Armistice

ARMISTICE
A TALE OF FAILURE

Werner Von Metz took the saying “beat your swords into plowshares” very seriously. As soon as the Armistice was announced to occur at 11:00 AM on November 11th, 1918, he knew he had very little time. Yet, nothing breeds ingenuity like boredom, and few things are more boring than war. So he took his bayonet, built a crude furnace in the well of an abandoned chimney, and dedicated his time to creating something useful out of his erstwhile melee weapon.
Unfortunately for poor Werner, his metal-making skills where less than satisfactory, and by the time he had learned the basics (after many burnt fingers and much wasted steel) all that was left of his bayonet was a tiny lump of metal. So he made a ring, and not a second too soon. The metal had barely cooled in time for Werner to race back to the trenches for the ceasefire.

On the other side of No-Man’s Land, there was only one person that feared the impending end to hostilities. As soon as the Armistice was announced to occur at 11:00 AM November 11th, 1918, Sergeant Terry Foreman he knew he had very little time.
Terry always hated himself. The was nothing especially bad about him. It was just that he could never look himself in the eye every time he stared into the mirror. There was something about himself that he smelled. Maybe it is the stink that clings to all of us. I suppose we will never know.
Everything he ever did, from joining the army, to practicing all night at marksmanship to gain “Sniper” status, to risking life and limb to accrue a higher “score” than any other sniper in his battalion were all attempts to win other men’s adulation and praise, so that he in turn may love himself.
It was all a failure. His sniper ribbon, the military medal, the combat stripes, everything, were all presented to him with empty formality. The officers smiled and patted him on the shoulder but their eyes were filled with disgust, for you see, no one can respect someone who does not respect himself. The best he ever got was pity but pity is the worst thing for such a man. So in the last few weeks of the war Terry had launched an all-out assault on the affections of other men, in particular Lt. Baldwick, Victoria Cross Winner. If Lt. Baldwick could hold him in esteem, surely Terry could live with himself.
But Lt. Baldwick was not easily impressed. Terry had 19 notches in his rifle, seven more than the next best sniper in the entire battalion. However every time Terry eagerly reported another kill, Lt. Baldwick would bat it off. Lt. Evans knew the war was ending, and like all true soldiers, despised pointless death.
Terry, however, was undeterred, and believed that if he could get that twentieth kill, he could win Lt. Baldwick’s respect. This was why Terry stood on the firing step with only five minutes until the bells in the nearby town tolled eleven, staring down his scope, rifle ready, his finger tapping the trigger.

NOVEMBER 11th, 1918. 10:55 AM, GERMAN LINES
Werner was very satisfied with himself, tossing the ring up and down contentedly, showing it off to all of his comrades and proudly boasting that yes, he had indeed beat his sword into a plowshare even before the war was over. Every time he repeated his story, the same inevitable question would be asked:
“So, Werner, who will you give the ring to?” To which Werner would always put his hands on his hips and reply:
“The war is over! I’m sure to find some bang up some nice girl and get shot-gunned into marriage if I put my mind to it!” Then everyone would laugh, and Werner would stroll a bit further down the line to exhibit his creation to yet another cadre of friends.
………..

NOVEMBER 11th, 1918. 10:59 AM, GERMAN LINES
“So, Werner, who will you give the ring to?” asked one of the self-satisfied Gefreiter’s friends. Werner grinned and flicked the ring up into the air with his thumb, catching it deftly as in tumbled back down.
“The war is over! I’m sure to bang up some nice girl and get shot-gunned into marriage if I put my mind to it!” A roar of laugher and comradely horseplay followed. Werner smiled and flicked the ring back into the air once again.
But a sudden gust of wind snatched it in mid-air and tossed it into No-Man’s Land.

The group of Germans uttered a collective gasp and shuddered. Going into No-Man’s Land during daylight hours to fetch it back was a death sentence.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Asked one of Werner’s friends.
“But certainly, with the war ending in less than thirty seconds, no one would be so cruel to gun down a man now, would he?” replied another.
Werner weighed the options in his head and finally decided to place a bet on the inherent goodness of human nature.
“I’m sure it’s fine.” He said, winking back at his friends.

And in the distance, the bell-tower began to speak:

The First Bell-Toll
Lt. Baldwick jerks Terry’s sleeve.
“What are you doing? Get down from there! The war is over!”
Terry only grits his teeth.
“Not yet it isn’t…”

Werner hoists himself over the top of the trench, his prize glittering in the morning sunlight, just inches away. Just a few seconds, Werner thinks. That’s all I need.

