Something Wicked This Way Comes* ...

(Source)

The rumor mill was working overtime. Caporal Guillaume Micheaux was hearing, from various sources, that the Allied effort in Norway was turning into a fiasco. Once again the Germans seemed to be having their way. Every man knew that as the weather got better, the hated Boche would be turning towards France.

"I tell you Caporal, it will be a replay of 1918." Sergent-Chef¹ Jean-François Granet was an old hand, he had been drafted at the age of eighteen during the Great War. He had survived Verdun and the Mutinies of 1917, he was a product of the trenches. Many of the men regarded him as an expert on warfare. He certainly had seen more than his share.

"But Chef, the tanks we have these days are far more powerful, you saw what the Germans did in Poland," Micheaux argued. "Tanks make everything different."

"How so? The Poles had very few tanks and they were generally inferior to what the Boche had, and they still took serious casualties. I have heard that the Boche lost nearly 300 tanks during that campaign, against cavalry for God's sake! They will bleed to death as they did in the Great War." Granet insisted.

"Is it true Chef, that our tanks are bigger, and that we have more of them?" Soldat Pierre-Louis Battier chimed in, he was from Paris and considered himself to be very well informed. The other soldiers in his squad thought he was a bit of a boot licker.

Warming to his topic, Granet turned to the young Parisian and said, "Yes indeed, our tank force is very large and very well led."

Micheaux said nothing as he tried to reconcile the sergeant's insistence that this war would be a repeat of the last war, yet hint that it would not be because of the tank. He continued to listen as Granet described the French Army driving into Belgium and stopping the Germans at the line of the Dyle River. Where they would dig in and let the Boche throw themselves against the French defenses.

"What about their air force, Chef, is it bigger than ours? They have a lot of planes don't they?" Raoul Delaplace, a Soldat de première classe² asked.

"Yes, they have many, more than our own air force, but they lost many of those planes in Poland as well. Our pilots, moreover, are far better than theirs. We have little to worry about mes enfants³, if you keep your heads down and listen to your officers, this war will end before you know it." Granet lit his pipe, as if to discourage further discussion.

Micheaux did not think things would be as simple as the Chef thought.

Connor McGuire shook his head, "Stone the bloody crows, who on God's green earth made you a bloody lance corporal?"

Billy Wallace looked down at the single stripe which now adorned his sleeve, grinned a bit sheepishly then looked up. "You mind your bloody Ps and Qs around your betters, Private McGuire."

The rest of the squad broke out laughing when Wallace said that. McGuire nodded slowly,  stood up and came to attention, then said, "Fair enough Squire, what are yer orders? SIR!"

"Stuff all of you, it's more bloody pay, that's what it is!" Billy was a little put out over the attention he was receiving.

Sgt. Greaves walked into barracks and stifled a laugh at the situation before saying, "I'm sure Adolf has cancelled his plans and will be suing for peace, now that Hell has frozen over and all."

"You too Sar'nt? Is there no bloody justice in this bloody army? Man tries to improve himself and all he gets is shite from his mates. Too bloody awful, that's what it is." Billy tried to sound serious but he was beginning to see the humor in his new situation. After all, before the regiment had come over to France, he already had a reputation as one of the worst soldiers in the battalion. He had to wonder what had changed.

"All right, that's enough lads, Wallace earned that stripe. You've all seen his improvement as a soldier, bloody amazes me as well, but credit where credit is due." Holding his hand out, Sgt. Greaves said, "Congratulations Lance Corporal Wallace, now I need you to take three of the lads over and muck out the officers' stable. Just because you get promoted doesn't mean that the shit no longer needs to be shoveled."

"Right then!" Billy nodded as he turned to his mates, "Who wants to volunteer?"

No one was laughing now.

It was the 9th of May, in every German headquarters along the borders between Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxemburg, and France, at 2100 hours,  the codeword "Danzig" had been received. After many fits and starts since mid-October of 1939, the attack in the West was finally on.

Fahnenjunker-Unteroffizier Jürgen von Lüttwitz had just checked in to his new unit barely a fortnight ago and wasn't really ready for this. But as his old sergeant, Hartmann had often said, "When is anyone really ready to go into battle, Junge?"

Nevertheless, they would move out the very next day.

Jürgen looked at his squad of not-quite-fit soldiers. Men in their late-20s and early-30s, would they be ready? Would he be able to keep all of them alive? He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what war was like, did these men?

Tomorrow they would learn, or they would die.

* With apologies to Ray Bradbury.

¹ Chief sergeant, rank typically held by a platoon sergeant. (French)

² Private first class (French)

³ My children (French)