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

  A haze falls over me, a warmth that fuels my anger, my rage. Blood spatters on the dirt, bones shatter, and I hear the cries and moans of dying soldiers, distant in my ears. They scatter, but not fast enough. I am a terrible machine, a titan of murderous wrath, and I leave nothing living in my wake.

  My vision clouds, and all I can hear as darkness approaches are the agonized cries of the dying.

  A crackle of lightning sparks over my shoulder, and I twitch, stagger forward. For a moment I cannot see, and then my vision returns. I catch myself with a hand against the inner fortress wall. I steady my footing, stand still as I regain clarity. The rain comes down harder now, a deluge that washes away any lingering uncertainty.

  My eyes light on the Füsilier, on the other soldiers standing ready. The two scientists are already behind the line of soldiers, and one of them is whispering furiously at the Oberst. I hear a buzz, a droning sound that struggles to overcome the patter of rain against my metallic form.

  “I need to know.” My hand twists, and the final bolt loosens on my chestplate.

  The Füsiliers react as any soldiers would when confronted with such an unknown threat. Fingers tense over triggers, stocks jut into their shoulders, and I watch their eyes focus on their target. And that target is me.

  “Stoppen!”

  The other scientist holds his hands up, but his warning is too late. It always would be.

  I hear another shout, coming from one of the Füsiliers. An order to fire. Gunfire rings out, drowning out a rumble of thunder. A heat trickles through me, and like a switch reality fades.

  An artillery blast sounds, not far off, the shockwave rippling against my armor. I wait behind the barricade, crouched and ready for the oncoming British. I can hear their songs, their off-kilter tune as they march towards the wall and the fortified trench behind it. They all sound happy, victorious, thinking the Empire has abandoned this place.

  It is true that the Prussian troops have all fled this line, to reinforce the secondary batteries. But I have been left here, to strike as the British forces attempt to overcome the front. Hiding behind the barrier, unknown to them, I will lash out and punish the British cheer as the lone representative of the German Empire.

  There will be no more songs, not when I am done.

  I wait until a nearby cheer erupts from the British, and then I move. My powerful strides carry me past the barricade, into the opening, and I step into the clear.

  The smiles disappear from the closest British soldiers as they behold what stands before them. Their smiles are replaced with looks of shocked surprise, or blank stares. A shout carries into the air as they finally realize they are not alone here after all.

  A young British soldier is the first to die, too stunned to move back. He gets caught by my sweeping arm, and his helmet clatters to the hard ground as I send him twenty yards into the air. He crashes against an artillery barricade with a dull thump and lies terribly still. A pang of regret hits me. He was little more than a boy.

  The familiar rush of heat silences the feeling, and then I move and act in a blur. Only the war matters. Only the orders. I ignore the rifles, ignore the impacts and hiss of rounds whisking by. I am a force of nature, a whirlwind that overcomes the men before me. The first wave of British fall quickly, torn into pieces or crushed into bloody oblivion, cries dying in their throats.

  I rush into the next line of men, punching and smashing as I wade into their ranks. I catch a soldier by the leg, and hammer his body into the ground with a sickening crunch. The haze grabs me, latches on, and I feel that part of myself fading again, like a fevered bloodlust that I cannot control. A manic berserker from legend.

  Before I slip under the shroud of madness, something cracks. I feel it inside, cannot explain it.

  I wake, only I know that I am already awake. The rain is a steady drizzle now, and the darkest clouds have moved to the east. Lightning flashes, a far off spark. I look down, unsure what has happened, and I freeze, horrified.

  Several of the Füsiliers are strewn about me, lying still on the platform, or scrambling for safety. Both scientists are dead, their bodies beaten to a pulp. The living soldiers have taken cover behind a barrier near the inner fortress wall, and Oberst von Klaus is with them. Their panicked eyes stare at me, and I notice one of the soldiers is sobbing. He is young, and the memory springs to life, of that young British boy, and the way he landed. I killed him.

