Trembling Hands: A War Story
Anusree Iyer
Lowell’s hands tremored. They seemed to do that quite often lately. It was a gradual thing; the pointer and middle finger would begin to twitch ever so slightly, and then the ring and the pinkie, and slowly, the rest of his hand would follow suit.
He set his mug down gently, unwilling to spill the contents as his hands trembled slightly harder than before.
The medical terminology flew over his head (dumb army vet, stupid stupid stupid), but he gathered it was something called an essential tremor. ‘Likely brought on by chronic stress and fatigue. Common in veterans.’ His hands, already marred with pink scars and welts from the mines, now doomed to tremble intermittently like a stumbling drunk. Although, he supposed, he was a bit of a stumbling drunk. The amber ale glinting in the glass could attest to that.
His middle finger had begun twitching. His mother always said he’d had an artist’s hands: his fingers were long and slender, and at one point long ago, had been tanned attractively.
You have an artist’s hands, Lowell. They’re meant to create. And oh, once upon a time, they did create. Lowell had filled pages and pages of art–hazy sketches and bright watercolors and sharp acrylics. He liked to think he was quite good at it, and, if you’d gotten a glass or two of spirits in him, he might’ve admitted he wanted to make a profession out of it. But, as he soon learned, art was for the pretentious. The pompous. For the poncey little boys that had the privilege of staying soft, of creating rather than destroying. And Lowell hadn’t been a boy in a very long time. No, he was a man now. He was a man, which meant he didn’t get to have foolish pastimes and cottoned dreams. He didn’t know how to create beauty anymore, how to produce those swirling patterns of colors. He only takes. Ruins. Destroys.
He’d seen eyes get clawed out of skulls, limbs ripped out of sockets, blood spilling and spilling endlessly, everywhere, always, and oh God, it was awful. It was—
No. No.
Henri always thought he had the most lovely hands. He’d cup his hands between his own and say, ‘Lo, you’re proper gorgeous, y’know?’
‘Oh yes, I look gorgeous covered in muck and guts and scars.’
‘It makes you look dashing!”
Lowell shook his head, failing to see what exactly about his sorry state was ‘dashing.’
‘Dashing, am I?’
And sometimes, if they were alone in the barracks, Henri would take his hands and press soft kisses on the scarred, ruined bits. All over the crumbling valley of his knuckles and his gnarled, cratered palms.
One, two, three, four, up and down and left and right.
And perhaps, if they were both feeling particularly brave, he would take Lowell’s face in his hands next. Lowell would bow his head down like he was in prayer, and Henri would start all over again; pressing fragile, gentle kisses to the gruesome, misshapen scars streaking his face.
They were gentle, adoring things that had Lowell eternally grateful that no one else could see the outrageous blush streaking his face.
Dashing, he would say firmly. And for a moment, Lowell would believe him. Henri always had a way of doing that, of making the most hideous of things bearable. Because when Henri touched him, Lowell forgot the war. He forgot the blood staining his hands and drenching the soil, he became deaf to the sound of cannons exploding and men screaming. The weight of the rifle slung across his back was no longer quite as heavy as it once was. For a moment, Lowell would be absolved.
But Henri was–he was–
Lowell’s ring finger began to shake, shuddering back and forth and back and forth like a broken metronome. It didn’t hurt. It was mostly a nuisance, although it made finding employment difficult. Generally, people wanted someone who could handle objects for more than five minutes at a time without being inclined to drop them. Or someone who didn’t hobble around with a cane like an invalid. By some miracle, however, he’s managed to secure a job at the local library. He liked it quite a bit, too; it was incredibly soothing to peruse the sprawling aisles at his leisure, to carefully scan the barcodes of each book and place them on the appropriate cart for shelving.
Henri would have been ecstatic.
