The Kettle’s Whistle

This is a short story I wrote for the 3rd round of the 2024 Midnight NYC Flash Fiction contest. My prompts were Genre: Horror / Location: A runway / Object: A carrier pigeon.

Five corpses, their tattered officer uniforms stiffened with soot and blood, lay sprawled in front of Lieutenant James Bancroft amid the remnants of a bombed makeshift airfield deep within a fir forest.

The bodies were dusty with the reddish ash blanketing the whole field like a fiery fog, clinging to Bancroft’s skin as he moved, forcing him to heave and spit every ten paces.

James was dragging the fifth body along the runway when a sudden, sharp whistle made him drop, forcing his head against the cold ground. After a tense moment, he lifted his crossed hands from his head and scanned the sky with bloodshot, wild eyes. He rested them, not on the firmament, but on the foggy silhouette of the kettle steaming over a low fire he had set minutes ago.

Jaw clenched, he approached the fire to nibble on stale biscuits and sip a bitter black tea. He produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and emptied the kettle over it disintegrating the printed night watch schedule with the last row showing BANCROFT without any check-in signature.

He wiped the wet soot streaks from his cheeks and grabbed a mangled shovel to begin the arduous task of digging five shallow graves.

His body soon quaked with effort and his shovelling became erratic but every time he rested his unblinking eyes would fixate on the lifeless faces of the other officers, he would look at his hands, calluses ripped open, and after shaking his head furiously he continued without taking a breath.

He cursed loudly as he finished the first grave, a deformed, curved hole. He paced around it but instead of fixing it, he started a new row of graves carving them slowly, with a grim focus.

As the morning progressed, the wind picked up, clearing the fog but the leaves rustling, the forest howling and distant birds fluttering made Bancroft startle with every gust. His knees faltered with every gust as he put a hand on his pistol holder gazing over the forest.

Around noon, Bancroft stopped to eat another round of tasteless cookies. This time he waited next to the fire to avoid any surprises but as the kettle sang his eyes darted to his comrades, to their faces, to their mouths. He covered his ears and looked around bewildered shaking his whole head with his hands until he knocked the steamer down with a kick.

The sun was low and the wind had died down when Bancroft finished the graves. After inspecting his work, he started rummaging around the ruins collecting any personal effects that had survived. He read torn letters, picked up half burned photos featuring him and his fellow officers and collected medals depicting different saints.

Gathering the keepsakes took only a few minutes but, at the end, Bancroft panted, his chest rising unevenly as his shoulders slumped under an unshakable weight.

He prepared one last kettle before resuming the burials but the steam sound lasted for a few seconds before James’ howling cries matched its pitch perfectly as he crumpled the remnants of children’s photographs in his hand.

Once the cries had turned into sobs, Bancroft noticed cooing sounds coming from the only standing building in the area. Small firearm in hand, he slowly made his way to find a disoriented carrier pigeon scratching the ground. The lieutenant picked it up and read the message around the bird’s neck which was dated from two days ago:

WAR OVER. CEASE OPERATIONS. AUTH CODE: OBOE IN TUNE.

He took a small field notebook out of his pocket with codes scribbled on every page and compared it against the note. His eyes widened. The war had ended before he had woken up that day.

He slipped the roll in his pocket before letting out a raw scream that tore his throat apart. He stood there looking at the heavens until their colour shifted to warm tones.

He stumbled back to the centre of the runway and gently laid down each body as if he was putting them to bed rather than burying them.

After creating five mounds in the airstrip, Bancroft took stock of his own personal effects which amounted to crumbs slipping through his fingers, a small insignificant notebook and his officer pistol.

Surveying the area, pistol in hand, he glanced at the first grave with a sad smile and tender eyes. His long shadow matched the grave’s misshapen form perfectly.