Speaker 1: 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