Helmut's Helmet (with added shrapnel)
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Just be careful where you put your loose change...
_____________________________________________________________________
If someone had told Helmut Von Bremenger the war would end in four weeks’ time, he might have forced a smile. As it was, he was taken from his position as a second year medical student and assistant to the chief surgeon at the Essen hospital and entered into the medical corps as a matter of some extreme urgency.
The Germans were losing the war, hence Helmut’s presence close to the front line being something of a necessity. His father, himself a decorated doctor and medic from previous skirmishes, reminded him his older brother, Rutger, a dentist, had served as a medic for almost six years without catching any harm; Helmut would be fine.
Despite the obvious haste, Helmut was given the obligatory field training he would need to stay alive, including a self defence, kill or be killed course which went against everything he had been invited this far to contemplate.
Earlier letters from his brother, a frequent and quite feverish communicator, described in some detail the atrocities Helmut might expect to come across while in the service of the Fatherland. Tales of men begging a field doctor to deliver them from the pain, to send them to the hereafter rather than live without limbs or perhaps sight only served to make him even more apprehensive.
The uniform didn’t fit and was most uncomfortable, obviously used before and laundered and mended. Dead men’s clothes according to another conscript of similar age. The helmet looked new however and was introduced to Helmut as his new best friend. He was advised to wear it at all times, even sleep in it and to paint a red cross symbol on it to distinguish him from the rank and file, a job for his uncle Herman, a master signwriter. So there could be no doubt as to who it belonged to, Helmut’s dear mother stitched his name and number into the soft leather lip inside, barely able to keep her hand steady while she did so.
The train journey was interminable. They were packed like sardines, mostly young boys hardly old enough to know their own minds with fear in their hearts and a look of sheer dread about every one of them. These were soldiers, although to a man they were unarmed and totally unprepared, weapons would be supplied soon, inherited closer to the action.
Helmut’s first patients were British prisoners of war, around a dozen of them and to a man they thanked him for his ministrations before being loaded onto the very train he had come in on, their war was over.
Closer to the front Helmut soon understood his brother Rutger had painted an accurate picture with his words. Conditions were filthy, hardly conducive to the prevention of disease or the bed rest his patients required for the possibility of recovery. One young officer refused to let go of his severed arm, seemingly shaking hands with himself while Helmut attended to what was left attached to the man’s body. Little in the way of drugs either, almost Mediaeval-like in basic surgical equipment.
He could hear the ferocious sounds of war both night and day, thinking it louder and nearer when he wasn’t busy attending to the fallen. At those times his concentration helped put the war to one side.
Two days before the ceasefire Helmut was resting on a rare break. An enemy shell exploded above the fox-hole and he dived for cover with those present. Foolishly, he hadn’t been wearing his helmet but when he retrieved it he found it had taken a series of shrapnel hits, seventeen in all with one, the biggest of them, firmly embedded in the crown, dead centre of the red cross his uncle had painted.
Despite Helmut’s best efforts all but that piece were removable. He actually cut his fingers on it and gave it up as a bad job. He wrapped some old blood-soaked bandages around the diamond shaped fragment to save further injury either to himself or his comrades and carried on with his work.
On the last day of the war the Germans were overrun. True to his medical training Helmut was examining a British soldier’s injuries when he was shot dead at point blank range, the only other time he had removed his helmet since reaching the front. His assailant had presumed him to be looting the body of his comrade. It was Helmut’s twentieth birthday.
Helmut’s personal effects were given to his brother in order that he could return them to his family, all but his helmet which had been claimed as a trophy by the very man who killed him, the embedded shrapnel making it something of an oddity and therefore irresistible.
To the soldier’s credit he didn’t make the connection between Helmut and the red cross helmet, there was more than the one body in the vicinity at the time. He sneaked the helmet home and it served as a conversation piece for many years until the man chose early retirement from his well paid job and took over an ailing pub.
He couldn’t bear to throw the helmet away so he fixed it by the chin strap to a hook in one of the oak beams, where it soon became surrounded with patterned water jugs and tankards. Of course it was still something of a conversation piece and took on several explanations depending on which of the pub’s staff or clientele was telling the tale.
Over the years the man was beset with health problems and horrendous nightmares. He died in a hospice with what could only be described as a look of sheer terror on his face, a look so pronounced a closed casket was advised by the funeral parlour.
The pub remained in the family and had spells of differing popularity, as did most similar establishments.
Latterly, a rowdier element had taken up residence, filling the place every weekend night for the live bands. As a result of this the tankards and water jugs were removed to a place of safety, leaving Helmut’s helmet dangling on its own, more or less forgotten.
Soon, the kids started flicking copper coins into it after a few beers and the pub cleaner had a field day picking up those coins which had missed the target, which in truth was most of them.
It was late summer, a Thursday evening, a birthday party. The music was live and loud and the pub was full, invitation only.
When Helmut’s helmet came loose through a combination of the vibration and the weight of the coins, many people thought it to be a stunt of sorts. Indeed, the strobe lighting gave it a slow motion effect but when the diamond shaped piece of shrapnel embedded itself in the young man’s head his girlfriend’s screams could easily be heard above the pulsating music.
With the house lights on, a quite macabre sight unfolded. The blood gave it away otherwise you saw a young man with a German army helmet balanced upside down on his head. Close inspection showed the helmet to be full of copper coins, loose change, also known as shrapnel in many places.
It was the young man’s twentieth birthday. The pub had been in his family for almost thirty years, since his great grandfather bought into it in fact.