The Second Bell-Toll
Terry spots Werner through his scope and his entire body goes stiff in preparation for his shot. It only takes Lt. Baldwick a split-second to realize the truth, but it is too late.

Werner scampers to where his ring lies, his fingers closing around it.

The Third Bell-Toll
Terry lines up the shot and fires. Lt. Baldwick grabs his arm, but in vain.

Werner begins to move back to the safety of his trench, ring in hand. His friends begin to cheer, and Werner pumps his hand in the air triumphantly.

The Fourth Bell-Toll
Terry waits with baited breath, hoping against hope that luck will be with him. It was, after all, a difficult shot. He is not disappointed.

The bullet strikes Werner directly in the back of the skull, an instant kill. Werner crumples to the ground without uttering a sound.

The Fifth Bell-Toll
Terry slides down from the firing trench, his almost devilish rictus stretched into a victorious sneer.

Werner’s compatriots go silent, shock written all over their faces.

The Sixth Bell-Toll
Terry notches the final stroke in his gruesome tally, his joy barely contained.
“I think that was the best shot of my life!” He gloats.
Lt. Baldwick merely closes his eyes.
“Oh God, what have you done?” he whispers. Terry does not hear him.

Finally the terrible truth of what had just occurred hits the German lines, and a howl of grief echoes from the trenches.

The Seventh Bell-Toll
Terry looks at Lt. Evans, waiting for the affirmation that he had convinced himself was coming. But Lt. Evans stares at his feet, torn between his duty and the burning desire to kill Terry right then and there.

One of Werner’s friends grabs a rifle and snags it on Werner’s belt to drag the body back into the trench.

The Eighth Bell-Toll
Terry raises an eyebrow quizzically, and addresses Lt. Baldwick once again.
“Didn’t you see that? It was a peach of a shot!”
Lt. Baldwick remains silent, waiting patiently until the bell ceases to toll to make his move.

Werner’s body is dragged back to the Trench, where his compatriots examine his wound. The shot had drilled a hole straight through his forehead. Werner is dead.

The Ninth Bell-Toll
Terry is flabbergasted at the seemingly ambivalence shown by Lt. Baldwick. Hadn’t that been a one-in-a-million shot? Hadn’t Terry proved once and for all that he was far and away the best sniper in the whole battalion?
Yet Lt. Baldwick continues to stare at his shoes, counting the bell tolls, and muttering to himself inaudibly.

As Werner’s comrades shake his body to try and wiggle some life out of their dead friend, the blood-stained ring tumbles out of his hand.

The Tenth Bell-Toll
Terry sits down opposite Lt. Baldwick. How rude. At bare minimum, Lt. Baldwick could at least acknowledge Terry’s kill. Terry crosses his arms, irritated, with a flash of panic slowly bubbling inside him. Could it be that his master’s shot failed to impress?

One of Werner’s friends, an officer, leans over and picks up the ring, and puts it in his pocket.

The Eleventh Bell-Toll
That’s it. The war is over. Lt. Baldwick looks up suddenly and grabs Terry roughly and slams him against the parapet. Evans snatches the medals hanging from Terry’s chest and then flings them into No-Man’s land. Terry screams in distress and Lt. Baldwick spits on the ground and walks away.

Terry’s masterpiece had been in vain and the master sniper shrieks in self loathing and slumps against the firing trench, self-pity flowing through his veins.

Werner’s murdered corpse twitches, and goes still.


As the clanging of the bells wanes and finally disappears, the two sides cast off their soldier’s caution and climb over the top, curious to look at their former foes. Germans and Britons advanced across No-Man’s land, armed not with rifles and grenades, but with nervous handshakes and awkward grunts of respect.
Lt. Baldwick approached Werner’s grieving friends, hands out in contrition. He salutes the ranking officer, and explains the incident in the best German he can muster. The Officer, still heartbroken, manages to rasp out through his tears that he forgives him, and reaches into his pocket.
Lt. Baldwick recoils instinctively, but to his relief, the officer produces just a plain steel ring, which he pressed into Lt. Baldwick’s hand.

In the distance, the loud crack of a rifle shot shattered the silence that hung between the two former adversaries. Men reached for their guns and began to cast suspicious eyes on each other.
Lt. Baldwick sprinted to the British lines, yelling to anyone who would listen to put their guns back down. He skids to a stop when he sees the source of the noise.

Terry Foreman sat in a heap, hot tears still trickling from unseeing eyes, and blood spurting from a bullet wound dug into his forehead. Lt. Baldwick smiles and puts his hands on his hips and carves the dead man’s epitaph:

“Wow Terry, what a shot. I’m impressed.”