Deer River, New York

James stood silently on the batter boards of his trench line, with a Berthier rifle clasped in hand as distant artillery pounded the enemy positions before him. All about him, jaws were set and dispositions were gloomy. It wasn't surprising, all things considered. For the better part of a week, his regiment had occupied these trenches, little more than a stinking scrape dug into the earth filled with New York clay, rat shit, and foul water that had plenty of time to seep into every stitch of clothing he had. The enemy had routinely shelled their positions, eager to suppress them at every turn. Food was terrible, and in short supply.

Morale was terrible. The last year, the United States declared war on the British Empire, at the urging of their French allies. Canada was supposed to be a quick invasion, a warm-up while the US built up its army to full strength and then went overseas to France to turn the tide. That's what all the papers promised.

God, he was still a civilian then. After all, nobody wanted a negro in uniform, let alone with a gun. So he kept working his blue-collar job. But papers, once so optimistic, changed their tune. Local Canadian troops didn't collapse as predicted, and held off until British, German and Scandinavian troops came as reinforcements, and things turned into a bloody stalemate.

Then winter came.

Then the papers reported disasters at the front, as Scandinavian ski troops somehow slipped behind the lines, severing rail connections and telegraph lines. After that nothing. The Army took over the newspapers, and soon, one never heard about defeat at the front. But even newspapers telling of heroic defenses in New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Washington and Michigan told America all it needed to know. Every week trainloads of soldiers shipping out to Yankee-land and not coming back. Soon enough, the army changed its mind about Negros in the army. James found out about that when the draft notice came in.

So here he was.

"I'm telling you, this isn't right." It was Johnson, a young 18-year-old from Boston. "I hear the only reason this offensive is being launched is so the fucking Democrats win reelection."

Corporal Washington rolled his eyes. Older than even himself, he was a god-fearing and ultimately patriotic type. Though James worried how one remained that way after the events of the last year. "And where'd you hear that? Another one of those lovely notes from the Scandies?"

"Pff, fuck no Corp. But its less than a month away from election and everybody knows Roosevelt is going to win. Especially since he wants to end this fucking thing. And I don't want to die a month away from peace."

"That's not how it works dumbass. The new President doesn't get to come in till January. That's a long way away, and you know it."

The shelling eased up, the silence cutting off any conversation that had been taking place. Every man knew what that meant. Now was not a time to chat with one's friends. Now was the time to make your peace with god.

For James, he mouthed a quick prayer to the almighty, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap. Inside was a laminated magazine page, showing an upscale restaurant. And across the top was "Tianna's Place" written in grease marker. His daughter Tianna had the original, of course. But this helped remind him what he was fighting for, if nothing else.

"MAKE READY!" It was the Company Commander, as he cocked a 1911 and prepared his whistle.

"Well, time to earn my pay." James whispered to himself, as he stuffed his keepsake away and steeled himself.

Moments passed, but to James and his fellow soldiers, it both dragged on forever. Then the shrill whistle sounded. James swore as he made his way up the slick wooden ladder, before he stepped his first steps into no-man's land. Moving forward with his bayonetted rifle, James braced himself for the expected Machine-gun fire, but yet nothing happened. Uneasy, he continued his brisk march across no-man's-land as his comrades caught up and joined him. Johnson spoke first.

"Maybe we killed them all?"

…

Minutes Later

James leaped into the trench line with minimal grace, collapsing like a sack of potatoes as he hit the ground. It took him a second to recover, as he gasped for air. Johnson's words turned out to be very false, a few minutes after uttering them, the enemy unleashed a horrendous barrage of rifle, machine gun, and artillery fire. James knew he was the last of the men to make it into the trench, and around him maybe a dozen men were present. There might have been other groups that breached other points but…

Any musing James could have done was cut off as he began to hear angry shouts in some Germanic tongue as well as glimpses of men wearing Stahlhelms down the trench line. The enemy was counter attacking.

"Here they come!" James warned his fellow soldiers, which was reinforced by the first gunshots, at least the first gunshots echoing down trench walls, rather than no man's land. He readied his rifle, and waited for the first figure to appear down the trench way. He didn't have to wait long. He squeezed of a round, and while he didn't see the man go down, he heard a terrible scream. He had no time to dwell on that however. He cycled the action his rifle, struggling a bit as he saw the foemen push down the trench line. He fired and cycled twice more before the rest of them took cover in the culverts of the trench line. It was then heard a sound that made his blood curdle.

