Just when you thought Horrible Satan would stop publishing anything on a regular (or any kind of) basis, you just got slapped back down to Earth. Introducing an old series called “True Tales of World War I Ghosts” — in which the world’s mightiest WWI ghosts are given an opportunity to live again only in prose and in no other way.
(Details for how you too might share your WWI ghost’s story are forthcoming.)
Col. Target Borth was the ranking officer on the U.S.S. Mortimer, America’s largest amphibious Sea-Tank in the Great War. Here, now, is his story.
I’d like to start, first, by explaining my strange-soundin
The Mortimer was the proudest Water Horse (as they were called back then) in the Army-Navy, and I was proud of how proud she was. That, ominously, was my downfall. On February third, 1918, we were supposed to be tanksailing to Italy to have the Mortimer dismantled and scrapped because proud as she was, she was certainly also terribly bad.
I was so proud, though, that Instead we went to Verdun. We were up on the shore in a flash, and then it was off to the front, because I was so proud. I scampered out of the hatch to run right out into no-mans land, right on the front, so I could just yell and yell about my pride, the pride of the Mortimer. Before I could even get there, though, I was nastily torn in twain by a spat of bullets between the two sides. I had been a school teacher back in Connecticut, and I had been ironically done in by running between two sides shooting at each other before I could boast to God. The DIRT in my GUTS was the worst.
Yashua T. Steamhauser of the 10th Marching Cadre, Beefman Class Sergeant at Beef, was a Giant-in-Arms Cleric during the Great War of 1914-1918. This, now, is his story.
I remember my salad days in Dogsex, Louisiana well. Summers swimming away from our sexual Headmaster Vollman Gaerth, motivated by frisson of an afternoon cradling. Scared of our own “lake erections,” likewise, I say.
Ya’ll must know I was sent from my mother at a very young age because she sensed in me a great amount of blandness. And it was true, I had been a very bland boy — very porous and torpid, too. But golly if something in my adolescence hadn’t kindled my inner spices. As I crackled to my new birth, I became a master spicer in the chefery near my boyhood Second House and Acquisition Family, traditional graviers originally from northwest New Hampshire.
Most of the time I was beaten for tempering the meats, but eventually I mastered the art of tempering to the point in which I was only rarely beaten and even more rarely to exhaustion. I associate this also with Acquisition Father’s declining health and faculties. He hadn’t the vigor to accost me with his rice cane he’d had at age sixty-five. I ate my ration of goober peas alone many nights, gol darn it.
War was declared and I immediately enlisted, against Acquisition Father’s mightiest beatings. He had said I was of no use to my Acquisition mother and him dead and wished to send our negro in my place, which was impossible because slavery had been abolished many years prior and our negro remained only by his own good will, voluntary spirit and because he was a paid staff member, and accordingly he considered himself more of an employee than a slave.
During the war I was responsible for the cattle grazing nearest the frontest line, sport meat it was called. My primary job was to whip each head of cattle with my cattle whip whilst also screaming but one day I neared too close to the cattle and was gored by an errant cow horn which caused me to stumble and fall into the path of a hail of new fewer than seventeen bullets, which struck the cows as well and led to my blood and their blood mixing, as well as my guts and their guts. Also, my guts became fetid with much feces and dirt, as I rolled around writhing in pain. I would die many days later of various plentiful infections. It was the greatest pain I had ever known.
James McMaster, a Master-at-Guns for the 41st Reginald of the British Stamper Force in World War I. HIS story:
When I was born, my grandmother, who had given birth to me, according to legend, said, “This boy can only do good,” and I took that to heart. That’s a part of why being an officer in a horrible war was hard for me. War, in my mind, is truly a large number of murders at once, I say.
I remember the day I was murdered quite well. It was still burning off the October frost, as I recall, and the ground had a crunch under foot. We had spent the evening playing squash against the side of a truck by mortarlight. I had forsaken the bland tea they rationed us some time earlier, and usually grazed the battlefield for strange plants to brew for breakfast.
Suddenly gun fire erupted as the Germans opened fire on our machine gun battery. I knew this meant that my time was short, as I was charged with managing the machine gunners. Quickly, I scampered over the grass, searching in vain for a weird leaf. My search was fruitless as I was horribly ripped in twain by the competing bullets. A bunch of dirt got in my guts when my torso rolled through debris, and it only got worse when I found out I was doomed to walk the earth as a lost soul, which is terribly boring. Getting into the afterlife, like trying out for the Westhampton Gay Singaliers, is all politics, it turns out.
Harvard Prince, a gun-holder for the US Army who was KIA in 1918, has a story to tell.
On the day I first came to the western front, six-and-one-hal
Then I ran out in between two machine guns and was rrrrrrrripped in half in a hail of bullets!
Let’s hear it for our ghosts, everyone! It took a lot of courage to say those things, I’m sure. Email us if you want to buy some of their old medals or stuff, or pieces of their bones. Trades will be considered.