Reinhard had many things to do that day. First, he would apologize to Ernst. Then he'd renew his bandages, apply morphine to the wound gnawing at his side, and finally—if fortune was kind—a quiet, peaceful day.
It took some time to find Ernst. He was seated near the firestep, hunched over his bayonet, polishing the blade until it gleamed faintly in the trench's dim light. When Reinhard approached, Ernst was the first to notice him. Their eyes locked for a moment, hard and unreadable, before Ernst turned back to his task as though nothing had happened.
"Hey," Reinhard said quietly, easing down beside him.
"Hey," Ernst muttered back, not looking up.
Reinhard inhaled deeply, forcing himself to speak. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? I just—"
"No." Ernst cut him off, his voice low, heavy. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I'm sorry." His eyes lifted, sorrowful, softening for the first time in days.
Reinhard extended his hand. "Comrades?"
"Comrades." Ernst gripped it firmly, a faint smile flickering across his face.
But before their reconciliation could settle, a runner came stumbling down the trench, breath ragged, voice breaking. "Orders! Orders! All men to the front! We're going over the top!"
The words struck like a hammer. Reinhard's stomach dropped. He turned to Ernst with a dead stare. Why now? Why a siege? Both of them knew what it meant. No-Man's-Land was a wasteland of craters and corpses, littered with mines, swept by machine guns. It wasn't an advance—it was a slaughter. So much for a peaceful day.
The trench erupted into frantic movement. Men scrambled for positions along the parapet, jostling for space. At the rear, Reinhard glimpsed cavalry officers shouting frantic orders, mounting their horses as though cavalry charges still belonged in this war. The ground shook with the thunder of German artillery as shells rained down on French lines, tearing earth and sky apart.
Then, a new sound—low, buzzing, relentless. Reinhard craned his neck upward. Dark shapes arrowed across the sky, the brand-new German bombers. Dozens of them, flying in precise formation. They released their payloads in waves, and the horizon vanished in a storm of smoke and flame. The detonations were so immense Reinhard imagined the civilians in Metz could hear the earth groan.
On the far left flank, he saw men already clambering over the top, bayonets fixed, charging across the torn field. The trench around him grew tense. Reinhard's sector—the right—was silent, waiting. Each section of the trench had its own officers, its own whistle signals. Everyone knew the patterns, drilled into them again and again. But silence was deadly.
Then—a whistle from the center. Two sharp blasts, a pause, repeated. Some rookies near Reinhard panicked, thinking it was for them, and vaulted over the parapet. They lasted only seconds before French rifles cut them down. Their bodies crumpled into the mud, lifeless warnings for the rest.
Reinhard's knuckles whitened around his rifle. His hand was numb with fear. Ernst reached out, squeezing his shoulder firmly, steadying him. Their eyes met for a moment of unspoken trust.
Their whistle blew.
The world erupted.
Reinhard clambered up the parapet, boots sliding against the sodden boards, and then he was out in the open. The air was alive with screaming lead. Machine-gun fire cut through the ranks like a scythe through wheat. He saw men stagger forward only to collapse, their helmets tumbling from their heads as blood sprayed from shattered skulls.
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The ground shook violently as artillery slammed into the mud. Chunks of earth flew skyward; sometimes, it wasn't earth at all but mangled pieces of men. The air was thick, choking, filled with smoke and the smell of burnt powder, blood, and something sour that turned his stomach—burnt flesh.
The charge across No-Man's-Land was madness. The mud dragged at his legs with every step. Tangled barbed wire, half-destroyed by artillery, caught boots and uniforms, tearing flesh when men struggled free. The unlucky ones who fell onto it screamed until someone dragged them off—or a bullet silenced them.
Somewhere to Reinhard's left, a shell fell directly into a cluster of running men. The explosion swallowed them whole. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing but fragments and a smoking crater. The explosion swallowed them whole. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing but fragments and a smoking crater. His ears rang, his vision blurred, but he forced his legs to keep moving, the rifle clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
Cavalry thundered past, sabers raised. Reinhard barely believed what he saw—they looked like riders from an earlier century, magnificent and doomed. The machine guns cut them down before they reached halfway, horses tumbling, screaming, crushing their riders beneath them.
Then, suddenly, Ernst's hand grabbed him, dragging him down into a cratered foxhole. Reinhard collapsed against the wall, lungs burning, heart hammering. When he risked peeking up, something smacked into his helmet with a ringing crack that sent him sprawling back. Dazed, he tugged it off. The spike at the crown was gone, cleanly sheared. By sheer luck, his skull was intact.
"You all right, chap?" a medic gasped, crawling toward him.
"Fine," Reinhard muttered, though his ears still rang. Ernst gave him a sharp look—stay alive—before peering over the edge of the crater.
About twenty men crammed into the hole. Some prayed under their breath; others clutched at their rifles, knuckles white, eyes wild. They couldn't stay long. Artillery found foxholes sooner or later.
Reinhard swallowed, forcing calm into his shaking hands. "Anyone got a smoke?"
The men blinked at him. Ernst's brows furrowed. Finally, one soldier asked, "Grenade or stick?"
"Grenade."
Several hands rose. Reinhard nodded. "Throw them. When the smoke spreads, we charge."
The pins were pulled. Metal canisters hissed as they soared over the edge. Thick plumes of white and gray unfurled, curling and spreading, a screen between them and the enemy.
Reinhard didn't wait. He heaved himself up, boots slipping on the muddy wall, and scrambled over. The others followed, a desperate pack of shadows in the mist. Machine-gun fire tore through the smoke, tracers flashing, but the veil protected them. Men fell regardless—screaming, thrashing—but enough pressed forward.
The French trench loomed ahead, sandbags shredded, wire tangled. Reinhard yanked a stick grenade, hurled it, and ducked. The blast tore apart a section of parapet, sending earth and limbs flying. He vaulted inside.
Hell awaited.
French soldiers poured from dugouts like hornets from a hive, knives and bayonets gleaming. One leapt on a German, driving a blade into his throat; another tackled a man into the mud, stabbing again and again until the screams stopped.
Reinhard's rifle kicked against his shoulder. The first man he fired at collapsed backward, blue coat darkening with blood. Another lunged at him—Reinhard rammed his bayonet forward. It slid into flesh, stuck, and for a moment he was face-to-face with the man, eyes wide, mouth gurgling. He ripped the steel free, the man collapsing at his feet.
The trench became a nightmare of sound and motion. Gunfire cracked in his ears; screams rose and died all around. The duckboards ran red and slick. He slipped, caught himself, slipped again—only to realize it wasn't just mud beneath him but bodies, German and French piled together.
"Move!" Ernst shouted, grabbing his shoulder.
They pressed on, step by step, clearing dugout after dugout. The French began to break, panic spreading like fire. Shouts turned to cries of retreat. Soldiers scrambled up the parados, leaping out of their trench, only to be cut down by German fire from above.
Reinhard stumbled across a discarded machine gun. He dropped to his knees, hastily assembling it, and began to fire, the recoil jolting his body again and again. Rage boiled inside him—rage at the enemy, at the war, at the endless death. He fired until the belt was empty, until there was no one left in sight but corpses.
The German soldiers cheered, victorious, voices hoarse with disbelief. Ernst grinned at him, breathless, already moving to explore the captured trench.
But their triumph was short-lived.
A deafening blast erupted at the rear of the trench. Dirt and men alike were thrown skyward. Reinhard's heart sank. Far across the field, barely visible through the haze, thousands of French troops advanced—rows of infantry, artillery, and vehicles rolling forward like a tidal wave.
They hadn't won.
They had walked straight into a trap.