Something's Rising

(CONTENT WARNING: War AND Sexual Themes)

On the dreary, wet morning on the Western Front, a stiff breeze sweeps across the trenches. The intense fighting has subsided to an occasional spurt of gunfire. This morning’s only war is a lively game of cards. Most games end in heated arguments.

‘That’s 21, mate. Did they teach you maths in Queensland?’

‘What sort of addition are you doing, brother?’

A slew of rifles encircles them, propped in the dirt like fenceposts. The steel makes the surrounding soldiers antsy. For the Australian troops, it’s a chance to regroup. They’ve suffered heavy losses during the first month of the war. They just need a chance to have a decent beer and a jovial night with mates.

For one man, it is a rare moment to indulge in a long‑held fantasy.

Samson Turner has a lover named Mehmet, with whom he has exchanged letters for five years. Quite annoyingly, Mehmet is a Turkish soldier. The heavy reality of war is a morbidly convenient time for them to put their years of messages into action. Their correspondence includes stories of romance and primal fantasies. While many tales involve typical romantic longing, some grow a bit more daring. One letter reads:

Oh Mehmet, I long for the firm grasp of your hand running a balloon down my skin, the powdery squeak as you create a small charge to my heart.

The letters have a sordid tone; their shared interest in balloons is an unconventional way to bond. While they both yearned for their respective home, they shared a collective desire for the rubbery touch of a well-inflated helium balloon. Their initial in‑person meeting is even more unusual.

‘It’s so wonderful to feel your touch, Mehmet.’

‘I’ve wanted to feel those muscles forever.’

Samson and Mehmet cuddle into an abandoned sap. Given their circumstances, they risk everything for this secret meeting. His battalion is composed of men harbouring a strong, especially hostile hatred toward the Turks. Samson’s commanding officer has ordered his battalion to ‘kill the enemies on sight.’ The idea of one of his soldiers being in the grasp of a Turk would mortify him. Samson is worried he might become a target of their shooting.

Which is why they must be discreet. Having chosen this quiet moment to sneak off, Samson knows his mates are more concerned about their cards than killing Turks. Sneaking past latrines and barbed wire to see his love, he has finally found his moment to whip out the big guns, while putting his pistol aside.

The two share their first kiss. Mehmet is bristly, his embrace firm, like that of a comforting aunt. He runs his hand through Samson’s hair, soft like a pillow. Five years of letters, fantasies, indulgence – all those sordid machinations – have come to this moment.

After a few minutes of making out, Samson searches through his duffel bag. He pulls out a paper bag, prompting curiosity from Mehmet.

‘What is that?’ he asks.

Samson reaches inside and pulls out a twelve‑pack of balloons. Mehmet offers a wry smile. Samson winks at him and begins blowing up the balloons, with Mehmet joining in a moment later. Samson bites his lip in anticipation as he blows. Several things are swelling in this moment, and for once, it isn’t tension on the battlefront.

However, that quickly changes. As Mehmet ties his balloon, it slips from his hand. He quickly stands up to pull it back down, but alas, it is too late. The balloon floats above the trenches like a dandelion seed. As it glides above the wall of the trench, it is quickly snuffed out by the crack of a rifle.

‘Shit,’ Samson mutters, as a flurry of pops and bangs rings out from both sides. The two duck for cover, hurriedly buttoning up their clothes. They wipe each other’s slobber from their faces. Their first embrace is ruined by the realities of war. They must get back to fighting.

‘I’ll see you soon, lovely,’ Mehmet says, leaving him with a little kiss on the cheek.

Samson sheds a tear as he hurries back to his fighting post. He hopes this won’t be the last time he sees his love.

He works his way back to his parapet, where his mates are already engaged with the Turks. His commanding officer, the intimidating General Monroe, isn’t impressed.

‘Where the fuck were you?’

‘Just usin’ the dunny, sir, sorry.’

‘For fifteen flipping minutes?’

‘Well, I had a—’

‘I don’t wanna hear your life story, maggot. Get a gun and start firing.’

Samson obliges, quickly picking up his rifle and firing. That is his life for the next several hours. They fire at random Turks, ducking when the gunfire gets heavy. Samson switches from love to hate in the blink of an eye, trying his best to do his country proud.

At one moment, he stares down the barrel at Mehmet, who is shooting at another squad of soldiers. He hesitates briefly, contemplating whether to erase the memory of his secret encounter. In that moment, he tries to put it aside and focus on defending his country.

However, he can’t. He points his gun at a man next to Mehmet and fires. The bullet misses. The wind carries it to the left, splitting the difference between Mehmet and the other Turk. This is too close for comfort, so he swings his aim to another group. He doesn’t want to risk putting a stray shell down Mehmet’s gullet – especially since there is something else he wants to put in there.

A little while later, the fighting dies down, and the soldiers have their moment to regroup. General Monroe gathers his soldiers around a small fire pit to talk tactics. He isn’t impressed.

‘Boys, these fuckin’ Turks should be easy, yet we keep losing lads to them. Get your shit together.’