‘Lowell, you’re meant to-to go huddle up in some old library for the rest of your life, not fight in a war! ‘
Henri had been particularly upset at Lowell’s decision to enlist. There had been something akin to devastation in his eyes and it had been both terrible yet breathtaking to witness.
If only he knew, if only Lowell could tell him—
Lowell clenched his jaw.
But still, he liked to think Henri would probably get a kick out of that; he never did shut up about what a square Lowell was, even back in school.
Before the war, before Lowell had the softness of a young, outcast schoolboy, he could be found curled up amongst the shelves of Eton’s library. At eleven years old, he was a lonely, shy little boy. The concept of friendship was entirely alien to him, and frankly, Lowell just couldn’t be bothered to parse out that particular puzzle.
But of course, that was before Henri bulldozed his way into Lowell’s life. As he did with most things, he had stubbornly nosed his way into his life and refused to leave. He remembered the day Henri found him huddled up in one of the aisles of the library, hidden behind a tome larger than his face. He had tripped over his strewn materials, landing face-down over Lowell with a grunt.
‘Watch it!’
‘Me? You’re the one who fell over me!’
‘I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t sprawled out on the floor with that thing.’
‘It’s called reading. I don’t expect you to be familiar with it.’ Lowell’s eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to say that. Where did that come from?
The snooty response had Henri shutting up in seconds. He stared at him for several long moments, during which Lowell became increasingly apprehensive. He really didn’t know where that had come from. He never talked to posh, uptight pricks; he didn’t know him. He knew of Henri, of course. Everyone knew of Henri, the ringleader of mayhem at Eton. The current rumor was that he’d managed to break the Eton record for most detentions in a single term. Of course, he still managed to maintain a perfect sheet of grades. Impossible, yet Henri had done it.
Secretly, Lowell was impressed. Although he’d rather slap himself upside the head than admit it.
He also knew of his social status. And he really, really didn’t need the most popular students of their year on his ass for the rest of his time here.
Lowell had just been working up the willpower to apologize when Henri began snickering.
‘You got me there. Can’t say I’ve picked up a book since I was a kid.’
Lowell snorted, reddening slightly when he grinned in response.
‘What’s your name, anyway?’
‘Lowell.’
‘Well, Lowell. I was about to head to the dining hall. Do you want to come?’
Lowell hesitated, waiting for the punchline. When he found there was none, he agreed.
‘Alright,’ he said with a nervous smile as Henri helped him up. His hand was warm. Lowell met his eyes for the first time, and was immediately taken aback by their startling grey. His pale face, already showing the beginnings of finely-chiseled cheekbones, was awash in the golden light of the library’s lamps.
Lowell felt a strange pinch in his chest. He had chalked it up to nerves.
—-
They were inseparable from there. There was hardly a moment where the two of them weren’t together.
‘Lowell, let’s raid the kitchens! I’m hungry!’
‘Do you want to prep for exams later?’
‘Let’s stay up! It’s the weekend!’
‘We ought to stay in touch over the holidays. Where can I send you letters?’
This was not ordinary. It was an unfamiliar thing: the warmth Henri extended to him so guilelessly. He cradled it with awkward, clumsy hands, unsure of what to do with it.
Oh, he would go on and on if they were here and Lowell would fire right back at him.
‘I always knew you’d end up in a library, Lowell.’
‘So?’
‘Ha! You’re such a dork.’
‘I’d rather be a dork than an idiot.’
He could fill volumes and volumes of the conversations he wanted to have with him, of things he’d like to share, of the jokes he’d like to tell.
Sometimes, he will catch himself talking to him even now. He will have long, meandering conversations about almost anything.
‘There was this little girl at the library. She had a stack of books all the way up to her nose. It was adorable.’
‘This prick cursed me out on the sidewalk because I tripped over my cane. To be honest, I contemplated smacking him upside the head with it.’
