History and Myth

Canadians at Ypres
William Barnes-Wollen
Source

I have always been interested in the First World War and may head down that road in a future fictional vignette. The war was complex yet has been over-simplified by many because of it's essentially leading directly to the Second World War, a far vaster conflict. Now that second war was due mainly to the efforts of one man, Adolf Hitler. Say what you will, but I believe that no Hitler would have meant no war in Europe. I could be wrong, but it's too late anyway. Japan was still a problem in Asia, regardless of Germany, just ask China.

Growing up I was taught history, sometimes by very good teachers, sometimes by the hugely incompetent, and far too often by teachers who were biding their time until retirement. Far too many people, and I blame boring academics for this, find history to be dull and dry. When it's written by someone whose job is teaching at a university, it often is dull and dry. They pass that on to their less talented students, who often end up teaching.

So expect more on The Great War in the months to come. For now, here's a really good video by the folks at History Hit, narrated by one of my favorites, Dan Snow. These folks make history anything but boring, please turn your attention to 10 Big Myths of World War One.

Enjoy.

Well done, History Hit!

Over There - La Mort est Là

Gassed: 'In arduis fidelis'
Gilbert Rogers (PD IWM)

Murphy was on the floor of the trench, his mask was on but the eyepieces kept fogging up. He was terrified of attempting to clear them, he didn't know how or even if that was possible. So he stayed put, hugging his rifle and trying not to hyperventilate.

"Murphy, get up!"

He felt a hand on his coat sleeve, jerking his arm, someone was yelling at him. He shook his head vigorously, he wasn't going anywhere. Then he felt a kick.

"Goddammit, get off your ass!"

Murphy looked in the direction of the voice, he noticed then that the eyepieces of his mask were clear. He also recognized his platoon leader, 2nd Lieutenant Johnson, not by his face, covered by a mask as it was, but by the nervous energy in the man's voice.

"Sir!"

Murphy got to his feet, reluctantly, he looked up and moaned.

There on the parapet was a large German, masked, his coal scuttle helmet making him look like some demon from his grandmother's stories.

Eberbach had reached the enemy trench, he stopped, puzzled, these were not Frenchmen, they looked British. But when did the British get here.

"Keep moving, Soldat." A voice said as he was shoved from behind, the man jumping forward as he did so.

Murphy nearly jumped out of his skin as a second German appeared and a shot rang out from close by.

"Damn it, Lieutenant, use your pistol!"

Sergeant Morrisey had shown up just in time to shoot the second German, who tumbled into the trench knocking Murphy off his feet.

Eberbach saw the man who had shoved him fall into the trench, the soldier who had shot him frantically working the bolt of his rifle. He saw three enemy soldiers, one under the man who had shoved him, another, an officer perhaps, seeming to stare at him, holding a pistol but not pointing it at anything.

Eberbach jumped into the trench, impaling the rifleman with his bayonet. Pulling the bayonet free, he jammed the butt of his rifle into the pistol man's face, knocking the man's gasmask off as he did so.

"F**k, f**k, f**k!"

Murphy could hear his platoon sergeant screaming over and over. He got free of the dead German in time to see his lieutenant get hit in the face with a rifle butt. The lieutenant began to gasp and cough as soon as the gas hit his lungs.

There was another German standing between Morrisey and Johnson, trying to turn around in the narrow trench. Before he could, and without thinking, Murphy shot the man in the chest.

Eberbach felt as if he had been punched, he was having trouble taking a breath. He collapsed to his knees, was his mask loose? As he wondered what had happened, he noticed the man coming to his feet just to his left, the man he had been attempting to engage.

Just before his eyes stopped seeing, he noticed the man's insignia. An American?

That man shot him again. After that, Eberbach saw nothing.

The attack had been repulsed, but with heavy casualties. Captain Allen shook his head, he was still half deaf and he was shaking with fatigue.

"Say again, Corporal."

"Johnson and Morrisey are both dead. 2nd Platoon lost four privates as well. Lieutenant Wilkerson is wounded but he says it's a scratch, other than that, 1st Platoon has three wounded, one really bad, and two dead."

"3rd Platoon?"

"No idea, Sir. Can't find them."

"Can't. Find. Them?"

"No Sir, their section of trench is gone. Collapsed, it's just piles of mud and wrecked duckboard. I've got guys over there digging."

"But how? There was no preliminary bombardment, just gas and smoke, then the Huns were on top of us."

"Yes Sir, but when the Huns pulled back, they bombarded us, do you remember?"