"GRENADE!"

He twisted his body about, and there it was, a potato masher grenade coming to a rolling stop in the center of the intersection where the makeshift squad was defending. Time seemed to slow as James looked about. For the first time he noticed that Lieutenant Peterson, a white boy fresh from Harvard was with them. He was trying to push one of the men to safety of a dugout. Everywhere else, men where scrunching down, or diving for cover, trying to get out of the blast. But that's not what James did.

Before he had time to think, before he had time to ponder risk, or weigh benefits, he found his body moving on its own. He found himself diving onto the grenade, insuring his certain death. The horrifying thought that he'd never get to see his wife, his daughter, or Tiana's Place was the last thing that he thought before the Grenade detonated, killing James instantly.

…

Senior Lieutenant Eriksen nearly collapsed on an ammunition crate, exhausted from the days fighting. For hours, he and his men had to viciously repel one American attack after another, with less and less men and ammo after each one. He and his Scandinavians were all about gone, and if it wasn't for German reinforcements, they likely would have been pushed back. He took off his Steel Helmet, one of German make, and took a moment to catch his breath. For a few moments, he tried to lift his mind out of the hell that he found himself in. But it was to no avail. At no point could one escape the sound, sight, and smell that was trench warfare, nor could he ignore his swamped feet nor the Lice eating him alive. His father's story of the war against Russia, and his Grandfather's against Sweden and anti-monarchist forces in Arendal, while never romantic or cheerful, paled in comparison to the hell that he found to be the new age of war.

"Sir, I have captured enemy documents, for you."

Eriksen opened his eyes, and turned to see one of his men holding a small stack of papers, books, and other articles looted from the dead Americans. "Thank you Corporal."

The man nodded, before turning away and getting back to the busywork. Speaking of said work, it was best that he got back to organizing the defense. The Americans would come again, that he had no doubt. But as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. Sticking out of the pile of enemy literature was a glossed magazine page, depicting a high society restaurant scene. Pulling it out, Eriksen examined it closer. It took but a moment to determine that a mistake was made. There was nothing of value intelligence wise to be gleamed from this article, as the only thing written upon it were two words.

"Tiana's Place."

And a great deal of blood.

…

100 years ago, on the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month, an armistice was reached ending fighting on the Western Front of the First World War. Many place this day as one of great meaning, which it is, and refer to it as the day the guns fell silent. It is celebrated as Veterans day in the US, and a day of peace throughout western Europe. But to me, it's hard to think that way. While the Great War "ended", the guns did not in fact fall silent. In Central and Eastern Europe, revolutionary fervor swept up tidal waves of blood, as "White" and "Red" Armies slaughtered each other in fighting no less severe than at Verdun, Ypres, and the Somme. These wars claimed millions of lives between them, and set the stage and wrote the Mythos that would haunt the world a generation later. Soldiers on all sides could never leave the war behind, finding the killing was the only thing they knew, with these men joining Paramilitary formations such as the Freikorps and the "Black and Tans" as a way to keep at the only life they knew. The aspect that others felt that they were monsters now due to mental trauma or physical disfiguration would be felt so strongly that it would give birth to the modern "monster" movie and modern horror in general. And the most dangerous of all was the men who saw the beloved nation they fought for through 4 years of the most horrific warfare the world had yet seen, only to see the nation they sacrificed so much for be turned to dust in the name of "Justice". Men and Women who then needed someone to blame. Men who before the ink of Versailles was even dry swore that one day, they would get revenge for that injustice.

So yes, let us remember the fallen, and celebrate the day that helped close the end of 4 years of industrial slaughter. But let's also learn from the lessons of Versailles, that one man's justice is another man's tyranny. That self-righteousness and revenge politics are foolish at best, lethal at worst. And that simply because the killing in your country has stopped, doesn't mean that it's stopped everywhere.

This story is fictional and involves an alternate version of the Great war, but I felt it still helped convey the general experience of WW1. That men with lives that spanned for decades before could be cut down in seconds, through sheer acts of random death. I hope I conveyed that here today.

Sincerely,

O7,

Dragunov