Charlie looked around at the carnage before him, it was terrible. Bodies of men and horse alike were strewn like chaff across the field, those who weren't dead where praying for it. In the distance he heard a man yelling over the gunfire to one of the surviving British officers, and even though this man had a heavy German accent, Charlie could plainly make out what he said.
"Who do you think you are!" the man waved his arms in frustration, "Did you really think that a camp this size would be so unguarded?"
What the man had said hit Charlie in the pit of his stomach like someone had kicked him.
"I mean do you really think that a brigade of 200 foot soldier would go out near enemy lines with no means of protection?" James had said.
A tear slid down Charlie's face. "Why would no one listen when it was so painfully obvious?" He asked himself.
It was indeed devastating, inside Charlie felt as if he would have rather gone to hell and back then to have seen so many of these men, some even young boys, torn apart and treated with no respect as the dead warrior is entitled to.
The wounded and those still alive were being taken and loaded into wagons bound for a prison-camp. Two young soldiers came along and pushed the corpse from Charlie's leg. One of them heaved him to his feet and helped him to a wagon. Charlie looked out across the field once more. "James!" he called in desperation, "James?" his voice gave out as he said it again. There was no response.
"Whoever you are looking for my friend," one of the German soldiers said in broken English, "He is dead." This comment stunned Charlie to silence, but his eyes never left the field. The plan had failed miserably! He watched as the dead were laid out in rows, he couldn't bear to see them, yet he could not tear his gaze away. Charlie's sore eyes came to rest on one of them. The man's hat had fallen from his head when the German soldiers had set him down. He had light, dirty blond hair.
The wagon started with a jolt. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut as another single tear quietly slipped down his cheek. The wagon rolled away.
The sun was high in the sky; the smell of death was nauseating! Army surgeons were going to and fro, among the wounded soldiers, German and British alike. A young aid, perhaps fourteen, was walking among the dead when he stopped at the side of a light haired English officer. He studied the corpse for a moment then with wide eyes turned to the surgeon near him.
"Sir!" he called out, "this one is alive."
"You are dreaming," the mas called back, "the sun is too hot for you and with all this death floating around you, you simply wish to see something living. Nein, he is dead... toten I say!" he used his hands to emphasize what he said; when he finished they fell limp to his sides. He shook his head and sighed. The boy sighed as well and was about to leave when an idea came to him.
"But what if..." he thought to himself. He turned back to the light haired soldier and placing a finger on the man's throat, felt for a pulse. Nothing...wait! There was something! Very faint a, but still a pulse!
"But sir!" the boy called again, "He is alive! I swear it!"
The surgeon, with a grumble, hobbled over to the boy, and upon feeling the pulse, he turned and smiled at the boy.
"Yes, Johannes, he lives. Mann Herr! You will be a better einen besseren Arzt than me someday."
When James woke, it was dark and cold. He found himself in a small square wagon. Where he was headed, he knew not, what he did know though was that every lurch or jolt of the cart made his chest and shoulder throb! He could literally feel every rut or stone in the road! Outside a horse whinnied loudly and James thoughts went back to what had happened only hours before. He closed his eyes trying to block the images the danced before his mind, but it didn't work. He tried to stop his ears so as not to hear the pitiful cries of dieing men and the frightful tattoo of the Gatling gun. Nothing helped. The noise became louder and the pictures more clear. It was then that he felt someone shaking him gently by his good shoulder. Opening his eyes to mere slits he looked into the friendly face of a young boy.
"Sei still mein Glück Offizier", he whispered, "Es war nur ein Traum."
"Ich bin... junge tut mir leid, ich spreche nicht... viel Deutsch", James said trying to be understood, letting the boy know that he barely knew the German language. The boy nodded and continued in broken English,
"I am sorry...but you must be still, you were only dreaming."
James gave a raspy sigh of relief not because it was a dream but because the boy had broken whatever spell it was that made the horrors reappear.
"Where are we?" he asked with a voice that was a mere whisper, his eyelids drooping shut.
"Where we are I do not know," the boy said, "But I believe we travel back to the mother-land."
James groaned and his eyes focused on the boy, "Germany?" he choked out. The boy's face lit up, "Ja, I go home for Weihnachten, for Christmas!"
James entire countenance fell, the boy must have seen for he placed a hand on the officers shoulder and said, "You will like it mien Glückspilz offizier, we have Christmas like you do, I am sure you will like it."
"But I doubt the sacred holiday will be kept in a prison camp." Nichols said to himself dolefully.
"How many of us were taken?" he asked.
"Roughly I believe the number was 97." The boy answered with a dark look.
"Oh God?" James closed his eyes, "Why?"
"Thirty were unharmed and about fifty eight suffered minor injuries. There are nine of you who need more substantial care." The boy continued.
"And the horses?" James asked, he didn't want to, but he had to know!
"The lucky ones, mein offizier, are being used to pull the ambulances and supply wagons. The others...the others were shot because they were of no use."
Although this was said quietly, James could hear the remorse and bitterness in the lad's voice. He screwed his eyes shut, if only he could his ears, he didn't want to hear any more, or see any more.
"I'm sorry Albert!" he whispered under his breath, which came in ragged gasps. The boy didn't hear him.
Both were silent for a time.
"What is your name?" the boy finally asked shyly. James slowly lifted his eyes to him, young and innocent...probably not even old enough to be in this war. James suddenly felt sorry for the boy, for everything he had seen that had changed the little child into a hardened youth and from youth swiftly to adult.
"James." was the quiet reply.
"And my name is Johannes. I am aid to our camps military arzt... I mean doctor."
"And how old are you, Johannes?" Nichols asked.
"Sixteen." The boy swiftly replied.
James made an effort to raise an eyebrow, "Really, sixteen?"
"I- I see there is no lying to you offizier, I am only just fourteen, Kapitän." Johannes cast his eyes downward. James couldn't help but smile to himself.
Just then the wagon gave another lurch; James throat spasmed as he grunted in pain. Johannes busied himself with Nichols bandages.
"It has begun to rain." He said whimsically. "The roads will become thick with mud."
Nichols stared out a small crack in the wagons canvas covering. Rain had indeed begun to fall; it began to pour now by the torrents.
"My mother would say that die glorreichen Engel or angels are weeping." Johannes whispered as he finished the bandage on James shoulder.
"They have cause to weep today." James replied under his breath... He shuddered at the remembrance, the sound of the guns and the screams still ringing in his ears. With a small, gravely sigh, which sounded more like a sob, Nichols whispered to oblivion, "I am sorry Joey."
Johannes looked down at the man he was attending to. "Der arme kerl." was all he could think of to say. Everyone here had seen their share of hardships, and terrible sights...and yet...the world lived on without them, when they just wanted it to stop, never change, to be right. And it would turn on them; throw everything that they knew or loved to the ground, to be trampled on by empty dreams.
The boy turned to look out the back of the wagon. "Why must the world change? Warum muss die Welt verändern? Why can't it stay the same? " he said hopelessly to the wind. Turning back to the captain, he found the man asleep. Johannes smiled.
"Sleep my Kapitän Soldat; forget what the world has done to us..."
Nichols did sleep, but it was sleep filled with terrible, cruel dreams.
