The Blue Men

A week before the November 11, 1918, signing of the armistice marking the end of The War to End All Wars, Corporal Blaise Brune peers through his field glasses into No Man’s Land, focusing on the last remaining tree. The forty-foot faded grey oak, dubbed Casimir, has been creased by bullets, charred by fire, and riddled by shells, yet it still stands.

Blaise sees a group of mangled men slogging across No Man’s Land carrying discarded guns and cans of food.

Their faces are blue.

They walk up to Casimir’s trunk. One of the blue men touches the tree, his hand sinking into it.

The blue men follow him into the tree, disappearing.

Blaise attributes what he’s seen to fatigue.

Later that day, Blaise and six other soldiers are killed in No Man’s Land when a burst of machine gun fire cuts them down.

Blaise’s sighting of the Blue Men dies with him.

***

A crazed howl emanating from the darkness in No Man’s Land sends shivers down the soldiers’ spines. Some of them cover their ears. Others drop their heads in despair.

“You drew the short straw, Grimaud.”

Corporal Renaud Grimaud’s left eye twitches. “But the Germans are about to surrender. Can’t this wait, sir?”

Captain Christian Clement places his monocle over his eye, peering coolly at the skittish young soldier. “The war’s not over yet. The enemy is still fighting. The order comes directly from Field Marshall Yvan Nollet. We’re to send a scout - you - to locate the position of the Blue Men… Personally, I don’t believe they exist, so this should be like an evening walk in the park for you.”

“Except instead of bees buzzing around my head, there’ll be bullets. I heard they bay at the moon like wild dogs, and when they capture a soldier, they tie him to a post and throw knives at him, then eat his corpse.”

“Nonsense. Be a loyal French soldier, Grimaud. I don’t want to put you in front of a firing squad for disobeying a direct order. Do I have to hold your hand to get you out of this trench?”

“Don’t worry, Renaud. The Blue Men don’t exist. They’re a myth!” Infantryman Faron Ferdinand assures him.

Renaud reluctantly follows Captain Clement up the ladder leading out of the trench.

A bullet passes through Captain Clement’s monocle, exiting the back of his skull. His body stiffens, toppling backward. He lands in the stagnant ooze at the bottom of the trench, splattering Faron and fellow infantrymen Alain Alban with muddy filth.

“Does this mean I don’t have to go now?” Renaud asks Alain and Faron.

“You know there’ll be another officer here in a matter of minutes to take Clement’s place,” Faron replies. “And he’s going to have the same order from Field Marshall Nollet.”

“Then wish me luck!” Renaud shouts at his fellow soldiers, charging up the ladder and disappearing into the starless night.

Alain turns to Faron. “I can’t help but feel that’s the last time we’ll see him.”

Alain has been back at the front line for less than two weeks. He was critically injured when eighteen-year-old Mattieu LeBlanc picked up a volume of “The History of the Follies Bergere” that had been discarded in No Man’s Land. The book exploded when LeBlanc opened it, spraying the platoon with metal shards. Disfigured by the blast, Alain was fitted with a fake nose and jaw and was rushed back to the front because of his fluency in German.

Handsome enough for the cinema, Faron Ferdinand intends to use his intelligence and good looks to run for office, guaranteeing his exemption from the next war.

“I don’t understand. The armistice is all but signed,” Alain says. “Why send Renaud into No Man’s Land, and who are the Blue Men?”

“You’ve never heard of them? They’re animals. They’re what men turn into when their minds snap, when they’ve seen their friends torn apart, and they’re covered in mud and body parts,” Faron replies. “The story goes that a scouting party encountered the Blue Men one night two years ago. They seemed to come out from behind that ruined oak tree. They were ghoulish beasts, their faces twisted, scarred, deformed... Sorry.”

“I’m used to it. Continue.”

“The survivors of the scouting party said their attacker's skin was bright blue, the color of a summer sky.”

“How did it get that way?”

“Mustard gas. They were gassed in the second battle of St. Druin. The ones who survived nearly choked to death, and their skin turned blue. The gas destroyed their minds, too, and they deserted… They scavenge corpses for clothing, food, and weapons. And Renaud was right. They supposedly eat their captives. But no one has been able to prove they really exist.”

“That’s horrible, but I know how they must feel. They’re outsiders now, reviled and hunted for being different. I’m a pariah now, too. When I was in the hospital, I saw the look of revulsion on the doctors' and nurses' faces when they glanced at me. I saw it on yours, too, when you caught me looking in a mirror at my injuries…”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“The Blue Men may be crazed animals, Faron, but at least they have each other.”

***

“It’s been over an hour since Renaud left,” Alain says, fitfully reaching for a cigarette.

“Don’t,” Faron cautions. “Remember what happened to Captain Clement. Imminent peace or not, there’s probably a sniper or two out there who’d like to get in one last kill.”

A shriek sends a chill through both men. The scream turns into a wail, then cries for help. Wild gunshots echo through the air, followed by bursts of mad laughter.

“…That was Renaud… ”

A final shot. Then silence.

“We’ll mourn him in the morning,” Faron says. “Try to get some sleep.”