Allen stared into the distance, "But it was only a few shells, nothing heavy ..."

Corporal Ramsey nodded, "But those were dead on target, Cap'n."

Capitaine Petit found Allen shortly after sunset.

"Mon ami, your company is being pulled back as soon as your replacements show up."

Allen looked at his French liaison, "Replacements?"

"Yes, another French company will be moving up, your company is going to the rear. Your time with us is up."

"Up?"

"Are you alright, Theodore, did you hear me?"

Allen nodded, "Yes Henri, I heard you. We've only been here a couple of weeks, why are we being pulled back?"

"Your Général Pershing wants all American units together, to form a single army under his command. Our Maréchal Petain does not agree, but he has been overruled by Paris. So you will be pulled back to refit and then move to another location where your countrymen will be replacing a French division."

Allen nodded, "My men?"

"They are being fed, your officers have been notified of the move."

"I shall miss you, Henri."

Petit grinned, "No, you will not, I am going with you, unless you've learned to speak French recently?"

Allen managed a weak smile, "Well, that's good news."

Bauer had checked everywhere, but Eberbach was nowhere to be found. He returned to his dugout, it seemed that his squad was down to just three men, other than himself. He looked up as someone entered.

"Friedrich, they know where Kurt is."

Bauer sat up, "Where, how is he?"

"He was left behind when the attack failed. Schmitz was there, saw Kurt kill two of the Amis before one of them shot him, twice it seems. Schmitz killed that American but he couldn't check on Kurt as more of the Amis showed up, and they weren't happy."

"Scheiße! Now the Eberbach's have lost another son, is the Hauptmann going to write that letter?"

"Probably not, Hauptmann Schmetterling is missing in action. He never came back, no one saw him fall."

Bauer nodded, "I'll write it. Kurt was a good man."

As the man left, Bauer wondered just what the point of the attack had been. Men had been killed and wounded on both sides, but no ground had changed hands. What had been the point?

He wished that he was home.

Over There - L'Enfer

L'Enfer
Georges Paul Leroux
Source

Allen was a veteran of war, but he'd never experienced anything like this. It felt as if the Earth was trying to throw him into the air where he could be ripped apart by the shell fragments which were tearing through everything above ground.

He was lying on the bottom of the trench. every explosion caused the duckboard underneath him to buck like a living thing. Mud and dirt splashed up from the trench floor and the trench walls seemed about to collapse at any moment.

He was deafened by the nearly constant explosions. He had attempted to crawl to his bunker but he was now so disoriented that he had no idea in what direction that bunker was. He pressed his interlocked hands over the back of his neck and tried to make himself one with the trench floor. Another shock heaved him upwards and punched the very air from his lungs.

He lay there gasping, his world a blurry torment of flying debris and shock. He felt hands on him, pulling him down the trench.

"Jesus, Sir, what the hell are you doing out here?" Sergeant Major Fratello was screaming but his own voice was muffled in his ears, as if coming from a distance. Blood was streaming from those ears as he dragged his captain to the dubious shelter of one of the bunkers dug into the trench walls.

A near miss tossed him in the air, his knees immediately buckling as he came back down. The Sergeant Major put his hands over his ears and began to scream incoherently, all thought of saving his officer gone.

Capitaine Petit ran down to the positions held by the American company attached to his battalion. The position was a shambles, a number of German shells had impacted close to the trench line but none had actually hit the line.

Nevertheless, the Americans had not handled their first barrage very well. A number of men were huddled along the bottom of the trench plainly in varying states of shock. He grabbed the first man who looked reasonably coherent.

"Where is your company commander?!"

The man shook his head and pointed to his ears, shouting, "I can't hear you!"

Placing his lips close to the man's left ear, Petit bellowed, "Where! Is! Your! Commander!?"

A light seemed to dawn in the man's eyes, he turned and pointed, "He's down there!"

Petit continued in that direction, only to find a very dazed looking lieutenant. He grabbed the man, "The Germans are coming! Man your positions!"

The lieutenant looked around, as if seeing the area for the first time, "Germans?"

"Yes, the Germans, they are coming!" Petit was becoming frantic, but he noticed a number of men climb onto the firing steps, far fewer than should have been there, but their NCOs were driving them now.

Moving along, he heard the machine guns to either side of the American position begin to chatter. Why les Boches had concentrated solely on the American position made no sense, unless ...

He continued to move, the machine guns stopped firing. Ahead he saw his man, bent over another man, shaking him.

