Black and grey realism tattoo of a figure in a gas mask with a ribbed hose and helmets on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Gas mask soldier on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A large tattoo wraps around the forearm, showing a figure wearing a gas mask with two round eyepieces and a ribbed breathing hose. Below it, helmets sit on thin posts among smoky, shadowed ground. The shading is soft and detailed, moving from deep blacks to light greys, and the composition is vertical, following the shape of the arm. The photo is taken against a crumpled plastic wrap background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The masks came in with the overcoats, which Mr Pryce said was a rum habit for a dance hall. Every lad from the depot carried his respirator in a canvas satchel across his chest, and inside it, folded like a sleeping animal, was the rubber hood that had kept him breathing in France. We gave out brass tickets for them, numbered on one side and stamped with the hall's name on the other, and by eight o'clock the rail behind the cloakroom was a row of dark shapes with round glass eyes staring at the ceiling.

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Nobody danced in a mask, not after the first winter. But the men took them down to the corner by the fire, and when the band struck up a waltz you could see them glancing at the hooks as if the masks were partners they had left behind. Private Owen Dunmore came every Saturday in the same grey greatcoat, always asking for ticket forty-one. He held my hand as though it might be gassed, and he never once let his mask out of his sight, not even to fetch me a lemonade.

On the night the armistice was announced, the street roared and the band played so fast nobody could keep time. Owen came to the rail at midnight, pressed his ticket flat on the counter and said, "Keep it, Ada. I'll have no further use for breathing." I asked him what he meant. He only laughed and walked out into the crowd without his coat. I still have forty-one in my apron pocket, its brass worn warm from my hand. Tickets are for claiming things back, and nobody ever came for that one.

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