Red Soil

Professor Kyle Jarvis sat behind his large oak desk as the the last dying rays of sunlight filled his room in a wonderful golden hue. Absentmindedly he reached over pulling the metallic cord on the lamp his grand daughter had given him for his birthday. Well, his daughter had given it to him, be she had been insistent that the youngest one had picked it out. It was very old, at least it looked that way, but from the Union markings on it's bottom it couldn't have been made before the mid to late Eighties. It was nice enough, waves of different shades of browns and reds that put him in the mind of the Grand Canyon, with a boring beige and black lampshade.

His fingers raced across the keyboard, as the screen struggled to keep up. That was a small thing he took pride in. No matter what had changed, the human mind was still (for now at least) faster than the machines it had produced. The cursor was still a good five or more characters behind him. It always was when he go into this level of focus. His phone vibrated somewhere in his coat pocket, he hardly heard it. It was like the sound of a far off engine humming quietly. It was probably someone checking to see if he would be home for dinner on time tonight. He thought for a moment of rising to answer, break, talk, but his work needed to be finished. They would understand.

He could see it now, the straight away. He had rounded the final bend as his book was coming to a close. He felt a smile grow on his face, so strong and so wide that it nearly hurt. Then, at last, after nearly a year it was over. He made sure to hit the save button then fell back in his chair. He had been sitting there for... hours. That was his best guess at the least. But his mind and body felt as if he had run the Toronto - New York Marathon. He sighed with relief and reached for his cup of strong black coffee.

Suddenly a soft knock came at the door. He jumped, allowing himself a small scared squeak before looking up. The man standing in the doorway was tall, with an amicable, if not friendly face. He had a look that suggested some amount of Latin, or Native ancestry. His hair and beard were both salt and pepper in colour, now leaning far more towards being over salted. But his dark brown eyes were still young, sharp, with some good humor mixed in. "Up a bit later aren't you Kyle?" The man asked in a baritone voice looking at an old fashioned wrist watch. "Don't you have a full house to get home to?"

Kyle smiled taking up the cup he had been reaching for. "What ever do you mean?" He asked with a smile. "Last time I checked this is where we lived, ate, slept, and died." The two men laughed. Kyle drank from his cup and nearly spat it back out. It was ice cold and bitter. How long had he been sitting here? "Your here late David. Grading papers?" Professor David K. Cohen had been a long time friend, and headed up the University's Anthropology Department.

"No, no. Forgot somethings in the office on my way out. Long weekend and all. My mind must be slipping in my old age. What about you though? Like I said family and all that."

"Ah yes." Kyle said as he dumped his coffee and put on his jacket, he gave his phone a quick check '1 Missed Call: HOME'. "I was just putting the finishing touches on my new book. The first in a series covering most of the twentieth and early twenty first centuries. Until almost the present day. I'm calling it 'The Red Centuries Series'."

David chuckled "Imaginative title."

"Oh quiet you." Kyle said in a mock dismissive manner. "That's not really official. The word "Red" is just in each book title. The first is 'Red Soil: The Great Imperial War 1914-1920'." Kyle tossed on his hat and locked his office door behind him.

"Sounds like a page turner. If you'd like to split a ride you can tell me all about it."

"I'd love to. You'll never guess how it ends." The two men walked out laughing together towards the Trans-Americas Highway as the moon hung over the city bathing it light.
 
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Sitting in the back of the GMC truck as it rattled and shook it's way back towards the front Thomas "Constitution" Jefferson gazed at the world. The Entente caravan was slow, bogging down in the muddy lands of France, sometimes one of the trucks would give out then left dead on the road until it could be collected. The destruction of the land was complete, and total. There had been some small villages in these parts once. Now only mounds and dunes of red or pink earth, with poppies blooming among crosses row on row. With all that, there was the air. It was thick, nearly greasy with the stench of war. A nauseating combination of fire, smoke, gunpowder, steel, rust, but must of all the ever present smell of death and decay. He forced his mind somewhere else, anywhere else. Using his Springfield to right himself. He turned facing the man across from him. He was massive, Thomas' size and maybe half that again or more. His skin was several shades blacker than his own but his eyes were an alert sterling blue. "Why's the land that colour?" Thomas asked nodding out of the back of the truck. The larger man, Jack O'Kanagan was his name glanced around at the other men in the truck. No one spoke, most didn't even meet the eyes of the newest infantryman to join them. Jack rubbed the back of his head with a frying pan sized palm and cleared his throat. "Did, did I say something?" Thomas asked nervously.

