The Bucket

No Man's Land
Maurice Galbraith Cullen (PD)

The new lieutenant looked to be about 12 years old, Louis thought, he was fresh out of Saint-Cyr¹ and was indeed rather young.

"People say he is a prodigy, finished his normal schooling at the age of sixteen and entered Saint-Cyr right afterwards. He wanted to enlist when the war broke out, but his father insisted he finish the course. 'Better an officer than an enlisted man,' was what his father said," the Baron filled his pipe again as he finished his explanation.

"Is his father a general or something?" Louis asked.

The Baron scoffed as he shook his head, "No, he manages a factory near Lille, fancies himself as one of the nobility as his great grandfather was given a title by Napoléon back in the old days."

"So he is a noble?"

"No, most of the titles the Emperor handed out lapsed when the Bourbons returned. Napoléon the Third tried to reinstate those old titles, but the lieutenant's grandfather didn't apply. Hard to do when one is dead in the forest of the Ardennes."

"So the lieutenant's grandfather and great grandfather were soldiers but ..."

"Yes, his father decided to leave soldiering to others and live in their reflected glory."

Louis thought back to the wreckage of no-man's-land, the unburied bodies, the ruined land, the mud and the ever-present rats. "Where was the glory?" he wondered.

They had been in reserve for nearly three weeks now. As the front was quiet they had been kept in reserve longer than normal.

"Too damned cold to fight a war," the Baron had said.

So they rested, drilled, and absorbed new recruits. The new lieutenant being one of those.

The platoon was gathered in the rather large barn they were using as a headquarters of sorts, waiting to be addressed by the new lieutenant. Louis looked around, the only old hand he recognized was the Baron. He was wondering where Anton had gotten off to when he saw his comrade arrive late, with the new lieutenant.

Louis waved to Anton, who came over with the lieutenant.

"Louis, this is our new platoon leader, Sous-Lieutenant Manoury. Sir, this is my best friend, Louis."

Louis offered a salute, which the lieutenant returned, "Only because we are inside am I not angry at you, Soldat."

Louis looked puzzled, then it struck him, outside, near the lines, saluting an officer could be a death sentence. For the officer.

"Yes Sir, I know that, pardon me, but I'm surprised you do."

"Ah, they don't teach just mathematics at Saint-Cyr, we have a few veterans from the front for instructors."

"That's good, Sir, but the men are gathered, as you requested," the Baron wanted to get this over with. They would be going back up to the line in the morning and he wanted the men to get some sleep tonight as it might be a while before they'd be this comfortable.

"Ah, thank you, Sergeant."

After it was over, Louis turned to the Baron, "What was that all about? Glory? Honor? There is none of that out here, what are they teaching them back there?"

The Baron shook his head, "Let the lieutenant have his dreams, he will learn soon enough that on the line there is nothing more than misery and death. No honor, no glory."

The night felt short, Louis didn't sleep much, anticipating their return to the trenches in the morning. The new men slept like babies, they had no idea what their lives would be like for the next week, or more.

They were on a different sector this time, the trenches they moved into were badly in need of repair. They were also filthier than normal.

"What did these people do? Did they just shit wherever they felt like it?" Anton said, outraged at finding human feces in the dugout he'd been assigned to.

The Baron shook his head, this was outrageous. But in the other unit's defense, they had been under constant shellfire during their stint on the line. Night and day the Boche were dropping shells on them. Not a constant barrage, just sporadic shelling meant to keep the men's heads down and keep them in their shelters.

Apparently the high command was aware of this and determined that an attack on the Boche trenches had to be carried out, disrupt the constant shelling and perhaps gain some terrain as well.

Louis looked at Anton, "Well, we can stay here and live in the shit, or we can advance and die out there. Doesn't seem to be any chance either way."

Anton was bitter, "Happy shitty New Year, mon ami. The front is terrible, why must they make it even worse?"

"Who is they?"

"The Boche, their politicians, our politicians, what's the point of all this?"

The Baron came up, "There is no point any more, lads. We kill or we die, seems we do that until the politicians agree that we've done enough."

Anton glared across no-man's-land, then started to scramble out of the trench, yelling incoherently.

With difficulty Louis and the Baron hauled him back into the trench. But Anton continued to struggle, so the Baron slugged him, knocking him out cold.

"Shell shock," the Baron muttered.

"But we haven't been shelled yet, we've just reentered the trenches," Louis pointed out.

The Baron sent two men to get a stretcher, they would take Anton to the rear, perhaps the doctors could help him. Then he turned back to Louis.

"Each man has a certain amount of courage. But it's like a bucket full of water, once it starts to leak, you become less and less able to handle combat. Anton's bucket was empty, seeing the conditions he'd have to live and fight in sent him over the edge. We all have our limits."

Louis sighed, "Do you, Baron? Do you have a limit?"

"Of course I do, boy. My bucket is just bigger, but soon it too will be empty. Or I will die, or the war will end. It's Fate lad, nothing more."

Louis was close to despair, if the Baron could get so down, what hope did he have? And tomorrow they would attack the Boche, would his own bucket run dry?

Would he even survive this foul war? He was beginning to have his doubts.

¹ École spéciale militaire de Saint-Cyr, a French military academy founded by Napoléon in 1802.