The shrill whistle echoed in the dusk light. Up and down the trench, the defenders piled up onto the firing step and sighted down their barrels. The evening had brought thick, rolling fog that obscured the view of the opposing trench. Whistles continued to sound from the shrouded unknown. Machine gunners double-checked that they could track back and forth without trouble, riflemen adjusted their sights, officers looked at their watches and nervously thumbed their pistol lanyards.
Deep Teutonic shouting picked up in volume from a low rumble to a thunderous din. The first attackers began to step out of the fog and began to drop from rifle fire. Sporadic firing began to pick up in tempo as more German soldiers poured from the mist. Machine gunners joined in the deadly cacophony, raking back and forth spraying deadly walls of lead. Whistles continued to sound in the distance, but their tune had changed. Instead of long bleats, the call was short, quick volleys of sound—the signal to fall back. As the fleeing attackers disappeared into the fog, the defender’s rifle fire slowly died down.
Captain Kowalski stood on the firing step and watched the slowly boiling mist for any sign of a renewed attack, but saw none. Tiredly, he stepped down from the top of the trench and slowly wiped dirt from his uniform. “Stand the men down, Sergeant.” He said to the short, barrel-chested man who patiently waited at attention. “Sir!” the sergeant snapped back, turned and went about his business.
“Krauts done for the day, Cap’t?” asked a red haired private, a new replacement in the company who Kowalski did not recognize.
“Probably, but keep your helmet on unless you’re in a bomb-proof. Shrapnel will end your war pretty quick.” Kowalski put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Where are you from?”
“Kansas, sir! Topeka.” The red haired boy smiled widely under his helmet. Most volunteers in the AEF were farm boys, but their wide-eyed idealism died quickly when called upon to go over the top and take the fight to the enemy. The AEF hadn’t been in the fighting long, but it had definitely taken its toll. Kowalski’s company had lost half of its strength in just a single attack and then lost half of what was left defending against German counter-attacks. He was glad to be reinforced, but he was dismayed when it was angry draftees and naïve volunteers and not well trained replacements gleaned from other commands.
“I’ve never been to Kansas, what’s it like?” Kowalski had long learned that it was best to be friendly with his men when he could, but not to shy away from harsh discipline when the situation arose—the men were better off for not knowing how their commanding officer would respond.
“To be honest with you, sir, there isn’t much to tell. It’s nothing like this, I’ll tell you.”
“Private, nothing is like this.” Kowalski decided this was a good time to break off the conversation. “Don’t forget to square your kit away while it’s still light. With Fritz on the prowl, there will be no lights outside tonight.” He walked away and down the trench. Some of his men looked up at him in acknowledgement, but none saluted. That formality had long since been proven meaningless. His men respected him because he never asked them to do what he wouldn’t and he was always fair in his discipline, regardless of how he personally felt about the offender.
His First Sergeant, McAdams, waddled up to him and rendered a rifle salute. “The men are stood down, sir.” He spoke in what was once a cockney accent, but it had been long tainted by Chicago polyglot. He had been in America for over forty years, but still insisted on acting like a British Sergeant he saw in a stage-play once. “Sir,” he hesitated, “why do you think they haven’t opened up on us with their heavy artillery? Just that light barrage before each attack, and nothing big. They should be hammering us to shreds right now…” He let his thoughts trail off.
“Word from Battalion is that they are short of shells like the Brits and Frogs were last year. Just a dozen rounds per gun.”
“You don’t believe that, do you sir? They got too much fight in them to be that bad off.”
“All I know is they’re not shelling is now and I’m glad for that. Thirty green replacements and the rest shell-shocked and tired? We’d be ruined by a heavy barrage.”
“Sir.” The Sergeant made it sound like an agreement.
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Morning came and the fog was still thick. Insects and birds chirped in the dawn silence—it always amazed Kowalski that animals still tried to eek out a living in the no-mans-land of war. Not total silence, but the incessant rumbling of artillery had long since become white noise to Kowalski’s ears.
Sergeant McAdams appeared next to him, and rendered a rifle salute. “All’s quiet, sir. Too quiet. You reckon the Krauts will try again today?”
Kowalski looked down at the set of orders in his hand. “We’re not going to give them a chance. This morning, we’re to mount a company raid into the enemy trench system and bring back intelligence and prisoners. Division has done the math and decided that the forces we are facing are no more than a single regiment, and that we’ve killed so many of them that they are now combat ineffective.”
