The Long and (Not So) Winding Road¹

OAFS Photo

So Friday we returned from not so sunny Maryland. The photo above was taken from Chez La Nuke et Tuttle's dining room Friday morn, approximately 0800 local. The forecast called for an accumulation of up to an inch.

Schools were delayed for two hours, plows were deployed in force, salt/sand trucks were everywhere, we followed two of them over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.

Up to an inch ...

Heaven Forfend!

Mind you, I like preparedness as much as the next guy but the Marylanders seemed to go overboard with it. Still and all, better than my home town up in Vermont did last Thanksgiving. Six to eight inches of snow fell Thanksgiving Eve into the morning of Turkey Day itself. Nary a plow was to be seen. Slid down the road from our hotel. When we hit the state owned highways, the roads were actually plowed.

So yes, kudos Maryland, you should bring the town council from my hometown down to the shores of the Chesapeake and show 'em how it's done.

The snow never amounted to much, a picture Tuttle sent us of our youngest grandson in the snow showed about an inch, no more, maybe a tad less.

But boy howdy was it cold down there! Average temp was about 30-ish during the day, though on one day it actually soared to the 60s! Frolicked outside we did. But mostly high 20s to low 30s at night and maybe high 30s during the day.

So of course, Little Rhody is supposed to be "Arctic cold" this weekend.

Of course, the folks who advertise that don't really know what that means. Not a bloody clue. When I was younger (during the last Ice Age) we saw temps drop to minus 40 (which is the same Fahrenheit and Celsius, so don't harass me with your French Revolutionary ideas and all that metric stuff). Now that was Arctic cold.

Anything above zero ain't Arctic, ain't even close.

And I'll leave you with that. My butt is sore from a long day in the saddle. We'll pick up the WWI story later. No, really, I promise.

¹ Which was the first Beatle's album that I didn't like, not at all. Particularly that song. Left a mark that one did!

Night Raid

Der Angriff
Otto Mack
Source

One of the younger men had giggled at the sight of the three men draped in light-colored bed sheets with a faded floral pattern. One of the NCOs told the man to shut his trap.

"It's a good idea, yes, the sheets look odd but out there," he gestured towards no-man's-land, "they'll help them blend in with all the snow. It'll be dark and no one's going to see the damned flowers on the sheets."

Wolfgang nodded and added, "Besides which, it's all we've got."

Wolfgang had been sure that the lieutenant in 1st Platoon had had plain white sheets on his bunk, but to be honest he'd only glimpsed them in the dim lighting in the dugout. But these would do fine, they were white enough for their purposes.

The sergeant had told them again that they were after a single prisoner, an officer if possible, failing that an NCO. "What we don't want is some scared conscript who doesn't even know where he's posted. A more senior man will know patrol schedules, guard positions, machine gun positions, and the like. So bring me someone useful, otherwise this trip will be a waste of time."

Anton was getting sleepy, to keep from nodding off, he moved up and down the trench line, taking deep breaths to try and wake himself up. All he really did was nearly freeze his lungs, the air was incredibly cold that night.

He had to admit though, there was a fierce beauty to the night. The clouds had cleared, there was no moon but the stars shown brightly. The horror of no-man's-land was almost beautiful under the blanket of new fallen snow. He paused and looked into the wasteland, had he just seen something out there?

Wolfgang grimaced as the man in the trench ahead stopped and looked in their direction. He hoped that Hans and Johannes were smart enough to hold position until the man moved on. He couldn't imagine what might have sparked the Frenchman's interest, he could barely see Johannes not three meters in front of him.

Then he saw it, out ahead of Johannes, Hans was on point, he saw a small cloud seem to come out of the ground then waft away on the slight breeze. Damn it, their breathing might give them away.

Then he heard the sentry calling out to someone in French, he didn't speak the language but recognized its tone. Now what?

Louis pulled his greatcoat closer around his body, even with the small stove in the dugout, it was a bitter cold night. He stepped out into the trench and didn't see Anton immediately, ah, there he was, further down. He stepped towards the man, as he did, he saw a shadow slide over the lip of the trench and pull Anton close.

As he hurried forward, he realized that Anton was being attacked by a man wearing some sort of pale cloth over his uniform.

Anton gasped as he struggled with the man behind him, he had a firm armlock around Anton's mouth and neck and then it hit him. It was a German and the man was trying to stab him! He had seen the flash of the knife blade in the dim light. He dropped his rifle as he tried to pry the man's grip from his throat.