Samson crouches with his head down, knowing he’s caused this recent uptick in fighting. He is ashamed and embarrassed, but he can’t say anything. He can’t tell his mates about his little arrangement; society isn’t there yet.

His heart then sinks as a fellow soldier mentions something he’d hoped had been lost in the chaos.

‘A balloon rose from over there. I reckon that’s why the Turks first fired.’

The boys laugh, even Monroe seeing the humour in it.

‘Haha, I bet Sammy boy would like that.’

Samson’s heart sinks further.

‘What?’

‘Oh yeah, I read those poems of yours, about rubbin’ balloons against your crotch. You must have a good sheila back home if she’s willing to do that.’

Samson stutters for a minute, unsure what to say. Has he been caught? Do they know about his unorthodox sexual preferences? He is a little scared.

‘Oh, yeah, haha.’

He tries to laugh it off, and it seems to work, as the troops quickly move on. He is in a truly risky situation on this warfront. He wants to continue this affair, but he risks serious consequences. If his regiment were to find out what he was up to, they could maim him worse than any Turk on the other side.

A couple of days pass, and not much happens. The Australians go back to playing snap and games of French cricket in the trench. A couple of fleeting fistfights break out between disagreeing soldiers over the Free Trade–Protectionist Party debates, but it is otherwise a boring and sullen time.

Samson decides this is the right time to strike. Having sent a message through a runner, he organises to meet Mehmet in the sap once again. Everything is cooling down, so they can finally get together and do what they’ve been planning to do for years.

‘Good to see you again, mi amour.’

Mehmet and Samson embrace. They run their hands down each other’s cheeks. Samson grabs Mehmet’s waist. Finally, they have their moment to do what they want.

They each grab a balloon and start blowing. They both go red with anticipation and poor conditioning. This time, they have a string tied to their wrists and to the balloons. They are being careful. Their clothes come off, and the balloons are between them. They are making love.

However, just as Samson feels goosebumps rise on his neck, their moment is interrupted.

‘What the…’

Samson swings around, and to his horror, General Monroe is standing over them, arms crossed and seething with rage. Samson is in nothing but his undies. Mehmet is wearing even less. Balloons are rising, but the strings around their wrists prevent them from peering over the trench.

They fumble to put their clothes back on, faces burning with embarrassment. After a few tense moments, Monroe storms away. Why he chooses not to kill them immediately is a mystery; maybe he is waiting for a more suitable moment.

‘We can’t continue on like this, Mehmet.’

‘I agree.’

‘What do we do?’

The two exchange glances, hesitation hanging between them like the scent of spent cartridges in the trenches. Clearly, they are doomed. They’ve found themselves in a compromising situation; death seems inevitable, doesn’t it?

Samson has a thought.

‘Mehmet, do you have a bit of white cloth?’

The two fish around for something white. Mehmet has a handkerchief, Samson a bit of paper.

‘Follow my lead.’

They hoist their makeshift flags. A shot is fired, but none follow. After a few more seconds of waiting, Samson gestures for Mehmet to follow him. They quickly clamber out of the trenches, putting themselves in tremendous danger. White flags raised, they make their way into no man’s land – an act of lunacy with method behind it.

They walk out to the centre of the battlefield. It has been cleared of dead souls; they have centre stage. Their flags remain up, neither side shooting. A few people shout frantic instructions:

‘Get off the field, maggot!’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What are you madmen doing?’

Each man ignores the sledges. They take each other’s hand, and a murmur can be heard from both trenches. What are these two doing?

As they reach the centre, Samson takes the lead.

‘This fighting is a bit silly; you all need to put down your guns and make love. Mehmet and I will show you.’

Mehmet and Samson turn to each other, run their hands through the other’s hair, and start making out on the battlefield.

The troops on both sides are shocked. Two men making love in the middle of the battlefield. This is immoral, indecent, not in the spirit of the war, right?

Monroe is among those disgusted by the act.

‘Shoot the bastards,’ he says to one soldier.

The soldier hesitates; he doesn’t know what to do.

‘Kill them pricks,’ Monroe repeats.

The two continue making love on the battlefield, both sides too shocked to shoot. They just watch as the men start taking off their clothes.

No one fires. Quite the opposite.

‘Come here, lovely,’ one private says to his commanding officer.

Men of all backgrounds come together to make love. Some are shocked, but for many, they finally have the licence to do what they’ve always wanted. Clothes come off; oils appear from nowhere. Some officers try to stop this, but they are helpless. The fighting stops, all for love. Samson and Mehmet are soon surrounded by a cacophony of moans from both sides.

The next morning, many a soldier lay arm in arm. Mehmet and Samson rested in each other’s arms, caressing and smooching. It was quite the romantic sight. As they awoke from their stupor, a trumpet sounded. It was a familiar tone.

‘I guess it’s time to return to war then,’ Samson said. He shared a quick kiss with Mehmet before trudging off. Their love faded in the face of their reality.