‘The house is a mess. Henri, you would hate it. I just can’t be bothered to fix it anymore, if I’m being honest–’
–but then he will remember that Henri is–
Lowell shut his eyes. Blindly, he reached for the glass of rum with his other hand and took several long sips. Yes. That was good. That was very, very good. Albeit, he was never much of a drinker before the war. He enjoyed the occasional drink or two during parties or gatherings, but it never really appealed to him. The taste was quite appalling, if he was being honest. But now, the alcohol dimmed everything else. He could almost, almost think without feeling brutalized.
Lowell was only twenty-six years old. He knew that was quite young, but God, did he feel every one of those years. His back ached constantly and his knees creaked and wobbled (hence the cane) and he was exhausted all the time. Other men his age had an almost despicable youth to them; an indecent sort of vigor for life that had him baffled and envious simultaneously. Did they not know just how hideous the real world was? The despicable things one man could inflict upon another, for countless reasons and for no reason at all? Did they know what one could do in the name of survival? The atrocities they could commit? He has killed people. He has blown bits of bone and muscle and brain matter out of people’s ears, he has slain guts and entrails and skin carelessly and ruthlessly. He’s seen grown men piss and shit themselves in utter terror at the face of death, reduced to screaming, squalling infants.
At the time, it did not register to him. It was done robotically, mechanically and with utter indifference to anything but survival.
But the war has come and gone and it has taken his family with it. Lowell has nothing to do now but think. To reexamine each and every memory with painstaking attention to detail, to examine every possible facet and wonder, why did I do that? Why did I do that? I should have done it differently.
What does he have left? Besides a handful of jagged memories and a drinking problem. He had nothing. Henri was–
Lowell inhaled sharply. He stood abruptly and grabbed the glass with his left hand–(his right hand was shaking too much). The chair skidded to the side as he made his way to his bedroom. It was dimly lit, illuminated only by the light from the street lamps outside.
He set his drink on the bedside table and collapsed into bed. The ceiling seemed to spin above him, swirling in untraceable patterns and colors. Lowell shut his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow beside him. It reeked of sweat and dust, the sweet scent of Henri’ hair long overpowered by Lowell’s own dismal state. It was a stupid, shallow thing to miss, but Lowell did so dearly anyway.
In school, Henri had been incredibly vain. He knew he was a handsome prick and made sure everyone else knew it too.
‘My hair is my best feature, you know.’ Henri and Lowell were lying side by side on the dormitory floor. They were alone. The others had gone down to dinner.
‘Oh, how modest.’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t love it.’
‘It’s alright.’ That was a lie. Lowell always thought he had the nicest hair: soft and jet black and framing his face in gentle waves. “I guess.”
‘Stop fiddling with it, then.’
Guiltily, Lowell let his hand drop from where it had been curling and uncurling a strand of Henri’ hair.
There was a moment of silence. Henri shifted to face him. ‘Do you think I’m handsome?’
Lowell snorted. “Does your ego need stroking today or something?”
“Just answer the question.”
“You know the answer!”
“Say it anyway!”
Lowell turned to face him, sighing. “Christ, Henri. You know everyone thinks you are.”
Henri was quiet. “But do you?”
Lowell stiffened. He could feel his face turning red. “I-I suppose so?”
“‘Suppose so?” Lowell could hear the pout in Henri’ voice.
He closed his eyes as his heart pounded obnoxiously fast. Some days, he swore Henri was going to shave years off his life.
“Lovely,” he said finally, long after the appropriate time for a response.
“Hm?”
“You look,” he said hesitantly. “Lovely.”
And as he watched a bright red blush bloom across Henri’ face, he couldn’t help but feel that those shaved off years might be worth it if he got to see that reaction.
Lowell curled into himself further. He pressed both his hands close to his chest now; the left one had begun shaking slightly.
Even in war, he had been so lovely. The raging bullets and thunderous bombs paled in comparison to Henri. Even slathered in grime and covered with bruises and bleeding cuts,
Henri was beautiful.
