"Ils Ne Passeront Pas!" [IC|WWI|Verdun]

[Torrocca]

OOC

The Trenches North of Samogneux and Haumont
351st Regiment, 72nd Infantry Division
7:30 A.M., February 20th, 1916

For the ninth day in a row, heavy rains, fog, and high winds had settled across the region of Verdun as well as its outlying areas, preventing either side from their trenches at the front lines from seeing the other. Already known to French High Command, but ignored by Commander-in-Chief Joseph Joffre, was the German build-up around the region, with thousands of new troops and hundreds of new artillery guns being brought to the front. Their intention was clear: take Verdun. Joffre, however, believed this to be nothing more than a diversion, and as such, ordered the forts to be emptied of men and guns, leaving forts like Fort Douaumont without adequate defenses against any possible attack. Although reinforcements had arrived to help ensure the French defenses in the region held, no one was truly prepared for the hell that would soon mark down in history the Battle of Verdun.

Like many of the soldiers of the 351st Regiment, Soldat 2e Jacques Martel was a recently-conscripted teenager barely pushed eighteen who was thrust upon the frontlines with little expectation of survival. He was the model French soldier: with an Adrian helmet rested upon his head, his horizon blue uniform covering his body, and his Lebel rifle in hand, he, like all the others, represented France's spirit and determination in this war. He was just one of many million Frenchmen assigned to the thousands of kilometers of winding trenches across France, barely prepared for war and all its horrors. Like a number of the men in the region, he had no real experience with combat, save for the occasional shot from a marksman within the trenches or an exchange of terrifying, earth-shaking artillery. Although he was willing to fight for his motherland and lay down his life if need be, nothing could prepare him, nor the thousands upon thousands of other French soldiers for what was soon to occur.

The boy, with piercing blue eyes that matched his uniform, looked down the trench at the row of men stationed in his section, who sat idly, waiting for something to happen. Months had passed with little action, and many of the younger soldiers, still full of bravado, longed for it. Their minds ran foul with ideas of heroic deeds, where they themselves were titans, saviors of France and her people. These Herculean deeds wouldn't go unnoticed; the beautiful, lovely French ladies who despaired at the sight of their country under attack would fawn all over them for being the ones to answer her call in her time of need, they thought. Even Jacques shared these thoughts with the others; after all, what else was there to do for young men sat in a muddy, half-flooded trench with nothing to see but walls of dirt and lines of guns?

A few of the men, sat in a small group to his right, were busy playing cards; one of them seemed rather annoyed at the loss of a pack of cigarettes, while another chuckled at the sight of his new loot. To his left, a duo brought in containers of water, and another behind them food: soup, bread, meat, and whatever else they could muster up from the rear. Most of the men just sat around, talking about their lives at home or the boring reality of the war, sitting in trenches and doing nothing until an officer gave some sort of order to them. Jacques was alone, reading Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, a fascinating book that he genuinely enjoyed after having it suggested to him by his childhood friend, Eveline. How he missed those times; his childhood was a good one, one full of joy and excitement, not the dreadful boredom of the war.

"Heh-hey, Jacques, day-dreaming again, eh?" the familiar, friendly face of his comrade, Nicolas Fabre, a youth of the same age and rank as himself, asked. "Certainly better than sitting around," Jacques replied, chuckling as he set aside the book, leaving a card in it to mark his last page, "wouldn't you agree?" "Yes, of course," Nicolas answered, taking a seat next to his friend, "I can't wait to finally see some action. Damn this muck and all this waiting." "Hmm... you suppose all the girls back home will be out in the streets singing as their heroic Frenchmen march through Paris?" "Hahaha, it's certainly a lovely thought, Jacques." "Indeed... ah... at least we don't worry too much about getting shot at, eh? I think that would be worse than just sitting here." "Probably, my friend. I don't know. At least, once we win this war, we get to go home heroes. These Germans won't have another Franco-Prussian War for themselves." "No, they won't."

