SNAFU: Hunters

I missed my home. I missed my family. I missed Jenny, even though she’d already sent me a letter that sounded a lot like she was looking to move on. I was young, but maybe not completely stupid. I knew what was written between the lines even though I was trying hard not to see those ugly, unwritten words.

According to the captain, we were in France and not far from Luxembourg. You couldn’t have proven it. All I saw was hills and trees and from time to time a field that had maybe once been planted with something to seed and was now growing a variety of muds. Frozen muds, mostly, as the weather had gone cold and we woke in the morning with frost on the ground and spent the days trying to stay warm.

Infantry. Love that word. It says so much if you’ve been a foot soldier. We were well armed. We had a little food left. We were getting colder every day as autumn snuck in and changed the remaining greens to differing shades of orange and yellow and blood red. I kept hearing that we had the Germans on the ropes, but all I saw was more of the same, and every time we turned around we were ducking back into the woods because this was not our territory, much as we were planning to take it back.

It was just past the point when we should have been walking any longer. It was dark, pure and simple. The only lights were coming from a building that was too far away to identify. We went for it anyway, because there comes a point where any shelter would be better than none and there was a chance that they would be friendly. Yes, we had tents. Not a one of us said a damned thing about trying to pitch them.

Lester was walking next to me. Desmond Lester was a good egg, kept his calm and did what he had to in order to get through the day. He didn’t smile much, he didn’t talk much, but he was also reliable. If something needed doing he did it. Four times in the months we’d known each other he had taken the lives of other people. Some of the guys cried when they killed, some of them grinned and made marks on the butt of their rifle or bragged. Lester just did what he had to do and plodded on, his lean face drawn and tired but his eyes alert.

He was the one that stopped me moving and pointed them out.

Them.

The ghost dogs and their ghost master.

Since then I’ve heard they’re called the Wild Hunt, or Wotan’s Hunt, or la Chasse d’Artu, depending on where you are. I guess that last one was the best because it was the French countryside. Whatever name you want to call them, they were terrifying.

So what’s so scary about a bunch of dogs? I had a friend of mine ask me that when I was a few beers too many into my night and my tongue was looser than usual.

I looked at him for a long time before I could answer. It’s hard to find the words.

The dogs themselves were the sort most sane people would be wary around. They were big animals, lean and hard and hungry. You could almost feel how hungry they were. They were hunting for fresh kill, and they intended to have it. I have seen men look at women that way and known they were trouble. I have seen addicts looking for their next fix with that same sort of starving desperation. Now and then, in moments of weakness, I still look at a shot of whiskey that way. I haven’t had a drink since, well, since I got drunk enough to swing at my wife if I’m being honest. I can never forgive myself for being that angry and that weak. But I also knew a big part of both those feelings came from the bottle and I made myself stop. Jenny forgave me. I know that. I have never forgiven myself. Every time I’ve ever had that thirst for the bottle I remember the fear in her eyes when I cocked back my fist, and the rest is easy.

But I was talking about the dogs. They had that sort of hunger and there was nothing like mercy in the snarls drawn across their muzzles. I couldn’t say what sort of dogs they were. They were black and they were shaggy and they leaped and heaved their way through the air and above the trees.

And behind them came their master, riding on a massive beast of a horse. I was raised around horses. I know them well enough and I’ve ridden them all my life. Never in the whole of my existence have I seen the like of that steed. It was as black as the night and carried the man on its back with ease. The hooves of the thing ran across the sky, but each time they struck where ground should have been, I swear I saw a tiny flash of lightning and I heard a ghostly rumble of thunder. The breaths that snorted from that stallion’s muzzle were storm clouds waiting to be born, and the winds that moved in the animal’s wake were sure to let those seeds grow. I could feel the menace that came from the thing and knew that the passing of its form would lead to disaster.