Lowell remembered walking in on Henri once after a major raid. The casualties had been massive on both sides, and they had lost more men than Lowell could count.
His eyes were closed and his head was bowed in supplication. He had brought his hands together and knelt on the barrack floor, mouth moving silently with words Lowell could not read. He’d stood awkwardly at the door, not wanting to shatter the moment.
‘You can come in’, Henri had said after a moment. He straightened from his knelt position.
‘Sorry’, Lowell said. He shut the door behind him. ‘I didn’t know you prayed.’
‘I don’t, Henri said. He hesitated. ‘Not regularly. Only for the ones who’ve passed.’
Lowell’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Even the–’
‘Even them.’ Henri’ expression was hollow. ‘I killed them, Lowell. It’s the least I could do.’
Lowell winced. It was a familiar thought– the overwhelming guilt, the terror that you could be capable of such indiscriminate violence. It was pushed away, usually; shelved into neat compartments of his brain that would be examined with tortuous detail once it was all over.
But for now, what could he say to him? He felt that Henri deserved better than empty platitudes and promises of forgiveness.
So, Lowell did the only thing he could think of. He knelt beside Henri and bowed his head and clasped his hands together. Lowell was not religious. He could hardly remember the proper way to start a prayer, let alone the verses themselves. Besides that, he could not bring himself to pray to a deity that permitted such destruction, that oversaw men tearing each other apart with utter indifference.
Even so, he had attended enough vigils during his service that he’d had this particular prayer more or less memorized. He started speaking softly, and after a moment, Henri followed:
‘“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
Amen.
Like the seed buried in the ground,
you have produced the harvest of eternal life for us;
make us always dead to sin and alive to God.
Amen.’”
Afterwards, Henri looked up at him with wet eyes and said, “Thank you, Lowell.” The gratitude on his face had been immense; something Lowell hardly deserved.
It hurt terribly to see how pure Henri could be in the midst of such ugliness.
‘You shouldn’t be here’, Lowell would often say.
‘You are.’
‘That’s different.’
Lowell had enlisted because what else would he have done? There were no other options for a piss poor, working class student with no talent in anything worthwhile. But Henri— Henri needn’t have enlisted. He was wickedly talented, seemingly able to pick up on every subject and skill effortlessly. He could have gone into medicine or carpentry or education.
It killed him to know that Henri did not need to enlist.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s the draft form.’
‘I can see that. And why would you fill it out?’
‘You know.’
And Lowell had been purposely obtuse because it scared him, the enormity of what Henri was doing for him, of what Henri felt for him frightened him terribly. Nevermind that he would do the same, in a heartbeat. For Henri, he would walk into the trenches with a smile on his face. But how could he say that? How, when there was shame entwined so tightly with everything he felt?
‘I don’t, actually.’
The disappointment on his face was enough to have Lowell fumbling for an apology. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t–’
Henri cut him off, ‘It’s alright, Lowell.’ He gave him a tentative smile. ‘Just let me do this, yeah?’
And what could Lowell do but acquiesce? He was always terrible at denying Henri.
Later, intermittently, both in the trenches and out, Lowell would think of that conversation. He would brush it off, think, ‘We’ll discuss it later, later when we have time, not now, not now.’
He never did find the courage to bring up the conversation again.
At that moment, Lowell felt a longing so acute, so sharp, that it brought tears to his eyes. He shut his eyes, and his hands crept up to grasp uselessly at his hair.
Did Henri know? Oh God, he had to have known. Had they gone through half a lifetime circling around one another, ceaselessly and stubbornly waiting for the other to notice? He thought of every half-finished conversation and lingering glance and weighted silence– every wasted opportunity they’d had–and quite suddenly, wanted to scream.
–
It was a blustery, humid evening when it happened. They’d just finished with final exams for the semester, and had decided to laze about on the grounds for the rest of the afternoon. They were splayed out on a warm, secluded patch of grass, and passed a bottle of stolen spirit between the two of them.