Before much more could be said between the two, a stern, authoritative voice shouted from down the line, "attention!" bringing the men quickly to their feet. An officer, their platoon's Lieutenant, walking with the stride of a gentleman and carrying a walking cane to complement the look, passed by the men at attention, saying, "men, it is now eight in the morning. The rains have finally stopped, it seems, hopefully for the day. These trenches need maintenance." He compounded his point by lowering his foot into a disgusting brown puddle of muddy water, lifting it out a second later to show his once-shiny boot now as ugly as the trench itself. "Get to clearing out the water, men; clean yourselves and your weapons, too. Inspection is in an hour!" With his orders given and seeing the men get to it, the officer, content in the conduct of his soldiers, left with a light smile on his face.

"Damn shame we can't shelter in the villages around here, eh Marcel?" Jacques remarked to another man beside him, Caporal Marcel Bertrand, another of the new breed of conscripts. "About as damn a shame as your ugly-monkey face, Jacques," he replied, earning a few short laughs from the others in the section. "Ah, to Hell with you, man!" Jacques jokingly said, laughing alongside the others. "Might want to hurry with your bucket, Marcel," Nicolas said as he threw a bucket full of muddy water over the trench into No Man's Land, "otherwise you'll soon be looking the same when the Lieutenant comes back. "Ah, you're right," Marcel said, filling his bucket with water, "wouldn't want to ruin The Gentleman's pretty mud line, huh?" Continuing with their duties, the men cracked more jokes throughout the act, sharing the only thing that kept them sane from the rest of the war: laughter.

[Mestovakia]

Light footsteps signalled a newcomer. Manoeuvring her feet to avoid the puddles, the familiar sight of Sister Viktoria Schrader stopped a few feet away, holding her bag to her side as she watched the soldiers work away. "Bom Matin und Guten Morgen, les soldats francaise~" She said, bowing. "I hope all of you are still in good shape. I have no doubt St. Peter has admitted many men into Heaven during this war, and I believe that the Heavenly Father would rather that you all live productive lives before you ascend than die in a place like this."

[Arengin Union]

A lone soldier slept besides several sandbags, his dirty blue service jacket covered him from the cold of the rain. His dirty boots and fatigues stuck out of his makeshift blanket. His lebel rifle on his back and his helmet covering his face. The rain stopped. The snoring of the soldier could be heard from the next set of trenches, maybe even the Germans could hear.

"Sergeant... Sergeant... Thouvenel!" A voice said. Thouvenel didn't wake up, or at least he pretended he didn't as he made a shrug and then a piss off gesture with his hand.

"The lieutenant announced inspection. And trench maintenance. Wake up!" The soldier said.

Thouvenel finally uncovered his face. He was rather annoyed as he got off his comfort and put on his jacket. The soggy floorboards made a pile of mud as he stepped off the platform.

"This gets better each day doesn't it. Assemble the platoon and make sure buckets are given to clear out the mud and the water. Come on soldier!" Thouvenel began to walk along the trenches, his rifle on his back and making sure everyone was helping in taking the water out of the trench. He himself grabbed a bucket and began filling it with water and throwing​ it out the trench.

"Looks like we've gotten fresh faces around here." He said as he looked at the couple of young soldiers that had arrived. The other old timers began to laugh as they saw them in their brand new blue uniforms getting dirty by the minute.

"I give them a week." One soldier said.

"I give them a month before they desert." Another soldier said.

"I give them a day." Said Thouvenel coldly. The soldiers began to laugh as the sergeant gave a sinister smirk.

[Christoslavia]

Jean-Luc hopped up, straight at attention, as Lieutenant demanded the trench be prettied up. How could soldiers of Frances mighty armies be expected to sleep in such filth? It was true his fatigues were dirty, his Adrien helmet slightly scratched, and he hadn't been on the front for very long. Maybe it was his upbringing, maybe his inexperience and hope. That being said however, he was somewhat more experienced than the brand new arrivals. Hopefully they were ready to fight for the Patrie with as much honor and figure as he was. He snapped a salute and turned to a serious, resolute look on his face, to the chuckling of some more senior soldiers. He heard their jabs, making bets on how long he'd live, even imitating him, walking stiff as a board with over exaggerated "Yes sirs!", he paid them no mind however. They had lost their courage, and esprit de corps clearly meant nothing to them. He would show those filthy krauts, but you couldn't fight and drown at the same time, so he vigoruously picked up a bucket and began dumping water into No Man's Land.

