CHAPTER 4 - HULLUCH, FRANCE—APRIL 28, 1916
Bruno Wahler—a mustached, twenty-six-year-old German oberleutnant with a dense, muscular build, like a Greco-Roman wrestler—was hunkered inside a small dugout, reinforced with rough-cut timber and sandbags.
Sporadic shell explosions rumbled the earth, dropping bits of soil into his hair.
It was after midnight on the western front, near the village of Hulluch.
After two days of vicious battles, the trench attacks had paused.
But before the sun would rise, another lethal German offensive—one that would utilize Bruno’s unique expertise—would commence.
Bruno approached a soldier in his dugout, who sat at a table made of scrap wood from a demolished wagon. “When was your last wind measurement?”
“An hour ago, sir,” the soldier said, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Bruno poked his head out of the dugout and peered to a moonlit sky. Clouds slowly drifted toward the British lines, but an angst remained in his gut. “Do it again.”
“Ja, sir.” The soldier took a drag on his cigarette, and then snubbed it out it in an ashtray made from a brass shell casing. He gathered his wind vane and anemometer, which was used to measure the speed and direction of the wind, and left the dugout.
Alone, Bruno sat at the table. Under the dull glow of a lantern, he took out a letter he received from Anna.
Bruno smiled and rubbed stubble on his chin.
An image of blinded soldiers flashed in Bruno’s head. He’d seen many of them—victims of gas, shrapnel, and splinters—shuffling in single file, eyes bandaged and their hands on the shoulders of the sightless soldier in front of them to guide their way.
You’re quite a caring soul, Bruno thought. It’s one of your many adorable qualities.
They’ll adore you. A mixture of longing and chagrin flowed through his veins. However, it’s I who will struggle to gain their affection.
Bruno had expected for the war to end soon after their engagement, and that they’d now be married and living in Frankfurt.
But the conflict had intensified and, despite the enormous death toll, the front was a stalemate.
It might be years, Bruno believed, before he’d permanently reunite with Anna.
German soldiers had to serve a year at the front before they had the possibility of going home for two weeks, and it would be many months before he’d see her again.
The only chance of curtailing the war, Bruno believed, was to surpass Allied forces with military technology.
Bruno’s parents, Stefan and Eva, lived in Frankfurt, not far from Bruno’s much older half-brother, Julius.
Stefan’s first wife had tragically died from drowning when she’d fallen through thin pond ice while skating on the family estate.
Less than six months after the woman’s funeral, Stefan married Eva, who had been his mistress.
She was twenty-three years younger than Stefan, and she’d caught his attention, according to rumors amongst Frankfurt socialites, while performing as an exotic dancer.
A year after their marriage, Eva gave birth to Bruno.
As a child, Bruno wanted—more than anything—to win the endearment of his parents.
However, his mutter had little experience, nor the desire, to care for a child.
Instead, she dedicated much of her time to social events, trips to purchase fine jewelry and clothing, and frequent getaways to a family chalet in Switzerland.
Most, if not all, of the child-rearing duties had been provided by nannies.
Meals. Discipline. Bedtime stories. Visits to the park.
Help with schoolwork. The bandaging of skinned knees.
Even the consoling of hurt feelings was delegated to employees.
To Bruno, Eva was more like a distant aunt than a nurturing mutter.
While Eva was occupied with spending her newfound wealth, Stefan was consumed with his thriving business, Wahler Farbwerke, a large dye manufacturer which he ran with his son, Julius, who was nearly old enough to be Bruno’s vater.
Striving to fit in with the Wahler men, Bruno studied sciences throughout his school-age years, even though he would have preferred learning about arts and literature.
Eventually, he obtained a degree in chemistry from Ludwig-Maximilians-Universit?t in Munich.
His vater was pleased, and he gave Bruno an apprenticeship in the family business.
Within months of Bruno beginning his career, war erupted and Wahler Farbwerke entered into lucrative supply contracts for the military.
“Your brother and I would like for you to meet a friend,” his vater had said, rolling a cigar between his fingers.