‘Fifth year already,’ Henri said after a moment. He took a swallow from the bottle.
‘Unbelievable,’ Lowell sighed. ‘I feel ancient.’
‘What are you going to do over the summer?’
‘Train, probably. I’m going to enlist in a year or two. I ought to be in shape.’
‘Oh, besides that,’ Henri said, waving a hand. ‘Enough about the war. Life doesn’t have to stop, you know.’
Lowell huffed. ‘Fine. I might see a few friends from home.’ Or one in particular. She was soft and pretty and smelled sweet and had a tendency to lean closer to him than she had to when they spoke. Besides, Lowell was almost fifteen now, almost an adult; he felt that he ought to start acting like it.
‘A girl friend?’ Henri asked shrewdly, sounding indecently shocked.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Lowell demanded, feeling rather offended.
‘Nothing,’ Henri said breezily. ‘Just asking.’
‘You think she wouldn’t want to?’ The unspoken implication lingered between them. At fifteen, neither of them had quite grown out of the embarrassment that came with discussing women or sex or anything remotely within that realm.
‘She’d be an idiot not to,’ Henri said immediately. The easy conviction in his voice embarrassed Lowell.
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you?’
There was a moment of silence between them, during which Lowell’s tipsy brain processed what he had just said. His eyes widened. Where the hell had that come from? ‘Oh God, ignore that, I don’t know why I said that. Excuse me–’ Lowell made to get up, insides recoiling with shame.
‘I would,’ Henri said suddenly. Lowell froze. He swung his head towards him. Henri stared resolutely at the sky. ‘Yes, I think I would.’
‘Oh,’ Lowell squeaked. What was he supposed to say to that? ‘Thank you?’ He felt a strange exhilaration in his chest– not quite happiness, but equally as tenacious.
‘Would you?’
Lowell turned to Henri. He cataloged the gentle slope of his forehead and the elegant contours of his cheeks and jaw. He took note of the way his hair seemed to frame his face in soft waves, the way it accentuated the piercing grey of his eyes and he felt with bruising certainty, ‘Yes.’
Air rippled across his face as Henri exhaled sharply. Lowell startled when he realized how close they were now. He could see Henri’ individual eyelashes, could pinpoint the exact place a flush started blooming on his face (his right cheekbone). He could feel his breath washing over his lips in an increasingly frantic rhythm, and Lowell couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he leaned the tiniest bit closer.
He was about to do so when suddenly, a loud peal of laughter echoed from further down the field. They sprung apart. Lowell fumbled to his feet, muttering about heading in early and promptly made his escape.
Later, Lowell would blame it on post-exam euphoria or adrenaline or any other conceivable excuse. For now, he found that he could barely look at Henri without feeling a fierce, consuming want.
–
Seventh year. Lowell was eighteen now. He would enlist in a few months. The knowledge weighed on him heavily, left him warring with strange bouts of anticipation and sadness. At least he’d finally be doing something: the thought of sitting idle while the world remained so precarious had him very restless.
But war, he knew, was horrific. The last war, the Great War, had devastated the world. He had no notions of seeking glory or heroism; Lowell just wanted a quiet life.
Nevertheless, the papers had been signed and the confirmation had been received; there was nothing to do now but wait. It did not escape him that the possibility of a ‘quiet life’ diminished with each passing day, but, well– Lowell tried not to dwell on things he could not change.
One night, Henri found him pacing the hallways in a fit of nervous energy. He’d led him back to the dorm and tucked him in his bed. Henri curled in beside him and began combing through his hair with gentle fingers.
Lowell sighed contentedly. Yes, that felt very nice.
‘I’m scared’, he slurred in exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t want to die, Henri.’
‘You’re not going to die’, he said ferociously. ‘Never say that.’
‘I probably am. It’s alright though, if it means you’re safe.’