It would have been Helmut’s eightieth birthday.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Just be careful where you put your loose change...
_____________________________________________________________________
If someone had told Helmut Von Bremenger the war would end in four weeks’ time, he might have forced a smile. As it was, he was taken from his position as a second year medical student and assistant to the chief surgeon at the Essen hospital and entered into the medical corps as a matter of some extreme urgency.
The Germans were losing the war, hence Helmut’s presence close to the front line being something of a necessity. His father, himself a decorated doctor and medic from previous skirmishes, reminded him his older brother, Rutger, a dentist, had served as a medic for almost six years without catching any harm; Helmut would be fine.
Despite the obvious haste, Helmut was given the obligatory field training he would need to stay alive, including a self defence, kill or be killed course which went against everything he had been invited this far to contemplate.
Earlier letters from his brother, a frequent and quite feverish communicator, described in some detail the atrocities Helmut might expect to come across while in the service of the Fatherland. Tales of men begging a field doctor to deliver them from the pain, to send them to the hereafter rather than live without limbs or perhaps sight only served to make him even more apprehensive.
The uniform didn’t fit and was most uncomfortable, obviously used before and laundered and mended. Dead men’s clothes according to another conscript of similar age. The helmet looked new however and was introduced to Helmut as his new best friend. He was advised to wear it at all times, even sleep in it and to paint a red cross symbol on it to distinguish him from the rank and file, a job for his uncle Herman, a master signwriter. So there could be no doubt as to who it belonged to, Helmut’s dear mother stitched his name and number into the soft leather lip inside, barely able to keep her hand steady while she did so.
The train journey was interminable. They were packed like sardines, mostly young boys hardly old enough to know their own minds with fear in their hearts and a look of sheer dread about every one of them. These were soldiers, although to a man they were unarmed and totally unprepared, weapons would be supplied soon, inherited closer to the action.
Helmut’s first patients were British prisoners of war, around a dozen of them and to a man they thanked him for his ministrations before being loaded onto the very train he had come in on, their war was over.
Closer to the front Helmut soon understood his brother Rutger had painted an accurate picture with his words. Conditions were filthy, hardly conducive to the prevention of disease or the bed rest his patients required for the possibility of recovery. One young officer refused to let go of his severed arm, seemingly shaking hands with himself while Helmut attended to what was left attached to the man’s body. Little in the way of drugs either, almost Mediaeval-like in basic surgical equipment.
He could hear the ferocious sounds of war both night and day, thinking it louder and nearer when he wasn’t busy attending to the fallen. At those times his concentration helped put the war to one side.
Two days before the ceasefire Helmut was resting on a rare break. An enemy shell exploded above the fox-hole and he dived for cover with those present. Foolishly, he hadn’t been wearing his helmet but when he retrieved it he found it had taken a series of shrapnel hits, seventeen in all with one, the biggest of them, firmly embedded in the crown, dead centre of the red cross his uncle had painted.
Despite Helmut’s best efforts all but that piece were removable. He actually cut his fingers on it and gave it up as a bad job. He wrapped some old blood-soaked bandages around the diamond shaped fragment to save further injury either to himself or his comrades and carried on with his work.
On the last day of the war the Germans were overrun. True to his medical training Helmut was examining a British soldier’s injuries when he was shot dead at point blank range, the only other time he had removed his helmet since reaching the front. His assailant had presumed him to be looting the body of his comrade. It was Helmut’s twentieth birthday.
Helmut’s personal effects were given to his brother in order that he could return them to his family, all but his helmet which had been claimed as a trophy by the very man who killed him, the embedded shrapnel making it something of an oddity and therefore irresistible.
To the soldier’s credit he didn’t make the connection between Helmut and the red cross helmet, there was more than the one body in the vicinity at the time. He sneaked the helmet home and it served as a conversation piece for many years until the man chose early retirement from his well paid job and took over an ailing pub.
He couldn’t bear to throw the helmet away so he fixed it by the chin strap to a hook in one of the oak beams, where it soon became surrounded with patterned water jugs and tankards. Of course it was still something of a conversation piece and took on several explanations depending on which of the pub’s staff or clientele was telling the tale.
Over the years the man was beset with health problems and horrendous nightmares. He died in a hospice with what could only be described as a look of sheer terror on his face, a look so pronounced a closed casket was advised by the funeral parlour.
The pub remained in the family and had spells of differing popularity, as did most similar establishments.
Latterly, a rowdier element had taken up residence, filling the place every weekend night for the live bands. As a result of this the tankards and water jugs were removed to a place of safety, leaving Helmut’s helmet dangling on its own, more or less forgotten.
Soon, the kids started flicking copper coins into it after a few beers and the pub cleaner had a field day picking up those coins which had missed the target, which in truth was most of them.
It was late summer, a Thursday evening, a birthday party. The music was live and loud and the pub was full, invitation only.
When Helmut’s helmet came loose through a combination of the vibration and the weight of the coins, many people thought it to be a stunt of sorts. Indeed, the strobe lighting gave it a slow motion effect but when the diamond shaped piece of shrapnel embedded itself in the young man’s head his girlfriend’s screams could easily be heard above the pulsating music.
With the house lights on, a quite macabre sight unfolded. The blood gave it away otherwise you saw a young man with a German army helmet balanced upside down on his head. Close inspection showed the helmet to be full of copper coins, loose change, also known as shrapnel in many places.
It was the young man’s twentieth birthday. The pub had been in his family for almost thirty years, since his great grandfather bought into it in fact.
It would have been Helmut’s eightieth birthday.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.