The Inferno Awaits

Source

"Louis, Jean-Charles, Guillaume, let's go, le pinard¹ is here!" the Baron leaned into the dugout and beckoned Louis and his new comrades to follow him.

The new men, Jean-Charles Barrault and Guillaume Pasteur, hesitated for a moment, looking to Louis for guidance.

"Come on, it's not every day we get wine, even if it is the cheap stuff. Sometimes the quartermaster has the better stuff as well. Le pinard is free, if he's got the good stuff, it's only a few sous², what else do you have to spend your pay on?" Louis headed out, if they didn't want to go, he didn't really care.

Both men looked at each other, then followed Louis.

The wine wasn't that good, but it was strong. Louis felt dizzy after a single cup. It was the "good stuff" but it wasn't that good, he regretted spending money for it.

As he and the new soldiers drank, the Baron joined them, he'd been waylaid by their lieutenant on his way there.

"Any news, Sergeant de Neuville?" Guillaume asked, after finishing his cup.

"Yes, we're leaving this section of the front, we won't be going back into the line tomorrow."

Louis' face brightened, "Surely that is good news."

"Well, I don't know. The Boche are making a big push on another sector of the front and the RFV³ is screaming for reinforcements and replacements. Apparently it's our turn in the barrel."

Louis' face went pale as Jean-Charles asked, "What is the RFV?"

"It is the area around the city of Verdun. Lots of fortifications, artillery emplacements, and trenches. The Germans have taken the high ground east of the area, we are counterattacking, of course. But it's been bloody," the Baron answered in a somber tone.

Louis stared off into the distance, suddenly the filth and the danger of this sector didn't seem so bad. He moaned quietly, "Verdun, we're doomed."

The train was late, so of course as the battalion waited at the station it began to rain. The temperature hovered just above freezing but as the day wore on, the rain gradually changed to sleet, then to snow.

"What is wrong, where are the trains?" Jean-Charles asked.

"There's a war on, don't you know?" Guillaume quipped.

The Baron turned to them from his position to their front, "Quiet lads, no chatter. The train will arrive when it arrives. You haven't been in the army long enough to know that if something can go wrong, it will. Better to stand here and freeze than to be in a hurry to get to Verdun."

Their lieutenant came back from the officers' meeting and had news for them, "We won't be off until the morning, the major says to return to our old quarters." That caused a significant amount of griping in the ranks. The lieutenant waited for it to subside.

"If you ladies are quite done complaining, stand to attention, by the left, column forward!"

The company disappeared into the swirling whiteness, their footprints quickly covered by the rapidly falling snow.

Before dawn the men were awakened, Louis, along with the other veterans had been up for an hour by then. The snow had eased off and the temperature had fallen precipitously.

"Bundle up, lads, it's bitter out there, just be thankful that there is no wind," the Baron had the platoon in ranks and ready to move within minutes. Some of the newer men were lagging and he let them know that they could count on standing the first guard when they reached the trenches if they didn't pick up the pace. Which they did in short order.

"Alright men, we're heading back down to the station, the train is already there. Don't expect lovely accommodations, we're traveling in box cars. We call them 'forty and eights' as they're designed to carry forty men or eight horses. I know, I know, perhaps a better name would be 'forty OR eights.'" The lieutenant smiled at his little jest, then he ordered the men to step off.

The air was bitter cold, when the sun came up the light sparkled on the new snow. The men were wreathed in the steam of their own breath as they marched, shoulders hunched, heads down. No one wanted to breathe in too much of the frigid air.

As they came down the slight hill to the station, they saw that the train was indeed there and the rest of the battalion was boarding as they arrived. The platoon joined the queue and in less than an hour they were aboard their car. While they weren't jammed in, there wasn't much room inside to actually be comfortable.

When the train lurched forward, a number of the newer men cried out as they nearly fell.

"Calm down, ladies, learn to brace yourselves as the train moves. You'll get used to it by the time we arrive at Verdun. Believe me, in a day or so you'll be missing the comforts of this box car!"

The train eventually lurched to a halt after a fourteen hour journey. Normally the trip would be much shorter, but having to wait for wounded returning from the front, and ammunition and supply trains moving to the front, caused a number of delays.

As the men detrained, many heard the rumble of artillery in the distance. The newer men thought it sounded far louder than their old section of the front, Jean-Charles remarked on that to the Baron.

