Is there such a thing as a war that never ends? Probably. Not because of the incompetence of generals or the mistakes of politicians and diplomats, but simply because humans will continue to decimate one another…
Jörg leaned over the edge of the trench, feeling it press slightly into his abdomen. His stomach fluttered and twisted in strange ways. Recently, every morning greeted him like this. Because when the light broke, the gunfire started.
Tormented by discomfort, he looked to the sky again and saw an unfamiliar black shape emerge slowly from behind a cloud.
It’s big. A bomber?
Was it a Russian plane? A Sikorsky Ilya Muromet that had gotten lost and been blown off course or that was trying to make an emergency landing after taking damage?
No, it’s something else.
The black shape was neither warplane nor bomber but had wings like an eagle’s. Jörg pushed himself farther out of the trench to get a better look at it, and someone yelled at him to get down. Even a slight movement like that was enough for an enemy sniper to take a shot at him, and a headshot would spell instant death. Still, the shape in the sky intrigued him.
As it passed in front of a gray cloud, Jörg thought it looked more like a bat than an eagle. He could see what appeared to be a membrane between the struts supporting its wings. It must be some new kind of machine.
Suddenly, a deafening noise rained down from the skies. It was less like the whistle of a bomb falling through the air than the shriek of a beast.
Jörg covered his ears. A commotion broke out among the other soldiers. One frightened man tried to escape from the trench, but he was desperately pulled down by a few of his comrades. That sort of thing happened sometimes when they were under heavy gunfire. As everyone was waiting out the barrage in bunkers, one soldier might suddenly stand, pick up his belongings, and announce that he was going home. Thrashing around like an angry bull, he’d fight off anyone who tried to stop him, before eventually being tied up and laid on the ground. What was happening now was no different.
The black shape continued emitting its cacophonous sound for a short while, then disappeared to the west.
They all held their collective breath.
After a time, enemy reconnaissance planes appeared from a different direction.
That’s a bad sign.
They needed the cover of the trenches. Jörg leaped down to the duckboard, and his comrades hurriedly followed, as though waking up from a bad dream.
Fritz traded his place in front of a gunport with Hans and walked up to Jörg. “I don’t like the look of that.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think that’s what Baldanders looks like?”
“That thing was smaller. More like the size of a dragon.”
They heard the roar of the enemy artillery, and dirt and mud sprayed up into the air where the shells landed. Their own cannons and howitzers set up in the second camp immediately answered back. On the reverse slope directly behind Jörg and his unit, mortar companies and infantrymen began to prepare for a charge from the French Army.
White smoke trailed like clouds, carrying with it the scent of gunpowder. The artillery fire sounded awfully close today—and it was getting steadily closer. A bad feeling settled over Jörg.
Just then, a sandbag went flying in front of his eyes. Dirt and rocks rained down on his head. A huge hole had been blown open in the ground, caving in a part of the trench beside him. Jörg and his company ran like mice being chased by a cat, jumping over the hole in search of safety.
Another shell tore through the space in front of him.
Jörg was flung into the air, losing all sensation of the world around him. As his senses came back, the smell of niter and blood stung his nostrils, and he found himself lying on the ground, unsure of how he’d managed to retain consciousness.
He couldn’t hear gunfire. Assuming there hadn’t been a pause in the fighting, his eardrums must have burst. Half-buried in mud and wood, he couldn’t so much as move a finger. His entire body felt horribly cold and the taste of blood filled his mouth. His heart still beat faintly, deep in his chest, but he felt as weak as an old man ready to breathe his last.
A faint sense of relief washed over Jörg.
He’d never need to make another charge or fire a gun again. If he died, some other young man would take his place and fight in his stead. His job was done. All he wanted to do was rest.
Just then, someone pulled him from the mud and rolled him onto his back so he could breathe easier.
It wasn’t a member of his squad who’d saved him. The face that floated in front of Jörg belonged to a stranger. Somehow, the sight reflected in his severely damaged eyes appeared as clear as a warm spring day.
The man conveyed elegance, his aged appearance mixed with the air of nobility. A fashionable cloak unsuited for a battlefield was draped around his shoulders. He dressed well, but he wasn’t an officer.
This was a war zone. Civilians couldn’t just walk into a place like this. So why was he here?
The green-gray of his eyes evoked a forest of conifers, while his white face and skin almost seemed translucent. It was a paleness that didn’t seem to come from any sort of illness, but it gave off the impression that there was something not quite human about him. His long hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and a few strands fell across his collarbone.
The man looked him over from head to toe, murmured, “Well, you’ll do,” and pressed a finger to Jörg’s brow.
The moment the man’s finger touched him between the eyebrows, Jörg felt all the strength leave his body. A sense of comfort enveloped him, as if he’d been submerged in warm water.
The murky gray of the overcast sky dissipated before his eyes, leaving in its wake a long trail of iridescent clouds.
They absorbed Jörg, making him one with their prismatic colors.