Anton felt something press into his lower back, he felt pressure and he nearly panicked as he could visualize a knife piercing his flesh. Then the German swore softly, Anton marveled for a brief second at how bad the man's breath smelled, and the pressure around his neck eased, then fell away.

Anton turned and saw Louis, his bayonet glistening in the dim light, gesturing at Anton to be very quiet.

Wolfgang wondered what was happening up ahead. He'd seen Hans attack the man in the trench, then they had fallen out of view, but he'd heard nothing. He was about to press Johannes into following Hans into the enemy trench when he heard a brief cry from up ahead. Then nothing. What was going on?

Louis had a grenade in his hand, Anton understood now. He watched as Louis removed the protective cap from the fuse, smacked it against the butt of his rifle, then tossed it into no-man's-land. He tossed it in the direction from which the dead German had come, which was clearly indicated by the marks in the snow where the man had crawled up.

Rather than the five seconds expected for the grenade to explode, the device went off while still in the air. Fortunately the lip of the trench protected the two Frenchmen. It was another story altogether for the two Germans waiting for their dead comrade.

Wolfgang thought he saw something in the air, so he burrowed into the frozen earth as best he could, to no avail. The French grenade exploded in the air, almost directly above Johannes. Wolfgang felt a number of stinging blows across the back of his head and shoulders. Reaching for the back of his neck, it felt wet. He was afraid to look at his hand.

He crawled forward to where Johannes lay. He tugged on the man's leg, nothing. As he was trying to determine whether Johannes was dead or alive, it struck him, what if the Frenchies tossed another grenade his way?

Louis gestured at Anton, telling him to wait. Taking his cue from Louis, Anton had pulled out a grenade and lifted an eyebrow at his comrade, should he toss one out there as well?

After a moment, Louis heard something out there, something scrambling across the ground, he nodded at Anton.

Wolfgang was desperately trying to get to the cover of a nearby shell hole. He was sure that Johannes was dead, at best unconscious and soon to be dead. There had been a lot of blood on his comrade's back, it seemed he'd taken the full force of the French grenade.

He was just lifting himself over the lip of the shell hole when an explosion punched him in the back, hurling him into the cover of the frozen hole. But he'd been hit again, his legs felt as if they were on fire. He patted himself down, yes, there, his left leg was very wet, he realized that if he didn't tie his leg off, he'd bleed to death within minutes, if not seconds.

As he stripped his belt off and tried to tie off the leg, he realized, there was no way he could move with the wounds he had. He had a choice, surrender to the French, or die out here in no-man's-land.

Louis listened carefully, it was now quiet out there. He wondered if there were any more of the Boche out there, he also wondered if he and Louis should go check. As he was having that internal debate, the Baron showed up.

"What's with all the noisemakers?" he hissed at Louis.

Louis gestured at the dead German lying on his belly on the bottom of the trench, "We had visitors."

The Baron nodded, then whispered, "Good work, more out there?"

"We think so, I heard something after the first grenade went off, so I had Anton toss another one out, since then ..."

The Baron gestured for silence, he had heard something.

Then Louis heard it as well, a faint voice, calling something which sounded like "hilfe."

The Baron nodded, "That's the Boche word for 'help,' sounds like you hurt one bad enough that he can't go home on his own."

"Should we send up a flare?" Anton asked.

"Dear Lord, no. That'll wake up the machine gunners on both sides, probably wake up the gunners as well. Let's keep this little affair local, shall we?"

"So what do we do?" Anton asked.

"You wait here. Louis, with me."

As Anton watched, Louis and the Baron slipped over the lip of the trench and headed into no-man's-land.

Wolfgang waited before calling out again. The bleeding had stopped, maybe he hadn't clipped an artery or maybe he'd gotten lucky with the makeshift torniquet in the dark. But his leg felt numb from the thigh down. He'd tried to shift his position but the immediate onset of intense pain stopped him.

He didn't want to die. Though he knew a few French words, most of them useful for getting a drink or a bed companion but little else. He couldn't remember the French word for help, so he called out in German. He was surprised at how weak his voice was.

He heard movement in the dark, he thought momentarily of his knife and his pistol, thought better of it and tossed both away from him. No point in getting himself killed while trying to surrender. He had no pretentions of "taking one with him" should he die out here.

"This one is dead," the Baron announced when they'd followed the tracks back to the second dead German. Going back further, the Baron saw darkness on the snow amidst the tracks. A darkness which led off along with more tracks.