“A little action will be good for the men, sir. And I could stand to stretch my legs.” McAdams again gave the rifle salute, this time with a little bounce in his step.
“I suppose, Sergeant. Anyway, we’ve got no choice. We move out in an hour, no preliminary bombardment, but we do have a squad with pigeons to request artillery support if we run into heavy resistance.”
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Slowly, the company advanced. By platoons in line, their front was several hundred yards across and three men deep. Kowalski was directly behind the lead platoon, McAdams behind the next and company and platoon officers and NCOs spaced as evenly as possible to ensure rapid communication.
Slowly the fog began to lighten and visibility inched further out. When his company had reached midway through no-mans-land, Kowalski held up his hand and signaled a halt. The men tensed for action as the officers readied their whistles.
Kowalski drew his pistol and made sure the lanyard was attached, in case he dropped it. He glanced at his watch and pulled out his own whistle. After taking a deep breath, he put the steel whistle in his mouth and blew through as hard as he could, making the steady sound of a steam whistle as opposed to the warble of a playground toy. It was echoed all around him as the lead platoon took off at a run, picking their way through the wrecked earth separating the opposing trenches.
Kowalski always found it hard to think when he was leading an attack; he just ran faster than everyone to get ahead and didn’t stop. But he couldn’t help but notice that the defenders were not firing into the fog, nor making any appreciable noise at all. His men noticed as well and slowed down, subconsciously commanded by the eerie silence. Walking forward, the fog magically disappeared at the lip of the German trench. His men standing still, staring down into it, Kowalski checked his pistol as he walked up to the edge himself.
The first thing he saw was blood, lots of blood. It was splattered on the wooden walls of the German trench. Then he saw torn clothing, covered in blood. Ripped and twisted flesh, some in gobs and some in shapes recognizable as bodies. But his men weren’t looking at that, Kowalski noticed. He turned his attention to further down the trench, where a lone German soldier was limping in his direction.
The lone German soldier was saying something, but Kowalski couldn’t hear it clearly. The lead platoon’s medic stood aghast, paralyzed by what was before him. Kowalski slowly put his hand on the medic’s shoulder. The man flinched and turned, wide eyed and frightened. “What do you think?” Kowalski asked. The medic just jerked his head back and forth. Kowalski nodded.
Movement in the corner of his vision drew his attention. A First Platoon replacement was walking towards the German; arms out, showing he was unarmed. He got closer and closer. The German soldier huffed at him and the rookie almost backed away, but pressed on and touched the German’s arm kindly.
“He’s shaking pretty bad, sir.” The man reported. “He’s mumbling something…”
“What’s he saying Private?” One of the platoon’s Lieutenants asked.
The private moved in slowly, bringing his ear close to the German’s mouth. The riflemen at the lip of the trench tensed up and aimed at the German, just in case.
“I think he’s praying, sir,” the rookie shouted, “It sounds like---AAHHHHHHH!!!!” The German bit down on the private’s ear and grabbed hold of him with vise-like strength. The private screamed as the German ripped the ear off and wouldn’t let go.
Above, the gathered rifleman shouted in English and German but the enemy didn’t seem to hear. The rookie in the German’s grip cried for help, but ended in wet gurgling as the German bit into his neck. Blood cascaded down the two struggling forms.
The German dropped the quickly dying private and turned almost directly toward Kowalski. The Captain stared directly into the German’s eyes and was shaken to his core at what he saw. They were glazed over white, the eyes of a long-dead corpse. The German let out a determined moan and the smell of decay wafted at him.
Shaken from his stupor, Kowalski shouted “Open fire!” Immediately, his men began showering the German with bullets. Wet thumps sounded as the rounds went straight through the German’s chest and did not stop his slow advance down the trench. In desperation, a sergeant jumped down into the trench and attacked the German with his bayonet, pinning him to the wooden wall of the trench. The sergeant pulled his pistol and pointed it directly at the German’s head and looked up at Kowalski, who nodded. The round exploded the German’s head in a wave of black slime. The body hung twitching, but attempted no movement.
“What the hell was that?” Asked McAdams, who had ran up to the front when he heard the shooting.
Kowalski shook his head, at a loss for words.
A soft moaning began, and the young private who had been bitten stood up, facing away from his former comrades. He turned. Kowalski saw the glazed over white eyes of a dead man.
