“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Michael said invitingly.
Gerhard sighed and slumped deeper into the leather chair, hair spiked from the finger-combing. He took another sip of the brandy and started from the beginning.
He spoke of bright-eyed, eager young boys who believed they would win the Kaiser’s war and return home as heroes. He spoke of the first forays, the first injured, the first death. His words painted pictures of carnage and piercing noise; of chaos, screams and silence; of loss and emptiness; of failure.
“We had no time to stop and mourn, not even to bury our own dead. There were others for that task. We had to keep moving. Such loss of life.” He shook his head, eyes hollow, remembering. He sipped again.
“One day the landscape was pristine and tranquil. The next day—pockmarked and mucky with death. Blood was everywhere, body parts—human and animal. Fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, and cousins.” His head rolled from side to side, tears traced down the line of his nose to drip from his chin.
“We worried for the ones left behind—our families. We hoped that if we fought hard, maybe someone else would fight just as hard to keep our families safe. We lost sight of the Kaiser’s plan and focussed only on the ones we loved. We fought to keep our homes safe. The Kaiser be damned!” Gerhard spat his last words.
Michael sat in the worn chair opposite his son, listening, imagining the words that his son spoke and remembering his own experiences as a young man in Africa: a different battle, but the same sounds and smells, and similar fears. He sipped his brandy and encouraged his son to paint the pictures.
Hours passed. Michael noticed fatigue begin to overtake Gerhard, the fatigue one feels after the release of burdensome emotion. The glasses were empty. Michael raised the decanter, offering the last of the brandy.
Gerhard shook his head, “Nein, danke. What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.” Michael answered, looking at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
“I’m exhausted, and I’m feeling the effects of a little too much brandy. Would you mind if I rested a bit before Cook calls us for dinner?”
“Not at all. Rest now. You have been very brave to tell your story. Many can’t. When you return to Depot, perhaps you will seek help from one more qualified than me. You could set a good example for others, if you’re up to it.”
“I’ll think about it.” Gerhard rose from the chair, setting his empty glass next to the decanter. He drew himself to his full height, straightened his shoulders, and saluted his father. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I might sleep now.”
Michael watched his son leave the study, admiring him for his determination to hold his bearing, despite the pain.
“You sleep,” he said to his son. “I’ll take this watch.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GERHARD’S COMBINED MEDICAL leave and furlough was running out. He would have to report to Depot soon, but first he wanted to talk with Otto.
In response to his suggestion that they escape the day’s heat the following afternoon, Otto invited him for refreshments in the garden.
“How are you managing, Otto?”
“I suppose I can give you two answers,” Otto said. They were sitting on a worn, wooden bench under the shade of the ancient oak tree behind the farmhouse. It was a particularly warm September day, and the heat of the morning left them welcoming the cool shade and the cellar-chilled ale.
Otto took a long draft from the cool bottle. “Aaah! Now that’s better.” He grinned at Gerhard, the same grin he always had when he was about to tell a story.
“Well … in the first instance, I am happy to be home. Happy to know that I can stay home. I am not expected to report to Depot for months yet: not until the New Year, at least. The artificial limb won’t be ready for a few more weeks—they’re short on parts and material. And my family is very helpful and understanding. For the most part.” He took a swig of the ale.
“I had a bit of a set-to with them a few days after we returned home. They were treating me like an invalid!”
Gerhard raised an eyebrow, expressing his amazement.
“I finally had to tell them, ‘Look! This is the way of it. I have one leg. But I’m still normal. I’m capable, and my brain works reasonably well,’” he said, snickering. “‘So, don’t treat me like anything less.’ That seemed to help. They give me space now, and let me fail as I find a new way of doing things.”
“Good for you for standing your ground,” Gerhard said, then realized his inadvertent pun. “Sorry, I …” Gerhard sheepishly lowered his eyes, embarrassed at his careless words.
Otto grinned, raising his hand to sever his friend’s apology before continuing. “Those issues are small. It’s the rest that’s more of a problem.”
Gerhard sat listening.
Otto took another long draft and let the bottle dangle next to his knee. “Do you …? That is … how?” Otto raked his fingers through his white-blond hair and scratched the top of his head while he searched for the desired words. “It’s the dreams, you see. Or, rather, the nightmares. I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming. I’m scaring the hell out of my mother and sister!”
He slumped, as if relieved to have finally released the words. “At least Papa understands. And he’s been of some help. But. I don’t know. Do you think they will ever stop? The nightmares?”
“I don’t know, Otto. I have nightmares, too. Cold sweats and screaming are part of it. And we aren’t the only ones. Mutti says Vater still has nightmares, but they’ve lessened over the years. His nightmares aren’t as frequent, and they don’t seem to be as detailed. But he still has them.”
He sipped his beer. “Vater says talking about it helps, but I wonder. We talked for a long time yesterday afternoon. I even slept for a few hours before dinner—without dreams. But, Mutti told me this morning that Vater had nightmares last night. I’m certain that his dreams were triggered by our discussion in the afternoon.”