"Uh, naw kid. Naw." His accent held strong hints of the South in it. "I asked da same thing when I first got here my own self. Took me tree weeks till I got de answer. An' from a Brit no less. See dis here part o' France. It's mostly clay under da soil is all. White clay. An da war, well it turned up the land, over an' over an' over an' over. With trucks, and tanks, and bullets, and shells, and men. And a lot of men, they got themselves killed out there. Shot, blown to hell and back. Their blood, it soaked into the earth and mixed with the clay. Dats why it's all pink now. And now with the poppies every damn place. Red flours growing out of red soil." The large man hung his head shaking it side to side saying nothing more. Thomas felt sick to his stomach, he wished he hadn't asked. The whole Earth, as far as he could see had been stained red. How many men... how many lives had the war swallowed up? How many more was it going to swallow before it was all over? It should have been over by now, hell, it should never have started. Some Austrian Prince gets shot in backwater-nowhere-Europe and now men from as far flung as California are dying because of it? He spat out the back of the truck, adding some of himself to the pink earth. The caravan came to a stop as the sounds of artillery in the distance grew louder, men from all armies, though mostly Blacks from the United States began pouring out an grouping up. They all had their marching orders as they were. Thomas approached his unit when he heard a voice call out from behind. A white man, in a British uniform was slowly walking up after talking to another Brit, this one an MP who watched the other man like a hawk. The first man walked up slowly, keeping his arms raised slightly so his hands were clearly visible. He was no insignia on his uniform, other than the British Flag, and a red band tied around his left arm. "Communist." Thomas thought to himself. The British and French had started conscripting Communists, Socialists, Trade Unionists, and even pacifists to work behind the front late in 1918, they said it was that or conscript the women.

The man, Thomas realised he had been their driver handed him his helmet. "Left this in the boot." He said with a smile. The man was tall, rail thin, and balding. He had light brown eyes that looked large behind his perfectly round glasses. The Brit gave him another nod and walked back towards his truck, arms still raised. "See!" He called back. "Just giving the poor lad back his cap. Don't want him taken out by a stray rock when the Bosses back home are still waiting to kill him." He said the last part with a laugh, the MP didn't find it funny. Nor did Thomas in all honesty. There were many, many people back home who wouldn't think twice before killing him. Bosses or not. He put the helmet on his head, strapping it tight to his jaw and joined his Unit. He watched the caravan for a few more moments as he could. All the drives had the same red bands on their arms, as did a few people with clip boards. He wondered how they felt, knowing that being her freed up other men to die. He'd never read much about the Reds, though he had heard a few Trade Unionists talk before. The IWW was doing what they could to organise every man woman and child in Ohio before he left, as new workers filled the factories. He shook his head again. That world was a long way off now. Even if he lived though the war, something told Thomas he'd never see it again. Not really.
 
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Lenard L. Lewis wasn't dumb enough to look over the trench wall, not anymore at least. He'd been in Flanders for over four years now, eighteen when his boots first met with French soil. Now he could see his twenty-third birthday around the bend. Lighting a fag he wondered for a moment if he would live to see it's arrival. He'd wondered that about each of his birthdays so far, and so far he'd seen them each come and go. In the same never ending manner as almost all the other days that had passed. He would have leave again soon, get back to England, see his folks, see his wife, see his daughter. The thought of holding the two year old in his arms brought a smile to his face as he took a long drag of calming smoke. He leaned his head back against the muddy wall and let his mind wonder. Darkness settled on him, overtaking his mind like a storm rolling off the sea.

