Ghosts on the Hinterland

The French countryside is the bleakest landscape a man could imagine. Perhaps that's why I fancied it.

I took a long drag from my cigarette and watched the cherry glow red. Two lungs full of smoke gave me something to feel inside. I exhaled. The white smoke curled into spiraling columns and drifted lazily into the sky. The clouds were dull gray and never moved against the backdrop of the charcoal sky.

I hadn’t seen the sun the two months I had been at the outpost northwest of Amiens. I was beginning to think it didn’t shine in this part of the world. That was fine; I would have rather not had anything to raise my spirits. Maybe this was the “fog of war” I would hear about. The overcast sky reflected the frost of cold, uncaring hearts of warring men back at this part of Europe.

Perhaps all the ghosts of dead soldiers ascended into the sky to block out the sun. That was my puff of smoke: a disembodied spirit cast out from the corporeal world and sent to wander the horizon aimlessly until the end of time.

It rather resembled me.

I didn’t smoke before the war; my father disapproved of the use of tobacco. And spirits. And young women. I didn’t partake in any of these sins before the war. But becoming a soldier can change a man. Of what a father will and will not approve seems to carry a little less weight when one is in danger of being shot to death at any moment.

I nearly resembled a real soldier. I was adorned with the comely drab olive uniform and a Springfield bolt-action rifle, which I meticulously kept as shiny as the day it was issued to me. But I didn’t feel as though I was indeed a soldier. I had never seen combat; no enemy had ever fired upon me, and I had most certainly not peered down the barrel at anyone else. I had dreamed about it, yes: gunning down countless German foes, hoisting my country’s flag over the bloody trenches to victory, being lifted upon the shoulders of my sweat-soaked comrades — all of that.

But I found being a hero didn’t suit me.

This was what befit me best: propped against a tree, doing nothing in particular, smoking a cigarette. I had seventeen more tucked in my tin, and all the time in the world to smoke them.

In a way, this was complete freedom. I was content to rest on my laurels and smoke away my enlistment without any bother.

Complete independence. Complete boredom. I find it strange that one could feel this way during a war. I felt almost content each moment I should have been scared half to death.

My squad wasn’t entirely sure that the war was still happening. We could fairly surmise that it indeed was from the distant booms of artillery fire that strayed from time to time over the low, rolling hills.

One might find it odd that we were a company entrenched in an outpost on seemingly hostile ground and rather couldn’t tell if our great country was still at war with the Germans. However, we fancied keeping it that way.

No danger, no death. The same thing day after day.

Our radio was dead. It had been in this state for the bulk of our stay. Lt. Doten, our commanding officer, repeatedly informed us (when we actually did stumble upon the chance to see him in person) that we had our orders: Stay at the outpost until further orders. Since it wasn't possible to receive any further directive, we were obliged to adhere to the former. We had no communication with the rest of the Army; we concluded that they had likely forgotten us. We had seen no other humans during our entire visit. As Lt. Doten would say, “No news is good news.”

It’s not to say that we were cowards. We simply suffered from a lack of motivation, a trait most likely inspired by Lt. Doten. Any of our company who had enlisted due to a sense of duty to country or conviction to a greater cause had long pushed aside those particular notions. We were simply here because we were not compelled to be anywhere else.

The outpost to which we were dispatched was a farmhouse in the early stages of dilapidation. It was undoubtedly once a handsome and charming French abode but had been long since abandoned by its residents, who were now the Almighty only knows where.

The two-story home was adorned in a pallid, chipping blue coat of paint. Sickly green vines crept up its sides in some places. The hinges on its doors were rusted brown. The windows had too many holes to count.

The company had affectionately dubbed the estate “Drecknest.” Loosely translated, that’s German for “shithole.” But it was home, whatever that means.

The barn was a hulk of a structure, aged and decaying. It leaned a bit the to left, especially when the wind blew eastward. The paint had faded into a somber shade the same as the clouds.

Inside it was cavernous, the crossbeams stretched feebly across the innards of the structure. Their support was giving way, and one day—maybe soon—they would lose their struggle completely and let the building collapse upon itself in a heap of splintered boards.

The barn was the reason for which our squad was stationed at the farmhouse. We were charged with guarding a supply of Browning machine guns, artillery shells, rifle rounds, and other supplies. We were, almost literally, armed to the teeth. Our hoard was stacked neatly at the back of the barn, covered with brown tarp. The barn, while itself being no elegant structure, did indeed make a fine arms warehouse. Our three supply trucks were parked in front of the barn’s hulking swing-doors, making for a crude circling of wagons to protect our stash from marauders.

The intent of our commanders was to establish the farmhouse as a reserve for frontline troops who were low on ammunition. Since we didn’t quite know exactly where the frontline resided (or had the least intent to locate it), what this stockpile of munitions resulted in was six very heavily armed men who had no place to spend the firepower.

All of these weapons, and I had no want of ever utilizing them. Perhaps it was because I knew that the Germans, likely just miles away, had more than enough desire to kill me.

I inhaled the last drag of my cigarette and snubbed out the cherry on the tree trunk. I looked at my pocketwatch; my watch duty was finished.