“How?”

***

A pair of warm hands shakes Alain.

“…Yes, sir… I’m awake…”

Alain opens his eyes, expecting to see some gruff commanding officer standing over him.

The boyish-looking young man standing before him is wearing a mud-caked, bloody uniform. His left eye twitches.

“Renaud! You made it! You’re back!”

Renaud doesn’t answer, staring lifelessly into Alain’s eyes.

He climbs out of the trench, beckoning Alain to follow him.

Bombs burst around them, flinging mud into Alain’s face. Traces of machine gun bullets tear up the ground, but neither of them is hit. The stench is suffocating, and the mushy land is strewn with abandoned weapons, broken tanks, and dead bodies. Some of the rotting corpses are propped up in sagging barbed wire, others are half-buried in watery craters.

Renaud points to a scraggly, war-torn oak tree on a hill. Staying low to the ground, Alain runs to it, sitting beneath its bare, twisted branches.

Before he can say anything to Grimaud, his shadowy form disappears.

Staring at the torn, dead bodies, broken equipment, and shell holes scattered around No Man’s Land, Alain begins to feel dizzy and falls asleep.

***

Lost in a deep sleep, Alain sees a group of soldiers darting through the misting rain in No Man’s Land like baffled ghosts. Separated from their retreating comrades, the soldiers have drifted too close to the Germans’ front line and are being raked by gunfire.

The four men leading fall like dominoes. Two soldiers carry a wounded comrade with mangled legs, using one arm to hold him while firing their guns with the other.

A shell explodes behind them, killing three men and scattering mud and debris. Sergeant Maurice Duval feels a sharp, burning sensation on his cheek. Patting at the area, his fingers come away with flesh and blood.

Dropping in the mud, Abel Bouvea shrieks in pain.

“My fingers! They’re gone! How can I play the violin without my fingers?”

“Keep moving, Bouvea,” Sergeant Maurice Duval urges. “Or you won’t have a head to play with either!”

Maurice points toward a battered oak tree.

“Casimir! Everyone run to the tree!”

The men gather beneath the tree. Abel hugs it, patting it with his remaining hand.

A blue mist rises from the muddy earth, surrounding the wounded men.

“Gas?” Abel asks.

Maurice reaches out to touch the blue haze. It dissipates as his hand passes through it.

“…I don’t think it’s gas… Some sort of fog…”

Maurice surveys the half dozen survivors. Gabriel Garnier looks at his mangled legs with drop-jawed sorrow. He watches as Corporal Rogatien Vachon, his chest a mass of bullet holes, slowly closes his eyes and quietly dies. His greatest concern is Julien Balin, who, like Maurice, was hit in the face by shrapnel. The molten metal has torn away his skin, revealing the bleached bone beneath it.

“Are you in much pain, Julien?”

“No. I’ll be fine until the shock wears off. Some pair we’ll be - two skinless skulls. Maybe we can join a circus. Ladies and Gentlemen, ‘The Faceless Freaks!’”

“First, we have to survive this bombardment before we can become sideshow attractions.”

Abel cuts in their conversation, pointing at the foggy expanse of No Man’s Land. “…That might prove to be difficult…”

Dodging bullets and bombs, fourteen well-armed German soldiers run toward the tree.

“If anybody has any ammo left, now is the time to use it,” Maurice says.

“Save a bullet for yourself,” Abel adds.

A wild-eyed German soldier barely out of his teens raises his rifle, pointing it at the wounded men.

“Erschieß sie!”

The soldier fires off three shots before his Lieutenant bats his gun away.

The bullets are sucked into the blue mist.

The German soldiers gape at their untouched foes.

“Was ist das?” the young soldier asks. “Ich habe drei von ihnen getötet.”

“What’s he saying, Sergeant Duval?” Abel asks.

“What is this? I killed three of them.”

“Wir müssen sie töten! Sie sind der Feind!”

“…We must kill them. They are the enemy.”

The German Lieutenant steps in front of the soldier, slapping him.

“Nein! Lass sie liegen. Sie sind kaputt, für den Feind nutzlos. Sie sind so gut wie tot.”

“…He said no, leave them. They are broken, of no use to the enemy. They are as good as dead.”

The Lieutenant commands his men to move on. He gives Maurice a parting, compassionate look.

In perfect French, he says, “My name is Hans Gudegast. I live in Munich, near the Königliche Opera House. Look me up when we’re at peace again. We’ll share a beer and trade stories about our bravery.”

The men watch Lieutenant Gudegast and his men run across No Man’s Land toward the German lines.

A French machine gun nest on a nearby hill cuts Gudegast and his men down.

A green cloud spreads across No Man’s Land.

“Spared by German soldiers, only to choke to death on their mustard gas,” Abel laments.

Maurice tears off the sleeve of his uniform. “Cover your nose and mouth as best you can.”

“Maybe we can outrun it,” Gabriel says.

“That’s ironic, coming from a man with no legs,” Julien responds. Touching his fleshless skull, he adds, “We can run, but we can’t hide.”