“His name is Fritz Haber, head of the Chemistry Section in the Ministry of War. He’s recruiting chemists to join a special unit, and I told him he should speak to you. ”
Eager to please his vater, as well as to serve the Fatherland, Bruno joined the military while Julius, who was too old to be mandated to fight, stayed home to help run the family business.
Young and na?ve, Bruno believed that the war would result in a swift victory for the German Empire, and he’d be welcomed home as a war hero.
Most importantly, he’d be given a chance to be viewed—in his father’s eyes—as equal to Julius.
After all, he would have the distinction of being a protégé to Fritz Haber, a brilliant chemist who invented an artificial nitrogen fixation process which would provide Germany a source of ammonia for the manufacture of explosives.
He assumed that he’d be working to develop bigger bombs or more accurate artillery shells.
But upon his assignment to mentor with Haber—a bespectacled, bald-headed man with a methodical timbre to his voice—Bruno was shocked to learn that he would be working on a far more nocuous project than he could ever have imagined—chemical warfare.
Fearing retribution with a court martial or a firing line, he followed orders.
After his arduous mentorship under Haber, Bruno was assigned to Pioneer Regiment 36, one of two gas regiment units under the command of Colonel Petersen.
And for reasons of secrecy, his unit was called “Disinfection Unit.”
Bruno folded Anna’s letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket. How does one tell their fiancée about the horrors of war? If she knew what I’m required to do, would her feelings for me change? He gulped water from a canteen, attempting to drown his trepidation.
“Sir!” the soldier shouted, running inside the dugout.
Bruno put away his canteen and faced him.
“The wind has decelerated,” he gasped.
“How much?” Bruno asked.
“Five knots.”
Bruno’s hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“Did you conduct measurements in multiple locations along the flank?”
“Ja,” he said. “Precisely like you taught me.”
He glanced at his watch. 1:17 a.m. A decision burned beneath Bruno’s sternum.
His mentor, Fritz Haber, was away, and Colonel Petersen was in the field with his other regiment.
He thought about going up the chain of command, but it would take time, which he didn’t have.
He scribbled a message onto a piece of paper and gave it to the soldier.
“Find a messenger and have him deliver it to Colonel Petersen,” Bruno said.
“Ja, sir,” the soldier said.
“Afterward, conduct another wind measurement and have a messenger deliver the results to General von Stetten’s bunker. I’ll be there to receive it.”
The soldier nodded and fled the dugout.
Bruno ran through the trench, his leather boots sinking into muck.
Some of the soldiers, who would soon be going into battle, were writing letters to their loved ones or removing valuables from their pockets.
Determined to reach the general before the attack commenced, he lowered his head and forced his legs to move faster.
Twenty minutes later, after winding through an adjoining trench that led away from the battlefield, he arrived at General von Stetten’s bunker. He sucked in air, attempting to cool the burning in his lungs. He approached the entrance and was met by a hauptmann, who was smoking a cigarette.
“Oberleutnant Wahler, Pioneer Regiment Thirty-six, sir,” Bruno said, snapping to attention. “I have urgent information for the general.”
“What kind of information?” He took a drag and blew smoke through his nose.
“An unfavorable wind change, sir.”
The hauptmann frowned and flicked his cigarette. “Follow me.”
Inside the bunker, General von Stetten and several officers were gathered around a table, which held a map.
“General,” the hauptmann said. “This pioneer regiment officer has wind information that he claims is urgent.”
General von Stetten, a man in his mid-fifties with a thick, well-groomed mustache, reminiscent of a horse mane, approached them.
“Sir,” Bruno said. “The wind has turned unfavorable; it has decelerated to five knots.”
“What does your commander have to say about this?” the general asked.
“I sent a messenger to inform Colonel Petersen. With the change in wind, I thought you would want to know immediately.”
The general stroked his mustache.
“I recommend that we delay the attack,” Bruno said.
The officers, who were examining the map, raised their heads, and then joined the general.
