough of it to go back to the mount with From and see if
we could discover anything more. And after digging for a while at the place
where From's story began, we made our way into an old dugout that had
been caved in, or at least where all the entrances had been filled with
dirt, and where we found written on German correspondence paper a terrible story.
We found the story on Christmas Day nineteen sixteen from Watteau and Flanders, where
our regiment was stationed. Of course, you have heard of Mount Kemel in
Flanders more than once. It figured in newspaper reports as it changed hands during
some of the fiercest fighting of the war, and when the Germans were finally
driven from this point of vantage in October nineteen eighteen, our retreat was started,
which did not end until it became a race to see who could get
to Germany first. The advance was so fast that the victorious British and French
forces had no time to bury their dead, and terrible as it may seem
to those who have not seen it, in December of that year, one
could see the rotting corpses of the unburied dead scattered here and there over the
top of Mount Kemel. It was a place of ghostly sightings and sickening odors,
and it was there that we found this tale. With the chaplain's help,
we translated the story which follows. For two weeks, I have been
buried alive. For two weeks, I have not seen daylight nor heard the
sound of another person's voice. Unless I can find something to do besides this
everlasting digging, I shall go mad. So I shall write as long as
my candles last. I will pass part of the time each day in setting
down on paper my experiences. Not that I need to do this in order
to remember them. God knows that when I get out, the first thing
I shall do will be try to forget them. But if I should not
get out. I am an ober lieutenant in the Imperial German Army. Two
weeks ago my regiment was holding Mount Kemmel in Flanders. We were surrounded on
three sides and subjected to a terrific artillery, but on account of the commanding
position, we were ordered to hold them out to the last man. Our
engineers, however, had made things very comfortable. Numerous deep dugouts had been
constructed, and in them we were comparatively safe from the shell fire. Many
of these had been connected by passageways, so that there was a regular little
underground city, and the majority of the garrison never left the protection of the
dugouts. But even under these conditions, our casualties were heavy. Lookouts had
to be maintained above ground, and once in a while a direct hit by
one of the huge railway guns would even destroy some of the dugouts. A
little over two weeks ago, I can't be sure, because I have lost
track of the exact number of days, the usual shelling was increased one hundredfold,
with about twenty others. I was sleeping in one of the shallower dugouts.
The tremendous increase in shelling awakened me with a start, and my first
impulse was to go at once into a deeper dugout, which was connected to
the one I was in by an underground passageway. It was a smaller dugout,
built a few feet lower than the one I was in. It had
been used as a sort of store room, and no one was supposed to
sleep there, but it seemed safer to me, and alone, I crept
into it. A thousand times since I have wished I had taken another man
with me, but my chances for doing it were soon gone. I had
hardly entered the smaller dugout when there was a tremendous explosion behind me. The
ground shook as if a mine had exploded below us. Whether that was indeed
the case, or whether some extra large caliber explo whose shell had struck the
dugout behind me, I never knew. After the shock of the explosion had
passed, I went back to the passageway, When about halfway along it,
I found the timbers had fallen, allowing the earth to settle, and my
way was effectively blocked. So I returned to the dugout and waited alone through
several hours of terrific shelling. The only other entrance to the dugout I was
in was the main entrance from the trench above, and all those who had
been above ground had gone into dugouts long before this so I could not expect
anyone to enter while the shelling continued, and when it ceased, there would
surely be an attack. As I did not want to be killed by a
grenade thrown down the entrance, I remained awake in order to rush out at
the first signs of cessation of the bombardment and join what comrades there may be
left on the hill. After about six hours of heavy bombardment, all sound
above ground seemed to cease. Five minutes went by, then ten. Surely
the attack was coming. I rushed to the stairway leading to the air I
took a couple of strides up the stairs. There was a blinding flash and
a deafening explosion. I felt myself falling. The darkness swallowed everything. How
long I lay unconscious in the dugout I never knew, But after what seemed
like a long time, I practically grew conscious of a dull ache in my
left arm. I could not move it. I opened my eyes and found
only darkness. I felt pain and a stiffness all over my body. Slowly
I arose, struck a match, found a candle and lit it and looked
at my watch. It had stopped I did not know how long I had
remained there unconscious. All the noise of the bombardment had ceased. I stood
and listened for some time, but could hear no sound of any kind.
My gaze fell on the stairway entrance. I started in alarm. The end
of the dugout where the entrance was was half filled with dirt. I went
over and looked closer. The entrance was completely filled with dirt at the bottom,
and no light of any kind could be seen from above. I went
to the passageway to the other dugout, although I remembered it had caved in.
I examined the fallen timbers closely between two of them. I could feel
a slight movement of air. Here was an opening to the outside world.
I tried to move the timbers as well as I could with one arm,
only to precipitate a small avalanche of dirt which filled the crack quickly. I
dug at the dirt until I could feel the movement of air. This might
be the only place where I could obtain fresh air. I was convinced that
it would take some little work to open up either of the passages, and
I began to feel hungry. Luckily, there was a good supply of canned
foods and hard bread, for the officers had kept their rations stored in the
dugout. I also found a keg of water and about a dozen bottles of
wine, which I discovered to be very good. After I had relieved my
appetite and finished one of the bottles of wine, felt sleepy, and although
my left arm pained me considerably, I soon dropped off to sleep. The
time I have allowed myself for writing is up, so I will stop for
today. After I have performed my daily task of digging. Tomorrow I shall
again write. Already my mind feels easier. Surely help will come soon.
