Wars to End All Wars: Alternate Tales from the Trenches Read online

  The Bavarian officer grabs my lapel and arches back his oaken command stick.

  “Herr Colonel!” the Adjutant cries as he grabs onto Von Machen. “My deepest apologies, Colonel, but I beg you, remember the mission!”

  The words diffuse the Colonel’s anger. He releases me and straightens his uniform.

  “I’m told you’re a soldier of excellent potential, Lance-Corporal Trumann, so I am willing to overlook your impudence. But make no mistake, the German Army needs the image of heroes far more than it needs their lives. One telegram is all it takes for you to be up to your neck in the French mud again, or facing my firing squad. Remember that.”

  The Colonel taps my chest with the stick once more and turns on his heels. “Come, Schneider.”

  I exhale my relief as the footsteps recede.

  “Now, my idiotic young Corporal,” Sergeant Drescher says. “Let’s discuss why we don’t upset superior officers.”

  By 0730, we are making preparations for the mission ahead. Dresher didn’t dwell on my reprimand. He fought at Verdun; he knows the horrors as well as I.

  “We’re all victims of circumstance,” he told me. “All that matters is that we do our utmost, god will judge the rest.”

  At 1200 hours we march our way down to the troop trains running from Mons out towards the battlefields.

  By 1500 hours, we arrive in Vimmy. The threat of rain darkens the sky. We march from the troop train into the barn of a local farmyard. As soon as we open the doors, my eyes drift over the giant steel behemoth before us.

  Its body is a huge steel barrel some twelve feet high on its side; the top scrapes the barn rafters. Its nose, for that is what it looks like, is a giant steel corkscrew, encrusted with dried dirt, and adjoined by four smaller screws positioned around it.

  I move around it, my jaw gaping open in wonder.

  The sides are thick sheets of steel, bolted together with rivets. Smaller square plates are also positioned across the drum’s centre, in between small belts of tracks, the sort you see on farming machines.

  The rear holds a round hatch adorned with a wheel. I look towards Sergeant Drescher, but he seems just as startled by it as the rest of us.

  The hatch wheel on the behemoth suddenly turns and Oberstleutnant Hauptmann steps from within, followed by a crowd of men in oil smeared overalls.

  “Ah, Drescher.” He offers a salute. “I’m glad you got here safe.”

  I call the unit to attention and Hauptmann addresses us all.

  “Stand at ease. Allow me to introduce Wotan. He is the prototype in a line of vehicles which we’re calling the Panzer, a name befitting its shape I’m sure you’ll agree. Wotan is impervious to the pressures of subterranean drilling, and will allow us to manoeuvre units of soldiers through the battlefield without fear of bullets or shellfire depleting them. Wotan will help us achieve a victory of unprecedented speed and fury, and with luck, you will all be home with your loved ones by Christmas.”

  I see the disappointment lying just below the blank faces of the young soldiers, disappointment at the prospect of a short battle. I shake my head softly.

  They haven’t got a clue.

  Even though Hauptmann’s assurances twinge a feeling of hope and joy deep within me at the prospect of a world without war, I remain sceptical. I’ve heard many such promises.

  Hauptmann clasps his hands together. “Now, you’re all eager to know why you have been specially selected for this mission I’m sure. Your curiosity is finally at an end.”

  Everyone glances at each other. I see Lars look at me with that naïve smile once more and my stomach clenches.

  “We are in a privileged position,” Hauptmann continues. “We have strong reasons to believe that the British are developing such a weapon as Wotan to devastate our defences and have received confirmation of such.”

  He grabs a nearby folder and passes the photographs around.

  The photographs are shaky and unfocused, and yet reveal the undeniable devastation of a German trench system. Cavernous dark holes roughly five yards in diameter dominate the photograph, along with tremendous mounds of mud cast across the floor.

  “This was found by a relief battalion last month. No survivors were found. No bodies either. Soldiers followed the tunnels as far as they could, but none had props, and so the tunnels inevitably collapsed.

