Tannehill alighted from the transport ship in Liverpool and immediately made his way to the barracks after a week wallowing in his own - and everyone else's - filth. After a hot shower and a few hours' leave to sample the local variant of fish and chips the isolation that had encapsulated him below deck began to melt away.
He'd heard murmurs of the brutality of trench warfare on the trip over and actual stories from some of the British soldiers who viewed the fruits of its labor first hand. The lucky wounded missed various extremities or retained most of their discarded limbs. The unlucky ones suffered from massive burns or had been strategically cut in half by a well-placed mortar shell. The damned showed no signs of outward injury but spoke in far off voices about incoherent topics. When asked about their experiences at the front, they'd turn to the speaker, vacant-eyed, smile weakly and then laugh maniacally. With luck, a friend would usher them away in a calm voice and stroke their hair gently as they left.
As a member of the infantry, he knew a similar fate could befall him and he prepared for a life vastly different in the future from the one he just left if he returned home at all. The new "tanks" and a surge of American optimism (and troops) were helping reshape the war in favor of the Entente Powers but there was still a lot to accomplish and any day at war means another day of lost life.
After a few days docked in Liverpool staring west toward the Irish coast, Tannehill and his unit were moved to France and installed on the front in the Argonne Forest. The weather had turned noticeably cooler and Tannehill tapped into his Chicago childhood survival instincts to keep warm against the elements.
The stories of his legendary sea-sickness on the transport ship over had followed him and left him as a pariah among not only his unit but everyone, American or not, who came in close proximity to him due to some irrational fear that he'd erupt in spontaneous vomit even on dry land. Rather than frustrate him, he relished the solitude. He didn't want to form attachments with men who, with regular certainty, could be here one day and not the next. He used the extra time that other soldiers spent communing learning French and sketching the war-scarred countryside.
The days crept into late October 1918 and his unit saw little action due to their inexperience. Though the pop of distant gunfire was ever-present, it never approached near enough to the unit's position to cause anything more than a low-level existential threat to each soldier.
Eventually, due to boredom or curiosity or a mixture of the two, soldiers began approaching Tannehill to ask about his experiences on the boat ride over to Europe. Most would delicately approach the issue by starting with their stories of the trip over before not-so-subtly asking about Tannehill's unique perspective. However, one day, a tall, slender blond-haired boy whom Tannehill who appeared surprisingly young - even among the vast mass of other teenage soldiers - approached Tannehill and simply broached the subject without pretense.
"So, why'd you throw up so much on the boat?"
"I'm not from a seafaring area, so my stomach never needed to adjust to the motion of water."
"I understand. If only we could get rid of the moon, no one would ever suffer motion sickness again. That, and we'd rid ourselves of those pesky werewolves."
Tannehill stared at the boy in mild admiration. Rather than receive the expected retort of "who even uses a word like 'seafaring' anyway?" the boy had retorted with a solid understanding of Newtonian physics and lycanthropy while demonstrating a sympathy Tannehill hadn't expected to at all in Europe.
The boy grinned and extended a hand, "Sams."
Tannehill extended his own, "Tannehill."
Sams and Tannehill recognized an immediate camaraderie in the other and took the opportunity to launch immediately into topics of mutual interest. They'd use each other to practice French poorly and laugh about their misuses or discuss books they'd loved as children. Where Tannehill was intent on honing an underdeveloped drawing skill while in France, Sams refined his rudimentary skills at poetry.
A week into their budding friendship, Tannehill realized that neither knew the other by anything except a sole moniker.
"By the way," Tannehill spoke up, eager to fill in this gap in their relationship, "what's your full name?"
A slight whistle hovered on the wind in the distance. Sams smiled at Tannehill with the same broad grin he'd given during their introduction. "It's..."
The whistle grew louder before a loud bang and white flash clouded Tannehill's senses.
When he regained his bearings Tannehill could no longer find Sams. Instead, there was a smoking crater directly in front of him surrounded by a large mound of earth.
He was vaguely aware of someone screaming "Fuck!" over and over again as the ringing in his ears subsided. Tannehill realized it was him. As for Sams, half of him had been blown backward from his original position. Tannehill was wearing the other half.
Another shell burst in the tree line above him and Tannehill instinctively dove into the crater, slicing open his arm on fresh shrapnel as he did so. He covered his ears with his hands and continued screaming until the barrage ended a minute (or a month - he couldn't be sure) later.
A few minutes later, two other infantrymen found Tannehill supine on the crater embarkment wide-eyed, silent, and caked in drying gore. They pulled him out, stood him up, and quietly marched him to the nearest field hospital.
Afterward, Tannehill returned to Capital City. The department, eager to cash in on the patriotic fervor surrounding the war's successful conclusion, decided to publicize their war hero's accomplishments in the Argonne Forest. What to Tannehill was a string of desperate and terrifying moments alone in the wilderness became a stoic survival of enemy fire as the sole survivor of his defensive position in the eyes of the city elders.
He walked in the city's victory parade surrounded by streamers, bunting and an adoring family shipped in from Chicago. As the shouts of the enthusiastic crowd swelled, he looked around vacantly and smiled weakly, laughing enthusiastically at any joke or comment a passer-by tossed his way.
[Author's Note - Today's edition is 1064 words for a total of 19925 words. I should be back on track for my regular publishing schedule for the foreseeable future.]
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