"Well, you're right lad. Our old sector wasn't quite as active as this one. The Boche have brought forward hundreds of artillery pieces to try and force us off this ground. We, in answer, have brought forth our own guns to keep them at bay. I'm afraid lads, that this will be a stern test of both our nerves and our courage."

Louis shuddered at the thought of what they were getting into, everything he had heard about this sector was that it was a meat-grinder, a place where both sides fed men into the horror of battle in their thousands, and saw them die in horrible ways.

As he stepped onto the platform, an older lady approached the platoon, "Thank you for coming to save us my brave boys!"

As the men marched off, one of them said, "Not like we volunteered for this, is it?"

"Save your energy," the Baron snapped.

Louis felt a chill come over him.

Even the Baron sounded terrified of what fate might await them.

At Verdun.

¹ "Le Pinard" was WWI French soldier slang for cheap red wine.

² An old type of French coin, often the French used this term for any coin less than a franc. (A pox on the Euro, Just my opinion.)

³ The RFV was the Région Fortifiée de Verdun

The Moral is to the Physical as Three is to One ...

Source

They were back with their unit, they had managed to stay in the rear for three days before the Baron announced that it was time to go back. Louis was reluctant, but the Baron was insistent. There were rumors of a mutiny on another section of the front, a unit had refused to go into combat.

An investigation had revealed that the unit, a reserve regiment, was badly treated by its officers and hadn't been paid in over a month. But, and Louis paid close attention to this, two of the men had been court-martialed and shot.

"Shot? Because they hadn't been paid and refused to move up to the line? Isn't that like workmen refusing to finish a job because they haven't been paid? Why weren't the officers punished? This seems ..."

"Outrageous? Of course it is, lad. But the men who were shot organized the refusal, they convinced the rest of the men that the army couldn't punish all of them. And they were right, they only punished the ones who convinced the others not to move up. As for the officers? Who knows, perhaps the colonel has relatives in the government, wouldn't be the first time the guilty go free because they have powerful protectors."

"It isn't right," Louis sulked.

"No, it isn't but that colonel brought disgrace upon the army, he'll be quietly shuffled off to some meaningless assignment. His career is over."

Louis sat up and waved a hand in the Baron's face, "But those two men, their lives are over, what of their families?"

The Baron studied Louis for a moment, he didn't like people getting in his face, but he took a deep breath and said, "Life is not fair, or haven't you noticed that by now?"

The remainder of the walk back to their unit, back in reserve once more, was silent.

"Ah, glad you could join us Sergeant de Neuville, Soldat Milhaud¹. I thought perhaps that you had decided to retire to the countryside and take no more part in the war." The major's² tone was jocular, but the look on his face was anything but.

"My shoulder was dislocated, Sir, Louis came to find me, I convinced him to wait with me until my shoulder was better. It was only three days, Sir."

"Only three days. eh, Sergeant? I think for that you should start your climb up the ranks all over again. But your actions, along with those of Soldat Milhaud, were praised by your lieutenant. So for now, you keep your stripes, do it again, I will not be so understanding. Are we understood?"

The Baron nodded and apologized for his actions, "I understand, Sir. May we report to our lieutenant now?"

The major shook his head, "Of course. You are incorrigible Baron, do not try my patience again. Now go, before I change my mind."

The next day the Baron awakened to find Louis gone. "I hope that lad hasn't got any fool ideas into his head," he muttered as he pulled on his coat, grabbed his rifle and left the old barn the men were occupying. There, next to a campfire, sat Louis, looking morose and perhaps feeling sorry for himself.

As the Baron approached, Louis looked up and glumly pronounced, "You were right."

"About?"

Louis gestured with his chin, pointing it towards the east. The Baron could hear the rumble of artillery, the occasional chatter of a machine gun. "The war, it's still there, waiting for us, waiting to devour us and all our comrades."

"There is nothing certain in this life, lad," the Baron tried to assure Louis.

"Please tell that to the men who have died up until now, please tell that to the men who will die before this futile war is over."

The Baron had had enough, he strode over to Louis, and grabbing the young soldier by the lapels of his greatcoat, jerked him to his feet.

"Futile? Would you rather just give the country over to the Boche? Would you let them once more dictate terms to us at Versailles?³"

"That's not what I meant, I only mean ..."

"What? What do you mean, boy?"

The Baron, furious, continued.