  Rainwater dilutes the blood, washes it away, but I see it all the same. These men, some barely so, I have killed them, too.

  “Oberst, I d-did not . . . mean . . .” I step back, raise my hands. I do not know who I am, or what I am. I do not know if they created this monster, or if I was this creature all along, under a false skin.

  The officer does not reply. He appears shaken, and his eyes cast furtive glances at the bodies littering the platform. A faint boom of thunder sounds, off to the east.

  I take another step back, and look over my shoulder. I am close to the edge of the platform, and have little room to move further back. Retreating one more step, to give the men room, I feel the chestplate rattle against the mounting rods. I glance down, see the plate hanging, with no bolts to secure it.

  A calmness settles over me, and I realize what I have to do. I yank off the chestplate, toss it over the edge of the platform. A sudden gust of wind whisks over me, and I feel a cold shiver.

  The woman appears in my mind without prompt, one of the many nameless faces in my nightmares. So familiar, so alien. I wonder if she was my sister. Or maybe she was my girlfriend, maybe my wife. The sorrow in her eyes, the concern, and I wonder if she was right all along. Did she know what would happen to me? Would she ever know, or was I already written off as a casualty?

  I picture her lips moving, the unvoiced words, and I realize with a sad smile that I can hear her now. She speaks to me, as if she stood right there in front of me, and something gives within, a soft crack. I can feel it, but cannot explain it, other than to say that I feel light. So light.

  “I am sorry, Oberst,” I say. “Please know that I meant these men no harm.”

  He says something, but I cannot hear him. And it does not matter. I turn around, face the platform’s edge. I glance downward. The crane sits far below, along with the ruined shell of the tower. I close my eyes.

  “I should have died at Verdun,” I whisper.

  * * *

  Inspired by: Nazi human experimentation

  Wilson Geiger

  Wilson Geiger has been gripped by fantastical worlds not quite our own ever since stumbling upon his father’s copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. He writes fantasy and science fiction stories when not maintaining networks, troubleshooting servers or fighting the good fight against computer illiteracy. Wilson resides in St. Louis, Missouri with his wife, two boys, and a possessive cat. Read more at wilsongeiger.com.

  Tradition

  * * *

  Elizabeth Moon

  July 31, 1914 Durazzo, Albania

  Rear Admiral Sir Christopher George Francis Maurice Cradock strode briskly along the deck of his flagship, H.M.S. Defence, walking off the effects of last night’s dinner with the officers of the S.M.S. Breslau. Despite the political tension of the past few weeks, it had been a pleasant evening of good food and good talk, punctuated by the clink of silver on china and the gurgle of wine into glasses as the mess stewards kept them filled.

  Only once had Commander Kettner revealed any hint of that German confidence which so nearly approached arrogance. “You English—” he had said, his voice rising. Then he had chuckled affably. “You have so much invested in tradition,” he had continued, more relaxed. “We Germans have a tradition to make. It is always so for vigorous youth, is it not?” The clear implication that the Royal Navy was superannuated had rankled, but Cradock had passed it off graciously. Time enough to compare traditions when the young eagle actually flew and dared its talons against Britannia’s experience. He had no doubt that rashness would be well
reproved.

  Cradock took a deep breath, and eyed the steep tile roofs, bright in morning sunlight, that stepped down to the harbor, its still water perfectly reflecting both ships and buildings. Behind them rose the mountains in which—in happier years—he had hunted boar. No foxhunting here, but a sportsman could find some game anywhere.

  He glanced over at Breslau, admitting to himself that the Germans had certainly reached a high standard of seamanship. Every detail he had seen the day before had been correct. Several of the officers had read his books; they had asked him to expand on some of the points he’d made. Only courtesy, of course, but he could not help being pleased.

