The Third Flame

There are certain superstitions which a reasonable man may dismiss without difficulty, provided he has never been given sufficient cause to believe them. Reason is an agreeable privilege. I have often envied those who possess it in abundance. They are generally the same men who have never been required to watch another die.

Such experiences do not always make a man particularly religious. Quite the contrary, really. I found myself less inclined to believe in the divine with each passing day. If God existed, He had evidently abandoned His duties, or else possessed a humor so disagreeable that I wanted no acquaintance with Him. Yet, I came to believe in the most ridiculous of things, such as a match. A common wooden match, the kind one might purchase by the hundred for a few pennies.

It was the sixteenth of December, 1944, when the Germans began their offensive through the Ardennes. I remember the date with particular clarity because it was my twenty-fourth birthday, and because I had received a letter from my mother informing me that my childhood dog had died. 

By the eighteenth of the same month, our company had been so thoroughly scattered that I could no longer say with confidence whether I belonged to the American Army or to some wandering band of lunatics who had stolen its uniforms. There were three of us remaining together: myself, Corporal Daniel Mercer, and Private Thomas Bell.

Mercer was thirty-one, a former mortician from Pennsylvania, and possessed of an unfortunate tendency to regard every misfortune as a personal insult. Before the war, he had prepared the dead for burial. During it, he had acquired a considerable familiarity with the process by which they became dead, and frequently remarked that he preferred his former occupation.

Bell was nineteen, with pale hair and a face which still retained the softness of boyhood. He had lied about his age when he enlisted, though by the time we met him he was legally old enough to have done so. He had come from a little town in Ohio, the name of which escapes me, and spoke incessantly of his younger sister, who was apparently the most remarkable child ever born. She could sing, she could draw, and she had once eaten an entire lemon to win a wager. These accomplishments were related to us with such frequency that Mercer threatened, on several occasions, to shoot himself rather than endure another account of her talents.

Bell laughed whenever he said this. He laughed at nearly everything. I suppose that was why I liked him.

We had spent the greater part of the eighteenth wandering through a forest which seemed determined to conceal every path leading out of it. Snow had fallen since morning. It gathered upon our shoulders and lodged itself beneath our collars, where it melted with a slow and exquisite cruelty. 

Shortly before dusk, we came upon a farmhouse. It stood at the edge of a clearing, its roof sagging beneath the snow. One shutter hung crookedly from an upstairs window. A wooden cart lay overturned near the barn, and the front door had been left open.

We approached with our rifles raised. There was no one inside. The kitchen had been abandoned in some haste. A pot stood upon the stove, containing the hardened remains of what might once have been stew. A child's shoe lay abandoned beneath the table. On the mantelpiece, a clock had stopped at eleven minutes past two.

Mercer examined the clock.

"Bad sign," he said.

"Everything's a bad sign to you," I replied.

"That so?"

"Yesterday you said the crows were a bad sign."

"They were." He gestured toward the kitchen window, through which the darkening forest was visible.

"Look where we are."

I had no satisfactory answer. We barricaded the door with a cupboard, covered the windows, and made a small fire in the kitchen stove. At approximately nine o'clock, Bell produced a packet of cigarettes.

"Last three," he announced. Mercer regarded them with the solemn interest of a priest examining sacred relics.

"Where'd you get those?"

"Been saving them."

"For what?"

Bell shrugged.

"Seemed like a good night."

He distributed them, retaining the final cigarette for himself. Mercer searched his pockets for a light. Finding none, he turned to me. I had a matchbox, but two matches remained. I struck the first. The head crumbled without igniting.

"Christ," Mercer muttered. I struck the second, shielding it with my palm. The flame caught. Mercer leaned forward and lit his cigarette. I brought mine to the flame next. Then, Bell reached across the table.

"Don't."

Mercer spoke so sharply that Bell withdrew his hand.

"What?"

"Can’t light three cigarettes off one match."

I laughed. Mercer did not.

"You never heard of that?"

"No," Bell said.

"Old soldiers' superstition. Three men light their cigarettes off the same match, the third one dies."

Bell smiled.

"Why?"

"Because he does."

"That's a piss-poor explanation."

Mercer leaned back in his chair.

"During the last war, they said a German sniper could spot the first light, aim at the second, and shoot the third. That's where it comes from."

"Then I reckon we're safe," Bell replied. "Unless there's a German sniper in the kitchen."

"Put the damned cigarette away."

But Bell had already leaned forward. I confess that I might have withdrawn the match. There was ample time to do so. Its flame was burning low, and I could feel the heat against my fingertips.

Instead, irritated by Mercer's solemnity, I held it steady. Bell touched his cigarette to the flame. He inhaled, and I shook the match out.

"There," he said. "If I die, you can tell my mother it was the tobacco."

Mercer stared at him and said, “You're a damned fool."

