Shell

Part 3: Transport. Lille, Belgium. April 22 1915

Lille, Belgium. April 22 1915

"Ich suche jemanden namens Hauptmann Gerhard Meyer?"

The Scarred Man was shouting his question to the group of disheveled soldiers as he climbed into the back of the diesel truck.

"I don't know a Captain Meyer. Anyone know a Captain Meyer?" Schmidt yelled to the group.

The truck echoed with no's and grunts as the truck rumbled to life and started down the road. They mostly rode in silence as the big diesel bounced and groaned down the bumpy country road on it's way through Belgium.

Schmidt wondered to himself why on earth this deformed soldier in front of him was headed back into the fray instead of using his wounds to get him as far away from this war as possible.

"That's a nice ticket home," Schmidt finally said to him, motioning to the Scarred Man's face.

The Scarred Man looked over with his one good eye, then at the other soldiers who were all staring.

He nodded.

"Should get you far with the Schlampes in Berlin," Fischer spat out, to chuckles from the soldiers.

"Hey fuck off," Schmidt shot back at him.

The Scarred Man lowered his hat over his face and looked at the ground.

The truck groaned on.

"Where was it?" Schmidt asked him, motioning to the scars on his the Scarred Man's face.

He looked up at Schmidt and finally answered, "They told me it was at Champagne." His voice was hoarse and his words garbled because the better part of his face was dysfunctional.

The others in the truck quieted at the mention of Champagne. Anyone who'd survived that, let alone the first year of war, deserved some reverence.

"What do you mean they told you?"

"They told me where it happened because I don't remember it."

"Champagne was a klausterfokken." Muheler muttered.

The group grunted in agreement. The Scarred Man didn't seem to know either way.

"Where you from?" Schmidt asked him.

"I don't remember."

Schmidt and Fischer glanced at each other.

"What's your name?" Fischer asked.

"Hugo."

"Hugo what?"

"I don't remember."

"What do you mean you don't remember?"

"After they took the metal out of my head, I woke up in Brussels. I don't remember how I got here. What I'm doing here."

"They couldn't identify you?"

He opened up his shirt to show where his identification tag had been. A bad replica made of scarred flesh was stamped in its place on his chest.

"They couldn't find my records from my hometown Berlin. I kept asking. Weeks would go by. They'd find nothing, or forget, or get busy. So I left."

"What do you remember?"

"Gefreiter Gerhard Meyer. From before all of this. From academy. He'll take me home."

For a moment no one said anything.

"Fucking Hairies," Fischer growled.

"Fucking Tommies," Muehler added.