  A thicker ooze of smoke from Breslau’s funnels stained the morning air. Cradock slowed. On her decks a subdued flurry of movement he recognized at once. Astern, the smooth reflection of the mountains shattered like a dropped mirror as her screws churned. He turned to his flag lieutenant.

  “What do we know of Admiral Souchon and the Goeben?” Cradock asked.

  “At last report, sir, the Goeben had made port in Trieste, then gone to sea for gunnery practice.”

  A cold chill ran down Cradock’s back. Gunnery practice? If the Germans were intending to declare war first, only they would know when. The Japanese had given no warning to the Russians at Port Arthur in 1904.

  “When Breslau weighs anchor, send word to Admiral Milne,” Cradock said. “And inform Captain Wray that we will be returning to Corfu immediately.”

  “Sir.”

  In short order, the German light cruiser was moving out of the anchorage, a demure curl of white at her bow that would, Cradock was sure, lengthen to a streak when she was out of sight.

  August 6, 1914. Early morning off Corfu

  Admiral Cradock considered, as he took several rashers of bacon onto his plate, at what point his duty to His Majesty might require disobedience to his superior, Admiral Sir Berkeley Milne. It was not a dilemma in which he had ever expected to find himself.

  When he raised his flag in H.M.S. Defence, a British admiral in command of a cruiser squadron in the Mediterranean could expect a constant round of visits to attractive ports, dinners with dignitaries who all wanted some concession, meetings with other naval officials, all conducted with the utmost ceremony. Here were the smartest ships in the Royal Navy, and the most favored officers.

  Now he commanded a squadron at war, a situation calling for very different talents than the ability to dance with a Prime Minister’s daughter or make polite conversation with French magistrates and Turkish pashas. And—more to the point—a situation in which mistakes would imperil not merely an officer’s reputation and future career, but the very survival of the Empire.

  Cradock knew himself to be an old-fashioned sailor. Seamanship was his passion, correct and accurate handling of ships in all weathers, placing them where they could best effect strategy. Seamanship required comprehensive knowledge of exact details: how to organize coaling, how to coil ropes, how to turn a ship in formation precisely where she should turn. Most important, it required naval discipline, on which both naval tradition and the whole towering edifice of empire depended. Lack of discipline led to slovenly seamanship, and that, in the end, to disaster.

  His responsibility, therefore, was to do what his commander told him. Therein lay the rub. Admiral Sir Berkeley Milne, Commander in Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet, had in the past few days revealed himself no Nelson. For three days, Milne had thrashed around the Mediterranean in vain pursuit of the German ships, shifting Cradock’s own squadron about in useless dashes, a waste of coal and energy. Now, on the second full day of war, when the German ships were in Messina and could have been bottled up by placing adequate force at either end of the Strait of Messina, Milne had instead taken his battle-cruisers off to coal in Bizerte—all the way to North Africa. He had ordered Cradock to stay at the mouth of the Adriatic, and placed only little Gloucester to watch the exit to the eastern Mediterranean, because he was sure the Germans would try to go west.

  Cradock was not so sure of that. What he knew, with absolute certainty, was that the Goeben would cause the Royal Navy immense trouble if she were not sunk, and that the Admiralty wanted her sunk. And he could not sink her from here, sitting idly off Corfu waiting for Milne to give sensible orders. That fox Souchon had plans of his own.

  As a technical problem of naval tactics, it came down to speed and guns. The German ships were faster, especially the turbine-powered Goeben, and Goeben had bigger guns that outranged his by several nautical miles. Thus the Goeben could, in theory, stand off at a distance where her great shells could pound the cruisers, and their shots would all fall short.

  He could think of ways to trap such a ship, ways to neutralize her superior speed and gunpower. What he could not imagine was any way to do it within the confines of his duty as a subordinate to Admiral Sir Berkeley Milne. This latter problem, one more of strategy than tactics, had occupied his mind the day before, disturbed his sleep, and—this hot August morning—it affected his appetite.