At dawn, we were awakened by artillery. We had scarcely finished gathering our belongings when an American patrol appeared at the edge of the woods. 

A lieutenant informed us that elements of our division had withdrawn westward. A defensive position was being established several miles away, and we were to accompany his men. Bell, who had been standing nearest the window, was ordered to assist two soldiers in scouting the road ahead. Mercer immediately objected.

"He's just a kid."

"He's a soldier,” the lieutenant countered.

"There are men here with more experience."

"Perhaps you'd care to volunteer?"

Mercer opened his mouth. For a moment, I believed he would. Instead, he looked away. Bell slung his rifle over his shoulder. He went out into the snow. Mercer watched him through the window until the trees concealed him.

"Goddamned fool," he whispered. I assumed then that he meant the lieutenant, but I have never been certain. We waited perhaps twenty minutes. Then came three rifle shots from the direction of the road. The lieutenant ordered us outside.

We advanced through the trees, spreading out among the trunks. The snow had deepened during the night, and our boots made a dreadful noise upon the crusted surface. At the roadside, we found one of the scouts lying facedown. The second was nowhere to be seen; neither was Bell.

The dead soldier had been shot through the throat. His blood had spread into the snow beneath his head, making a dark depression in which small crystals of ice were already forming. The lieutenant knelt beside him. Mercer stood quite still.

"Where's the boy?" he asked. No one answered.

"Where's Bell?"

The lieutenant rose.

"We move."

"We can't leave him."

The lieutenant seized Mercer by the front of his coat.

"Corporal, unless you'd like to join him, I suggest you shut your mouth."

Mercer struck him. It was not a particularly impressive blow. His fingers were stiff with cold, and the lieutenant stumbled more from surprise than injury. Nevertheless, two soldiers immediately restrained Mercer. The lieutenant drew his pistol.

For several seconds, I thought he meant to shoot him. Instead, he returned it to its holster and ordered us onward. Mercer said nothing as we marched. That evening, when we reached the American lines, he sat beside me in a dugout and wept. I had never seen him cry before.

"He was the third," he said. "The match." I pretended not to understand.

"Mercer…"

"I told him."

"Bell's missing. That's all we know."

"He was the third," he repeated. I was too tired to argue.

"Then you should've lit yours last."

He looked at me with such naked hatred that I immediately regretted the remark, but he said nothing. And because there was nothing useful to say, neither did I. 

On Christmas Eve, we received orders to move toward a position near Bastogne. The weather had cleared sufficiently for aircraft to appear overhead, though the roads remained nearly impassable. We traveled in the back of a truck with several other soldiers, our shoulders pressed together beneath a canvas cover. Mercer sat beside me. 

"You still got the matches?" he asked.

I reached into my coat for the matchbox. It was there, crushed somewhat by the weight of my equipment. I opened it and showed him the blackened match. He stared.

"Get rid of it,” he barked.

I closed the box.

"Why?"

"Because I said so." He seized my wrist. I prepared for him to strike me. Then, his expression changed.

"Please," he said. It was the first time I had heard him use the word. I looked at the matchbox. I might have thrown it from the truck. There was no reason to preserve it. It had served its purpose, and its continued existence seemed to afford Mercer considerable distress. Yet, I found myself unwilling to part with it. I returned it to my pocket. Mercer released my wrist.

"You'll be sorry," he said. A few minutes later, the shell struck.

I remember the noise less clearly than the sensation of being lifted. The truck seemed to rise beneath us, and then there was a violent pressure against my chest. When I regained consciousness, I was lying in a ditch. The vehicle burned nearby. Someone was screaming.

I attempted to stand and discovered that my left leg would not support me. My trousers were torn, and a piece of metal protruded from the flesh above my knee. Mercer lay several yards away. He was on his back, staring at the sky. I crawled toward him.

His eyes moved when I spoke his name.

"Dan."

He made a small sound. I placed my hand against his chest. It came away wet. There was a wound beneath his ribs, and blood was issuing from it with a dreadful persistence.

"Hold on," I told him. He looked at me. Then, with considerable effort, he smiled.

"Wrong one," he whispered.

I pressed harder against the wound.

"Don't talk."

"Wrong one.”

His fingers closed around my sleeve. He appeared to be trying to tell me something else, but blood had begun to gather in his mouth. I leaned closer. He exhaled, and then he died.

I remained beside him until the medics arrived. When they lifted me onto a stretcher, I reached into my coat and felt for the matchbox. It was still there. 

I spent the following weeks in a military hospital in England. My leg had been badly damaged, though not sufficiently to require amputation. The doctors informed me that I had been fortunate. This was a word I had come to despise. Fortunate. I had been fortunate not to lose my leg. Fortunate to survive the shell. Fortunate that the Germans had failed to advance farther.

Mercer, presumably, had been unfortunate. Bell was merely missing. Who could say what his fortune was? I lay in bed listening to the wounded men around me and discovered that the distinction between fortune and misfortune was principally a matter of whether one remained alive to discuss it.

