Stories of the Forgotten Heroes

Operation Judgement: The French Anvil and the German Hammer at Verdun

Field Marshall von Falkenhayn patiently inspected the detailed maps his aide de camp had brought to his table the night before after taking supper with the other officers making his General Staff. On his left were laid various photos of aerial reconnaissance the Flying Scouts had brought to him personally this morning, desiring a better picture of the situation than a simple map. He felt his head pounding from all the stress and the anger he had bottled up during this infernal battle, and the Kaiser was expecting the announcement of his victory any moment now. Unternehmen Gericht had all the indicators of a victory when they commenced it in February 1916 but at the current moment, it seemed that a stalemate had been reached which sooner or later could turn to his disadvantage. The constant bombardments which daily drained their stocks of artillery shells every time they were replenished seemed to make the French ever more determined not to lose the engagement. Curse that Pétain, von Falkenhayn muttered to himself, if not for him I would have reached Paris by now. It is time for drastic actions - otherwise, we will lose the war here.

The forest fire, caused by the continuous artillery barrage from the German side, spread by the rain of incendiary shells outlined two soldiers locked in a deadly fight for the last objective on the hill. One of them was clearly wounded, striking weakly but determined not to abandon his duty. The other had an unholy grin making his sweaty face look like he was one of Satan's minions whilst carrying a bludgeon. With one wrong move, his enemy fell on the ground, his arms outstretched as to beg for mercy so he could live another day. The survival instinct. It can make the bravest of the brave surrender. Only a fanatic believer would have done otherwise but he was not sure whether he would be graced with another day. Too much death surrounded him so to believe himself special would have been a mistake. The man standing was dressed in a blue military uniform, his head protected by his helmet. His eyes were shielded from shrapnel and other debris by a pair of round, aviator goggles which brought a shiver to the man lying on the blood-soaked ground. His face was covered so he would not inhale noxious fumes and carry in his left arm the deadly weapon. The wounded man fashioned a different type of helmet, camouflaged with an intricate pattern whilst his uniform was of dark green bordering black. He had a pistol with an empty magazine on his right and on his back a bolt-action rifle. The last of his platoon. A scout. Almost tearful he uttered Kamerad. Bitte. The other man almost struck the man down, but before he could complete the move he suddenly stopped. A raspy voice uttered a simple Oui and arrested him. The German had his hands tied up quickly and their march began. For Private Helmuth this was to be the end of the war. He could not believe that the enemy spared his life. Thoughts came rushing into his mind that he will be killed, or even worse, executed as the lowest of the lowly. His father was right. This place, this war, was Hell. And he was right in the middle of it.

The Frenchman helped the wounded prisoner walk and when they reached the first line of defense that the German High Command had ordered to be conquered by express order of von Falkenhayn only two days ago, he protected his prisoner from the furious glances of his comrades. Many would have wanted to avenge the deaths of their friends. Pierre Dumont brought him to the orderlies where a doctor attended to his wounds and other various medical needs and when he was strong enough the time came for him to be shipped to a POW Camp. Even Pétain came to inquire about the plans of the enemy. Although reluctant at the beginning, Helmuth told them everything he knew as they started threatening him with that ignoble death. After a hectic week, his fate was decided: he would be sent into a camp where he would reside until the War ended, but only because Dumont had interceded. Before departing he asked a favor from the Major that was escorting him. He duly gave permission although he felt that the vile Boche will try to do something to escape the clutches of his captors and return to his army where he could give all the details they needed but instead, he asked in his basic knowledge of French directions. He entered a dugout and quickly left a small gift to what has been a week ago his captor. When Lieutenant Dumont came into his dugout his eyes instantly fell on it. On the table, there was a picture, and in it was the family of Private Muller, his three daughters, and his wife. All smiling and innocent in their beliefs for they did not see what war can make out of men. With a heavy sigh, he went into his bed and wondered what would have been if he would have lost his patience and not listened to the man's pleas. Was this what they were? Nothing more than killing machines? Before falling asleep he found the answer he was searching for. They were pitted against each other by commanders and generals. And you were lucky if you retained some humanity in the process. But there was no time for feelings. In five hours they had to perform a counter-attack. The time came and the order given for the attack was shouted. The Lieutenant jumped from the trenches like the felines when hunting their meal, but they were prepared and when the sound of the machine guns began filling the emptiness, he was the first to die from his unit.

In a small French village 600 miles from the front, two elderly parents received at sunset the news of their child's death in the service of France. Words could not convey the pain they felt at that moment. At the same time, a young mother with three children received a letter telling her of the luck that had befallen him, and how he was now safe for the rest of the war. The figures standing in the open fields called their young granddaughter and embraced her as to shield her from anything that might threaten her life, and with tearful eyes told the young child how her father had died a hero, in the service of the nation. But she was too young to comprehend the enormity of the news; probably when she would grow up she would understand. Two years later, Helmuth, went home after the Armistice was signed and there was no man that could destroy his cheer as he had survived the war, unlike many, but to his chagrin, he saw with horror the rise of a horrible regime, but he was powerless as the masses followed that man blindly. In the end, he died fighting, for his life, in Dachau, in 1938 making his family finally proud of him.