Reinhard jolted awake, his breath ragged, the Frenchman's face still vivid in his mind. For a moment, he thought he was still in the trench, rifle in hand, smoke choking his lungs. But no—it was dawn again, pale and gray, and the war had not relented. Around him, men shifted uneasily in their sleep, groaning, coughing, muttering through dreams they would never speak of.
He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to rise. Ernst was already awake, binding his shoulder with trembling hands.
"Another day," Ernst said flatly. "Another day in hell."
Reinhard said nothing. His fingers brushed against his coat pocket, where the Frenchman's identity disc still rested, cold and heavy as lead.
It had been months since the French assault. The German commanders had sent the 1st Landwehr Division to their aid; thousands of cavalry, artillery squads, engineers, and ground troops had flooded through the trenches. For Reinhard, it felt like an eternity; he couldn't help but continuously replay the death of his victim in his mind.
New officers had come, giving speeches of honor and duty, but everyone—even Reinhard—knew it was pointless. The old companies and divisions had been broken, their comrades long gone.
Calendars and posters were placed around the trenches to keep morale intact. Today was October 3, two months since he had arrived. The air was becoming dense and frigid, the once-beautiful grassy field now reduced to mud and dirt from continuous artillery fire. Men around the trenches called it No-Man's-Land—no one could cross it and live.
Ernst had informed him he overheard the commanders planning a winter siege to catch the French off guard.
While Reinhard strolled around the trenches, he saw sentries on duty, staring into the unseen fog that cloaked No-Man's-Land. Whispers spread—rumors that the French would attack again, using the fog as cover. Fear and desperation hung over the men. Reinhard's commanding officer seemed clueless; he often ordered patrols over the top, which led to massacres until the higher command noticed the alarming decrease in numbers and put an end to it. Whenever this officer was asked to give a speech, he always barked the same line: "For the Fatherland! Never back down!" But nobody knew his name, and nobody cared to. So Reinhard and the others mockingly called him Boche, borrowing the French insult.
As Reinhard walked farther into the trench, he saw men lining up in columns, handing letters to the Feldposters for home. For a moment, he considered writing to his family—but what would he say? He had always hated his father, though perhaps he could write to his mother. He shook off the thought and continued his patrol until he reached the empty back end of the trenches. With nothing else to do, he turned back toward the right flank.
Then a strange humming noise stopped him in his tracks. He followed the sound until he saw Grucher, suspiciously patting around the bodies in the burial area with a large sack slung over his shoulder.
"Grucher?" Reinhard called aloud.
"Oh! Yes, it's you, Reinhard. How are you? And what are you doing this far back in the trenches?" Grucher asked, straightening and brushing dirt and mud from his uniform.
"What are you doing back here?" Reinhard asked, his tone sharp.
Grucher gave a sideways grin. "My commander ordered me to salvage any remaining materials or supplies from the dead. Supplies won't be sent until the beginning of winter. I'd better get back to work. See you later." He turned quickly and walked away before Reinhard could ask more questions.
Reinhard stared after him, unsettled. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed back toward his position, still wondering what Grucher was really doing there. Now that he thought of it, Grucher didn't even sound like a German name—barely European at all. Could he be a spy, impersonating a medic? The thought lingered, but what could Reinhard do? Report it to Boche? He shrugged it off and returned to his flank.
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By dusk, it was his and Ernst's turn for sentry duty. Ernst was polishing his rifle on the fire step when Reinhard arrived. Once he saw him, Ernst gave a sly smile and stood. Reinhard grabbed his rifle and joined him.
As they walked along the soundless trench, Reinhard recalled how Ernst had once wanted to be an aeroplane pilot, not a foot soldier. "What happened during your enlistment?" Reinhard blurted.
Ernst shot him a confused sideways glance. "What do you mean?"
"You said you wanted to be a pilot, didn't you? So how did you end up here?"
It took a moment before Ernst replied. "I asked the enlister, but he said there was a shortage of aeroplanes. They needed fewer pilots and more ground troops." His firm tone made Reinhard drop the subject, but something about it felt wrong. This wasn't the Ernst he knew—the joyful, cheerful Ernst.
Without thinking, Reinhard pressed on. "Are you sure? I've heard—"
"Just shut up!" Ernst snapped. "My life has nothing to do with you, you understand? So what if I'm lying?" He scowled and stormed off, leaving Reinhard under the moonlight.
Reinhard stood speechless. He had never seen Ernst like this. Cursing himself for asking foolish questions, he sighed, glanced at the pale moon above, and continued his patrol.
As he walked, something darted past—a fast-moving shadow. Instinctively, Reinhard followed. It was impossible to tell who or what it was. He relied only on the sound of footsteps and the creak of planks beneath. The chase led him to a dead end at the back of the trenches.
Had he imagined it? Perhaps Ernst's scolding had shaken him more than he realized. He turned to go back—when a cold, hard object pressed against the back of his head.
He froze. Dropping his rifle, he raised his hands and turned slowly.
A French soldier stood before him, pistol leveled.
"Move, and I'll shoot," the soldier said in broken German.
Reinhard obeyed, sinking to his knees. His mind raced. He had to act, or his life would end here. He scanned the ground for anything. His bayonet was still fixed to his rifle. He swore to himself he'd keep it closer next time—if there was a next time.
Desperation took over. Reinhard lunged, grappling the Frenchman's wrist and forcing him down. The pistol clattered to the dirt. The soldier swung a fist into Reinhard's side, but Reinhard ignored the pain, tightening his grip around the man's throat.
The Frenchman was strong. Too strong. Reinhard realized he couldn't choke him. He released one hand and fumbled for his bayonet. The soldier shoved him aside and scrambled for his pistol. Reinhard tore the bayonet free, raised it high, and lunged.
The Frenchman had already grabbed the pistol and leveled it at Reinhard.
In that instant, everything slowed. Reinhard's blade plunged into the soldier's neck at the same moment the pistol fired.
Then—darkness.
When Reinhard came to, the sky was still dark. He must have been out only minutes. He tried to rise but collapsed in pain—a bullet had torn through his shoulder. Moving it was like moving a building.
The French soldier lay motionless, blood dried around his throat, his lifeless eyes fixed on the stars. Reinhard whispered a prayer and closed them.
As he turned to report the incident, something caught his eye. A folded paper stuck out from the soldier's knapsack. Reinhard pulled it free. On one side, words scrawled in French. On the other, detailed sketches.
A machine. A strange motor. Rhomboid in shape, with tracks along the sides. Cannons jutting from each flank, and a machine gun at the front.
A war weapon.
The French were building machines unlike anything Reinhard had ever seen. He knew at once—this must go not to Boche, but to the commanders.
He stuffed the paper into his pocket and forced himself toward the officers' tent.
Inside, they were gathered around a map. Reinhard burst in. All eyes turned.
"You are not invited, soldier! Leave now!" one officer barked.
"Good God, Gregor, calm yourself. What happened to your arm, son?" a younger officer asked, eyeing his wound.
"There was a French soldier in the trench, sir. I killed him, but I was wounded. His body is in the far-left trench. I found this on him." Reinhard handed over the paper.
The officer studied the design, passed it along, and turned back to Reinhard. "Thank you—for killing him, and for this evidence. Get yourself taken care of, kid."
Dismissed, Reinhard left the tent. As he walked away, he caught fragments of their whispers: "We need a translator... What is this... Report to the..."
He sighed. The medical tent awaited him, which meant facing the annoyingly cheerful Karl—not that it was the worst thing.
And so, Reinhard went to be patched up.