The Gas Man

My panicked footfalls fall heavy, with each step my feet sinking deeper into the thick mud of the trench floor. Already half blinded by the condensation from my breath on the gasmask’s lenses, combined with the intense piercing sensation from where the yellow monster of a cloud had touched my bare skin, I staggered without direction following Matt’s heavy breathing. A hiss escapes my lips as the soft part of my thigh hits something sharp, the brutal throb sending me to my knees. Even through the agony I feel in my eyes and lungs as the gas begins to take effect, I can perceive the slow trickle of blood down my leg. 

Reaching out, desperate to escape the fast-closing mass of scrambling bodies surging behind me as my fellow comrades attempt to flee from the gas cloud, my hand blindly falls on the stiff face of a mutilated soldier. At some point during the scramble, I must have lost a glove because I could feel the waxy texture of his skin beneath my hand. I fell back, desperate to forget the sensation of touching those raised welts along his nose and eyes where the gas had done its damage. Staggering to my feet once more I am assaulted by the abrupt urge to tear off my gas mask and breathe normally; to escape the overwhelming claustrophobia I suddenly feel and simply allow the fight to leave me. Wrestling with instinct, I stumble forward blindly, until strong hands grasp my arms and haul me away.