He was so concentrated on the task at hand that when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, he instinctively threw the bucket and turned around bewildered, only to breathe a sigh of relief as it was his platoon Sergeant, Mahmoud al-Abbas

"Jean-Luc, don't strain yourself, save your energy for the Germans, it's just water for God's sake", the man looked at Rousseau with his eyes brown as the sands of the Sahara, so young and full of life, a pity really, this exuberance would surely get the boy killed, but not if he could help it.

"Sorry Sergeant, just doing my job"

"Carry on Soldat"

Mahmoud mumbled a quick prayer, followed by the Shahada, 'lā ʾilāha ʾillā-llāh, muḥammadur-rasūlu-llāh', before picking up a bucket, burrowing through the muck as the muddy, thick, sludge sloshed through the bucket and out onto the killing fields, some specks getting in his mouth. Definitely not the salt of the Atlantic.

1914

"Dear 'abi and 'ami,

By the time you read this letter I will be 4000 miles away in the city of lights, yes Paris. I know you must be confused, and even saddened, but let me explain. I have saved money for many months to go to France, America does not want us, and it has not treated us well. I have such disdain for the kufr Germans and think they will try and conquer Europe. Their are many grumblings about and I fear the worst. And this is why I am going to enlist in the Armée de Terre.

The German kufr are responsible for our sorry state, they drove us from our homeland, and they disdain us in America. You have both taught me to be proud of my heritage, my people's, my religion. The Germans have no respect for anyone but themselves. They walked around Morocco like they owned it, and the Sultan let them! They have no connection to the land, and now I believe they have Europe in their sights. I can not stand idle by and let this happen, Allah would forbid it.

And so, I am crossing the Atlantic OCean as I write this. Do not fear for me, I will return with honor and glory, I will kill the kufr, I will avenge our family, and be gloriious before Allah. And if I die, may He greet me in Heaven as a martyr. I will send my stipend home to you both, and hopefully we may get enough money to return to Ribat. Allahu Akhbar.

Love your Son,

Mahmoud

Mahmoud slowly and carefully folded the letter, his eyes slightly welled up and he kissed it tenderly, before placing it in an envelope and putting it in his coat pocket. He looked out at the great expanse of ocean before him, he felt so utterly tranquil, looking out at the pristine crystal blue before him, further than the eye could see, O the glory of Allah, all the beauty He has put into this world. He breathed it in, all of it, the salt, the sea, the sky, the fish, the ship, even his fellow passengers. All of it entered and exited his body and soul, it was purifying.

"Excuse me mister, care if I take a seat"

He turned around to see a Negro man, a brother, and gestured yes.

The man reached out his hand to Mahmoud as he gave it a firm shake

"My name's Robert"

"Mahmoud"

"Pleasure, say, you headed to France right?"

"Yes, what about it my friend?"

"Army?"

Stunned, Mahmoud stuttered, "H-how'd you know?"

"Please, any black man going to France is getting his fight on if you know what I'm saying, I'm from Harlem, and I'll be a son of a bitch if America ever let me serve under that flag"

Proud, with a smile, Mahmoud agreed, "Maybe we'll end up together huh?"

"Maybe man, maybe"

The two men laughed and looked out at sea, calm before the storm...

Robert was killed in action at the Second Battle of Ypres, poisoned by Chlorine gas. No man deserves to die that way.

Present day

Mahmoud shuddered at this memory, and tried to shove it out of his mind, a single tear rolled down his cheek, burst by flecks of mud against his black skin, and he continued, bucket after bucket. The Germans will die. Allahu Akhbar.

[Hothnia]

Pierre groaned as the officer shouted his commands. Damn him! Pierre had just lost his pack of cigarettes and now had to end his card game with the older corporal sitting across from him. The corporal chuckled and snatched up his former pack cigarettes. Pierre stood up and kicked the bucket the cards were sitting on, sending the corporal's cards flying. The corporal yelled in anger at the sight of his scattered cards, now drenched in water and mud. " You bastard!" The corporal lept at Pierre and threw him on the ground in the middle of the trench, knocking over a few newbies. Pierre fought back and flipped over the Corporal, pinning him on his back. Pierre raised his fist and repeatedly punched the Corporal for insulting him and his family name. The corporal would pay.