“There must be something we can do to save ourselves,” Abel says.

Maurice leans against the tree, feeling his shoulder sink into it.

“We’re not dead yet, my friends.”

***

A strong pair of hands shakes Alain’s shoulder.

Alain recoils at the sight of a blue-skinned man. One side of his face is handsome and affable looking. The other side looks like a melted candle; the damaged flesh having slid down to his jaw.

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Are you dead?”

“Legally, yes. I’m Maurice Duval, a former Sergeant for the 45th Infantry Unit. We were wiped out eighteen months ago.”

“A Frenchman, and a Blue Man. It was you that I saw in my dream, huddled underneath this tree with some other men.”

“Yes, this tree, Casimir. We call it ‘the tree of life’. It showed you how we came to be the outcasts you call the Blue Men.”

“Are you going to eat me?”

Maurice laughs heartily. “You’ve listened to the wild tales and lies about us. We howl at night like savages to keep the soldiers away. And yes, we look like we’re living nightmares. But we’re not cannibals, murderers, or ghouls.”

“We heard you kill Grimaud.”

“Your skittish friend saw us and shot at us. We tried to talk to him, to tell him we meant him no harm and that he could join us. But he was too frightened, too crazed by the sight of us. He shot himself. But you… You’re not afraid.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t scream at the sight of me,” Alain says dejectedly.

“There’s no reason to. We’re very much alike. Some of us were scarred by bullets or bayonets or had our faces torn apart by artillery shells. Our blue skin is from the cumulative effect of breathing No Man Land’s contaminated air… You were in it overnight. Look at your hand.”

Alain’s hand is blue. He rolls up his sleeve. His arm is blue.

“Someday, this land we call No Man’s Land will be lush and green again. Maybe there’ll be a place in this world for us by then, but for now, we live underground. Casimir protects us. Come with me, let me show you.”

Maurice walks into Casimir, disappearing.

Shrugging his shoulders, Alain follows.

Alain finds himself in a tunnel reinforced by Casimir’s roots and boards that the Blue Men have scavenged.

They enter a large cavern lit by torches. A dozen Blue Men are sitting at a table, their heads bowed, as one of them says grace.

A short time ago, Alain would have been repulsed by their appearance. Gabriel Garnier, a soldier with no legs, nods at him. Abel Bouvea, a violin next to him on the table, waves at him with his remaining hand. Julien Balin, a blue skull whose skin had been peeled from his face, gives Alain a gleaming smile.

“This looks… Almost…”

“Civilized? It is. We have a library, a kitchen, and each man has his own private space.”

“But what about your families?”

“We are each other’s family now,” Maurice replies. “At this point, if we returned to the army, we’d be executed as deserters. And even if we weren’t, do you think there’s a town or village in France that would accept us? Or you?”

“It seems like I’ve been looking for a home all of my life. I was an orphan. I thought I’d found a home in the army, only to watch my friends get slaughtered. I’ve already had a taste of what life will be like for me once I’m discharged. People will look at me like I’m a freak, a monster.”

“Some people find home in unexpected places.”

“Like you and the others have,’ Alain replies, removing his prosthetic nose and chin. Renaud brought me here because he knew I belonged with you.”

***

“It’s a shame Alain died before the armistice,” Faron says to Major Georges Weygrand.

“He was one of our last casualties. His fellow Frenchmen will honor him as a hero for generations to come.”

They watch four men wearing gas masks roll large canisters across the scraggly, wet grass.

“We fought a long, hard war against the Central Powers,” Mayor Weygrand says. “Thousands of brave Frenchmen will never see their loved ones again. Field Marshall Nollet concluded - rightly - that we don’t want any more bloodshed, even against a group as small as the Blue Men. So, we’re going to gas the area and make No Man’s Land off limits.”

Major Weygrand and Faron don gas masks. The men open the canisters.

A green and yellow cloud floats menacingly across No Man’s Land.

“Blue Man or not, any living creature within a mile will choke on its own blood,” Major Weygrand says. “They will die within minutes in agony, bleeding from their eyes, coughing out bloody pieces of their own lungs. Good riddance to them, and to this God-forsaken battlefield.”

***

Thirty years pass before Faron, now France’s Minister for the Environment, returns to No Man’s Land.

“Thankfully, it’s not like I remember it,” he says to his assistant, Gaston Billotte. “When we left here in 1918, there were shell craters the size of cars, scattered bones, unexploded bombs, and mud so thick and deep it could swallow a man up without a trace. Animals that breathed the air died on the spot, and the grass was burned black. It was so hazardous that the area was off-limits. The only thing left alive was Casimir, a solitary oak.”

Gaston scans the area. “Now look at this place. Black pines, lush green grass, white daisies, red poppies, and blue violets as far as the eye can see.”

“Yes, nature has reclaimed No Man’s Land. And Casimir is at the center of it all.”

Gaston follows Faron to Casimir. The tree’s grey trunk is restored, its branches lush with leaves.

A shiny object at the base of Casimir draws Faron’s attention. He kneels to look at it.

“Dog tags…”

“Who did they belong to?”

“Alain Alban.”