“Probably,” Otto said.
“Vater says that when we return to Depot next week, he is going to investigate whether there’s some way to get help for the boys returning. And I’m going to ask whether we can provide preventative training, in addition to the usual stuff taught during boot-camp. Knowing what to expect and how to anticipate the unexpected might go a long way to keeping more recruits alive. Know what I mean?”
“Great ideas! Maybe I can help with the extra training. They might listen to me when they see what can happen if you don’t pay attention,” Otto mumbled.
“Don’t say that! There is no way you could have known a sniper was so close.”
“I know.” Otto’s mind seemed to wander for a moment. “Don’t forget smells! Your father needs to include smells. Don’t they bother you?”
“Absolutely! I will tell him. It’s amazing how a memory floods into my mind with the most innocent of smells, or a sound, even,” Gerhard said.
“I can’t go near the shed when father is butchering a pig. The smell and the bits of raw flesh make me gag.” Otto continued. “Not that he butchers a lot of pigs, these days. But he did kill one recently in preparation for the harvest. All of the volunteers will be well-fed for their efforts.”
“Ha! That’s probably why they volunteer,” Gerhard said. “They’ll be paid with a ration of meat! How is it going, by the way? The harvest celebrations, I mean.”
The subject safely changed, the young men talked on. Otto planned to help his father oversee the preparations for the harvest celebration. Everyone from the manor would help, too, except for Gerhard, who would be at Depot.
“If I can get any time off, I’ll come back to help.”
“Don’t worry. We can manage. Just make sure you’re back in time for the party.” They sat quietly for a moment. A fly buzzed lazily around the mouth of Gerhard’s ale bottle.
“Hey! What about Emma? You’ve been home for weeks now, and you’ve said nothing to her. You only come to the farm with your father, and you don’t spend muc
h time with her. How can you propose, if you don’t talk to her?” Otto asked.
Gerhard jumped to his feet, kicking over his empty bottle. It wobbled, then stilled. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced impatiently in front of the bench. Head down, searching for words, he said, “Otto, I can’t talk to her right now. My head is so messed up. I can’t make promises that I can’t keep. Do you understand what I mean?”
Otto upended his ale bottle and poured the last drip onto his extended tongue. Dancing between the oak leaves above, sunlight flickered across his tanned face. He blew into the mouth of the bottle, making a long tooting sound, like they had done as boys. He grinned again. “I do. But I’m not certain she will. She’s been expecting something.”
“Can you help me? Can you say something to her, so she understands my reluctance?” Gerhard asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll try. Maybe on your next furlough?” Otto asked hopefully.
“I’m not coming home on my next furlough, so it will be a while.” There! I’ve said it. Otto will understand that I need time to heal. But, there’s something else I need, too. I need to peer into those pools of cornflower blue and peace before I make promises to anyone.
“Not coming home? But where will you go? There’s no place else to go, these days.”
“I need to go west for a bit.”
“Oh, I get it.” Otto said.
Gerhard swung to face Otto with a questioning look. Does Otto suspect?
“You want to see if you can go back to the conflict,” Otto clarified.
Gerhard hesitated, searching for a response. “Sure. That’s exactly it.” Well, I am going west, into chaos, am I not?
The first days after reporting to Depot reminded Gerhard of his first days at the military school when he was a boy. Time was spent on introductions and orientation, meeting with commanders, and receiving orders.
Some offices and meeting rooms were in the main building, where senior officers and their staff worked. Other offices were lodged in detached buildings. Together with the barns and garages, the buildings formed a wall of discretion around the parade square.
Military vehicles came with messengers, staff, orders, and supplies. Others departed with deployed personnel, officers on missions, and secret dispatches. Depot was a hive of activity at all hours.
Gerhard and Michael were given an opportunity to introduce recommendations for improved physical and mental preparation for those shipped to the front, and for improvements in the debriefing process and psychological assessments following active service and other traumatic experiences while in the service of the Kaiser. Arrangements were made for them to meet with appropriate medical officials to convey their concerns and recommendations.
As soon as the days settled into a routine of sorts, Gerhard dispatched a note of thanks to Dr. Depage, and arranged for it to be delivered to the doctor personally through a network of connections on the Lazarettzug. In a firm masculine hand, he wrote:
Dear Doctor Depage,
I hope my greetings find you and your lovely cousin Nora safe and in good health.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank you and Fraulein Nora for your kind efforts to aid Captain Schmidt and myself in a time of need. Captain Schmidt’s recovery progresses in a predictable manner, and he awaits an artificial limb. The Captain remains positive and hopeful.
If timing permits, I would welcome an opportunity to visit with you and Fraulein Nora to express, in person, our profound gratitude for your service.
I look forward to meeting with you both once again, under more favourable circumstances, and will remain forever in your debt.
Yours sincerely,
Captain Gerhard Lange
Communication via Lazarettzug did not disappoint. In the first week of November, Gerhard received a response from Dr. Depage, penned in typical medical scrawl.
Dear Captain Lange,
I was delighted to receive your note, and to hear that you and your colleague are mending well.