[Arengin Union]

Pierre groaned as the officer shouted his commands. Damn him! Pierre had just lost his pack of cigarettes and now had to end his card game with the older corporal sitting across from him. The corporal chuckled and snatched up his former pack cigarettes. Pierre stood up and kicked the bucket the cards were sitting on, sending the corporal's cards flying. The corporal yelled in anger at the sight of his scattered cards, now drenched in water and mud. " You bastard!" The corporal lept at Pierre and threw him on the ground in the middle of the trench, knocking over a few newbies. Pierre fought back and flipped over the Corporal, pinning him on his back. Pierre raised his fist and repeatedly punched the Corporal for insulting him and his family name. The corporal would pay.

As Thouvenel filled his bucket with muddy water only to throw it into no man's land he remembered the times he had to do something similar at the farm. Use the shovel to throw the cows manure out the barn. Stinky job, he remembered how he always ended up with his overalls being covered with it, the only perk to such job was that he got used to the smell and now when people complained of the smell of feces in the water, Thouvenel only laughed. He had lost the sense of that smell long ago.

Then he spotted two soldiers having a frisk. One pushed a bucket with playing cards over and made a whole mess. Then there was pushing and name calling and then actual fists in the mix. The soldier got on top of the other one and he began beating him.

Thouvenel left the bucket and sprinted to the fight. He grabbed the soldier on top by the hair to get him away from the soldier on the ground and then kicked him off him. Both soldiers were covered in mud now.

"Alright you bastards, that's enough. What's going on here, what's the meaning of this!" Thouvenel's words frightened everyone as the surrounding soldiers tried to see what was going on.

[Hothnia]

Pierre jumped up and saluted, his once faded blue uniform completely brown. " Sorry sir. Just anticipation to kill some jerries and boredom. Won't happen again sir." Pierre reached down and grabbed his helmet, rubbing his head in pain. The corporal stood up and glared at Pierre, his hatred unmasked. Pierre looked at him and grinned slightly, seeing that his once spotless, new blue uniform was covered in mud and dirt.

Th cards were also scattered everywhere, with only the ace of diamonds sitting on top of the bucket still. Pierre turned his attention back to the man who broke up his scuffle. He was worn, much older than Pierre. A Sergeant although he wasn't completely sure because his uniform was so faded. He obviously had been on the front for quite a while. Pierre wanted to ask him how many jerries he had shot down but felt it would be out of place, especially since he was just in a fight. Pierre wiped his hand down the front of uniform to try to get some of the mud off to no avail. The mud was wet, very wet for mud. Nothing like the mud on the outskirts of Amiens, back at his farmhouse. Pierre raised his eyes back at the Sergeant, not wanting to upset him any more. " Sorry again sir."

[Arengin Union]

Pierre jumped up and saluted, his once faded blue uniform completely brown. " Sorry sir. Just anticipation to kill some jerries and boredom. Won't happen again sir." Pierre reached down and grabbed his helmet, rubbing his head in pain. The corporal stood up and glared at Pierre, his hatred unmasked. Pierre looked at him and grinned slightly, seeing that his once spotless, new blue uniform was covered in mud and dirt.

Th cards were also scattered everywhere, with only the ace of diamonds sitting on top of the bucket still. Pierre turned his attention back to the man who broke up his scuffle. He was worn, much older than Pierre. A Sergeant although he wasn't completely sure because his uniform was so faded. He obviously had been on the front for quite a while. Pierre wanted to ask him how many jerries he had shot down but felt it would be out of place, especially since he was just in a fight. Pierre wiped his hand down the front of uniform to try to get some of the mud off to no avail. The mud was wet, very wet for mud. Nothing like the mud on the outskirts of Amiens, back at his farmhouse. Pierre raised his eyes back at the Sergeant, not wanting to upset him any more. " Sorry again sir."

Thouvenel eyed both soldiers from head to toes. He shook his head in much disappointment, these were the "men" that we're supposed to defend the Republic, and they were not even past their twenties, and they fought and argued over the dumbest of things.