It was indeed Captain Allen, the man he was shaking was his sergeant major, who was screaming incoherently. Allen noticed the French officer and stood up.

"Fratello's been knocked silly, you'll need to speak up Henri, my ears are still ringing."

"This man needs to be evacuated to the rear, he may recover, he may not, but here is no place for him. Get your men in position, I thought the Germans would attack, but perhaps that barrage was simply to weaken your men's courage. But if it starts again, they will come, and you MUST be ready."

Bauer was watching his squad intently, with the exception of Eberbach, they were all so young. As the war continued into its fourth year, Germany was running out of men. Most of the company was composed of new conscripts, most with barely two months in the Army.

Bauer had received his orders early that morning: there would be a brief bombardment of the portion of the French line held by an American company, his company would go in an hour after that bombardment ceased. One thing his captain had told him, make sure the men have their gasmasks, the infantry attack was to be preceded by a gas barrage.

Bauer hated the damned gasmask, it restricted his vision. But he knew from experience that it would keep him alive if it was in good repair. So he had his squad demonstrate their ability to don their masks and that their masks were in good shape.

He should have expected it, the new men all had brand new masks, only two of them knew how to put them on correctly. He and Eberbach showed the new men the right way of doing it. They were as ready as they would ever be.

Allen was still shaken that his sergeant major seemed to have broken during the barrage. He had gone to the rear, looking embarrassed at his condition. He wasn't reluctant to leave however, the man was shaking almost uncontrollably and couldn't wait to depart.

"It happens to even the best of men. Courage is a limited thing, a man might stand combat for years, then suddenly he snaps. Your man might well recover and return, but he will never be the same again." Capitaine Petit shook his head after that little speech.

"He's been in the Army for a long time, but the Philippines, Mexico, was nothing like this. Hell, the Moros had no cannon and the Mexicans had damned few. We spent most of the time along the border chasing bandits."

Allen paused, then spat into the mud.

"Not sure I could stand much more of that myself. What's the longest barrage you've ever been under?" He asked, looking at Petit.

The Frenchman turned as white as a sheet and muttered, "Days ... Verdun ..."

Before Allen could ask about that, a shell popped just outside the trench. One of the men laughed and said, "Hey, a dud!"

Petit immediately began to bellow, "GAS! GAS! GAS!"

More shells followed, each popped, then began to hiss, emitting a cloud. A cloud which could cripple or kill if inhaled.

The Germans were coming ...

Over There - La Terre Morte

No Man's Land
Maurice Galbraith Cullen (PD)

Eberbach and Bauer were back in no man's land, their job was to provide advance warning of any French attempt to infiltrate their lines during the night. Major attacks typically occurred in the early hours around sunrise, while the night would hide the attackers, it also tended to confuse them. So daylight was preferred.

But at night, both sides would run small patrols to snatch prisoners, repair their own wire, or cut the enemy's wire. Eberbach and Bauer hated this task, but it was preferable to wandering around in the dark awaiting the hiss of a flare overhead.

If you froze, the enemy might not see you, but they'd still sweep the suspect area with machine gun fire, just to be sure. Better to be in a shell hole, no matter how muddy or wet. Or in tonight's case, no matter how frozen.

Eberbach was in a foul mood. He had yet to exact vengeance for his brother's death in combat. The letter from one of his brother's squadron mates had made his quest even more bitter.

His brother's aircraft had been jumped by two enemy planes. The first burst of fire from the enemy lead had hit his engine, severing a fuel line which had sprayed petrol all over the hot engine. The second burst, from the enemy's wingman, had no effect, but that didn't matter. Observers on the ground saw the aircraft burst into flames.

Rather than burn to death, his brother had jumped.

Eberbach couldn't imagine the terror of that long fall. What had his brother been thinking as the earth drew him to its breast?

Eberbach didn't want to just kill a Frenchman now, he wanted to make the man suffer. As his brother had suffered.

But here? In the middle of no man's land? They would have to have a patrol stumble over them for Eberbach to claim a victim.

Allen scanned no man's land, once again he had had trouble sleeping so he was up early, watching as he let his men sleep as best they could. Sergeant Major Fratello was constantly reminding him that tired officers make mistakes, that tired officers get men killed to no purpose.

Allen had agreed, but had also pointed out that being unable to sleep was something he couldn't control. The cold and the damp contributed to that problem. Fratello had promised his captain that somehow, he'd fix things.