"Looks like another one was hit, he crawled off that way. Take your rifle off safe. If anything moves and it ain't me, kill it." as the Baron whispered those instructions he moved off, following the tracks in the snow.

In the darkness, a figure loomed overhead, Wolfgang managed to get the words, "bitte, nicht schiessen" out of his mouth before the figure had stepped on him. The figure jumped back abruptly. Wolfgang heard a hissed, "Merde!" then waited to be killed or captured. In his pain, he didn't care which at this point.

The captain was ecstatic when the Baron reported that they'd taken a prisoner and killed two infiltrators.

"Probably on a body snatch," the sergeant major had opined.

The Baron agreed, "Knives, no firearms, though the guy we captured had nothing on him. And they were wearing bed sheets over their uniforms."

"Bed sheets?" the captain had scoffed.

"Yes Sir, pretty clever actually, they were nearly white sheets and I almost stepped on the Boche we nabbed, couldn't see him at first with that white sheet he was wearing."

As the men talked in the captain's dugout, a runner came in. The captain looked up, took the proffered dispatch and told the man to wait in case he wanted to respond.

He read the message then nodded at the runner, "I have no response, thank you."

"What is it, Sir?" the sergeant major asked.

"Well, the fellow these boys captured was quite a trove of information. The Boche are planning an attack as soon as the weather improves, the fellow was indeed on raid to snatch a prisoner."

"How is he?" the Baron asked.

"How is who?" the captain asked with a puzzled look.

"The guy we captured, the German." the Baron said.

"Ah, I fear he was handled a bit roughly during his interrogation."

"He's ... dead?"

"Yes, 'fraid so. The doctor tried to keep him alive but apparently something in his leg wasn't quite right and no one noticed. He bled out, right there at headquarters."

"Was there anything else, Sir?" the Baron was seeking dismissal, the captain's attitude disturbed him.

"Yes, Sergeant, that will be all. Again, good work."

The Baron left without another word.

"Why is he worried about some Boche prisoner?" the sergeant major asked.

"Ah, who knows? These front line types can be sentimental. Shared burdens and all that,  even with the enemy, they never see the big picture. Not like us sergeant major, not like us."

"Another cognac, Sir?"

"Certainly, and why not? There's a good lad."

Winter on the Line

Le Jus
Ernest Gabard
Source

Louis stifled the urge to laugh when the man ahead of him slipped on the ice and fell on his backside. The stew he was carrying spilled out, no laughing matter when Louis saw the looks on his squad mates' faces. A warm meal was a treat, losing a portion of it was bad for morale.

The Baron shoved his way out of the dugout, shooing the rookies back inside. "Come on, lads, get the rest in here before it's cold!"

The platoon had received replacements during the reserve period, they were, to a man, young and raw. While there was no substitute for experience, the Baron had worked hard getting the new boys ready for what they were facing. Still and all, Louis realized, unless their luck was better than most, half would be dead or wounded in a fortnight when their turn on the line ran out.

Once everyone was in the dugout, Louis looked around. The Baron was spooning out the stew and was visibly pleased that the portions were ample enough, even though quite a bit had been lost when Pierre had taken his tumble. That's when Louis produced his surprise.

"Boys, wouldn't a bit of fresh bread go nicely with this?"

The Baron shot him a warning look, it wasn't nice to disturb the new men's hopes. But, with a flourish, Louis produced two fresh loaves from his haversack.

"Voila!"

The grin on the Baron's face was worth the dirty look he'd given Louis just moments before. The new men looked as if they had never seen such a thing before.

"How? Where?" The Baron asked.

"I know a fellow over in 4th Company who does business with a baker in the nearest town, not village mind you, but town. Big enough that the place still has a functional bakery. For certain considerations, he gets fresh bread brought up a couple of times a week. He was kind enough to spare me a couple of loaves as he owed me a favor." Louis explained.

The Baron nodded, "Very good. Does this fellow have any needs we might be able to satisfy should we want more bread?"

"Certainly, after all, you still know the fellow with the still, yes?"

"Of course, but we'll need another source for apples, in case you missed it, it's winter. Not many apples on the trees this time of year." The Baron shrugged, fresh bread was nice, but with no source of fruit for the still, they wouldn't have anything to trade.

One of the new lads spoke up, "My father grows apricots, he has a large stock of them, dried and easy to ship. My mother knows I like them and I told her that my fellows like them as well. Can your man use apricots for his still?"

The Baron smiled, "This might be a good winter, provided the Boche stay in their dugouts."

