The War to End All Wars

On Va Relever
Ernest Gabard
Source

The column stopped, again. As if to make the men even more miserable, the rain came down even harder.

"If we'd just kept going for another few minutes we could have been under those trees ahead," one of the men muttered under his breath.

He was surprised when his sergeant came up behind him and said, "And if you keep complaining one of the officers might decide you need a longer stretch in the trenches. Don't think you have to go back with the rest of the company when we're relieved in a week."

"Yes, Sergeant," he actually sounded contrite, which surprised his messmates.

"You do know, don't you Louis, that in this sector of the front, it starts raining in September and doesn't stop until mid-November?"

"And then what, Sergeant?"

"It starts snowing."

"How can you tell if it's summer, Sergeant?" the man next to Louis asked.

The sergeant shook his head, he should have known that the company comedian would have something to say, "No, how does one tell?"

"The rain is warm."

Which gave the men a chuckle, it was an old joke, but a favorite.

From the front of the column, commands were given, and the sodden group of men stumbled forward into the wet and the darkness. Battalion wanted them on the line by sunrise as the enemy usually took notice of fresh units coming up and liked to "welcome" them with a barrage.

At the rate they were going, the sergeant thought they'd be lucky to get there by noon, let alone before sunrise.

It was a war, some called it "The War to End All Wars," which everyone involved prayed was true, but which most assumed was just another piece of journalistic nonsense. One wag had said that all wars would end when there was no one left to fight them, and only then.

It was mid-November, the year unimportant, let us say sometime between 1914 and 1917, as by mid-November of 1918 the guns would have fallen silent. So for the characters in our story, the war has at least a year to run, perhaps more, who can say?

U.S. World War I veteran Joseph Ambrose (1896–1988) attends the dedication parade for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 1982, wearing his original Brodie helmet and doughboy uniform and holding the flag that covered the casket of his son, Clement, who was killed in the Korean War.
(Text Source, Photo: National Archives)

A year after I was born, Armistice Day became Veterans Day. Whereas I observe the day as my fellow veterans do, I tend to still think of it as Armistice Day, or Remembrance Day as many Commonwealth nations call it.

Spring is far too nice to remember the dead, as we do on Memorial Day. The earth is coming back to life, the weather is often beautiful as we're on the cusp of summer up here in New England.

But November is a far grimmer prospect, the leaves are falling, or have fallen, the earth is preparing to sleep for the long winter. The weather is often overcast and gloomy, if it's not raining, it's snowing (looking at you Chicago).

So this day is, to me, a time to remember the dead. It might be because one of my beloved cats, Tiger, died on this day in 1998. It was my children's first experience of death and it is not a fond memory at all.

That's just me, I suppose.

But today begins my tale of the Great War, the War to End All Wars, or World War One, as some call it. (Technically it wasn't the first of the global conflicts, some hold that the Seven Years War was the first of those, or World War Zero as I've seen it referred to lately.)

I'm not sure if I'll identify the participants right away, let you guess for a while which army is which. After all, "Louis" is a fairly common name in western Europe. I think this one will be dark, moments of light, but mostly dark.

It was a grim age.

Memento Mori