CHAPTER 20 - LILLE, FRANCE—DECEMBER 12, 1916 #2
He leaned against the wall of the trench and sucked in air, attempting to cool the burning in his lungs.
German soldiers, carrying rifles with bayonets, emerged from dugouts and crouched along the fire step.
Some prayed, while others removed personal belongings from their pockets.
A soldier, his hands trembling and struggling to affix his bayonet, bent over and vomited onto the ground.
The shrill of whistles, followed by the barking of machine guns, pierced the air.
Pistol-wielding officers ordered the men to attack.
Soldiers climbed out of the trench and into battle, but scores of the men—killed or maimed by a hurricane of bullets—tumbled back into the trench.
God help them. Bruno staggered through the wounded and dead, as well as the soldiers waiting for their turn to go up and over into no-man’s-land.
“Where’s General Kainz’s dugout?” Bruno shouted to a group of soldiers.
A man pointed. “Hundred meters!”
Bruno, determined to reach the general, slogged ahead.
But as he narrowed in on the location of the dugout, screams and gunfire erupted from within the trench.
His blood turned cold. He turned and saw French soldiers, wearing horizon-blue-colored uniforms and carrying rifles, appear at a bend in the trench. They’ve broken through!
Bruno’s heart rate soared. In one swift motion, he removed his pistol from its holster and discharged his ammunition, felling two soldiers.
Bullets whizzed near his face. He turned and sprinted, all the while attempting to reload his weapon, only to encounter dozens of French soldiers pouring into the trench from above.
Within seconds, the German line was overwhelmed.
With no other option of escape, he scampered up the side of the trench and crawled toward the German lines.
A barrage of bullets split the air, inches above his body.
He pressed his chin to the dirt and pushed ahead.
Meter by meter, he clawed and kicked his way over mud, shrapnel, and corpses.
Bullets flared above his head. I’ll never make it to the support trench—it’s too far!
Forty meters into his crawl, his hands reached a void in the earth, and he tumbled into a large shell crater, its basin filled with knee-deep, frigid water.
He got to his feet, his drenched coat weighting him down like a lead blanket.
He dug his hands into his pockets, and then into the water, but was unable to locate his pistol.
As he began to climb out of the hole, German machine guns erupted from the support trenches.
A swarm of bullets ripped the air above him.
Realizing that his odds of avoiding both enemy and friendly gunfire were remote, he crouched at the side of the crater and waited for the fighting to diminish.
A French soldier, carrying a rifle, plunged into the hole.
Bruno, his adrenaline surging, shot up.
The Frenchman’s eyes locked on Bruno. He charged forward with a bayonet.
Bruno dived, feeling the blade scrape his side, and crashed into the basin.
As the Frenchman swung around, Bruno sprang up from the water and tackled the man onto his back.
Gripping the rifle in both hands, he overpowered the Frenchman, who was smaller and younger that Bruno.
He pressed the barrel of the rifle over the man’s neck, sinking his head under the water.
The Frenchman flailed his legs. Bubbles streamed from his nose and mouth.
Bruno’s pulse pounded in his ears. But as the man’s body weakened, Bruno hesitated, releasing pressure on the soldier’s throat.
The Frenchman raised his head above the water. He choked and gasped for air.
“I’m taking you as prisoner,” Bruno said. “But I’ll kill you if you cause any trouble.”
The Frenchman sucked in deep breaths.
“Do you understand?”
The Frenchman nodded.
Bruno exhaled, and then lifted the rifle.
The Frenchman lunged and sank his teeth into Bruno’s hand.
Pain flared through Bruno’s arm. As the Frenchman attempted to snatch the bayonet, Bruno slammed the rifle over the man’s trachea, pinning him beneath the water.
The Frenchman thrashed his limbs. But as seconds passed, his energy evaporated and his body turned still.
Bruno, his legs quivering, sloshed to the side of the trench and collapsed.
He placed the rifle over his lap, and then applied pressure to his bleeding hand.
He peered toward the edge of the crater and waited for more enemy soldiers, the machine-gun fire to cease, or a German counterattack.
But long after sunset none of them had come.
Although he’d killed hundreds, if not thousands, of Allied troops as a member of the Disinfection Unit, he’d never truly felt the consequences of his actions until now.
Killing a man with his bare hands had shaken him.
Echoes of the soldier’s gurgles filled his head.
He wondered if the man had a wife and children, which compounded his agony.
French rockets shot up light flares with attached parachutes.
The crater’s water became illuminated, revealing the submerged body of the Frenchman, and then faded away as the flare floated to the ground.
Bruno, cold and gutted, lowered his head to his knees and he wished for an end to it all.
At sunrise, a German counterattack reclaimed the front-line trench that had been lost to the Allies.
A scout unit, comprised of three soldiers, located Bruno in the crater.
They helped him, weak and shivering, to his feet and gave him sips of warm coffee from an insulated flask.
As the soldiers were aiding him out of the hole, he hesitated.
“Wait.” Bruno turned and waded into the frigid water.
He reached inside the French soldier’s coat, the body stiff with rigor mortis, and retrieved a wallet.
Inside a soggy leather flap was identification, Soldat 1.
eme—Jules Bonnet, and a worn family photograph of the Frenchman and a woman who appeared to be his wife, holding a baby in a lace dress and bonnet.
His hands trembled. God, forgive me. He placed the soldier’s wallet into his pocket, and then slogged out of the shell hole, making a silent vow to do something for the man’s family after the war.