Wolfgang looked out over the frozen wasteland between the German positions and the French positions. He shuddered at the thought of going out there again, but rumor had it that the higher ups wanted a prisoner to "chat" with. He couldn't imagine why, not much had changed over the past month, except that the snow had gotten deeper and the wind, if possible, was blowing even colder.

He reached up to scratch his forehead, when his fingers hit the hard metal edge of the new helmets they'd been issued, he winced. His fingers were numb but the hard steel of the helmet reminded him that he could still feel pain.

"Bit heavier than the old ones, ain't they?" Horst came out of the dugout, he wasn't wearing his helmet, just his fatigue cap.

"Better not let the sergeant see you out here without your steel pot. You ever notice the scar on the side of his head?"

"Yes, grazed by a bullet wasn't he?"

"Nope, bit of steel from an exploding shell, if it had hit the leather of his helmet he'd have no scar. But he was wearing his soft cap, just like you and ..."

"Gottverdammt! Where is your helmet, Horst?" the sergeant looked fit to burst.

"I was just going to have a piss, Sergeant, do I need a helmet ..."

"You'll wear the damned thing every time you step out of your hole! Is that clear?"

Horst nodded, "Yes Sergeant, very clear. I'll go get it now."

"Damn right you will. Move!"

After Horst had disappeared back into the dugout the sergeant spoke to Wolfgang.

"You've been volunteered."

"So the rumor is true, why me?"

"The Captain thinks you'll succeed where the others will just get killed. Pick any five men you like and ..."

"I'll take two, Hans and Johannes. They know how to move quietly out there. Any chance we can get ahold of bedding? Sheets, preferably white, of course."

"Sure, Wolf, I'll swing by the hotel and borrow some, what do you think I am, a magician?"

"The lieutenant over in 1st Platoon has a set of sheets. Of course he won't get them back in one piece but ..."

The sergeant studied Wolfgang for a moment, he supposed that if he went to the captain, he could probably get those sheets from 1st Platoon's lieutenant, but it would cost him a favor, of that he was sure.

"I'll see what I can do, be ready about an hour after sundown."

"Yes, chief, we'll be ready. Sheets or no."

Louis was with one of the new men, Anton he thought his name was, showing him what to watch for at night.

"If you think you see something, don't stare at it, focus to either side of it, your peripheral vision is good for such things."

"My peri ... what?"

"Your side view, if you will, you can see things you're not looking directly at, right?" I mean you're not blind are you?"

The new man nodded in sudden understanding, "What did you call it?"

"Peripheral vision."

The new man, his name was indeed Anton, repeated the phrase once or twice. Then he grinned, "Thanks, I'll remember that."

"Also, keep moving, small movements so you don't attract attention. You need to keep your circulation moving or you'll freeze to death. Understood?"

"Yes Sir."

"I'm not a 'sir,' a simple 'yes' will suffice, alright?"

Anton nodded, "Yes, I get it."

"Now I'm heading back to the dugout, any stew left?"

"Yes, there was some, they saved it for you, on account of the bread. Thanks for that, by the way."

"Nothing to it, we need to take care of each other out here. I'll be back in two hours, stay alert. If you fall asleep and the Boche don't kill you, I will. Or the Sergeant. Are we clear?"

"Very clear, I'll stay awake, too damned cold to sleep any way."

The Message

Source

As the men filed out of the trenches to begin their stint away from the front, Louis looked around. The muddy dugout where he'd been living for almost three weeks almost felt like home to him now. He chuckled as he thought back to his first impressions of the hole in the earth he now called "home."

"Something amuses you, lad?" the Baron asked.

"I grew up in a small village, we didn't have much but our home was dry in the rains and warm in the winter. This place is neither, yet I think of it as home. Is that odd?"

"Not really lad, a fellow can get used to almost anything. It's not pleasant, it certainly isn't comfortable, but you get fed, you have a blanket and a place to sleep which is relatively dry, and as long as the rats leave you alone, there are worse places to be, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"I've seen places in the world which make this seem like a palace. Dirty, overcrowded, thieves and murderers everywhere you turn, let's just say that at least here, those who are trying to kill you wear a different uniform and it isn't personal and it isn't all the time."

"I've heard that parts of Marseilles are like that." Though Louis had never been there, he'd heard stories.

"Ah lad, every big city has places like that, even Paris, places you don't go at night, at least not alone."

"But worse than this muddy hole with it's vermin, the artillery, the constant fear of death?"

