Today We Are Brothers

On A Cold Winter's Day

Mid-December 1914, somewhere near Ypres

Joakim peered about with interest as he and several members of his platoon trudged behind half a dozen horse-drawn wagons, everyone's breath sending up puffs of white in the frosty air. They were on their way towards the little village where they were to meet with their quartermaster to collect and transport their supplies back to the trenches. From the gossip around the platoon, whoever was in charge of resupply didn't want to risk his men, or perhaps his motor vehicles, by bringing them all the way to the lines. This was supposedly the compromise which had been reached: the quartermaster corps would bring the supplies to this little village where command had made its headquarters, and then men would be sent back from the trenches to collect them.

A large building caught his attention as they entered the village, something that appeared to have been a concert hall or a theater, or perhaps a boarding school of some sort. It seemed unusual for such a small village to have such a relatively grand building within, but such things happened occasionally. His own village on the Danube back in Bavaria, had once been the home of a monastery. The grand church remained intact and looked rather like a giant hen surrounded by a flock of young chicks when seen together with the modest houses and shops. Even the gristmill where his late father had worked seemed tiny in comparison to the church.

The wagons came to a halt in front of the large building, and ordered the men to wait while he alerted the quartermaster's people that they were there for their supplies. He entered the building, returning a few minutes later with a frown.

"There has been some sort of delay, and our supplies aren't yet here," Pär informed them. "They are expected within the next few hours, however. I want no trouble, but you may amuse yourselves for the moment. Any fool becoming drunk and disorderly, or starting a fight, will be disciplined accordingly. Report back in three hours, at which time we will hopefully be able to pick up our supplies and transport them to the front with us."

"Yes, Corporal," the men chorused before moving off in several different directions.

"Jocke, will you come with us for something to eat and drink?" Hannes van Dahl called to him. "I spotted a tavern that seems to be open."

"Sure, thank you," Joakim said with a smile. Hannes, the son of a wealthy Berlin jeweler, had proven to be a friendly young man who never acted snobbish towards the men who came from poor backgrounds and lacked much in the way of formal education. He fell in beside the tall young man, walking behind three or four others who had the same idea.

Hannes paid for bowls of stew and mugs of beer for everyone in the group, sitting beside Joakim and talking wistfully about his family back in Berlin. But before he could get too maudlin, another of the men called out, "Hey, Jocke, give us a song, man!"

"Why do you always ask me to sing?" Joakim laughed. "I'm not that good!"

"Sure you are," the man responded. "You're better than any of us, anyway!"

Shaking his head with another laugh, Joakim washed down the last bit of his stew with the last of his beer, then said, "All right, I'll sing if I must." He thought for a moment, then launched into one of the bawdy tunes so popular with the men, earning a roar of approval before the others joined in. Three songs later, he called for a break for himself, slipping out to find the facilities as the tavern didn't seem to have indoor plumbing.

After taking care of business, he started to head back inside when he heard the distinctive sound of a piano, and out of curiosity, went to see where it was coming from. As he poked his head into the open rear doors of the large building, Joakim confirmed his initial impression of the place being a concert hall of some sort. A smallish upright piano sat against one wall, surrounded by boxes of ammunition and crates of rifles. He stepped further inside, seeing sacks of flour piled on the other side, with ropes of sausages hanging from hooks on the wall.