A Change

A French Trench in the Village of Souchez, Artois, France, 18 December 1915
Francois Flameng
Source

Louis was with a detail of men sent back to the village, it was his squad's turn to go back and collect the platoon's rations. There would be potatoes, the inevitable rice, some form of meat (beef, mutton, or pork), and perhaps some vegetables like carrots or, better yet, onions. If they were fortunate, there would be fresh bread, if not, then hardtack biscuits would be issued.

Once they brought all that back, the men would prepare their soup, more like a stew if they had the right ingredients. Yesterday's soup had been weak indeed, the last of the vegetables had been tossed in, mostly carrots, some rice, and then the men had crumbled their hardtack in as well to thicken the broth. Today, Louis hoped, that would be different.

"Fattening us up they are," the Baron had grumbled.

"We need more meat on our bones now that winter seems to have set in, or do you have the pulse of the general staff?" the sergeant scoffed at the Baron.

"I'm just saying, those fellows on the other side of no-man's-land have been rather quiet since they attacked the other day, and that was half-hearted at best," the Baron shook his head, the sergeant always doubted his instincts.

"I tell you, Sergeant, do you think the brass didn't notice that the attack was weak and disorganized? They'll be putting on their thinking caps and coming to the conclusion that now would be a good time to attack them. Tit for tat, you know? One doesn't need to be Jomini to figure that out."

Later, as they were returning to their dugout, Louis had asked the Baron who Jomini was.

"Ah, a staff officer and he was also a writer on military strategy, a Swiss fellow as I recall. Served during Napoléon's time, first with the Emperor then later with the Russians."

"So he was a traitor?"

"Yes and no, in the old days loyalties could shift depending on one's nationality. Jomini came from an old Swiss family. Even Marshal Bernadotte, a Frenchman, once he became king of Sweden, turned his coat and fought against Napoléon. Now he was a traitor, not a very good general from what I understand."

"So why did Napoléon make him a general?" Louis asked, puzzled.

"To satisfy the old republicans, the sans culottes¹. Apparently when Bernadotte died and they were preparing the body for burial the Swedes were rather distraught at his 'Death to Kings' tattoo." The Baron chuckled as he said that.

"Really?" Louis asked as he wondered what having no pants had to do with anything.

"I don't know about the tattoo, but it's a good story and old Bernadotte didn't care much for old King Louis."

"How do you know so much?"

"Well, I went to school, didn't you?"

"The village school taught me to read and write, do some arithmetic, and say my prayers, that's about it."

"Ah, did the nuns teach you?"

Louis got a dark look on his face, then nodded, "I didn't like them, still don't."

"Ah, a rebel then, like me I suppose."

"Are you really a rebel, Baron?"

"Well, the sergeant thinks so, the lieutenant likes me, of that I'm sure."

One of the squad came in to the dugout, "Come on down to 1st Squad's dugout, soup's on!"

That night Louis stayed out on the firing step well past sundown. The fresh, cold air seemed to clear his head, he could look out at the snow-covered no-man's-land and almost imagine he was back home. Then he heard something out there, a slight "clink," the sound of metal on metal.

He crouched a bit lower and looked out over the snow, there was a bit of a moon tonight so he could see better than when it was overcast. With the snow on the ground everything seemed very clear. But there were shadows as the moon passed behind the clouds and when that happened, he heard something again.

He reached for the flare gun, and as he did he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his arm. Then the Baron's voice hissed in his ear, "Not yet lad, your instincts are good, but it might be one of our patrols returning and they're a little off course. Wait a moment."

Then they both heard another "clink" and the sound of a voice speaking low but clearly in a foreign language.

"Fire the flare," the Baron told him.

Louis fumbled with it at first, then got it ready and lifted the gun to the sky, squeezing the trigger as he did so. The brightness blinded him momentarily, by the time he recovered his vision, firing had broken out up and down the line.

In the light of the flare as it fell to earth, swinging from its parachute, the squad saw men in no-man's-land, and from the shape of their helmets, the Baron knew they were the enemy so he had given the order to fire himself as he fired simultaneously with his bellowed command.

Louis shook his head, looking out into the returned darkness, he looked sheepishly at the Baron. "What happened?"

"Enemy patrol, probably trying to snatch one of us as a prisoner. Nice job spotting them, Louis, we'll make a soldier of you yet."

"Did we get all of them?"

"Who knows? The survivors, if there were any, are probably back in their own lines now, changing their underwear no doubt. You gave them a scare they won't forget."

Then they heard the lieutenant's voice, "Who fired that flare?"

Louis started to answer when the Baron said, "It was Louis, he heard something in no-man's-land, reached for the pistol, but I made him wait until we were sure. Then I let him shoot the flare."

The lieutenant gave the Baron a sideways glance, then clapped Louis on the shoulder, "Nicely done, soldier. Good work. Baron, come with me, please."

The Baron returned to find Louis still on the firing step, "You should get some sleep, lad. The sun will be up before you know it."

Louis nodded, but asked, "What did the lieutenant want?"

The Baron sighed, "We didn't get off scot-free during that ruckus. Someone out there did get a shot off, which hit our sergeant."

"Is he okay?"

"No, he's not. The bullet hit him square in the forehead, the idiot wasn't wearing his helmet, otherwise he might have had a chance."

"I heard that bullets will go right through a helmet." Louis said.

"Usually, but sometimes the steel will deflect the bullet enough so that you just get a bad headache. But if you're not wearing one at all, well, a wool cap certainly won't stop a bullet."

"My God ..." Louis groaned, "will we get a new sergeant?"

"We already have one, lad."

"We do?"

"Yes, you're looking at him."

Louis thrust his hand out, "Congratulations, Baron, you ..."

"Don't do that. I didn't want it, the lieutenant insisted."

"You didn't want it?" Louis was puzzled.

"No, now instead of just you, I'm responsible for the whole damned squad. It's a big job, I didn't want it. Now go to bed, this time it's an order."

Louis did as he was told, but he didn't hide his grin as he entered the dugout. He felt sure that the Baron would do a good job. Then he realized, here he was celebrating, completely forgetting that a good man had died to give the Baron the job.

Try as he might, Louis again had trouble going to sleep.

He had a thought before drifting off, "What could possibly be worse than war?"

¹ The sans culottes were members of the lower classes who were fiercely opposed to the aristocracy. Their name stems from the fact that they wore long trousers, pantalons, as opposed to the culottes (silk knee breeches) of the aristocracy.