"Tell me the truth lad, after you'd been here a while, were you in constant fear for your life?"

Louis thought for a moment, his gaze became distant, as if his mind was traveling to the past, which in a sense, it was.

"No, now that I think of it. Perhaps I was just too tired to care any more."

"That's part of it, I'm sure." The Baron paused for a bit, packing up the last of his kit as he did so.

"I think that if a situation isn't too dire, at least not all of the time, our minds adjust to that new reality. We're still cautious, still afraid of being wounded or dying, but it isn't an immediate thing, it's not something you need to deal with right now. So you don't dwell on it, at least I don't."

Louis laughed, "All I was wondering Baron is how this absolute sewer of a dugout can be considered home."

The Baron smiled, "Do you care about your squad mates?"

"Well sure."

"And they care about you, which in essence is what home is, where people care about you and you care about them. It's not the furnishings, it's how a place makes you feel."

Louis nodded, "That makes sense."

"It's the only thing that makes sense out here, lad. Now let's get going."

Back in the rear, the men were put up in barns and houses which the inhabitants had fled from when the Germans had first come this way in 1914. It wasn't luxurious, it was plain, simple, yet to many of the men, raised in similar small villages, it was better than living in the mud.

Louis had spent the better part of a day cleaning his kit, they'd all been issued new clothing and had gone through delousing. Louis thought how wonderful it was to not have vermin crawling all over him. He actually felt nearly human again. Which pleased him more than he could have thought possible.

As he wondered what to do with himself now, the Baron came in, a somber look on his face.

"Louis."

"Yes, my sergeant?" Louis said with a grin. It somehow annoyed, and amused, the Baron to be called by his rank, which he now wore on his sleeve. So the men enjoyed reminding him of his new responsibilities.

"The found the lieutenant ..."

Louis stood up, "Is he ..."

"Quite dead, yes. His family has been notified, of course, but the regimental commander thought it would be fitting if some of the men who served with him went to see his family. They live fairly close to this place, a short train ride, which the battalion commander arranged tickets for."

"Tickets for who?" Louis was puzzled, yet there was a sinking feeling in his gut.

"For us, lad. The captain told the major that you and I are the only ones left who actually knew the lieutenant."

"What about Charles? Or Hervé?"

"Home leave while the Army rebuilds the regiment. You and I are the only ones available."

"But what if ..."

"What if you don't want to see the lieutenant's wife, his mother, his children? I don't want to either lad, but it's a duty we must perform. Would you want a stranger telling your mother that you were dead?"

"I suppose not, but ..."

"No 'buts' laddie, it's up to us."

Louis stared out the window at the passing countryside. The train ride to the lieutenant's home had been less than three hours, now that their solemn task was concluded, they were returning to the front.

Louis remembered the sobs of the lieutenant's wife, the dazed faces of the children when told that their father was not coming home. Ever.

But most of all he remembered the look on the lieutenant's mother's face. She had gazed heavenwards, said a short prayer, then had simply asked, "Did my boy suffer?"

The Baron had answered as honestly as possible. How he had gone missing during the attack but had been found a few days later when the fighting had seesawed back to where he had gone missing.

The lieutenant had been found, face down in a shell hole, a dead Frenchman on top of him. It looked for all the world that the lieutenant had not been hit at all by enemy fire. One of the men, a long-time veteran, speculated that the lieutenant had been knocked unconscious, how they would never know, and had then fallen into the water with a dead man on his back.

"He drowned, Baron, that's the only thing I can think of. Unconscious, with the weight of the dead guy holding him down, he probably drowned."

Louis shivered again at the thought of it, but all the Baron had said to the man's mother was, "No madam, he did not suffer."

And perhaps he hadn't.

Why?

Der Sturm
Hans Baluschek (PD)

"Why aren't the machine guns firing?" Louis yelled at the Baron as he scrambled to get the mud out of his rifle's firing mechanism. He heard the Baron shout back ...

"Beats me! Maybe they're not set up yet!"

As Louis was finally able to work his bolt, he peered out over the trench lip. There were a lot of Boche out there. As he watched, he heard the machine guns start up, finally.

Wolfgang watched in horror as his best mate, Friedrich, pitched forward and fell into the mud. He knelt beside him and started to roll his friend over when a passing sergeant bellowed at him, "Leave him, he's dead!"

Looking down at his friend, Wolfgang could now see where two or three rounds had penetrated his friend's body, ripping the back of his greatcoat open. Reluctantly he stumbled to his feet and forced himself to advance into the maelstrom, the air was alive with enemy bullets.