There was no end in sight for the war. Not yet. And their hadn't been since 1914. Even with the most recent shake up in the British High Command, one which had angered and in some cases enraged some of the officers. There had even been threats of resignations from some of the more traditional minded of the aristocratic buggers in their soft armchairs. A Canadian general named Currie had been Promoted to Field Marshal and Haig had been sacked. Even Haig's second in command had woken up with out a job, he'd been replaced by an Aussie by the name of Monash. Lenard killed the but of his smoke before tossing it to the grave like trench floor. He hadn't reacted much to the news. The Canadians had beat out one of the first real victories in the war at Vimmy Ridge, and the Ausies had fought like devils at Gallipoli. If the two colonials could end this war and get him back home, all power to them. Hell, if a Streetwalker and Opiumhound were able to do it, he'd support them. "Fuck the rich bastards." He thought to himself, these last years had show that their rank and titles didn't matter for much when you got to it.

He slung his Enfield over his shoulder and carefully made his way town the wooden tracks that formed the "road" keeping men's feet "dry" in the trench. There wasn't much to see, at least not to his eyes. Men in khaki talking about their lives back home, their women, their family, their jobs before the war. Some smoking, gambling what little pay they had. Some of the newer men, you could normally tell who they were; the laughed and joked, their faces still fresh with life and the joys of home. The less bright among them would sometimes peak their heads above the trench to try and steal a look a look at the dreaded "Hun". He got behind one of the boys on his tiptoes straining to look in the dark of the night. Reaching up he grabbed the collar of his uniform and tossed him on his ass, breaking a few rotting boards as he fell. He scrambled back up, ready to fight, prove his manhood over the graying old man who had just embarrassed him to his friends.

"Where in the fuck is your head mate!?" The young man spat. His face red, his eyes filled with the impediment rage of youth. And a youth he was, the child in the "mostly" clean uniform looked to be not a day above sixteen. He stood nearly to Lenard's shoulders, with blue eyes, and hair as red as his face was fighting to become. He clenched a fist and looked almost like he was about to make a move at him. A shot rang out, it's loud hard sound shattering the cold night's calm. Another young man who had been just around a bend in the trench toppled back, unmoving, with a large, with a large section of his skull missing. His friends started screaming and and calling for help. The blood in the young ginger boys face had drained to the point where he was white as snow. His eyes flicked back and forth between the twitching body and the man standing before him. Lenard didn't say anything, simply walking on stepping over the body like one back home might step over a puddle on the side of the road. His eyes followed each man as he passed them, watching their eyes, bodies, manners. Listening for conversations that ended abruptly as they saw him approach. He reached the end of his jurisdiction marked by the presence of an MP who gave a small and discrete nod. Lenard didn't return the gesture, he simply turned on his heel walking south along the trenches, repeating the process yet again. It wasn't long until he found the dark bloody space where the young man had unwittingly been turned into a cyclops. There was something, sticking out of the mud, and the blood, and the dirt. Paper, the ink was red, it was written maybe a month before. There was a drawing on it, a bullet in the same red ink, scribbled under it was "A Bullet with your name on it".

"God damn it." He spat. He pocketed the paper and made notes in his head. He'd need the name of the man who had died, all his friends, when they arrived in France and every single person they had interacted with since then. These papers had started showing up in recent months, in English, and a few months before that in French. If they existed in German by now he wouldn't be shocked. For the time being there was much work to do.
 
The trenches were miles, and miles of hell on Earth. Life behind them however, was less terrible for the men and women who now worked there. Their uniforms were more often clean, their food more often hot, their beds more often soft... their lives more often watched. Every convoy, every medical tent, every repair crew had at least three MPs with them at all times. The damnable dogs of the ruling class, taught to froth at the mouth at the idea of betraying their fellow Working men and women. Part of Patrick Bragg could understand why the MPs, and their handlers did what they were doing, they were playing a rugby game with a hornet's nest now. He'd want to keep a close eye if it were his head on the chopping block. He worked quickly, unloading ammunition for the artillery battery, silent and not meeting any eyes, not even with the others from his truck. Once empty the men climbed into the boot, with one MP sitting with them. Again no one spoke, no one moved other than to scratch the occasional itch or rub at their eyes. Albert Farland used the Red band on his left arm to clean his round glasses. The older baling man was a member of the Communist Party back home, so were most of the men working the convoys. Everyone who had been conscripted to work behind the lines for the "Gentle War Effort" were branded in the same way, so that they could be seen, and watched at all times. Patrick wasn't even willing to say that they were alone at all times come night fall, one couldn't see what happened when he slept.

