Introduction and an excerpt

Welcome to my blog! I wanted this to be a place where I can share my ongoing creative writing with anyone interested in reading it. I wanted to release these in small bits and with any luck I will have enough to compile a short story. I may occasionally introduce another work if I feel like taking a break from a larger story

I wanted to start off with a story that takes the point of view of a German soldier from WWI. Throughout the course of his story he will undergo conflicts internally and externally. 

This work has been under revision for awhile now, but I feel like I am getting closer to what I would like the final draft to be.

Prologue

Yvette held the picklehaub in both of her hands after removing it from the hat box hidden away in her closet. This was something best kept out of sight lest the wrong set of eyes see it. Collaborators who made the lives of the German Imperial soldiers easier whether real or perceived were still at risk of being driven out of their communities. Any memento could draw the wrong conclusions to a casual observer. Just getting her life back together was hard enough and would be even more complicated if she had to uproot yet again. Deep down she often felt anger about the occupation and four years of servitude to the occupying powers. Despite this, she thought about the man that this piece of war gear belonged to. He was dear to her and was just as much of a victim of the war.

Yvette was impressed with the amount of detail placed into an ordinary soldier’s helmet. Its black finished leathery shell shone slightly in the sheltered light of her bedroom. The leather still retained some of its distinct smell with that of the brow sweat of exertion. It was a pleasant smell to Yvette, but she would never admit to it. The supple feeling of the chinstrap was in contrast to the outer beetle like carapace. She attempted to bring back the original shine that the helmet once had, but couldn’t quite restore it to its full former glory despite her skilled hands. The new buckles she added to the chinstrap looked suitable. The smudges on the brass chasing weren’t, which she made a mental note to clean up after her shift. The chasing paled in comparison to the perfectly polished brass spike that shot up from the crown of the picklehaub.

“What an oddity,” she spoke aloud. She was thinking as much about herself as the object she held.

After making a mental note of what work she was going to do next to fully restore the helmet she placed it carefully back into the box and onto the top shelf of her closet amongst her fading blouses and skirts. Most of her flat was still in a state of unpacking and it didn’t quite feel like home yet. Then again, no place felt like home for many years now.

Although none of Yvette’s immediate family survived the conflict she did have extended relatives that she could move in with to continue her schooling, but now she preferred to live alone, which wasn’t common for a young woman of her age. Yvette valued her independence like an art collector values a Rembrandt.

Chapter 1

“What do you think Günter? Do you believe that the Americans will side with us?” Anson queried, then paused, awaiting a response. None came so he continued, “It does make sense if you think about it. After all we have never gone to war with the Americans and the British have had two wars against them so far; surely we have a common enemy. Not to mention all of the German immigrants that call America their home now. I hear in some parts of America they still speak German. Imagine that…” His series of utterances sending plumes of steaming breath in the frigid air like smoke signals.

“I think you shouldn’t be concerned about whose side the Americans are on. It’s the French and the English you should worry about.” Günter snapped, visibly irritated with this topic, “The British are just one-hundred yards over our trenches, unless you forgot.”

“Where are our Central Powers allies? You would think they would be helping us like the English are helping the French.”

“Shut your mouth! I’m tired of your questions.”

“I think our allies have other problems on their borders,” Said Kurst under his breath to Anson. Kurst was the first to gather up Anson and the other new recruits eight days prior. Anson was immediately impressed with his dueling scar, which was very noticeable across his left cheek and quite fashionable. Anson assumed he came from a well off family to be able to take fencing lessons. His teeth were also very white and straight which suggested a well-to-do family lineage. Anson was not very tall for his age of eighteen years compared to his new unit, but was fit from a childhood of work. He couldn’t grow much facial hair yet so people assumed he was much younger than he really is and his short curly hair and freckled skin added more to his youthfulness.

Günter was a corporal and the first higher ranking person that he reported to. Günter was in a foul mood today more so than the last. As a matter of fact Günter always seemed surly towards Anson ever since he was stationed to this regiment. It had only been eight days, but the stresses of waiting day on end were weighing on them all. Anson dealt with stress differently than his compatriots, he was a daydreamer by nature. It was a welcome distraction when he didn’t want to dwell on the stressors of his life. His most prized possessions were books on mythology. Anson had only a handful and he hoped to acquire some more now that he was earning regular pay as a soldier. During some of his most recent daydreaming he imagined his newly assigned unit were like an order of knights who would gladly lead a charge were the order to be given. From the earliest days of his schooling Anson would often receive the consternation of his teacher because of his frequent classroom daydreaming bouts. He would lose himself in thought and miss out on what the lecture covered. If he was bullied by a classmate earlier that day he would daydream about being as strong as an ogre so he could stand his ground or be clever like the few to outwit those too strong for even an ogre. His father hoped his son would grow out of this sort of nonsense, which still continued much to his disappointment. Anson wouldn’t let Günter’s irritability bother him today. He felt a compulsion to catch a glimpse of his enemy and decided without much thought that he would pull himself up using the planks that made up the walls of their trench.