Just ahead he saw that some of his comrades had reached the old front line trench they had unceremoniously been thrown out of earlier. One man was wielding his rifle like a club, which made no sense to Wolfgang. Was the man out of bullets?

Wolfgang was ready to use his bayonet, or so he thought. When he got up to the trench, a Frenchman stabbed upwards at him. Just like in training, he parried the man's thrust, then stabbed down with his own bayonet, driving it into the Frenchman's chest, where it stuck.

He was frantically trying to yank the blade out when he saw another Frenchman lower his rifle and aim it. At him!

"Armand! Look out!" Louis yelled as he saw Armand aiming at a German standing on the lip of the trench, trying to free his bayonet. Armand never saw the man who jumped into the trench and hacked at him with an entrenching tool.

Armand fell to the muddy floor of the trench, his left arm nearly severed at the elbow. The German turned with a wild look as Louis started to panic. The Baron shoved him aside and Louis saw the Baron's bayonet jab into the German's belly, be pulled out, then jabbed in again. The German folded over the muzzle of the Baron's rifle then slid to the floor of the trench, his blood staining the mud.

Louis looked up, the man with the stuck bayonet was gone, his rifle still there, the bayonet lodged in the dead Frenchman.

"Louis, use your damned rifle or we're both going to die!" the Baron screamed at him.

Wolfgang stumbled back from the trench, leaving his weapon, he was looking for another one when he saw his lieutenant stop to aim his pistol, then be hit by French machine gun fire, dropping the man like a discarded doll.

There, a rifle! Picking it up, he checked that it worked, it was still loaded but the safety was on. Flicking the safety off he turned towards the French, there! A man was climbing out of the trench, his back to Wolfgang, so Wolfgang aimed and fired.

The Frenchman dropped his rifle then reached behind him, as if to pluck Wolfgang's bullet from his lower back. He dropped to one knee then turned to face his attacker. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise. Then he fell forward into the muck.

Louis worked his bolt and fired another round, when he went to reload, he realized that the magazine was empty. Scrabbling for his ammunition pouches, he extracted a handful of bullets and laboriously began loading them into his rifle. With a tubular magazine, his Lebel held more rounds than the German K98, but it was slow to load them in.

Once loaded with eight rounds, he'd had to grab another as he'd dropped one round into the mud at his feet, he looked for a target. Then he heard the whistles start blowing, what now?

The Baron ran down the trench, gathering what was left of the platoon. "Come on, lads, there's too many of them and our supports are nowhere to be seen."

"So we're just abandoning what we captured?" one of the men argued.

"Well, Jean, you're welcome to stay and defend your piece, but you'll be dead in minutes. Fall back or die, your choice."

Grabbing Louis by the collar, the Baron forced him up and out of the trench. "Run like your life depended on it, boy!"

Regaining the relative safety of their old line, Louis turned to his sergeant, "Why? Just what was the point of all that?"

The Baron took his time answering, "Well, I'm no strategist, but if we don't try and do something, the war will go on forever. We'll be here teaching the next generation how to dig trenches and mount patrols. But yes, today was a colossal screw up. The unit that was supposed to follow us in then continue attacking apparently never got the word. Or they were sent to the wrong place or ... I just don't know, Louis. Someone messed up and we were left in the lurch. But we did hurt the Boche pretty bad. We left a lot of dead Boche in that trench."

Louis shook his head, "Seems we left a lot of dead comrades there as well. Did the Lieutenant make it back?"

The Baron shook his head, "He's missing, probably still in that shell hole he went down in."

"Are we going to go out and bring him back?" Louis thought it made sense.

The Baron stared at Louis for a moment, then answered, "No. Certainly not. If he's alive, which I doubt, he'll be dead before midnight. That's if he was hit. If not, Lord knows what will be his fate. They'll probably never find his body. My wager is that he's already dead. God rest his soul." The Baron crossed himself as he said that.

That shocked Louis, he hadn't seen the Baron as a particularly religious man. So he asked him, "Do you believe?"

"Sometimes. Mostly I try not to think of how God could let us do this to each other. Doesn't seem right, does it?"

Louis wondered what his old village priest might say to that. If he made it home, he'd ask the man.

Then he felt a chill, he'd just thought "if" he made it home, not "when."

After today, Louis didn't know what to think, but he wasn't sure just how much more of this he could take.

He'd been on the line for ten days.