The Battle of the Bees

Inspired by true events.

The jungle smells like a bad decision. Not just any bad decision—this is a special kind of bad, the kind that involves tequila, questionable friends, and waking up in an unfamiliar city with a goat. There’s mud, there’s rot, and then there’s whatever this is—a sour, cloying stench that clings to your lungs like a debt collector with no sense of boundaries. Breathing through my nose is out of the question, and trying my mouth isn’t much better. The air tastes like metal and mildew had a baby and left it to ferment.

Ahead of me, Singh stumbles, catching himself on a branch that looks as dead as my dignity. His turban is soaked through, dripping sweat in rhythmic little plops. It’s hard to take him seriously when he turns to mutter something in Punjabi that I don’t understand, though the tone makes it clear: Singh is not having a good time. Still though, I admonish him. “Speak Hindi,” I tell him. You know I don’t speak Punjabi.”

“And you can both bloody well speak English!” shouts the Captain.

We both wheel around, surprised by his sudden presence.

“Keep moving!” Captain Barclay snaps, his voice sharp enough to slice through the jungle haze. He’s waving his pistol around like it’s a magical artifact that can scare off the mosquitoes, the heat, and probably our collective misery. Spoiler: it’s not working. The man marches ahead of us like he’s leading a parade on a crisp London morning, completely unbothered by the fact that every step feels like wading through oatmeal.

Barclay is the kind of man who makes you question reality. Does he even sweat? Does he know what sweat is? I’ve seen marble statues with more human frailty. Meanwhile, I’m behind him, dripping like a leaky faucet and wondering if the jungle will kill me before the Germans even get a chance.

This is my first real battle. Back in training, they had us running drills in dusty fields where the only enemy was boredom and maybe a stray cow. Now, my rifle feels heavier with every step, and my heart is pounding out a rhythm that might as well be called “The March of the Terrified Idiot.” Excitement? Sure. Terror? Absolutely. Regret? Let’s just say it’s climbing the charts.

Singh shoots me a look, his face unreadable except for the universal language of “Why are we doing this?” He’s been in skirmishes before—small ones, messy ones, the kind where angry villagers throw rocks and rusty guns at tax collectors. This is different. This is organized chaos waiting to happen, and we’re the ones wearing the wrong color uniforms.

“Arjun,” he whispers, his voice low but urgent. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” I echo, because somehow, I’m the guy he’s asking. “Uh… not dying?”

It’s not reassuring, but it’s honest. The officers say the Germans are outnumbered here, but something about the jungle feels… off. It’s too quiet, like the whole world is holding its breath. Nature doesn’t shut up like this unless it knows something you don’t.

And then, as if on cue, the silence is shattered by a gunshot—a sharp crack that slices through the stillness. Everyone freezes. Rifles snap to shoulders. Heads swivel. Barclay barks out an order to hold position, and I feel a twinge of admiration because the man sounds calm as a cucumber. Granted, it’s a cucumber with a gun, but still.

Then the humming starts.

At first, it’s subtle—a low, vibrating noise that could be anything. Wind. Insects. My imagination running wild. But it grows, swelling into a sound that fills the air, a pulsing thrum that makes my chest vibrate. Singh stiffens beside me, his hand gripping his rifle so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“What is that?” he hisses.

I don’t answer, because I’m too busy scanning the treetops for snipers or… something. Anything. And then I see it: a dark, shifting mass rising from the jungle floor. It’s not smoke. It’s not fog. It’s alive.

The bees come at us like a living wave, a swirling, stinging nightmare with wings. The first sting lands on my neck, sharp and hot, like someone jabbing me with a red-hot needle. Before I can react, there’s another. And another. My arms, my face, my hands—every exposed inch of skin feels like it’s under attack.

“Bees!” someone yells, as if we hadn’t noticed. The buzzing is so loud it drowns out everything else—the gunfire, the shouting, even my own thoughts. Around me, men are flailing, swatting, and running in every direction. Rifles are abandoned. Discipline dissolves into chaos.

Singh is beside me, his turban askew and his eyes wide with panic. “Arjun! What do we do?”

“Run!” I shout, slapping at my neck like a madman. “Run and pray they don’t follow!”

The Germans, because they’re opportunistic bastards, choose this exact moment to open fire. Bullets crack through the air, and men drop like overripe fruit, but honestly? The bees are worse. You can dodge a bullet. You can’t dodge a swarm.

I trip over a root and hit the ground hard, my rifle skittering out of reach. Bees crawl into my sleeves, my collar, my boots. Their stingers drive into my skin, and every jab feels like a tiny explosion. My vision blurs with sweat and tears. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Fall back!” Barclay’s voice cuts through the chaos, but it’s no use. There’s no falling back—only falling apart. Men scream, clutch at their faces, collapse in the mud. The jungle becomes a madhouse of buzzing, gunfire, and pain.

Somehow, I make it to the beach. My legs are trembling, my skin is on fire, and my face is so swollen I can barely see. Singh collapses beside me, gasping like he’s just run a marathon uphill.

“Bees,” he wheezes. “We lost… to bees.”

I laugh, or maybe I cry—it’s hard to tell. Around us, survivors stagger out of the jungle, their uniforms shredded, their faces a patchwork of stings and disbelief. Barclay is nowhere to be seen, though I’m sure he’s fine. Men like him don’t die in jungles. They die in their beds at a ripe old age, surrounded by medals and an air of smug satisfaction.

Hours later, as the adrenaline wears off, I find myself walking along the shoreline, counting the dead. Some of them I knew. Ate with. Laughed with. Now their faces are swollen, their bodies stiff, their lives reduced to cautionary tales.

Singh sits beside me, staring at the horizon. His face is pale, his eyes distant. “Do you think anyone will believe this?”

“Not a chance,” I say, and I mean it. Who’s going to buy a story about an elite British force defeated by a swarm of bees? It’s the kind of thing you take to your grave—or maybe to the pub after a few pints.

We sit there in silence, the waves washing over the sand. But in the back of my mind, I can still hear the buzzing. I think I’ll hear it forever.