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.

The Old Hometown

The Hartness House - Springfield, VT
OAFS Photo

I grew up in a small town, which has gotten smaller still since I lived there.

Now that my kid brother lives with my Mom, we don't stay at Mom's house when we visit, there's just not enough room. My brother has one half of the place, my Mom the other. As she ages (she'll be 95 in October) she isn't quite as capable as she once was. When my brother retired, he made the decision to go north and live with her.

He's doing a great job of taking care of her. As my other kid brother lives just across the river (Mom's in New Hampshire, brother is in Vermont) he spells the kid brother from time to time. Taking care of Mom is a full time gig, I can see that.

As my nephew manages the Hartness House, and his dad (my older kid brother) is the handyman, general maintenance doer and superintendent, we stay there now when we head north. First time was at Thanksgiving last year, this year was Mothers Day.

The first time we stayed there was in the addition to the back of the inn, typical hotel rooms, though roomier than most and with better beds (DAMHIK). The main mansion was having some work done upstairs so my nephew thought the back addition would be quieter. It was. (You can read about that here.)

This time we stayed in the main house, in an absolutely beautiful room.

Our Sitting Room at the Hartness House
OAFS Photo

I had a medical appointment that Monday so we could only stay the one night, which was unfortunate, the room was lovely. Actually, I should say "rooms." We had the sitting room, which had a fireplace, a bedroom, and a bathroom.

The only thing I didn't like about the place was the shower. The owner had insisted on installing an old style claw foot tub in the bathroom with a shower tent around it. My brother had tried to talk the owner out of it, but they were rather insistent.

It felt like you were suspended in space as the tub had a good foot to a foot and a half clearance all the way around. At one point I got a little disoriented (soap in the eye, dontcha know) and reached out to support myself. I was grabbing shower curtain and air, nothing else. A wee bit scary that.

It was also like trying to shower while wearing a shroud. When you turn the water on, there is less air within the curtains, less air, less pressure than outside the curtain. So the curtain envelops you as you try to shower. No fun, but I survived.

The Hartness House used to have a lovely restaurant which is now closed. Why? (You ask.) Well, it wasn't getting enough customers to be a viable business. The inn only seems to attract customers during ski season (though it is a fair piece from the nearest ski area, Okemo, about a 30 minute drive) and in the fall during foliage season. It's a shame, it's a beautiful inn.

Thing is, my hometown has gone way downhill since I lived there. It used to be known as "Precision Valley" from the number of machine tool plants in the area. My Dad worked at one, as did my Uncle Charlie. My maternal grandmother and grandfather also worked in those plants. As did one of my kid brothers and Your Humble Scribe.

But the fellows who ran those places either couldn't afford to retool to keep up with a changing world or felt they didn't need to. The industry was founded by giants and was inherited by mental pygmies. The latter sort also decided that, having the machine tool industry go elsewhere, building a prison on the outskirts of town would be a real moneymaker.

Nope, it brought a whole new set of problems. You see, prison folk, and their relatives, aren't really the sort you want in a town. Drugs are a serious problem in my hometown.

When I visited at Thanksgiving, we got about six inches of snow. Back in the day the plows would have been out as soon as it started to accumulate. Not these days. When I drove over to my Mom's Thanksgiving morning, I didn't see a plowed road until I got on a state highway.

Ye Olde Vermonter, who still lives there, in the house where I grew up, said that that was generally the case nowadays. He said that the town was run by a bunch of "ignorant teenagers" who don't know shit from Shinola. Seems to be all the rage in Vermont these days. Which explains a lot of things about my homeland.

Sad, innit?

But we did have a good time visiting my mother, though it is painful to see her in decline. It happens to all of us I suppose, still not fun to see it.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

I surely don't.

Sarge, out.

In Other News ...

OAFS Photo

There are days I feel like writing ...

This is not one of those days.

I was looking out into the backyard (which I mowed on Monday, proud of myself I am) and saw the way the branches looked on our dwarf Japanese maples. The Missus Herself has been trimming and training these little trees for over twenty years. I think she's done a wonderful job.

Below is a close in view of the branches, I love the way they twist and turn. Funny how the things you see everyday will suddenly jump into focus and it feels like you're seeing it for the first time.

OAFS Photo

Like Not Your Uncle Skip Says ...

When in doubt about what to write, you can always talk about the weather.

It's spring in New England which means the weather is anything but boring. Hot one day, jacket weather the next.

After our first 80° day back in April we turned off our mini-splits (the things we use to heat/cool the house, some folks call those "heat pumps"). So of course the next day it struggled to get to the upper 60s.

I guess that's why they invented sweaters.

Last week we finally changed the bed linen from flannel sheets to cotton. (For the record, I love my flannel sheets. In the winter. Warm weather, not so much.)

The first night was awesome, even slept with the windows open.

So of course the next morning was in the 40s.

Ah, New England, gotta love it.

Word on the street is that a nor'easter is headed this way. Lovely. High winds and torrential rains. The only two places I've ever seen it rain heavier was the Philippines and Florida. But those downpours would last thirty minutes or so. In Little Rhody they last all day.

But at least it ain't Texas where you get six inches in a day and the spiders want to kill you.

Juvat knows.

Screw This ...

I noticed a week or so ago that my left rear tire had developed a slow leak. It would lose five pounds of pressure over a week. As we're headed south in early June for vacation, I thought, "Hhmm, maybe I should get this fixed."

So I did. Turns out that there was a wee sma' screw stuck in the middle of the tire. Just enough to let the air leak out but slowly. The guy at the shop told me that "It was just a bit right of center."

Kinda like me.

I said, "Better a screw than a nail, the nail would've probably just let all the air out."

So the guy at the shop said, "Did you try tightening the screw to see if that kept the air in?"