The night was frigid, the snow which had troubled them for the past few days had ended. Tonight there was scudding cloud and a partial moon which made no man's land look like a scene from another world.

Drifts of snow, areas of mud which the day's shelling had created, dead trees, the one ruined building near the far left of his field of vision looked as if it had been in ruins for centuries. Nothing moved out there, for movement would bring death.

Allen started, what in God's name was that?

Near the ruins he thought he saw movement or did he? He reached for the flare gun. Within seconds the flare arched aloft in the direction of the ruins. It popped high overhead and brought harsh white light to the landscape.

Allen watched, and saw nothing as the flare swung underneath its small parachute as it sputtered and hissed, finally going out when it landed in the mud.

"Bad idea, Cap'n."

Allen jumped at his Sergeant Major's voice.

"How's your night vision now?"

Shit.

"Gone, I forgot."

"One eye closed Sir, helps preserve your night vision. Better still, save the flare, don't look directly at what you're trying to see, look to one side. Often your peripheral vision will pick things up that you miss if you stare directly at them, especially at night."

Allen and Fratello sat quietly for a moment, across the dead zone, a German machine gun began to chatter. The men could see tracers reaching out into no man's land. Some would ricochet up into the sky. Soon enough, all was silent again.

Allen said, "Doesn't that give away their position?"

"Probably some over-eager lieutenant ordered them to fire. No doubt that man's sergeant is probably chewing his ass right now. While making the men move their machine gun to another position. If you hear something, throw a grenade out. Can't see where that comes from, can you?"

"I suppose not."

"It's going to be light soon, Cap'n."

"Stand to?"

"Yup."

Eberbach and Bauer were preparing to return to the line when Bauer hissed, "What is that?"

His voice sounded as if his heart was in his throat.

Eberbach looked to where his mate was pointing, there, by the ruins, something gray moved.

It came from behind one wall, then hesitated before moving again, swiftly this time. The hair on the backs of both men's necks was standing on end.

"Mein lieber Gott." Eberbach moaned. He was convinced that the Angel of Death was coming for them. The gray, shifting shape was moving rapidly in their direction

Then a flare popped overhead. The men could see now that it was just snow, carried by the wind. In the bright light they could see that they were still absolutely alone out there.

"Let's get out of here, Kurt." Bauer hissed.

He was speaking to himself, Eberbach was heading back to his own trench as fast as he could. Bauer followed in an instant.

Over There - Aux Tranchées

Source

It was cold and it was wet. The march up to the trenches had been nasty, a cold wet rain falling on the men which had hints of snow and ice in it as well. The men had grumbled, as was their wont, which comforted Allen. In his experience, if the men weren't bitching then things were bad indeed.

"Hell, this is better'n Grand Forks in February! I can still feel my legs!"

Sergeant Major Lou Fratello barked out, "Quiet back there! One foot in front of the other and keep the chit chat down to a dull roar."

Allen chuckled, Fratello was a very good man, he kept the men straight but he made sure their morale stayed high. Many times he'd seen the man helping one of the duller privates learn the trade of the soldier. He wouldn't trade Fratello for anyone.

2nd Lieutenant Johnson, on the other hand, he'd let go in a heartbeat. The man couldn't seem to grasp the principles of leadership. When he wasn't ignoring his platoon, he was screaming at them.

"Goddammit, Private! You splashed mud all over me!"

The private in question had slipped on the trail and in attempting to recover his balance had indeed splashed mud all over his lieutenant. Allen stepped out of his place at the head of the column and waited for Johnson's platoon by the side of the track.

Johnson snapped a salute when he saw his company commander, which earned him a nasty look from his platoon sergeant.

"Sergeant Morrisey, go ahead and keep the men moving, your lieutenant is going to be busy for a bit."

"Sir!"

Eberbach had insisted on accompanying Bauer.

"Your brother is dead, and you want to risk your life in no man's land? On a night scout?"

Kurt Eberbach looked intently at his corporal, his oldest friend. "My brother is dead, I can't bring him back. I can't even kill the man who killed him, I'm not a pilot nor do I know who brought him down."

Eberbach looked off into the distance, a grim look on his face.

"So you'll kill some Frenchman for what? Vengeance? Will that make any difference?"

"Don't leave me behind, Kurt. Please."

So now there they were, in a water-filled shell hole, shivering as the water in their place of refuge began to ice over. The rain had changed completely to snow.

"Lieutenant Johnson, you need to act more professionally in front of the men. Screaming because your coat got muddy is petty and childish. You do know that, don't you?"