"We humbled those damned Prussians at Jena, and Auerstädt. We made them run at Fleurus⁴, we stopped them at the Marne, we shall stop them here. To quit is to surrender the sacred soil of France to their damned arrogant Kaiser. They invaded US! Remember that, boy, this war is not futile, it is a question of national survival!"

Louis stood in stunned silence, then he lowered his eyes to the ground and mumbled an apology.

"Don't apologize to me, boy. Apologize to those who have fallen by doing your duty, nothing more, nothing less."

The Baron stormed off, Louis had never seen the man so angry.

Later on, Louis was sitting outside a small shed within which some of the new men were playing cards. Louis' mood had improved, listening to these young soldiers banter and kid each other, reminded him of festival days in his home village. He heard a footstep behind him.

Turning, he saw that it was the Baron. He looked a bit sheepish as his sergeant slapped him on the shoulder then sat next to him.

"Feeling better, lad?"

"Yes, a bit ..." Louis paused, then added, "Actually much better, I've been thinking about ..."

"Don't think so much, lad. Simply do your duty, leave the bitching to me. You know I'm far better at it than you."

Louis smiled and nodded, "That you are, my dear Baron, that you are."

"Enjoy this day, Louis. We're going back up to the line tomorrow, apparently the Boche are getting restless and our presence is required to, how you say, calm them down?"

"And we do that by ...?"

"Killing them boy, killing each and every one of them until not another Boche stands on French soil. Even if it takes decades."

"Let's hope it doesn't take quite so long," a voice spoke behind them.

Both men turned, it was their lieutenant.

"I want you lads near me from now on, you're both good luck. Sergeant de Neuville, you are now my platoon sergeant, Private First Class Milhaud, you are now my platoon messenger. Is that suitable?"

Louis began to speak, the lieutenant interrupted him, "I expect you to have that stripe sewn on by tomorrow, Milhaud."

"Yes Sir, I will Sir, where ...?"

"You can have my old stripes, Louis. I have them somewhere."

When the lieutenant left, Louis was beaming.

"Easy lad, it's not like you've been promoted to Marshal of France," the Baron said, chuckling.

"No, but it's a start," Louis said, still grinning from ear to ear.

The Baron shook his head and said nothing. One moment the lad was ready to throw in the towel, the next he seems ready to take on the world. Now to keep the lad alive.

And that, was a sergeant's job.

¹ Louis' full name is Louis Gaston Milhaud. I realized that I hadn't given him a family name before now.

² I should point out that this rank in the French army of 1914 - 1918 (and earlier) was actually chef de battalion. But rather than inflict more French upon you, gentle reader, I've used the English term throughout this tale.

³ At the end of the Franco-Prussian War the German Empire was proclaimed from the palace of Versailles, home to generations of French kings.

⁴ What is called in English the Battle of Ligny, Napoléon's last victory in 1815 where the French defeated the Prussians.

The Attack

Source

Louis steadied himself as the ground moved and shook, the enemy trench was less than two hundred meters from their own and they could feel every round falling on the enemy. Louis almost felt sorry for them.

"Is it always like this!?" the young soldier next to Louis shouted over the noise.

Louis just nodded, he was trying to get himself ready to go over the top, he had no time to waste trying to encourage the others. It was all he could do to encourage himself. Fortunately the Baron was there as well.

He patted the young soldier on the shoulder, then shouted, "Keep moving forward, don't bunch up, listen to your sergeants. And yes, it is usually like this, sometimes it's worse!"

The young man, his name was Michel, Louis suddenly remembered, closed his eyes and crossed himself.

After what felt like an eternity, the whistles blew and the order was given to advance. As Louis climbed out of the trench he wondered at the dead silence. The guns had gone silent, there was no enemy machine gun fire. Somehow this was more terrifying than the usual chaos.

The men advanced steadily across no-man's-land, nothing was moving ahead. Louis said to the Baron, "Think they've fallen back?"

"Definitely, we need to move faster, get into their first line before they counterattack."

At that moment, the officers began to wave the men forward, faster, faster. At last they reached the enemy first line, it was deserted. The troops entered the trench system, jostling each other. The younger men began to cheer, as if they had won some great victory.

"Lieutenant, we can't stay here."

"And why not?"

"Their guns will soon ..."

Before the Baron could finish his sentence, German shells began landing in and around the trench system. Men were screaming, men were cowering at the bottom of the trench, some began to fall back to their old lines.