The corporal tried to talk. "Sir, I'd like to make a rep-"

"Shut the fuck up Corporal or the next fist coming to your face will be mine. That's the same for you private." Thouvenel had seen everything since the beginning of this bloody war, he had once had the same excitement and ferosity as this young man, sporting the blue service jacket with the bright red fatigues and cap, marching on the summer blooming fields, yellow flowers all around. Those flowers turned red from his comrades bloods as they kept moving forward towards the German machine guns. The image of the blood and the limbs falling all over he place still haunted him, this was not a war to end all wars, this was just men going to the meat grinder, pilling up on the mound to fill their nations own egos. Then the trenches, the mud, the screams of soldiers trapped in barbed wire whole crossing no man's land. Thouvenel had not only done horrible things against the Germans, but also against his own fellow Frenchmen. At least that was what the rumors said.

Thouvenel went off his reminiscing and went back to disciplining the two soldiers. "You're lucky I don't sign you both up for court martial. I don't have the time nor am I willing to do the paperwork. Get that shit off your uniforms and don't do this again, cause if you do and I have to end it again being court martial will be the least of your worries. And stop calling sir. I'm a sergeant, not the damn king of England." Thouvenel said as he began to walk back to his position.

The sergeant stopped mid way and looked back at the private. "And private Pierre." The young soldier looked at Thouvenel with confusion.

"Don't be too excited. There's nothing out there but death itself waiting." The Sergeant said, then he continued walking.

[Mestovakia]

Having gone seemingly unnoticed, Viktoria stood around nearby, deciding to just hang around until she was needed for something. The two who were playing the Card game suddenly went at each other with fists flying, causing a rather noticeable disruption. Deciding not to get involved, Viktoria skirted around them as a sergeant barreled over to break things up. After several harsh words with both Corporal and Private, things de-escalated and all soldiers got on with their duties. Lightly making her way over to his position, the nun was waiting when Thouvenel made the small journey back to his post. She was a nun, not a soldier. Her journey around France had ended after she realised that the French Army might think she was a spy, so she ended up helping at religious services around Verdun. When a small field Hospital had been set up in the vicinity of her present location, she had been one of the civilians to volunteer their services. At the Moment she was on her break, so she had decided to take a tour of the positions, eventually coming upon the brawling soldiers. "Uhm....Good morning...Sergeant?" Viktoria said, unsure of how to act as Thouvenel aproached.

[Order of the Snow Lion]

Vito Tartini glanced up from his nap to see the two soldiers going at it over a card game and smiled, quietly betting with himself on who would win. Tucking himself further into his coat against the cold French winter, Vito pulled his battered and beaten Bible from his pocket and slowly began reading to himself as the other sergeant gave the two fighters a proper dressing down.

He glanced up briefly as a crow flew over and landed several feet away from him. Vito had decades of combat experience and in his years, he knew a crow was never a good omen. Unconsciously, he reached down to rub the scar on his leg as he remembered the aftermath of the Gaselee Expedition and the hundreds of crows that has swarmed the battlefield afterwards.

Vito started from his thoughts as a shot rang out from one of the new conscripts shooting the crow. The bird exploded in a cloud of black feathers as the soldier, still just a boy, gave a whoop of joy at hitting his target.

Vito leapt up from where he was sat and rushed over to the young soldier, grabbing him by his collar and forcing him against the side of the trench, the boy's feet off the ground. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have hit one of your fellow soldiers or even me, you useless rookie!" Letting go of the nearly crying boy, Vito glanced at him and walled sway back to his spot to continue reading his Bible and quietly shook his head as he thought about how these damn conscripts were more likely to kill him than the Germans.

[Hothnia]

Pierre Dumont walked away after getting berated by the Sergeant's words. What did he mean by there only being death on the field? These veterans seemed to have no hope, no chance at glory and fame. Pierre wondered why as he passed by a young soldier getting yelled at for shooting at a crow. Were they too scared? Or cowardly? Pierre decided that that was it. The veterans were cowards who had nothing to do but complain and yell at younger soldiers. Well he would show them. He would chase the bloody Huns back to Berlin in a day and walk through Paris in triumph, his medal gleaming. The cheering crowds would be all around him, all cheering for him, the savior of France.