  “The area these photographs were taken lies on the front, a little over three miles to the south. Your orders are to embark the Panzer. The pilots will transport you beneath the battlefield to the enemy reserve lines where we believe they are holding their prototype. You will emerge from the ground and engage the enemy. Once the enemy in the immediate vicinity have been eliminated, you are to retrieve any information you can. We will provide you with a small case of explosives which you will use in the event of discovering the enemy panzer. When you have completed all of this, you are to ignite the red flare provided and return the way you came. The flare will be the signal for the general forces to advance on your former position and secure the area. Any questions?”

  I put my hand up, but Drescher interrupts me. “No sir, no questions. We’re ready.”

  The inside of Wotan is cramped and hot; the whole barrel smells of sweat and oil; and the noise is deafening. Engineers at the front work the controls, navigating by compass and stopwatch alone as the mighty steel screw burrows into the earth. We sit along the thin benches at each side of the barrel, arranged into order of emergence. I make sure Lars is at the back.

  There’s barely enough legroom to begin with, and the floor between is littered with the crate of explosives, and four MG08s, all loaded with long belts of bullets and strapped down tight.

  The panzer dips dramatically as it burrows, forcing us to grab hold onto whatever we can find.

  The huge barrel continues its descent for a long while, giving us ample opportunity to get used to it. None of us try to talk, but I see one of the men whispering prayers. I do my best to calm my nerves by counting the turns of the giant corkscrew, that I can judge by the rhythmic scraping noise reverberating through the hull.

  I get to five hundred before we begin levelling out and my nerves begin to take hold.

  We unstrap the MG08’s, and fix them to the pintel mounts bolted onto Wotan’s walls.

  “One minute, boys,” the engineer yells over his shoulder as he clicks his stopwatch. We settle in for another long wait as Wotan tears through the rock beneath no man’s land. This time, every single one of us is listening to the sounds around us, terrified that we’ll be intercepted by the enemy panzer.

  After what feels like an age, we ascend. We fit our gas masks and return to listening for the sounds of the enemy panzer, hunting us like a shark in the ocean.

  I feel sick. My breath is hot and moist against the leather of the mask. Despite its coverings, I can hear the explosions on the battlefield above us, and feel Wotan struggle, churning through the deep rock.

  The roar of the corkscrew hastens, and we lurch forward, off balance.

  “We’re here!” the driver calls.

  The engines die down, and Drescher yells orders. We open three of the hatches and shove the machine guns into them. The panzer becomes a torture chamber of reverberating sound. The younger soldiers clutch their ears. No one can hear Drescher’s orders anymore.

  Dortmund and Frederick clamber over us, desperately fighting towards the rear hatch in panic.

  I grab them as they shove past, yelling for them to stop, but my cries go unheard, and I can’t maintain my grip. They unscrew the wheel and shove themselves out the hatch. Lars abandons his position to go after them, but I tackle him to the side of the barrel. The sergeant yells out of the hatch, through his mask before moving outside. He stumbles on the cumbersome hatch lip, and his helmet falls. He hesitates, trying to recover it, and receives a bullet in the skull for his troubles.

  Six of us are left. Two firing the machine guns, tilting them towards the front of the panzer, the rest compressed ag
ainst the side of the barrel in panic and fear.

  In this moment, when it matters most, I lose all fear. I take up position by the side of the hatch. No ricochets or near misses come my way as I survey the darkness.

  I curse as I realise the situation we’re in and motion for the men to stay where they are. I pluck up the courage for a second look. No gunfire again, but this time, white flares illuminate the sky. The trench looks silent, and I see only Frederick, face down a few yards from the back wall of the trench. Dortmund is gone.

  I raise my gas mask and yell back, as a ferocious explosion rocks the panzer.

  “We’ve overshot the reserve trench,” I repeat. “We’re going to have to back up!”

  “I’ve already tried!” the pilot yells as he recovers from the blast. “The track’s blown off. We’ve got to get out of here or we’ll be pummelled to death by shells!”

  “Schieße!” Heinz calls in desperation.