Johnson looked at the ground then met the eyes of his commander, "Yes Sir, I do. I shall apologize to the man at once."

"You'll do no such thing. The men will perceive that as weakness. Turn it into a joke, make light of it somehow. You do have a sense of humor, don't you?"

Johnson looked off into the distance, "I do Sir, but ..."

"But what?"

"I'm terrified, Sir. I don't want to die. Everything frightens me, I'm a coward, Sir."

Allen looked steadily at the man, "If you weren't afraid I'd have no use for you. Only a mad man would not be afraid. We will be going into battle, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow, but enter into battle we shall. Every man in the company knows that, we're all afraid, Michael."

"You're afraid, Sir? I doubt that, is the Sergeant Major afraid? I doubt that as well."

"The Sergeant Major and I have seen battle, we've seen men die, men we were close to. We know what it's like, it is very much something to be terrified of, all rational men are terrified of battle, the brave simply hide it better than most. You won't know if you're a coward until you've been shot at."

Johnson swallowed hard, "Thank you, Sir. I will try and do my best."

"That's all anyone can ask, Lieutenant. Now rejoin your platoon."

They entered the trenches just after sunrise. The snow had stopped, but the new-fallen snow covered the ground for as far as the eye could see, softening the devastated landscape. But the men saw the ruined trees, the torn earth under that whiteness.

"Almost looks pretty, doesn't it?" Sergeant Major Fratello observed as he examined the ground towards the enemy lines through his field glasses.

Captain Allen stood there, his feet in the icy water at the bottom of the trench. He wished that he was anywhere but here. "Yeah, Sarn't Major, it's picturesque. Are the men settled in?"

"Yessir, I've got them improving the firing steps, their squad bunkers, anything to keep them busy. Think the Huns will give us a welcoming party?"

A shell whistled overhead then exploded some distance to the rear.

Allen ducked, then said, "I think that's them saying 'hello' now."

"COVER!!" Fratello bellowed as more shells began to impact all around them.

As Allen tried to make himself very small, he had an odd thought, "Welcome to France."

Over There - Dieu et la Nuit

PxHere

Allen set his pencil down and pondered what he had written. Was the letter to his wife too negative? Or perhaps not affectionate enough? He wasn't good at writing letters but he had promised to write often. He was trying hard, but the effort left him annoyed.

After Mexico she had complained that he didn't write her, she was left to hear the rumors that the other wives might have heard. She had been angry with him and had made no efforts to hide it.

She seemed to ignore the fact that after being wounded in a small skirmish on the border, he had been in the hospital most of the time, fighting to stay alive. Not for her sake, or the children, but because he desperately wanted to live.

Looking back at those days, he wondered why.

The Philippines had been easier, when they weren't in desperate combat with the Moros. He had struck up a liaison with an attractive native woman, she treated him like a king. Something he wasn't used to.

His mother had been a harsh woman, she had no doubt inherited that trait from her own mother. That lady had seen the worst of the Federal army when it had marched through Georgia on the way to the sea. Her husband, his grandfather, was no longer in the army when the Bummers¹ came through. It didn't matter that the man had lost a leg at Sharpsburg, all they saw was the hated gray uniform.

Their farm had been poor even before the war, there wasn't much there to plunder, but the Yankees did anyway. When his grandfather had protested, they'd hanged him from the oak tree which stood next to the barn. And still did.

"Thank the Good Lord your Grandmother isn't alive to see you in that damned uniform." He remembered his mother saying after his graduation from West Point. She'd loved the gray of the cadet uniforms, but now the reality of Federal service seemed to upset her more than ever.

Love and affection wasn't something he'd grown up with, the Philippines had shown him that life could be good, with the right person by your side.

"Tell us, Henri, how are the Americans?"

Capitaine Petit thought for a moment, sipped his wine, then answered.

"They are enthusiastic, they hurry about their duties as if they are being graded for a school exam. Clumsy in some ways, but they are persistent. They will repeat an exercise over and over until they get it right."

"They are big fellows, aren't they?" An older lieutenant asked that question.

"No bigger than our boys from the country. Most of these men are from farms in their upper Midwest. They have big appetites and a strong work ethic. If the Germans are smart, they won't engage them hand to hand. The Amis seem to relish fighting with their fists."

"When are you moving up to the lines?"

"Two days from now. The Colonel wants another battalion to go through the training course as soon as possible. The Maréchal² wants to intermix American units with French units, all under French command of course, in order to bolster our own lines with fresh troops. He wants them fully ready for conditions at the front."

