Where the Gas Still Burned

The kitchen smelled of spilled beer and old tobacco. My grandfather sat at the table, a chipped mug in his hands, staring at nothing. I had asked him about the war. He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he coughed—a deep, rattling cough that seemed to start in his stomach and claw its way up his throat. He turned his head, pressing a fist to his mouth. The cough built, raw and wet, until he hacked up something thick.

With a grimace, he pushed back from the table, chair scraping against the linoleum. He shuffled to the sink and spat, turning the faucet on to wash it away.

“Damn lungs never were the same,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Taking a breath, he returned to the table, settling in with a sigh. “Alright, you wanted to know about the war. I’ll tell you. But you listen closely. And don’t you go thinking any of it was glorious.”

He took a sip of beer, his hands shaking just slightly. Then he began.

“The town smelled of rain and coal smoke. There was a charge in the air, the kind that comes before a storm. The war was coming, and we felt it. We were young, stupid, full of pride. The posters told us it would be an adventure, and we believed them. So we drank our beer, slapped each other on the back, and signed our names. All of us together. It seemed right.”

He paused, rolling his thumb over the rim of his cup. “The train took us away, past the fields and homes. The brass band played. Mothers wept. Fathers shook our hands like men already grieving. We waved. We laughed. We told ourselves we’d be back by Christmas.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “The trenches were not what we expected. We had thought of glory. Instead, we found mud. Deep, sucking mud that filled our boots and turned our feet raw. The rats were as big as cats and bolder than thieves. Lice crawled in our clothes. The shells never stopped. Even when they did, we heard them in our heads. We got used to it. A man could get used to anything.”

He set the cup down. His fingers drummed the table once, twice. “Then came the gas.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. His voice had dropped lower, quieter. “It was late in the day, the sky already the color of rust. A smell like rotting eggs, sharp like bleach. Someone shouted. ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ We fumbled with our masks. Hands shook. Some were too slow. The gas was thick, yellow, curling low to the ground. It clung to the earth, to our skin. It burned. Eyes swelled shut. Lungs filled with fire.”

His breath hitched, and for a second, I thought he might start coughing again. But he swallowed hard and went on.

“I got my mask on but too late. I had breathed it in. It was agony. A thousand knives in my chest. Around me, men dropped. Robert clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging. He fell. The gas swallowed him. I heard him choking. He reached for me, but I couldn’t help. There was nothing to do but wait, crouched in that hell, listening to men die.”

He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. “When it cleared, we moved the bodies. Robert was heavy. He did not look like he had suffered. Some men looked peaceful. Others did not. We dug fast. The ground was soft, and the graves were shallow. There was no time for prayers. I said one anyway.”

I didn’t move. I hardly breathed as my grandpa kept going.

“The coughing didn’t stop. For weeks after, we coughed until our ribs ached. Some men never breathed right again. Others died slow, drowning in their own blood. My lungs burned. They burned for months.”

He looked at me then. His eyes, once sharp, were soft with age but still held the weight of things I couldn’t begin to understand. “We had thought war would make us men. It made us something else. Hollow. Empty. I left part of myself in that trench. The rest of me carried on.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “When I came home, there was no band, no cheering crowd. Just a quiet town and a mother who held me like she would never let go. I told her I was fine. She knew I was lying.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I lived. Robert did not. Some nights I still hear him gasping for air. Some nights, I still wake up choking, reaching for a mask that isn’t there.”

He picked up his cup again but didn’t drink. “One day, I will see him again. Maybe then I will find peace.”

Silence stretched between us. The clock ticked on the wall. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he just nodded to himself, as if closing a door on an old room, and took a slow sip of beer.

I never asked him about the war again–a mistake I often regret.