At any rate. Within two more weeks, I shall have liberated myself.
Already I am halfway up the stairs, and my rations will last that long.
I have divided them so they will. Yesterday I did not feel like
writing after I finished my digging. My arm pained me considerably. I guess
I used it too much. But today I was more careful with it,
and it feels better, and I am worried again. Twice today, big
piles of earth caved in where the timbers above were loose, and every time
as much dirt fell into the passageway as I can remove in a day.
Two days more before I can count on getting out by myself, the rations
will have to be stretched out some more. The daily amount is already pretty
small, but I shall go on with my account. From the time I
became conscious, I started my watch, and since then I have kept track
of the days. On the second day, I took stock of the food,
water, wood, matches, candles, et cetera, and found a
plentiful supply for two weeks at least. At the time, I did not
look forward to staying more than a few days in my prison. Either the
enemy or ourselves will occupy the hill, I told myself, because it is
such an important position, and whoever holds the hill will be compelled to dig
in deeply in order to hold it. So to my mind, it was
only a matter of a few days until either the entrance or the passageway would
be cleared, and my only doubts were as to whether it would be friends
or enemies that would discover me. My arm felt better, though I could
not use it much, and so I spent the day in reading an old
newspaper which I found among the food supplies, and in waiting for help to
come. What a fool I was. If I only worked from the start,
I would be just that many days nearer deliverance. On the third day,
I was annoyed by water which began dripping from the roof and seeping in
at the sides of the dugout. I cursed that muddy water then, as
I have often cursed such dugout nuisances before. But it may be that I
shall yet bless that water, and it will save my life. But it
certainly made things uncomfortable. So I spent the day in moving my bunk,
food and water supplies, candles, et cetera up into the passageway for a
space of about ten feet. It is unobstructed, and, being slightly higher
than the dugout, was drier and more comfortable. Besides, the air has
been much better here, as I had found that practically all my supplies of
fresh air came in through the crack between the timbers, and I thought maybe
the rats wouldn't bother me so much at night. Again, I spent the
balance of the day simply in waiting for help. It was not until well
into the fourth day that I really began to feel uneasy. It suddenly began
to impress on my consciousness that I had not heard the sound of a gun
or felt the earth shake from the force of a concussion since the fatal shell
that had filled the entrance. What was the meaning of the silence? Why
did I hear no sounds of fighting? It was as still as the grave,
but a horrible death to die buried alive. A panic of fear swept
over me, But my will and reason reasserted itself. In time, I
should be able to dig myself out by my own efforts. It would take
time, but it could be done so, although I could not use my
left arm as yet. I spent the rest of that day and all of
the two following days in digging dirt from the entrance and carrying it back into
the far corner of the dugout. On the seventh day, after regaining consciousness,
I was tired and stiff from my unwonted exertions of the three previous days.
I could see by this time that it was a matter of weeks two
or three at least before I could hope to liberate myself. I might be
rescued at an earlier date, but without outside aid it would take probably three
more weeks of labor before I could dig my way out. Already dirt had
caved in from the top where the timbers had sprung apart, and I could
repair the damage to the roof of the stairway only in a crude way with
one arm, But my left arm was much better. With a day's rest,
I would be able to use it pretty well. Besides, I must
conserve my energy, so I spent the seventh day in rest and prayer for
my speedy release from a living grave. I also reapportioned my food on the
basis of three more weeks. It made the daily portions pretty small, especially
as the digging was strenuous work. There was a large supply of candles,
so that I had plenty of light for my work, but the supply of
water bothered me. Almost half of the small keg was gone in the first
week. I decided to drink only once a day. The following six days
were all days of feverish labor, light eating, and even lighter drinking.
But despite all my efforts, only a quarter of a keg was left at
the end of two weeks, and the horror of the situation grew on me,
my imagination would not be quiet. I would picture to myself the agonies
to come when I would have even less food and water than at present.
My mind would run on and on to death by starvation, to the finding
of my emaciated body by those who would eventually open up the dugout, even
to their attempts to reconstruct the story of my end. And adding to my
physical discomfort were the swarming vermin infesting the dugout and my person. A month
had gone by since I had had a bath, and I could not now
spare a drop of water even to wash my face. The rats had become
so bold that I had to leave a candle burning all night in order to
protect myself in my sleep. Partly to relieve my mind, I started to
write this tale of my experiences. It did act as a relief at first,
but now as I read it over the growing terror of this awful place
grips me. I would cease writing, but some impulse urges me to write.