Bruno swallowed. “The wind is showing signs of a stall, and it might change direction.”
“Does the wind continue to blow toward the enemy?” the general asked.
“For now,” Bruno said.
A few of the officers shook their heads.
“General,” the hauptmann said. “As long as a breeze travels toward British lines, I see no reason to suspend our plans.”
The general’s eyes locked on Bruno. “We continue the attack.”
“Sir,” Bruno persisted. “I’ve arranged for another wind measurement to be taken and delivered here. May I stay to interpret the message when it arrives?”
“Very well.” The general turned and resumed scouring over his map.
Bruno stood near the bunker entrance and waited for the wind measurement, which he hoped would provide clear evidence to stop the attack. If my message doesn’t reach Colonel Petersen in time, I must find a way to convince the general to suspend the offensive.
Minutes later, a messenger arrived. Gasping for air, he retrieved a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Bruno.
Bruno’s hopes sank.
The general looked up from his map. “Any change?”
“Nein,” Bruno said. “But I remain concerned that—”
“Prepare your men for the attack,” the general said.
“Ja, sir.” Dread burned like a hot coal in Bruno’s gut. “Sir, as a precaution, I recommend that we order the infantry to carry their respirators.”
The general lowered his brows. “That will be all, oberleutnant.”
Bruno saluted and left.
At 3:45 a.m., Bruno stood at his post on the trench, where his regiment had installed 7,400 gas cylinders along a three-kilometer front.
He instructed his men to carry their gas masks, and he wished that he had the authority to command the thousands of infantry soldiers to do the same.
The orders to prepare for attack filtered down the lines, and the men of Pioneer Regiment 36 stood ready to open the valves of cylinders containing a highly lethal mixture of chlorine and phosgene gas.
Infantry soldiers fixed bayonets to their rifles and gathered near ladders.
Death is death, regardless of how it is inflicted, Fritz Haber’s methodical voice crowed in Bruno’s head. His stomach turned sour, producing the urge to vomit.
The German infantry sent up a green flare, immediately followed by a red flare.
Soldiers, their eyes filled with fear, looked to the sky.
Seconds later, German artillery exploded.
Shells bombarded the enemy trenches. The British launched rockets with parachute flares, which illuminated the battlefield.
Lord, forgive me for what I must do. Cold sweat dripped down Bruno’s forehead. “Release the valves!”
Down the long, winding trench, soldiers of Pioneer Regiment 36 opened cylinder valves. A thick, green gas spewed from nozzles, positioned at ground level, and drifted into no-man’s-land.
Compelled by his sense of duty, Bruno scaled a ladder and peeked over the trench. Using field binoculars, he scanned the battlefield. The gas cloud, hanging low to the ground, moved slowly toward British trenches.
Artillery guns exploded. The earth quaked. As the gas cloud reached the British lines, German infantry officers blew their whistles, sending soldiers up and over the trench.
British machine guns barked.
Several German soldiers, their bodies pierced with bullets, tumbled into the trench. But the masses continued their attack. Soldiers, hunched over and pointing their bayonets, scampered over the barren, shell-holed tundra.
Bullets whizzed above Bruno’s helmet. He pressed his chin to the ground and adjusted his binoculars.
As the battlefield came into focus, he watched the gas cloud stall, and then veer away.
No! Within seconds, the wind changed, sending the poisonous mist from whence it came—directly toward the German lines.
“Gas! Gas! Gas!” Bruno shouted.
Alarm gongs sounded. Men, who were preparing for the second wave of ground attack, scrambled to find respirators.
Bruno slipped on his gas mask. Breathing hot, recycled air, he felt as if he were suffocating.
His lungs heaved, and his pulse pounded in his ears.
Through thick lenses, he watched the gas cloud swirl over the battlefield, and then swallow German soldiers.
Between explosions, screams filled the air. Oh, God!
The poison floated into the trenches. Men choked and vomited. Through the thick green mist, Bruno struggled to aid soldiers find respirators. But they didn’t have enough gas masks for everyone.