After sometime the truck pulled up before another large stack of wooden crates, with out asking the men got back to work. This was their lives, drudgery in silence, with the constant threat of death forever hanging over them, and every man, woman, and child that they saw. The Communists, and the more radical members of the Conscripted Forces saw the war as "The most pure and perfect expression of Imperialism. A machine who's only purpose was to profit the few, and grind a generation of workers into oblivion." He was never as radical as these men tended to be. At least when he was back home he wasn't. Now, he had seen first hand what was going on, what nations, wealth, capital, and empires had lead the world to become. He saw it, he was part of it, and he knew it needed to end. Hours later again the men walked single file into the mess. The plan seemed to be that if the "Reds" were to tired to move their legs come the end of the day, they would be too tired to revolt.

It was proving to be a good plan.

Patrick took his allotted supper giving a nod to the American Private who filled his dish. Albert Gitchell was a good enough man, from somewhere in rural America. Poor bastard nearly died before ever coming to the war. He had, had a bugger of a flu that had laid him out for days. But in the end he pulled out, and only a few other men had fallen ill with it, two or three had passed. Patrick ate his meal in peace, nodded to the cook staff again, then wondered back to his bed before getting what little sleep would be available before he'd be awoken sometimes before the sun had risen. It seemed to him that he had just rolled his head over, and rapped himself in a blanket when he was jostled back and his eyes opened. Albert stood over him, pressing his right pointer finger to his lips before stepping aside. Almost everyone in the barracks were awake, sitting on the ends of their beds, talking in hushed voices, mouthing words, or using hand gestures. Anything to avoid being over heard by the MPs on patrol, on anyone who may be more than happy to sing in the hopes they would get an extra slice of meat at next supper.

"The idea of the "Bullet" pamphlet has worked rather well it seems." Albert said. "Less and less of our men have been caught passing them on to the front."

The men nodded. "Fucking Frogs had some damn good ideas there." One of them said.

"These are no longer the armies of old. They are made up nearly completely of workingmen the world over. And the Bosses thought it a good idea to arm them."

"Yeah, it was brilliant wan'it. Brilliant fo' our lot yeah?" Someone said with a snort.

"There is sad news to report however. A French blood-hound has up rooted some of our men in Belgium. They've been taken by the MPs, the will be shot in short order I am sure."

The French had been having a hell of a time putting down mutinies for years now. Hell, every army had been having the issue more and more with each passing season. Only the Yanks were immune to it so far. The war itself was breaking the will of the people fighting it. It felt like ridding a train that was coming apart as it tore its way down a mountainside.

"Yes, that's no good there." Patrick nodded. "Is there much of a gap?"

Albert shook his head "There shouldn't be much of a communication issue I feel. We've dealt with this all back home when we first tried to organise. Lost men then too, same as now." Everyone nodded once more. They were quiet for sometime, each contemplating their own fate were they to to caught. "There are a few good men from America who have arrived. Farmers from the South, Industry Workers from the North, and even Negroes. I think, we can start extending more effort to them. It'll be hard, but if we can just reach a few." Everyone nodded again.

"We can start with some of the cooks and support staff. Take advantage of their logistic lines just like we've done here."

"'An what if we gets caught den? Mess about with the Frogs is one thing. But I think I trust those Yank fucks even less."

"They are workers too Harry." Albert said trying to help the man's fears.

"Sure they is yeah. But I jus' mean is. I jus' mean they'r not as advanced as us yeah? They still look up at the bosses like they always know what's what see?" Albert seemed to think on this for a moment before nodding.

"Yes Harry is right. Mostly. I think we should put out the world that it's best we start slipping some paper to the Negroes first. Keep it only to whites who seem most open and pliable for now. I think if-" Someone knocked over one of the mettle buckets that had been set outside, simple but effective early warning system. Every man moved slowly, but effectively back under their covers. A few moments later the door opened, and an MP walked down the centre row between the beds. Patrick dared to open his eyes, catching a glimpse of the man. He looked angry at having set off the trap, suspicion rocked his face as he held his arms behind his back. Patrick felt an odd sympathy for him, and all the MPs. They were fighting two wars. One against the Germans, the other against the workers. Patrick understood what that was like, he was in two wars just as well. But he'd been fighting this particular war much long, and much harder than the MPs had been.
 
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