“Get down you idiot.” Günter gripped Anson’s oversized jacket to yank him back in the trench.

“I was just trying to see what the Brits were doing.” Anson vainly exclaimed, “It’s been too quiet. I was expecting a fight when I got here! We are only a few kilometers from Paris. Why don’t we just take it?”

Kurst, who was also eavesdropping on this interaction chimed in, “You should listen well to Günter. Out of the whole unit he has been at the front the longest.”

After a moment of silence Günter’s mood changed like shifting wind. He responded, “Aye, you talk about just taking this or that as if sheer numbers or courage mattered. I’ve seen my comrades cut down like a farmer cuts down wheat with his sickle. We were marching in neat rows on our way in like toy soldiers singing our company slogan, if you can imagine that… We don’t do that anymore.” That was the end of any conversation for the rest of that day as they all went about their various duties of making these new trench works livable. Autumn was approaching and everyone was looking to extract the most comfort from a hole in the ground.

The rains had come soon enough, which made the digging that much more miserable. The battlefield was recently a farm and rain would normally have been welcome, but the farmer and his family were forced to abandon this land. The shelling and trench works transformed this bucolic setting into an industrial age nightmare. Anson caught sight of a cavalry man’s horse long dead tangled up in barbed wire. Anson grew up around horses and felt sorry for this one, discarded like any piece of equipment that no longer served its purpose.

In some areas along the German line the trenches filled up waist high with filthy water after an hours’ worth of rainfall. Every day the task was the same, to keep digging and extend the trench works. Each step was an ordeal. The muck absorbed each foot and holding tight letting go only with some effort. Once the planks and sandbags were set then it was time to advance to the next swampy section. If the rains ever stopped concrete would be poured in to offer better stability and protection. The best shelters even had electricity. It’s not so much that Anson was averse to hard work. Under normal circumstances it would offer him a time consuming task where he could daydream a bit along the way. He lived on a farm until very recently and maintaining the fences, stables, and shelters was a constant activity.

Anson enjoyed the brief respite afforded by the earthen shelters dug into the hillside. There were a few every hundred odd feet and they were the closest thing to a real living space on the front lines. As long as there was work to do in the trenches in this rain, one would never be fully dry. The pleasant remnants of pipe smoke attracted Anson to this particular shelter where he encountered two other soldiers from his regiment. Both had removed their picklehaub helmets to give their scalps a chance to breathe. Anson didn’t know either of them very well. One was a big bear of a man whose overcoat was a bit too small, his face was gruff and weary of the day’s labors. The other soldier was slender, but more masculine and weathered than Anson. He acknowledged Anson with the slightest nod and then returned to the task of clearing the ashes from his pipe. “I recognize you two as we deployed from Brussels, you two are reinforcements like me. Correct?” Anson inquired.

The large man merely nodded, it was difficult for Anson to pick up if this was an acknowledgement or if he was nodding off from exhaustion. His uniform was a bit too small for him being such a bulky fellow.

“Aye, mate. We are.” The other spoke his voice had a slight rasp, “He is Johan,” gesturing to the large man, “and I am Dieter, but my friends call me ‘Erich’.”

“Nice to meet you Johan and Erich.”

“You will call me Dieter.” The new acquaintance said with a measured seriousness, letting those words sink in as Anson went slightly pale. “I kidd! I actually hate that name.” Erich laughed out.

The relief was welcome at the joke. Anson preferred the camaraderie of the men in the unit who could make light of the serious situation they were in rather than those, like Günter who made every moment tense and uninviting.

Hours passed by and the three men sat in the wan lighting of the den as the sun set in the distance. Neither Erich nor Johan were very talkative, despite a few attempts on Anson’s part to strike up a conversation. Anson started to see how some of the men who had been here longer than others were like puppets in a fashion. They did as they were told by their superiors and that was all. There was no connection or camaraderie here between men. Anson’s train of thought was broken as another man stepped in rubbing has hands together for warmth. He did recall seeing this man about his age once or twice around the front lines. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and a squarish jaw that reminded Anson of what a boxer should look like.

“This bunker isn’t as nice as the one toward our artillery, but it will do. Good evening comrades.” He said.

“Aye” and “good evening Julian.” Were the simultaneous responses from Erich and Johan.

