His name in our regiment was Guts. Cut down from “Wretched Guts” which proved an apt descriptor for his near-constant gaseaous state. Problem was— we couldn’t just pack him and his smelly offal up. Not only was Guts slyer than a hen-house fox, but he was the son of the colonel. Which meant the fifth artillery were stuck with him.

I hadn’t started out as a provocateur. I’m sure my mother would have agreed that I was a quiet child. But I also hadn’t started out as a military man— so it goes to show it’s nurture, not nature that’s defining. Albeit nature had a way with Gut’s intestines that proved mighty defining in itself.

Forgive me, but you have to imagine rancid milk that’s been mixed with rotten beef chip. When he let loose the barometric pressure of a room would change. You’d get gooseflesh a second before the smell hit you and a yellow streak would slide up your spine like predictor of damnation. Instead- it was defecatorial terrorism. If I could— I would have slapped the boy seven ways to Sunday. Not that I’m religious or particularly convinced physical punishment alters behavior. But corporal and colonel punishment stayed my hand, if not misery.

Still, if they had to stick him somewhere, artillery made sense. A bomb-maker at home with bombs. Plus, the front-line couldn’t handle that morale drop— it would have been the fart that broke the camel’s back. Recon was out of the picture— no spy-work for our deadly trumpeter. Nor could the navy spare a bed for someone capable of organically fumigating a submarine.

We wore WWI-era gas masks as a joke to start— but the ease of terror proved too enticing. We became known as the “Gas Lads” Not the worst nickname to be saddled with. The last cavalry unit was affectionately called “The Pony Fuckers” so, it could always be worse.

Our distinctive appearance began a rumor amongst the enemy that we were a phantom legion from the Great War— and that we stood as the last defense between the Heavens and Hells. A bit overblown if you ask me, but myths are created by all sorts. Just happened that our enemy leader had been caught in a barrow as a child. Memories of dark places like that don’t leave you. They temporarily recede.

The higher-ups had us march at night to perpetuate the legend. The colonel insisted they were parade marches— but mid-war provided a scant reason for “parade” to be any part of a march. If we hadn’t run across a P.O.W. camp— the legend would have blown away like the last scraps of honor during a week in the trench. We heard them before anything else. The dull thud of heavy, barefoot steps. Soft moans of broken humans alongside the occasional indignant shout. Guts marched at the end of the line— his low-tone stomach grumbles tensed the patrol. We had all learned to listen to the first signs of danger. Everyone prayed that the wind wouldn’t shift direction.

But what’s that quote about men’s plans and God laughing? You know enough that the wind didn’t stay blowing in the same direction after a midnight special rolled forth from our trusty comrade. It— changed the course of the war. Turns out the camp housed our best spy— a man by the name of— well, I don’t know if that was ever released. So, we’ll call him “REDACTED”. A great man, that “REDACTED” he led the prisoners in an escape effort after the enemy began engaging us in a firefight. They were able to secure some munitions from fallen soldiers and tear into the enemy’s backline before they knew the fight was over.

To think— the quasi-mustard gas our Guts churned out daily and the levers of fate landing us in the forest turned the tide of the war. The boys were almost proud to have him in the fifth artillery. However, none of us went so far as removing our gas masks to say so.