"I understand that their Général Pershing wants the Americans to fight under their own commanders, have their own army covering a sector of the front."

"Yes, but they're not ready to face les Boches on their own, not yet."

Allen saw the small church near the center of the village, on a whim, he wandered in. It smelled of candle wax and wet wool, he sensed that the church was old, very old. He sat in a pew near the back of the church.

He had no idea what had compelled him to come here. But it was quiet and for some reason, it gave him a sense of peace. Something he'd been sorely lacking as of late. He kept having a premonition, that he would never leave France. That he would die here.

He'd been in battle before, he'd been badly wounded twice and had nearly been given up for dead at one point. But somehow he had survived. But now, this war? This war had been raging for over three years now with no end in sight. Thousands had fallen, what chance did he stand?

"Es-tu ici pour te confesser, mon fils?"

Allen had not heard the priest come up behind him.

"I'm sorry, Father, I don't speak French."

"Pas de problème, my son, I speak English very well."

And he did, though with a rather heavy French accent.

"Are you here for confession, my son?"

"No Father, I'm not Catholic, it just seemed that your church was a quiet and peaceful place to sit and think, before going back to my men."

"Well, I like to think it is a place where one might find peace. You are an American officer I see."

'Yes, Father, a captain of infantry. My unit is only just arrived." As he spoke, Allen wondered why he was so open with this man. What if he was a spy?

"Where is Eberbach?" The staff captain was unknown to Bauer, he seemed rather abrupt.

"Herr Hauptmann, he has gone to the rear to fetch the company's rations. Perhaps I can help you, Sir?"

The man looked around, he seemed disgusted by the state of the trench. "Is it always this filthy here?"

Bauer suppressed the urge to say that the war had interrupted their maid service, but the man seemed to have no sense of humor at all.

"It's the rain and the artillery, Sir, tends to tear things up. We just haven't had a chance to tidy things up today. The enemy keeps interfering."

The man snorted in disgust, then reached into his map case, pulling out an envelope.

"Give Eberbach this, his brother has been killed in action. Tell him that in quieter times there would be home leave. But not these days."

The well-dressed captain stomped off, grunting in disgust as mud splashed his greatcoat.

Bauer shook his head, as he recalled, Kurt's brother was a pilot, rather, had been a pilot. Sad that. Though tempted to open the envelope, he didn't, he'd respect Kurt's privacy. Though from the look of things, the army censors had not.

Allen felt drawn to this French priest. Though he hadn't been raised in any particular Protestant denomination, his mother was a Baptist, his father an on and off Lutheran, he had attended church services as often as he could, usually of whatever flavor the army post he was at offered.

He personally had nothing against Catholics, he'd met a lot of good ones in his service, but his wife and her family hated them as if they were the spawn of Satan. Something he'd actually heard one of his wife's uncles call them.

"Why are you really here, my son?"

"Really Father, no specific reason. But I've had a sense of unease ever since boarding the ship for France. This is my third war, and I fear it is my last."

Father Alphonse Ducheine nodded. He realized that what this American meant wasn't that he would not be able to go to war after this one, it was that he wasn't going to survive this one.

"Have you had such premonitions before?"

"Once, in Mexico. We had been ambushed by Villa's men, it looked as though we were going to be wiped out. But I suppose that's natural, fear of death while actually in combat. But this is the first time I've felt this way before ever going into action."

"How old are you, my son?"

Allen thought that an odd question, which he answered anyway, "I'll be forty-two next spring. I'm old for a captain."

Father Ducheine nodded, "Yes, of course. Sometimes as we age, we begin to ponder our own mortality. The young think they will live forever, I've seen dying soldiers think they will somehow recover, even as their life departs. They seem, what is the word? Yes, surprised, they are surprised that they are dying. But as you know, as we get older, we realize that death isn't only a possibility, it is a certainty. It is only the time and manner of dying which is a mystery."

"Were you in the army?" Allen asked, surprised.

"Yes, but not in this war. I'm a bit old for that. I was chaplain to an army unit in the War of 1870."

Allen nodded, he hesitated a moment, then asked, "Would you mind if I come and see you again, Father?"

"I would like that, mon Capitaine."

¹ Bummers was the nickname given to the foragers in William Tecumseh Sherman's army on the March to the Sea. They were hated by the southerners as they looted and vandalized many homes.

² Phillipe Pétain. A brilliant soldier in World War One, a traitor in World War Two.