“Hello,” Anson responded.

Julian directed his attention to Anson as he unstrapped his rifle and removed his helmet, “You must be one of the reinforcements.”

Anson nodded, “Yes, this is… not quite how I imagined war would be. I thought I would be leaving the manual labor back at home,” He admitted, with a tinge of disappointment. “This is one big standoff. I haven’t even seen our enemy yet.”

“I don’t think I’ve been completely dry for at least five days now.” Anson added after a moment.

Johan responded with a doubtful “humph”

“Yes, yes,” Johan said with a slight smile. “You might not believe this now, but be grateful for these boring moments. You have a chance to write your loved ones a letter or two. It’s so much better than being sent to the meat grinder.”

Erich nodded in agreement to what Julian said. Anson understood what was being explained, but he didn’t want to believe Julian. He didn’t come here to live like a rat. Sneaking, digging, and hiding every day.

Later that evening they ate a simple provision of canned meat, undercooked grains, and some looted red wine. It was heavy food, but also satisfying. A few other men from the unit joined them who seemed more talkative than Erich and Johan. Anson made an effort to remember their names, but could only remember Julian and Kurst because of the dueling scar on his left cheek. The other two soldiers seemed somewhat abrasive to Anson, but this was true of most of his encounters at the front. Nobody was too interested in him, being new and unproven. Anson was eager for the moment to prove his worth to his unit.

As they neared the end of their meal Günter arrived to eat his ration with the other men. Anson was eavesdropping on a conversation that Julian was having with the unit veterans Kurst and Günter. “Believe me.” Julian said with conviction, “I did see a great beast of a machine break through our lines up north. It came with the first wave attack just after the artillery barrage,” Anson couldn’t quite make out the next comment, “… British invention.”

Anson couldn’t help but chime in now, “What’s this you speak of?”

“You’re quite nosey, aren’t you?” retorted Günter. He stood up and wiped the food crumbs off of his uniform, “Well men, I’ll believe it when I see it. Until then, it’s just another rumor.” With that statement Günter stepped outside again to smoke.          

“Please tell me Juilan! I’m fascinated with war-machines.” Anson pleaded. “Was it anything like the Trojan Horse?”

“Calm down man!” Erich chided after a gulp of hot coffee.

“Now friends,” Julian explained, “I know that you might be skeptical of what I saw, but perhaps our new comrade Anson will be more open minded.” Julian then told Anson what he saw and it was the most fantastical and frightening thing he’s ever heard.

Anson could hardly sleep after the rains subsided. Word was spreading like wildfire that an attack was impending any day now from the British. Plus he was imagining what it would be like to encounter this war machine that Julian described. It sounded like a great mechanical bull that could plow through any defense. Anson figured that such a monstrosity should have a name like other mythical monsters like Grendel or Fafnir. Perhaps Jotundr, the Juggernaut? It sounded right to Anson so he went with it. Jotundr, forged in the foundries of hell and unleashed for the Great War. A machine with a soul that was powered by the lives it took. Anson was prepared to delve deeper into this idea until one of the men on patrol outside the bunker had a fit of coughing.

He wasn’t the only one who was still awake in the pre-dawn light, Johann was slightly propped up on his bedroll in their den, fiddling with something too small to see. Erich who was at the far corner was shifting around unable to get comfortable on the planked flooring. Kurst, Julian, and Günter were all fast asleep their breathing slightly audible from the occasional dripping of water from a leaky roof.

Anson imagined being back in the cozy village Torgny. Although his stay was brief he liked it there. The air there smelled like fresh tilled earth and there were a few attractive women that caught his eye. Fanciful thoughts, yes. He could tell the locals were fearful as they passed through, avoiding eye-contact often, they were the Kaiser’s soldiers after all, seeking to vanquish the foes of the German Empire. Anson didn’t like the idea of being thought of as an invader, he wanted the people to see him more like heroic warrior from ancient times, off on some holy mission to slay a mythic creature of old. Feeling stifled, Anson had to step out of his den into some open air to take a deep breath. Another soldier who’s name Anson blanked on edged out right behind him.

“Where you off to?” Croaked Anson, sounding like an illness was setting in from the constant clinging wetness.

“The latrine. What’s it to you?” The visibly irritated man retorted as he walked away down the length of the jagged trench. Anson had no reply, just a shrug.

He watched for a moment as the soldier was heading off into the darkness and was about to walk the other way until he glimpsed a dark figure slip down from the side of the trench right behind other soldier. It gripped him and plunged something into his neck. The lifeless body had fallen down two more figures slipped over the side. Anson’s heart lurched into his throat. They were under attack!