  “We’re just going to have to run for it,” I say, grabbing one of the flares from the box on the floor. “Fix bayonets, keep moving, and don’t run straight.”

  I pull Lars to one side. “Stay near me,” I whisper.

  I know it’s not the right advice, but I feel responsible. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.

  I count to three and we charge. Rifle fire peppers the hatch now as we emerge, accompanied by sporadic explosions as the British turn their own guns from the reserve trench towards their own rear. Two of us are hit: Lander is killed outright, and we have to leave Heinz injured on the high ground, yelling for his mother. I’m not remorseful. My thoughts are subsumed deep within my memories, dwelling on the last trench I assaulted. Ghosts of pain echo through my body as I drop down into the darkened trench.

  The artillery fire creeps towards us as we clatter onto the duckboards. I crouch against the sandbag wall, showered by dirt from over the parapet.

  The trench is deserted. There is mud, and shattered duckboards on the floor, and even the presence of footprints on both, but not one rotting British corpse lines the floor, nor a single rat feasting on the dead.

  How can this be?

  I collect my thoughts.

  “Private Hauser,” I say. “You and Stardt demolish the communications trench and man that Vickers gun. The British will storm our position any minute. Make it hard for them. Keep the panzer engineers safe. Lars, Weismann, you come with me.”

  They all nod. I see the horror in their eyes as they try to adjust to the tame sample of war they’ve just been served. Hauser and Stardt get to work, and Lars begins fumbling for his camera. I wrench it out of his hands and throw it to the floor.

  “You set that bulb off and the artillery will have a pinpoint location to aim for.”

  “Sorry, Lance-Corporal.” Lars nods to me and we move along the trench line, using the jagged corners as cover. As we enter the next length, I see two silhouettes emerging from a dugout. The outline of British uniforms is unmistakable to me. The crack of a rifle flares beside me, and the first Tommie staggers to the floor, clutching his chest.

  “Nien Shissen!” the second Tommie yells in German, dropping to the floor to help the man.

  “Hold your fire!” I yell over the sound of Hauser and Stardt’s grenades detonating the trench channels.

  Weismann looks at me apologetic. “But Lance-Corporal . . .”

  I cut Weismann off as Private Dortmund suddenly emerges from the dugout.

  “Where the hell have you been, soldier?” I ask.

  “Sorry, sir,” Dortmund says, his gun covering the Tommies before him. “I was securing the trench as ordered. When Wotan got stuck, I charged, thinking to lead the attack. I thought you were right behind me, but when I got here, nobody was around me.”

  The Englishman interrupts us, speaking in angered tones, but I can’t understand him.

  “Where did you find these men?” I ask Dortmund.

  “They were hiding inside the dugout. They’re the only one’s around.”

  “Do any of you know English?” I ask.

  “I do,” Lars says, making his way beside me as another shell lands close by.

  “Ask him where the others are.”

  Lars does so. The Englishman looks nervous as he replies.

  Lars turns back to me. “He says that his name is George, and we’re all in terrible danger; that it’s coming, and we need to get out of here.”

  “Does he think we’re deaf and blind?” Dortmund says.

  I cast a stern gaze to Lars. “Tell him we want to know why this trench is abandoned. Tell him if he doesn’t answer, we will throw him over the top and his own country’s artillery will deal with him.”

  As Lars relates the threat, a more sustained barrage pummels the ground nearby. Smoke drifts into the trench, and Weismann scrambles for his gas mask. I place my hand on his arm, calming him for the moment. “It’s only a screen,” I say, patting him, “but get ready, they will be coming.”

  As the shelling stops, we all feel it. The vibration in the ground is soft and barely perceptible through my boots.

  I put my finger to my lips and strain my ears. Everything’s silent, even the chatter of Hauser and Stardt’s Vickers gun has stopped. I double my efforts, trying to locate the source.

  It can’t possibly be the British panzer; there isn’t a single mechanical sound to it.

  Without further warning, the soil directly beneath our feet erupts high into the air. The duckboards are lifted from beneath us and we’re scattered across the trench floor.

