The Descent

It  was Branch  who  broke  the  impasse.  His  fever  spiked  and  he  resumed  command  of what had  become  a  ghost  battalion.  He  leaned  over  the  maps  and  tried  to  plot  where his  platoons  had  been  that  fateful  day.  'I  need  to  find  my  people,'  he  radioed  his superiors, but they  would have  none of it. Stay  put, they  ordered.

'That's  not  right,'  Branch  said,  but   did  not  argue.   He  turned   from  the   radios, shouldered  his  Alice  pack,  and  grabbed  his  rifle.  He  walked  between  the  German armored column parked  at the mouth of the Leoganger Steinberge  cave  system  in  the Bavarian  Alps,  deaf  to  the  officers  shouting  to  him  to  halt.  The  last  of  his  Rangers, twelve   men,   followed   like   black   wraiths,   and   the   Leopard   tank   crews   crossed themselves.

For the first four days  the tunnels were  strangely  vacant, not a trace  of  violence,  not a whiff of cordite, not a  bullet  scar.  Even  the  highlights  strung  along  walls  and  ceilings worked. Abruptly,  at a depth of 4,150  meters,  the  lights  ceased.  They  turned  on  their headlamps. The  going slowed.

Finally,  seven  camps  down,  they  solved  the  mystery  of  Company  A.  The  tunnel dilated into a high chamber. They  rounded left onto a sprawled battlefield.

It  was  like  a  lake  of  drowned  swimmers  that  had  been  drained.  The  dead  had settled  atop  one  another  and  dried  in  a  tangle.  Here  and  there,  bodies  had  been propped  upright  to  continue  their  combat  in  the   afterlife.   Branch  led  on,  barely recognizing  them.  They  found  7.62-mm  rounds  for  M-16s,  a  few  gas  masks,  some broken Friz helmets. There  were  also plenty  of primitive artifacts.

The  combatants had slowly dried  on  the  bone,  constricting  into  tight  rawhide  sacks. The  bowed  spines  and  open  jaws  and  mutilations  seemed  to  bark  and  howl  at  the rubberneckers  passing among them. Here was the  hell  Branch  had  been  taught.  Goya and Blake had done their homework well. The  impaled and butchered  were  horrible. The   platoon   wandered   through   the   grim   scene,   their   lights   wagging.   'Major,' whispered their chain gunner. 'Their eyes.'

'I  see,'  said  Branch.  He  glanced  around  at  the  rearing,  plunging  remains.  On  every face,  the  eyes  had  been  stabbed  and  mutilated.  And  he  understood.  'After  Little Bighorn,'  he  said,  'the  Sioux  women  came  and  punctured  the  cavalry  soldiers'  ears. The  soldiers  had  been  warned  not  to  follow  the  tribes,  and  the  women  were  opening their ears  so they  could hear better  next  time.'

'I don't see no survivors,'  moaned a boy.

'I don't see no haddie, either,' said another. Haddie was the hadal, whoever  that was.

'Keep looking,' Branch said. 'And while you're at it, collect tags.  At  least  we  can  bring

their names out with us.'

Some were  covered  with  masses  of  translucent  beetles  and  albino  flies.  On  others  a fast-acting  fungus  had  reduced  the  remains  to  bone.  In  one  trough,  the  dead  soldiers were  glazed  over  with  mineral  liquid  and  becoming  part  of  the  floor.  The  earth  itself was consuming them.

'Major,' a voice said, 'you need to see this.'

Branch  followed  the  man  to  a  steep  overhang  where  the  dead  had  been  laid  neatly side by  side  in  a  long  row.  Under  their  dozen  light  beams,  the  platoon  saw  the  bodies had  been  dusted  in  bright  red  ochre  powder,  and  men  sprinkled  with  brilliant  white confetti. It  was a rather  beautiful sight.

'Haddie?' breathed  a soldier.

Beneath  the  layers  of  ochre,  the  bodies  were  indeed  those  of  their  enemy.  Branch climbed  across  to  the  overhang.  Close  up  now,  he  saw  that  the  white  confetti  was teeth.  There  were  hundreds of them, thousands, and they  were  human. He picked one up,  a  canine,  and  it  had  chip  marks  where  a  rock  had  hammered  it  from  some  GFs mouth. He gently  set  it back on the ground.

The  hadal  warriors'   heads   were   pillowed  on  human  skulls.  At   their   feet   were offerings.

'Mice?' said Sergeant  Doraan. 'Dried-up mice?' There  were  scores of them.

'No,' said Branch. 'Genitals.'

The  bodies  differed  in  size.  Some  were  bigger  than  the  soldiers.  They  had  the shoulders of Masai, and looked freakish next  to their comrades with bandy  legs.  A  few had  peculiar  talons  in  place  of  fingernails  and  toenails.  If  not  for  what  they'd  done  to their  teeth,  and  their  penis  sheaths  made  of  carved  bone,  they  would  have  looked quasi-human, like five-foot-tall  pro linebackers.