‘Lowell,’ Henri said, voice breaking.
‘Don’t forget about me’, he muttered, drowsily rubbing his face against the pillow. ‘That would be worse.’ Hazily, he was aware of the world becoming quieter. Softer. He was almost asleep.
‘Never. I’ll–’ Lowell didn’t know what he said. He fell asleep before he could.
Henri enlisted a few days later.
–
One year into the war.
Henri was tired. Lowell could tell. His eyes were ringed with bags so dark, they were almost indiscernible from the rest of the bruises covering his body. He hardly slept at night; Lowell often heard his bunkmates complaining about Henri screaming himself awake.
Lowell hated it. He hated that he was the cause of it.
So he did what he could. He had Henri sleep in his private quarters when he could (perks of captaincy), and hushed him to sleep again and again.
It helped some. He would sleep better and smile a little more, but still Lowell knew that something had broken in Henri.
One night, Lowell woke to Henri moving restlessly in bed and whimpering quietly.
Quietly, Lowell shook him awake. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Sorry, it hurts,’ he gestured to his back. Henri had been flung violently backwards in the rebound of an explosive. Nothing was broken, but the dark bruising was evident even in the night.
Lowell shifted so he sat upright. ‘Turn over,’ he said, straightening his legs out so Henri could lie across his lap.
Slowly, Henri obliged. He seemed to be past the point of objections. After a moment, he began to shake with quiet sobs.
‘Henri,’ Lowell said, heartbreak evident in his tone. He began running his fingers through Henri’ hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he choked. ‘Ignore it.’
‘What can I do? How can I help?’
‘You can’t.’
But Lowell couldn’t accept that. So, he kept talking. He babbled on about inane things, like the shitty food and blistering weather, about the gossip he’d picked up from their comrades. Somehow, he found himself talking about life after the war. He rambled on and on about what they might do, the places they might visit. He wound up on a tangent about where they might live, where they’d buy a house and what color they’d paint the walls and other idle fantasies.
Henri was silent through it all. Until he said, ‘I want that.’
Lowell wanted to say that he did too. Of course he did, more than anything. But even now, with nothing left to lose, he found that he couldn’t.
Instead, he took Henri’ hand and pressed a kiss to the bruised knuckles. He hoped that it was enough of an answer.
In the end, it was all quite slow. The ringing in his ears had drowned out the screaming, the grunting, the thud of metal piercing skin. It seemed cruel to have what were simply the worst moments of his life drawn out so long, stretched from end to end so that they spanned eternity. An eternity, is what it had felt like, when he watched the gleaming bullets pierce Henri in the chest. It felt like eons had passed when the blood spurted out, thick and red and gluttonous and Henri had fallen to the ground with an awful thud.
Another eternity, when the raid had ended and Lowell had fallen back to get Henri (the body). He’d seen the holes ripped through his body, felt the horrible limpness of his arms and legs. His eyes had glazed over, dulled to a faint, slate grey.
And another and another and another when they had to ship Henri back home, when Lowell had to sign the paperwork, when he had to go back to his quarters alone that night, because Lowell was still here and Henri wasn’t.
The sickening clarity of each and every memory was tortuous. He wished he could be rid of them all, even the ones from before the war. He wanted none of it, never again
It was an indescribable hurt that Lowell wouldn’t wish upon anyone. He felt it licking him up from the insides, constantly, ceaselessly. The constant replaying of memories, the wondering what might have happened if Henri hadn’t been on that raid, if he hadn’t enlisted, if they’d never met at all.
Sometimes, he will think that he’d rather have never met Henri at all if it meant keeping him safe. Alive.
But Henri was gone (dead, he was dead) and Lowell was alone.
So he reached for the glass on the table and drank deeply– until his breaths had evened out and his eyes were no longer wet.
His hands continued to tremble.
Anusree Iyer is an ITI major in the class of 2026. She is from Sayreville, NJ.