Elizabeth DuSold
St. Faustina Writing Group, St. Venantius Fortunatus Writing Group (co-leader)
Sunday, September 29, 1918
Meuse-Argonne Sector, near Montfaucon, France
“Hold up, Shorty. Do you even know where you’re going?” Bill Hoffman asked his pal Harold “Shorty” Campbell. Bill swiped at the unrelenting rain on his face as his boots squelched to a halt.
“It’s not my fault you got the wagon stuck and we have to hoof it,” Shorty retorted.
In April 1917, Bill and Shorty had been among the first to enlist when America had declared war on Germany. Despite their differences, the two had quickly become buddies in training camp. Shorty sported a tall, sinewy frame gained from years of farm chores. Bill, barely five feet five inches tall, made up for his small stature with grit honed in Cincinnati’s crowded German tenements.
Bill’s squad had set out the day before to deliver water to the guys at the front, part of the frantic push to end the war. Trucks, carts, wagons, and foot-soldiers had jammed supply lines on muddy farm roads. Wounded men had straggled back from the front, and German prisoners had been pressed into service carrying wounded soldiers to field hospitals. Bill had tried to maneuver the mule team around the traffic jam, but the wagon had quickly mired in the mud. So, their squad had set out on foot to carry water. Now their muscles ached from the overnight hike back to camp with the empty water cans.
“Let’s take five,” Shorty said. “I’ll check our bearings. Maybe the rest of the guys will catch up.” The heavily forested, hilly terrain had made keeping the squad together nearly impossible.
Bill scanned the Sunday morning sky for signs of daybreak. A city dweller, Bill felt uneasy in the dense Argonne Forest. Every scorched tree limb reached out as if to snatch him. He recalled the Brothers Grimm fairy tales Mama had read to him in German, of shadowy forests where witches lured unsuspecting children to their death. But fairy tales paled in comparison to the horrors of the artillery battle over the last three days. Massive craters pock-marked the forest, and dead soldiers, both German and American, lay where they had fallen.
Bill, chilled to the bone from the constant rain, squatted down on the spongy ground next to Shorty. He gazed up and noticed one remaining buttress of an ancient church silhouetted against the sky. An arch gaped where a stained-glass window had been obliterated. Stone upon stone of rubble reached the base of the window.
Bill instinctively felt under his uniform for his crucifix, a parting gift from his sweetheart, Claudie. So far, he thought wryly, her prayers for his safety had been answered.
“I’m going to check out that bombed-out church up there,” Bill said, rising to his feet.
“Aww man, haven’t you seen enough ruins to last a lifetime?” groaned Shorty. But curious, he stretched and followed Bill.
Bill skirted the base of the massive pile of stone. Centuries-old craftsmanship had crumbled in minutes. Thick dust floated from the ruins like incense rising to the heavens.
“Over there,” Shorty whispered in Bill’s ear, pointing, “I hear something.”
Through the dim light and the choking haze, Bill spied the sodden lump of a man trapped among the stones. A heavy layer of dust and debris coated his uniform in white, so that it was neither German grey nor Doughboy olive.
“The guy’s a Kraut, not one of our boys,” said Shorty, gesturing at the distinctive German helmet. “Just leave him to rot.”
Bill continued to pick his way among the shifting stones. The soldier moaned softly. Bill saw only the man’s torso. A huge stone block crushed his legs.
“What’s he saying?” Shorty asked. “That’s German, isn’t it?”
Bill heard the words Mama had drilled into him, “Pater noster, qui es in caelis…” The wounded man continued to murmur the first words of the Lord’s Prayer, lacking the strength to continue.
“That’s Latin, you dunce. The guy must be Catholic,” Bill replied, recalling the many times he had served at Mass as a kid.
“He’s reaching for his pocket. He’s going for a grenade!” Shorty exclaimed.
Bill waved his hand dismissively in reply. Under the pall of dust, blood seeped down the German soldier’s face from a gash on his forehead. He strained to draw each breath.
“He doesn’t have the strength to unbutton his pocket, much less pull the pin on a grenade,” Bill observed.
As Bill crept forward, the German soldier recognized the American uniform. Terror flashed through the wounded man’s eyes as he struggled to rise.
Bill quietly echoed the Lord’s Prayer, “Pater noster . . .” The wounded man, comforted by the unexpected brotherhood of faith, fell back and groped weakly at his pocket.
“Do you want something from your pocket?” Bill asked softly in German.
“Ja, ja,” the soldier sighed, surprised to hear his native language spoken by an American.
Bill removed a small Bible from the soldier’s breast pocket and placed it in his hand. The soldier clasped the book and clumsily drew it towards his lips, as if to kiss it. A photograph fell out as he handled the small book. Bill picked up the photo, holding it before the soldier’s face.
The soldier’s eyes glistened with tears as he muttered, “Meine liebe Frau . . . Unser Hochzeitstag.”
“What’d he say?” Shorty demanded.
“It’s his wife on their wedding day,” Bill explained.
The soldier clutched Bill’s hand and pleaded in German, “I need to confess my sins.”
Bill patted the soldier’s hand and said in German, “I’m not a priest, just a grunt like you. But I’m sure the Lord forgives you.”
The Lamb of God prayer sprang to Bill’s mind and he recited gently, “Agnus Dei qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.” Bill saw recognition flit through the soldier’s eyes as his lips joined silently in prayer. “Agnus Dei . . . dona nobis pacem,” Bill concluded, as the young man’s eyelids fell. Moments later, the soldier’s grip slackened and his breath fell silent.
“What was that mumbo-jumbo?” Shorty questioned.
“It’s a prayer. ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us, Lamb of God, grant us peace,’” Bill translated.
“Yeah, right. There’s no peace in this place,” Shorty scoffed, surveying the wasteland around them.
As Bill drew his hand away, the photograph stuck to his damp palm: a young soldier stood proudly behind his bride, seated primly on a high-backed wooden chair. Bill turned the photo over and read the sprawling handwriting: “Ernest and Estella Siebelmeier, St. Dionysius, Recke, June, 1914.”
Bill’s eyes swam and the blood drained from his face. Hadn’t Mama been baptized at St. Dionysius before she emigrated to America thirty-five years ago? Weren’t Mama’s neighbors named Siebelmeier?
Shorty’s sharp voice cut off Bill’s thoughts, “We gotta get back to camp. Quit mourning over a dead Kraut.”
Bill reverently placed the wedding photo and the Bible in the dead man’s pocket and turned to follow Shorty down the mountain of rubble. As Bill trudged down the hill to return to his duties, a ray of sunlight pierced the clouds.
“Rest in peace, Ernest,” Bill whispered, glancing up at the radiant sunbeam, “Maybe we’ll meet again in a better place.”