  A huge jagged maw, atop a pulsating pink body bursts from the ground, swallowing mud and the injured Tommy as it does so. Only his limbs remain, shaking with involuntary impulses from the severed nerve endings.

  Screams ring out in a chorus of German and British alike.

  My eyes bulge and I scramble backwards as the gigantic silent worm slithers from the ground.

  The writhing bulk of flesh crashes onto the trench floor, its body touching both walls as it slides towards me briefly before burrowing into the ground again.

  Weismann fires frantically at the thing. If it bothered the creature, it didn’t show.

  As the creature disappears into the now gaping hole, George begins to run back along the trench, towards the sound of Hauser and Stardt’s Vickers gun. I yell for him to stop. He understands and hesitates, thankfully.

  “Lars, tell him to get back to the dugout, quick!” I say, just as the trench wall by my side explodes with a shower of sandbags and mud, revealing the demonic mouth once more.

  “Albrecht!”

  Within a second, Lars is there by my side, stabbing at the thing’s writhing dirt smeared body with his bayonet. Its hideous mouth curls around, searching for prey and as I gaze down its awful, giant throat I can smell nothing but rancid, rotting death.

  Lars stabs at the skin furiously, forcing it to withdraw back underground, collapsing the wall as it goes.

  Lars helps me to my feet and we clamber through the devastation, back towards the dugout.

  Weismann, Lars and George are first into the dugout. As I reach the doorway, Dortmund pauses, listening to the screams of the dying British in no man’s land.

  “They’re getting closer,” he says, foolishly looking out over the parapet.

  “It’s no good,” he calls down. “There’s hundre—”

  I catch his body as he falls back down into the trench. He’s dead before I rest his head to the floor.

  My heart pounds faster as the ground begins to tremble again. I grab the flare I took from Wotan, and fire it high into the night before scrambling into the dugout. Our only hope now is in the bravery of our fellow soldiers out on the line behind us.

  I once thought that the darkness was my friend. It offered a blanket of protection from the eyes of the enemy. Now it only masks the direction our death will come from. I close the door to the dugout and I haul myself onto one of the billets, staring towards the earthen floor.

  Outside, the shelling has
begun anew, this time from our own guns with a barrage so ferocious, it matches the beating of our hearts.

  Dust falls from the ceiling. The pounding is relentless.

  George says something.

  I lean over as far as I dare to, snatching at the Englishman’s shirt, hauling him towards me.

  “What was that thing?” I ask, unleashing my rage.

  Lars jumps to the floor from the opposite billet and claws at my hands. “Let him go, Albrecht! He doesn’t know anything!”

  “How do you know?” I yell at him.

  “Look at him,” Weismann says grimly. “He’s as scared as the rest of us.”

  We all turn to face him. He isn’t struggling, just hanging from my arms, unflinching to the earth shattering explosions outside. He mumbles and his voice is low and full of sorrow.

  Lars climbs onto the lower bunk and speaks to him. I can see his skin draining of colour as he translates.

  “Yes, he says he doesn’t know either. It showed up about a month ago and began taking the men. They radioed their command, but were ordered to stay put and deal with it, but how can you deal with something like that? They expected to be relieved from the line, but no reserves arrived and his company’s been isolated from the rest of the line. None of them have dared flee for they could see it, scouring the no man’s land at night for food, feasting on the fallen. He says it’s more active on the eve of attacks. He thinks the shells hitting the earth somehow summon it.”

  “Those lying bastards!” Weismann curses. “Those tunnels weren’t the work of a panzer. There’s no intelligence to gather, and there’s no panzer to destroy. I say we need to get out of here.”

  “You’re not in command here,” I say.

  “Even if we try to get out, how can we?” Lars asks. “If we leave and are spotted, both German and British will assume we’re the enemy and kill us, that’s if the . . . thing doesn’t pull us down into the ground as we run.”

  We fall silent and I rest my head onto the rough woollen blanket, listening to the sound of the explosions.