The Hercules stirred with a tremor that coursed beneath the soles of their boots — a low, resonant growl that grew until it engulfed the air. Teller sat with his spine straight but his palms slick, the metal of his rifle already damp where his fingers curled around it. Around him, men muttered prayers or stared into the steel ribs of the plane, pretending the thunder of the engines was not shaking their bones.
When the craft surged forward along the choppy waves, its mass heavy and reluctant, Teller swallowed. He did not cheer when the behemoth finally took flight. The wind howled through unseen seams in the hull, and the floor beneath him lifted — impossibly — into the sky.
He adjusted his helmet. The light from the small windows flickered across his face in staccato bursts, like a signal trying to reach him from another world. His breath came shallow, too fast. His tongue was dry.
A hand found his shoulder. "What's troubling you, Teller?" the colonel asked, his tone somewhere between command and comfort. His uniform was immaculate despite the tremors. His face was lean, lined, but unreadable — like a map that had been folded too many times.
"Europe, sir," Teller murmured. "I was just thinking about the other side."
The colonel's mouth quirked into something not quite a smile. "Best not to think too much. That's what gets a man killed."
Teller nodded, but his eyes didn't close. He stared into the dim, shuddering corridor of the plane, listening to the growl of war being carried eastward.
Red light pulsed in the cabin. A voice cracked over the speakers: "Ten minutes to sea touchdown. Brace for surface turbulence."
Straps were fastened. Commands echoed. Teller felt the lurch as the Hercules dipped, the vast body groaning like it resented being returned to the water.
They landed on grey surf, then drifted toward the Belgian coast. Flat-bottom boats scraped alongside the craft, ready to ferry men and steel to shore. The ramp creaked down.
"Move!" barked the colonel. Boots hit metal, then sand. Wind knifed across the beach, bringing with it the scent of salt, rust, and something else — something sweet and decaying.
Teller felt the cold bleed through his uniform. The beach was wide and orderly, but too quiet. No birds. No locals. Just the war machine preparing itself.
As he followed the others toward a waiting camp, he turned back. The Hercules stood like a mountain behind them, receding in the haze. He stared at it a moment too long, knowing — somehow — he would never see it again.
They boarded a train the next morning under ash-coloured skies. The cars were narrow and dark, windows painted over or blackened by soot. Teller sat shoulder to shoulder with strangers, each man a silent shape in the dim. He could hear the huff of the engine, the occasional cough or prayer.
No one spoke of the city ahead.
When the train finally screeched to a halt, the doors clattered open and light pierced the gloom. Gunfire cracked in the distance — sharp and fast, like bone breaking. The men disembarked without ceremony. A whistle blew.
"Form up!" the colonel shouted. "This is not a goddamn parade!"
The ground trembled beneath their boots. Trucks arrived, stirring dust and dried leaves into the air. Teller climbed aboard one with his unit, rifle resting against his chest, heartbeat climbing.
In the trench, the world narrowed.
Rain had turned the ground to paste. Rats scurried through sodden packs. Shells wailed overhead like iron banshees, and each impact sent up a geyser of black soil and bone-colored stone. Teller pressed himself against the trench wall, fingers frozen around his weapon. The stench of rot hung low — sweat, excrement, blood, and old cordite.
"Get your fucking heads down!" the officer bellowed, pacing along the line like a storm caged in boots.
Teller's knuckles were pale. He stared at the mud caked beneath his fingernails. Somewhere down the line, someone vomited. Another sobbed quietly.
A voice crackled over the radio: "Artillery in one mike."
The officer's voice rose again. "Fix bayonets."
Teller obeyed, fingers trembling. The metal rang as he slid it into place — an ancient gesture for a modern war. Somewhere, a whistle blew. Then another.
And then they climbed.
Out of the trench. Into hell.
The charge was chaos — a tide of bodies churning across open ground beneath a sky streaked with fire.
Gunfire raked across them in arcs. Men screamed. Some vanished mid-step, torn apart mid-breath. Shells landed among them with teeth of iron. One soldier fell beside Teller with a wet gasp, a hole where his hip had been. Another tried to crawl forward, only to be crushed by a stampede of boots.
Teller kept running.
His heart pounded. Blood surged behind his eyes. He stepped over corpses that had names he'd never learned. His boots slipped in something slick.
Then a sound like the sky splitting open.
A shell landed several yards ahead. The blast lifted Teller off his feet, slammed him against the ground. His vision went white.
He couldn't breathe. His mouth tasted of ash and copper.
He tried to move. Nothing responded.
Something warm trickled down his side.
He blinked, once, twice. The sky above was grey — just grey — and silent, despite the battle still raging. He turned his head slowly. A boy's body lay nearby. Holes riddled his uniform. A dog tag glinted at his throat, barely visible beneath the mess of torn flesh and crimson cloth.
"Adam Teller."
The name was still there. Even if the boy wasn't.
His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
The war did not stop.
Somewhere, a whistle blew again. More boots stormed another trench. Trucks arrived to unload fresh bodies. The Hercules thundered across the Atlantic once more, its engines screaming into the void.
And the battlefield absorbed another name.
Another boy swallowed by the beast.
No one spoke his name again.