  He stroked his beard. He could understand why Milne had not followed the German ships into the Strait of Messina. England had gone to war because the Germans violated Belgian neutrality; she could hardly, in such circumstances, violate neutral Italy’s territorial waters. In terms of strategy, as well, Italy’s unexpected neutrality was a precious gift, freeing the British and French fleets from the threat they had most feared.

  But to leave the strait unguarded, except by ships too small to engage the Germans—that was folly indeed. Should he, even in the face of Milne’s contrary orders, move his squadron over to back up Kelly in Gloucester? No, because all that dashing about had left his destroyers short of coal, and in a fight with Goeben he would need their help. Coaling had to come first.

  He finished his breakfast without really noticing the taste and smell, mechanically downing bite after bite, and put his mind to the easier problem.

  He would need every ship under his command, cruisers and destroyers alike. If he could have ordered the weather, a storm at night would have been ideal, but this was the season of burning blue days, one after another, and bright moonlight made night attack in the open sea as dangerous as in daylight. Not in the open sea, then. Wherever the Germans went, after Messina, they would have to run to earth eventually. For all her speed, the Goeben devoured coal; that meant coming into harbors. Close to the intricate coastline of Greece or Albania, her speed and her range would be of less use, and he could—if he guessed where she was headed—be in position to intercept her, appear at his range, not hers.

  But only if he was free to do so. The solution of one problem doubled back to the insoluble greater one: Milne’s refusal to let him act as he thought best. Cradock felt like a horse reined in by a timid rider, unable to run freely down to his fences. And he knew he would be blamed for any failure, as a horse is blamed for a fall by the very rider who caused the problem.

  He pushed that thought aside—it did no good—and in order to place himself ahead of Souchon considered where in the Mediterranean he might go. West to harry the French, or escape via Gibraltar into the Atlantic? Not with three battle-cruisers who outgunned the Goeben, not to mention the French fleet, awaiting her there. North to the Austrians at Pola, their allies? No, because the Adriatic was a trap, and Souchon too smart a fox to run to an earth with only one door. Southeast to harry Port Said and the Suez, or Alexandria? Possibly, but where would he resupply? Or northeast, to Constantinople, with exits to both the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, exits easily mined and guarded by forts on land?

  If Souchon had reason to believe that the Turks would let him in, that they were thinking of allying with the Germans . . . that is where he would go. Of course the Turks should do no such thing—they had declared themselves neutral.

  But . . . were they?

  That was the question. Cradock spread marmalade on his toast and considered. Turks were Orientals, with who knew what logical processes. The British had been advisi
ng their navy, but the Admiralty had just seized two Turkish dreadnoughts under construction in British yards. The British had helped defend the Turks against the Russians, but they had also helped Greece gain her independence from the Turks. Which, at this juncture, would sway those devious pashas?

  A tap heralded the arrival of his captains for the morning conference. It began with a situation report from his flag lieutenant that located each ship in the Mediterranean, so far as was known. Cradock suppressed the comment he wanted to make. Milne was only just around the northwest corner of Sicily, and proceeding with measured pace back toward the Strait of Messina.

  “Where’s Indomitable?” one of the others asked.

  “Back in Bizerte, coaling,” Fawcett Wray, his flag captain said. “There was some problem with requisitions . . .”

  Cradock said nothing. He had done his small best to improve the coaling efficiency of his squadron, but Milne’s insistence on personally approving every detail made it almost impossible. He seemed to think initiative more dangerous than any enemy.

  “Requisitions!” That was Coode, captain of destroyers. Cradock had heard him on other occasions; now he cocked an eyebrow at the young man, who subsided like a kettle moved off the fire, steam almost visibly puffing from his ears.

  “Gentlemen, the German ships will have to emerge today, or face internship.” That got their attention. “Let me explain what I expect them to do.” Quickly he retraced his reasoning on the possible courses of action open to the Germans.