The war finally ended. I returned to America with a damaged leg, a modest pension, and an aversion to sudden noises which made ordinary domestic life rather disagreeable. Therefore, I never married. My mother had died while I was overseas. My father survived another three years, during which we spoke principally of the weather. I alone attended his funeral.

The following morning, while searching for a document in my desk, I discovered the matchbox. I had forgotten it. I held it between my fingers. Three men had shared its flame. One had vanished, and one had died. And I, who had provided the match, remained. 

For several nights thereafter, I dreamed of the farmhouse. I saw the kitchen table, the stove, and the clock stopped at eleven minutes past two. Bell sat opposite me with his cigarette between his lips. Mercer watched from the corner. In the dream, I struck the match. Bell leaned forward, and before he could touch his cigarette to the flame, I woke.

I began to wonder whether the dream might be altered, whether, by some extraordinary effort of will, I might persuade my sleeping self to blow out the match before Bell could light his cigarette. I tried. Night after night, I returned to that kitchen. Night after night, Bell leaned toward the flame.

Sometimes, I shouted at him, or I threw the match away. Once, I seized him by the shoulders and begged him not to smoke. It made no difference. He always smiled. And always, just before the flame touched his cigarette, I woke up.

In the spring of 1983, I received a telephone call. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

"Is this Mr. Edward Harlan?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Thomas Bell."

I said nothing.

"Private Thomas Bell. We served together in Belgium."

I sat down. He laughed awkwardly.

"Well, I suppose it's been a long time."

I gripped the receiver.

"Bell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thomas Bell?"

"That's right."

I could hear someone speaking in the background. A woman, perhaps. There was music playing somewhere in the room.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.

"No."

"I've been trying to find you for years. Finally got your address through an old veterans' association."

I closed my eyes.

"You're alive."

There was a pause.

"Well, yes."

I began to laugh. I could not help it. The sound emerged from me with such violence that Bell fell silent. I thought of Mercer, bleeding into the snow. I thought of his expression as he begged me to throw away the match. I thought of the boy who had vanished into the forest.

"Good God," I said. Bell told me his story. The Germans had captured him near the road. He had spent the remainder of the war in a prison camp, suffering from malnutrition and frostbite. He had returned home in the summer of 1945, married his childhood sweetheart, and raised three children. He was a grandfather now. He had worked for thirty years in a hardware store. He had bought a little house with a garden. He spoke of these things with easy satisfaction. I listened.

At length, he asked after Mercer. I told him of our friend’s fate. He was quiet for a considerable time.

"Poor Dan," he said.

"Yes."

"He was a good man."

"Sometimes,” I quipped. Bell gave a sad little chuckle.

Then he said, "You remember that business with the match?"

I felt my throat tighten.

"What?"

"That night in the farmhouse. Dan said the third man to light his cigarette would die."

"Yes."

"Funny thing, isn't it?"

I could not answer.

"Guess he was wrong…” Bell trailed off. I looked toward the desk where the matchbox lay.

"I suppose he was," I said. Bell invited me to visit him in Ohio. I declined. He asked whether he might write, and I said he could. Before hanging up, he told me that his sister had recently retired from teaching music.

"Still sings like an angel," he said. I remembered the stories of the little girl who had eaten a lemon. Then, the line went dead. For several weeks, I was happier than I had been in years. I walked without my cane when the weather permitted. I opened the windows of my house. I even considered traveling to Ohio.

The superstition had been disproved, and Bell had survived. I took the matchbox from my desk and carried it into the garden. There was a small incinerator beside the shed, in which I occasionally burned fallen branches and household rubbish. I opened its iron door, holding the matchbox above the ashes.

Then, I hesitated. It was absurd. The object had no power. Its preservation clearly served no purpose. I knew this. Nevertheless, I could not release it. For forty years, I had allowed that little piece of wood to dictate the meaning of Mercer's death. To destroy it would be to admit that there had been no meaning at all.

I returned the matchbox to my pocket. I have kept it ever since. It is strange, the persistence of old fears. I know now that the superstition was false. The third man did not die. Indeed, he has enjoyed a long and prosperous life, while Mercer lies in a military cemetery beneath a stone bearing a name that means nothing to the thousands who pass it.

Yet I still keep the match. It’s not because I believe in curses; I have ceased to believe in most things. I keep it because I remember Mercer's face when he asked me to throw it away, and because I remember the contempt with which I refused him. 

I have purchased a railway ticket. It lies upon my desk beside the matchbox. I shall leave for Ohio on Thursday. This morning, while dressing, I happened to glance at the little tin container. Its lid had come loose. The charred match lay upon the desk, where it must have fallen during the night.

I picked it up. The wood broke between my fingers. For a moment, I stood perfectly still. Then, I laughed.