I thought it was funny.

They patched the tire, no out of pocket to me. Seems that I had purchased some insurance for just this sort of thing when I bought the car. Oddly prescient of me, I usually forego the extras and the bells and whistles. But with the condition of the roads in Little Rhody, I must have realized that that was a good idea.

Yup, did the same for The Missus Herself's car as well.

The War Between Ad Blocker and YouTube ...

I remember when YouTube didn't preface (and interrupt) every GD video on their site. Then they started bombarding us with ads, everywhere, all the time. Then someone invented Ad Blocker, which is free and the ads went away, or flashed (as if coming to the surface one more time before drowning) then went away.

Now it depends on which day it is as to whether YouTube bitches about me using Ad Blocker or Ad Blocker blocks that crap.

It's a back and forth struggle, I'm rooting for Ad Blocker.

Firetruck Gargle and YouTube.

Speaking of YouTube, so many sites are now using AI that it's becoming a real puke fest. Robot-voices which mispronounce half the script and bogus artwork that is far from reality. Future generations will be dumber than rocks if this continues.

A pox on AI. A pox on SkyNet.

Lawn Mower Man ...

While I'm still not a big fan of cutting grass, I'm used to it once more. At any rate it gets me off my butt and out into the fresh air. As my dermatologist reminded me though, the sun wants to kill me, real slow-like. So I make sure to apply sunblock with an SPF of 10⁶ (or higher) so that I don't get skin cancer.

At least it's not like the old days where sunblock with that high of an SPF was rather like bear grease, or lard, you slather it on, go out and cut the grass, then spend an hour in the shower trying to get it off.

Loads of fun, but at least when I'm done for the day I can sit in The Missus Herself's lovely garden and have a beer.

Or two.

Stay Tuned ...

We'll get back to the First World War, I know Beans loves to read about the trenches. But I decided to give the Muse some time to herself. This current tale feels heavier than most. I feel something coming on, something dark.

And I ain't quite ready for that just yet.

Be seeing you.

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."

"What a Week, huh?"

 Well, campers, I can't say it's been exactly a fun week. Details to follow.

Update on the BIG project, the move. The guest cabins are all but finished, just some junk that needs to be transferred to the dump. 

"You said that last week. juvat! you slackin?"

Not exactly, Beans, you'll see why shortly. Whatever you do, after reading this don't eat anything you don't want to see again though.

Mrs J has been ruthless in getting rid of things. My office is quite uncluttered now. Hers should be by the time this is live. Kitchen is about 75% ready, just the island needs decluttering. however, we're holding that for a bit, it's where we have meals, read mail, deposit packages and so on. Rabbits don't reproduce as fast as "Stuff" does in that environment.

But...as I said, progress is being made.

One of the projects at the old house was to remove the old lumber from the deck. It had been sitting on the lawn for a couple of weeks. So, I finally got around to it.

 

 

No, not that kind!

I decide to pick up an armload of the lumber and put it in the bed of my truck. Then return and get another armload. I'm on trip 3, reach down to pick some more up.

I feel a very intense sting on the tip of my left ring finger.  It felt like somebody had stuck me with a sewing needle. Hurt like hell, but the wound was extremely small and no blood. 

So my first thought was scorpion. Unlike James Bond films, scorpion stings are not very deadly, so I didn't worry too much and finished loading. As I moved the last piece of wood, I noticed a spider nearby, it wasn't black, but tan, so I didn't think much about it. Silly me!

By the time I got back from the trash bin, my hand was throbbing and the tip of my ring finger was numb . Called an end to the workday (it was about 3:30) and put it on ice. In and out for about an hour, the ice hadn't seemed to help, so I decided to go to the Immediate Care clinic. 

I got there just as they were closing. They sent me to the ER which was busy, so it took a while. When I got in, the nurse looked at my hand, which was now bright red down to the second knuckle. She called the Dr in who said this would fade away over the next few hours and released me.

RIIIGGGHHHTTTT!

Didn't sleep much that evening which didn’t help my mood much, so I called our Family Dr's office and talked his nurse into slipping me in. Including a picture of the hand might have done the trick as I saw him about an hour later.

In the interim, I did a bit of research on the symptoms. Didn't take long when a picture of a relative of my friend I had seen on the woodpile popped on the screen.

Source

Not a black widow, a Brown Recluse. Everything in the article describing the bite and symptoms was spot on.

And one of those symptoms, very concerning, is something called necrosis. All of this I conveyed to the Doc.

He takes a look at it. There is now a black line going through the red (Fiery both in color and pain). I ask about that necrosis thing. He says that is concerning and that draining might be needed. He  calls a friend who's an orthopedic surgeon, explains the situation and mention that he thinks necrosis might be starting. Can we get on his schedule quickly?

There"s a bit more doctor talk, then he turns to me and asks if the next morning will work.

Why yes, yes it will!

 

Wake up the next morning at 0600 for an 0645 prep and 0800 surgery. all goes well and by 0900, I'm woken from my beauty rest and prepped for release.

Dr was smiling when he came to check on me. 

 He also said to keep the wound clean and dry. Ziplock bag and duct tape seems to work.

Yeah, I know. Bandage needs changing. Mrs J is out running errands. This was taken as this post was being written

Well, 5 days into this adventure, how's it going?

I'll let you be the judge.

Looks kinda gross, but it doesn't have as much black on it, so i got that going for me

Follow up visit is a week from Wednesday. We'll see what's what then.

 

Borrowed this for the post title from this Source

Peace out y'all!

P.S. I apologize for any Typos, Capitalization errors, or uncaught misspelled wrong words in this post. Typing with one hand is a bit much, fingers on the left are still numb. Hope (and pray) that feeling comes back soon.

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.