The Shot was Fired

Part Three

     The war was now in its fourth month and life on the front was bleak. After a series of defeats on both sides, the armies of Western Europe had dug in; hundreds of kilometers of trenches had already been bored into the French and Belgian landscapes. The supposed six-week invasion of France had turned into months and it had become painfully clear to the German forces that they had been sold a bill of goods. For weeks now, battle had been waged near the Belgian city of Ypres, yet neither faction was making any progress but still they carried on with not end in sight. It was dismal, morale constantly teetering on the brink. The officers continued to assure the men that all they needed was one big breakthrough, however it was hard to swallow the pill they were being handed. Being awoken in the mud before the crack of dawn to the sounds of artillery fire, shivering in your boots as the morning frost took hold, hands shaking so bad that you could barely strike a match and light your cigarette. This was daily life now, this is what the war had become. The summer had turned to autumn, and soon autumn would turn to winter. The days grew shorter, the nights grew colder, and in no time the first snows would begin to fall. For Johann and his comrades, their optimism had long faded away.

      It was just an hour past daybreak and already gunfire filled the air and shells shook the earth beneath their feet. On either side of him he saw men preparing for the morning raid. The night before last a group of enemy soldiers had tried to storm their trench, but they had been blown away by the rapid-fire machine guns. He did not dare to stick his head up to look, in fear of being shot, but Johann did not doubt that the bodies of the young men were still lying in the muddy field like discarded trash.

     There were long nights, when the numbing cold took over and the rats scampered through the muddy, waterlogged trenches, where he picked apart everything he had ever believed. Is this what my bastard of a father thinks is just? If he were here now would he believe that this is noble, that these men are receiving a dignified death as they are torn apart by bullets or blown up by shells? Everything he ever told me was a bloody lie, I can't believe I ever trusted any of the scheiße that spewed from his mouth. If Konrad Dassler appeared before him in that moment, it would be a struggle not to strangle him.

     Thinking back on the old stories he had read, he wondered if those ancient soldiers had experienced what he was now. Did the Roman centurion contemplate his existence or whether Mars was right? Did the Spartans struggle with mortality when being thrashed by hordes of Persians? Did soldiers have to hold back their vomit at the smell of hundreds of corpses? Surely, they must have, Johann Dassler could not be the first to have such feelings. He understood why the tales never shared that part: you could not hope to inspire young men to fight if they knew the truth, if man knew that by picking up his weapon that he would cause such devastation, would he think twice before doing so? Johann wished that he could throw down his gun and simply leave, abandon his post and go back home to his little, quiet town; of course, the army would shoot him for his desertion and even if they didn't catch him his father surely would do it for them himself. I am well and truly stuck here, my life is now the rats, the rain, the mud, the stench of rotting flesh.

     Looking around him he saw sullen face after sullen face. How many of these men will be dead by nightfall, Johann wondered. Will I be one of them? The air was chilly and he could see his breath. Men rushed past him on either side as they hurried to finish their chores: repairing the sandbags that lined the trench walls, bringing supplies to the front line, cleaning and maintaining their weapons. In that moment he saw Paul bringing up the morning breakfast rations. He remembered the early days of the war when they had feasted on crispy bacon and fried eggs, now they had to suffice on meagre portions of porridge and burned coffee. Without even noticing him, Paul walked straight past Johann and continued on his way, wherever that may be.