We live in chaos and grief these days. Constant conflict keeps the wards and surgeries full at all hours of the day and night. Influenza has become an unexpected enemy that takes the young and healthy. It does not discriminate. Those of us who work in the hospitals saw the first cases, and soon after became the victims. I know not why I have been spared thus far, but many of our medical personnel are gone.
It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that our lovely Nora is gone, too. She fought her battle valiantly, but was one of the early victims of this infectious pandemic. I pray that you and your community are spared. It is indeed a nasty business.
I look forward to the day that I might greet you under different circumstances. In the meantime, I recommend that you stay away.
With warm regards,
Pierre Depage, M.D.
Gerhard read the doctor’s letter for a third time, unable to grasp the terrible loss. Nora. Gone. I will never see those cornflower blue eyes again. She’s gone before I had the chance to really know her… and love her.
He sank into the chair behind his desk resting his elbows on it and letting the letter dangle from his fingers. He stared through it, remembering the eyes that had haunted him for months.
When this damn fighting is over, I will find Doctor Depage and we will remember Nora together!
A few days later, Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated, and shortly after that the Armistice of Compiegne was signed, ending the fighting on the Western Front. It would be a long time before peace was declared. Conflict and chaos continued throughout the country.
Michael retired from the military immediately, and returned home to help rebuild the community.
Gerhard was permanently stationed at Depot, where he fostered the programmes that he and Michael helped implement. He also enrolled in university and studied engineering, which would prove to be an asset to his family as the years passed.
His vow to find Dr. Depage was lost in the business of life that followed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GERHARD HAD ALLOWED himself a few days to mourn the loss of Nora. Not Nora herself, but the loss of what might have been. He was clever enough to recognize that continued mourning would amount to nothing. Instead, he considered Otto’s constant reminder that Emma was waiting, and determined that he would be wise to focus on building a relationship with her.
For the remainder of the month, Gerhard visited with Emma as often as he could, and quickly surmised that Nora had been a distraction: a dream and nothing more. To his surprise, he realized that he loved Emma; had loved her since before he and Otto had set off to war. By the end of the first week in December, he resolved to speak with his father about a marriage proposal.
One evening, as Cook removed the dinner plates, Gerhard caught his father’s eye. “Brandy, Vater?”
“Good idea, son. Mutti, Marie, excuse us.” Michael pushed his chair from the polished mahogany table, typically draped in white linen during meals. He folded his napkin and set it neatly on the table in front of him before making a gallant bow to the women.
They giggled at his chivalry, while Marie gathered the folded napkins and returned them to the china cabinet, ready for the next meal.
“Savour your brandy, my dears. The supply is running low,” Anna warned. Chortling, she added, “I do hope the war ends before we have none. You may have to resort to water if it doesn’t!” To her daughter, she added, “Come, Marie; let’s see if we have something to wear for the Christmas festivities. Whatever we find will have to be taken in.”
“What is it, son?” Michael poured a small amount of brandy into two crystal glasses. The light in the study was dim: insufficient to cast rainbows through the crystal.
“Sir?” Gerhard accepted the glass his father held out to him. Out of uniform, his father was still formidable. His belly clenched with eagerness.
“You never suggest a brandy after dinner. You have something on your mind.”
Gerhard sipped the brandy, hopi
ng it would warm his throat. It suddenly felt tight. “Yes,” he croaked, half-choking. He cleared his throat and began again. “Yes. I wanted to speak with you about Emma.”
“Emma Schmidt, I presume,” Michael said with a twinkle in his eye.
Gerhard nodded. “I … That is … I, uh, I would like to ask Farmer Schmidt for permission to marry her, but I wanted your advice first.”
“I see … and is Emma aware of your interest? Your intent?”
“Uh, I believe so. I mean … maybe not in so many words. But … well. I’ve been spending time with her, and Otto seems to think we would be a good match. And she seems to like spending time with me.”
“Otto thinks it’s a good match? I’m glad to hear it! Have you doubts?” Michael sipped his brandy and held it in his mouth, as if to savour the warmth and the delicate aroma.
“No, Vater, not at all! I want to propose. I, well, I thought it would be helpful to have your advice before I asked her. I’m worried about my nightmares and how they might affect her. And, I’d like your blessing for the marriage, of course.”
“Gerhard, this is a small community. If we lived in one of the cities, your choice of young women would be plentiful, but I’m not necessarily convinced that the selection would be so agreeable. I know the family well, and our families have worked side-by-side in common purpose for decades.
“Emma is a lovely young woman,” Michael said, “and I’ve seen how her eyes follow you. That girl has time for no one else. Ask. And your mother and I will welcome her as a new daughter.
“As for the nightmares, if every man returning from war abstained from marriage because of nightmares, the country we all fought to save would disappear,” Michael said. “I’m certain that Emma is aware of nightmares caused by the horrors of war. Talk with her about them, and help her understand her role in your healing. I’m sure that the Schmidts have had discussions similar to ours.”
The Crest Page 6