Each day, three weeks have passed since I was buried in this living
tomb. Today I drank the last drop of water in the keg There is
a pool of stagnant water on the dugout floor, dirty, slimy and alive
with vermin always stay there, fed by drippings from the roof. As yet
I cannot bring myself to touch it. Today I divided up my food supply
for another week. God knows the portions were already small enough, but there
have been so many cave ins recently that I can never finish clearing the entrance
in another week. Sometimes I feel that I shall never clear it, but
I must. I can never bear to die here. I must will myself
to escape, and I shall escape. Did not the captain often say that
the will to win is half the victory. I shall rest no more.
Every waking hour must be spent in removing the treacherous dirt. Even my writing
must cease. Oh God, I'm afraid of afraid. I must write to
relieve my mind. Last night I went to sleep at nine by my watch.
At twelve, I woke to find myself in the dark, frantically digging
with my bare hands at the dark sides of the dugout. After some trouble,
I found a candle and lit it. The whole dugout was upset.
My food supplies were lying in the mud. The box of candles had been
spilled. My fingernails were broken and bloody from clawing at the ground. The
realization dawned upon me that I had been out of my head, and then
came the fear, dark, raging, fear, fear of insanity. I
have been drinking the stagnant water from the floor for days. I do not
know how many. I have only one meal left, but I must save
it. I had a meal to day. For three days I have been
without food, but to day I caught one of the rats that infest the
place. It was a big one too, gave me a bad bite,
but I killed him. I feel lots better to day. HAVE had some
bad dreams lately, but they don't bother me now. That rat was tough,
though. Think I'll finish this digging and go back to my regiment in
a day or two. Heaven have mercy. I must be out of my
head half the time. Now. I have absolutely no recollection of having written
that last entry, and I feel feverish and weak. If I had my
strength, I think I could finish clearing the entrance in a day or two,
But I can only work a short time at a stretch. I am
beginning to give up hope. Wild spells come on me oftener. Now I
awake, tired from the exertions which I cannot remember. Bones of rats,
picked clean are scattered about, yet I do not remember eating them. In
my lucid moments. I don't seem to be able to catch them, for
they are too wary and I am too weak. I get some relief by
chewing the candles, but I dare not eat them all. I am afraid
of the dark. I am afraid of the rats, But worst of all
is the hideous fear of myself. My mind is breaking down. I must
escape soon or I will be little better than a wild animal. Oh God,
send help. I'm going mad, terror, desperation, despair. Is
this the end? For a long long time I have been resting. I
have had a brilliant idea rest brings back strength. The longer a person rests,
the stronger they should get. I have been resting a long time now
weeks or months, I don't know which, so I must be very strong.
I feel strong. My fever has left me, so listen. There
is only a little dirt left in the entranceway. I am going out and
crawl through it, just like a mole, right out into the sunlight.
I feel much stronger than a mole. So this is the end of my
little tail. A sad tale, but one with a happy ending sunlight,
a very happy ending. And that was the end of the manuscript. There
only remains to tell Fromwiller's tale. At first I didn't believe it, but
now I do. I shall put it down though, just as Fromwiller told
it to me, and you can take it or leave it as you choose.
Soon after we were billeted at Watau, said Fromwiller, I decided to
go out and see Mount Kemel. I had heard that things were rather gruesome
out there, but I was really not prepared for the conditions that I found.
I had seen unburied dead at Rulus and in the Argonne, but it
had been almost two months since the fighting on Mount Kemel, and there were
still many unburied dead. But there was another thing that I had never seen,
and that was the buried living. As I came to the highest point
on the mount, I was attracted by a movement of loose dirt on the
edge of a huge shell hole. The dirt seemed to be falling into a
common center, as if the dirt below was being removed. As I watched,
suddenly I was horrified to see a long, skinny human arm emerged from
the ground. It disappeared, drawing back some of the earth with it.
There was a movement of dirt over a larger area, and the arm reappeared,
together with a man's head and shoulders. He pulled himself up out of
the very ground, as it seemed, shook the dirt from his body like
a huge, gaunt dog, and stood erect. I never want to see
such another creature. Hardly a strip of clothing was visible, and what little
there was was so torn and dirty that it was impossible to tell what kind
it had been. The skin was drawn tightly over the bones, and there
was a vacant stare in the protruding eyes. It looked like a corpse that
had lain in a grave a long time. This apparition looked directly at me,
and yet did not appear to see me. He looked as if the
light bothered him. I spoke, and a look of fear came over his
face. He seemed filled with terror. I stepped toward him, shaking a
loose piece of barbed wire which had caught in my patise. Quick as a
flash, he turned and started to run from me. For a second,
I was too astonished to move. Then I started to follow him in a
straight line. He ran, looking neither right nor left. Directly ahead of
him was a deep and wide trench. He was running straight toward it.
Suddenly it dawned on me that he did not see it. I called out,
but it seemed to terrify him all the more, and with one last
lunge, he stepped into the trench and fell. I heard his body strike
the other side of the trench and fell with a splat into the water at
the bottom. I followed and looked down into the trench. There he lay
with his head bent back in such a position that I was sure his neck
was broken. He was half in and half out of the water, and
as I looked at him, I could scarcely believe what I had seen.
Surely he looked as if he had been dead as long as some of the
other corpses scattered over the hillside. I turned and left him as he was
buried while living. I left him unburied when dead. The End of the
Grave by Oliver R. Emerson