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  • Yper's Hold Them

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    Alexander J Bruski
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    PFC Castiglione has been wounded in a trench for 48 hours as mortars bombard the area. With a damaged artery, he is barely alive as two other soldiers play poker over his few remaining possessions. With nothing left to wager, one soldier crudely wakes the delirious Castiglione to ask if he has anything worth dying for. In a murmur, Castiglione replies "My wife." The two soldiers smile, and offer first place in the batting order if they survive and make it out of the trench alive.

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    Short Story on a macabre game of poker.

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    PFC Castiglione has been wounded in a trench for 48 hours as mortars bombard the area. With a damaged artery, he is barely alive as two other soldiers play poker over his few remaining possessions. With nothing left to wager, one soldier crudely wakes the delirious Castiglione to ask if he has anything worth dying for. In a murmur, Castiglione replies "My wife." The two soldiers smile, and offer first place in the batting order if they survive and make it out of the trench alive.

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    19 views2 pages

    Yper's Hold Them

    Uploaded by

    Alexander J Bruski
    PFC Castiglione has been wounded in a trench for 48 hours as mortars bombard the area. With a damaged artery, he is barely alive as two other soldiers play poker over his few remaining possessions. With nothing left to wager, one soldier crudely wakes the delirious Castiglione to ask if he has anything worth dying for. In a murmur, Castiglione replies "My wife." The two soldiers smile, and offer first place in the batting order if they survive and make it out of the trench alive.

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    of 2

    Ypers Hold Them

    They had been stuck in that trench for 48 hours now, with 44 mortars and 200mm cannons hammering away at the concrete slabs above them. PFC Castiglione had been wounded in the thigh by some vagrant shrapnel back on day 1. With a damaged femoral artery, and only a couple of makeshift arterial clamps and Ave Marias keeping him from becoming a gruesome waterworks display, he still laid panting in the far corner of the dug-out, while the others were playing poker over his possessions. They had run out of hope back in June anyway. Ill raise you his boots. You lost them last round already, fuckin concentrate man! What about his glasses? What the fuck am I supposed to do with his bleedin glasses? Pants? Ripped to rags and soaked in blood. Dont be so touchy about that. Your pants will be caked in shit as soon as we get the order to go over the top.
    1

    Well at least they wont be full of intestines! Had enough of that shit back when we had to carry that Russian to General Staff. Youd think that shooting someone in the guts aint the best interrogation technique. But I guess this is why we is enlisted men and them is ofcers. Well what am I supposed to raise? Just fucking ask him! Castiglione! Crudely awakened from his delirium the PFC turned towards the two men hunched up in the corner. Castiglione! Come on wake up! You cunt aint dead yet! Do you have anything thats worth dying for! A murmur. What! My wife The two men looked at each other and smiled. Well then, how about rst place on the batting order. "Only if we ever get out of this shithole alive..."

    Alexander Bruski *2013

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