"Jesus, this is bad, Louis, very bad. We need to advance, not sit here waiting for their attack, meet them in the open, they won't expect that."

Louis looked around, the lieutenant was nearby, clearly confused as to what to do next. Louis had a sudden thought, he grabbed the lieutenant by his sleeve.

"Follow me, Sir!"

Slowly the rest of the company began to follow, the lieutenant looked wild eyed, he drew his sidearm, "En avant! Vive la France!"

Out of the smoke before them, Louis caught a glimpse of German infantry, advancing towards them. The lieutenant's shout startled one man, he looked up and turned to scream a warning, Louis shot him.

Almost feverishly the French infantry began to fire on the move, their shots went wild for the most part, but the Germans hadn't expected this, they hesitated. The French were on them in an instant.

Louis watched in horror as a big German sergeant rose up out of a shell hole, swinging an entrenching tool at the lieutenant's neck. Louis screamed at the man, who turned to Louis sensing the threat, but too late to counter it.

Louis withdrew his bayonet, the big German sergeant fell to his knees, his hands pressed tightly to his abdomen, trying desperately to stuff his intestines back into his belly. Louis kicked the man on to his back, he was no longer a threat.

"Lieutenant, we need to keep moving, they're starting to run!"

The lieutenant stood staring at Louis, his eyes kept returning to Louis' bayonet, which was dripping blood.

"NOW LIEUTENANT!"

Louis waved his arm and shouted to the men nearby, "At them, they're running!"

As the men advanced, shouting, cutting down any German who moved too slowly, Louis looked around for the Baron. He was nowhere in sight.

They overran the second German line, they caught multiple German machine gun teams preparing to advance. Only one crew got their weapon into action, it fired maybe five rounds before jamming. The Germans tried to surrender, the French soldiers butchered them where they stood, pleading for their lives.

The young man who'd crossed himself before the attack came down the trench with a prisoner. Michel's helmet was missing, his great coat was ripped in multiple places, his bayonet was red with blood.

The man he was prodding before him was an officer. The German was bleeding from his left side, Michel had apparently stabbed the man and he was stumbling badly, trying to keep his feet.

"Someone, an officer, please," the German called out in surprisingly good French.

The lieutenant stepped forward, "Who are you? Quickly or I'll give you to my men."

With a look of horror, the German's eyes swept around the trench, "I, I am Colonel Max von Littow, I am your prisoner, Sir." He held his hands out in supplication as he said this.

"What is your unit?"

"You know I cannot answer that ..."

"He's yours, Soldat," the lieutenant nodded at Michel.

"15th Bavarian Reserve Infantry, please, Lieutenant, mercy!" the German cried out.

The lieutenant nodded, "Thank you."

Turning to his men, he ordered, "Louis, you and Michel take this man back to headquarters, tell them we need reinforcements if we're to hold this trench."

"I'll see he arrives in one piece," Louis said.

"If he gives you any trouble, gut him and leave him to die."

The German's eyes went wide when he heard that, "I assure you, Lieutenant, I will make no trouble."

"You made trouble the day your army crossed into France."

Louis paused, then nodded at Michel. To the German he simply jabbed his bayonet at the man and barked, "Move or dance on my bayonet, you Boche bastard."

The German stumbled then began to move, Michel stayed on his heels, promising what he would do if the German hesitated even for a moment.

The German colonel understood the message very well.

As they headed back, fresh troops were streaming forward, word of the successful attack had gotten back already, now all they had to do was deliver the prisoner. Along the way Louis looked for the Baron, hoping he was okay but fearing the worst.

"A prisoner?" They were met at their old position by their regimental commander.

"Oui, mon Colonel."

"I see he is hurt, take him to the aid station. I'll send someone to collect him. Once that is done, you may return to your unit."

They delivered the German to the aid station, where they met the Baron. His arm was in a sling.

"Baron, you're all right?" Louis smiled at the sight of the man.

"Yes, tripped over a Boche, fell into the German trench and separated my shoulder. The medics say I'll be fine, just need to rest for a couple of days."

"We have to return immediately," Michel told him.

"According to who?"

"The regimental commander."

"Does he know your names? Do you think he'll check up on you? No, he won't. You boys can rest here, with me. Worry about the war tomorrow. It will still be there."

And when the sun rose again, the war was indeed still there.

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.

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."