But now work was to be done. Pierre grabbed a bucket and began pulling water water out of the trench. In no time, his boots and socks were soaked. Pierre walked back to his dugout in the trench and took off his uniform, using a bucket of dirty water to wash his clothes and sitting his boots out to dry. Pierre groaned and began to try and wash the mud off his uniform. This would take a while.

[Christoslavia]

Mahmoud spat out mud, continuing the task at hand. He glanced at the scuffle behind him,

Undisciplined idiots. Once the bullets start flying all their dreams of medals and glory will be abandoned. No glory in killing

He coud hear Sergeant Thouvenal screaming over his shoulder, and another berating some idiot taking potshots at crows. If the Hun attacked this line, you were supposed to be able to count on the man to your left and to your right, but this seemed increasingly problematic. Mahmoud figured as soon as Stoßtruppen jumped into the trenches with flamethrowers and cold blooded discipline, these recruits who thought war was like the stories, so full of glory and victory and women and booze, would realize it was al fake. War was a place where the dumb and the proud went to die. That Soldeat Pierre, he'd be face to face with a Stoßtruppen or any Hun and shit himself. The gung-ho and the ones who wanted to be here would be the first to desert. Or die.


...

Rousseau stood still at the various shouting going on around him, several angry sergeants berating several undisciplined soldeats. These were the men fighting for the glory of France? If they could not keep discipline in the trenches or among each other how were they expected to fight the Hun? The French are a proud people, children of history, these plebeians were not fit to fight for the Patrie.

[Vionna-Frankenlisch]

Michaël

"What on earth is going on, Sergeant?" Captain Michaël Florentin asked loudly, having just turned the corner from a connected trench line and saw Thouvenel berating a pair of filthy and battered soldiers. He approached quickly, jogging down the muddy trench and standing firmly next to the sergeant who had just turned to leave. "Wait there, sergeant. What were these men doing?" He asked hastily.

Edward

Edward sat solemnly in his dugout, seeing as across the trench two men had started a fight and had immediately been reprimanded by Sergeant Levantal. He sighed, stretched out his arms, and yawned. Standing up, he slung his Lebel over his shoulder and put his helmet on, making sure that, besides the dirt, his uniform was impeccable and left the dugout. He stood straight to attention and saluted smartly at the sight of his commander, Captain Florentin.

[Mestovakia]

(edited)

[Arengin Union]

Having gone seemingly unnoticed, Viktoria stood around nearby, deciding to just hang around until she was needed for something. The two who were playing the Card game suddenly went at each other with fists flying, causing a rather noticeable disruption. Deciding not to get involved, Viktoria skirted around them as a sergeant barreled over to break things up. After several harsh words with both Corporal and Private, things de-escalated and all soldiers got on with their duties. Lightly making her way over to his position, the nun was waiting when Thouvenel made the small journey back to his post. She was a nun, not a soldier. Her journey around France had ended after she realised that the French Army might think she was a spy, so she ended up helping at religious services around Verdun. When a small field Hospital had been set up in the vicinity of her present location, she had been one of the civilians to volunteer their services. At the Moment she was on her break, so she had decided to take a tour of the positions, eventually coming upon the brawling soldiers. "Uhm....Good morning...Sergeant?" Viktoria said, unsure of how to act as Thouvenel aproached.

Thouvenel walked over the muddy floorboards. He didn't walk far until a nurse appeared out of thin air and spoke to him. Thouvenel was always weary of talking with other women, he still wore his wedding ring since the day the war began. His hands were dirty but the silver of the ring shined with the sun that peaked from the clouds above.

"I'm well madame. Just made sure that these soldiers know they are supposed to fight the men on the other trench. Not here." Thouvenel said, his tone had lightened up.

"I believe-"

Michaël

"What on earth is going on, Sergeant?" Captain Michaël Florentin asked loudly, having just turned the corner from a connected trench line and saw Thouvenel berating a pair of filthy and battered soldiers. He approached quickly, jogging down the muddy trench and standing firmly next to the sergeant who had just turned to leave. "Wait there, sergeant. What were these men doing?" He asked hastily.

Thouvenel then was taken off by the captain. He gasped and turned to the captain. He saluted the officer.

"Just a minor scuffle mon capitaine. It's been reprimented." The sergeant said with a disciplined tone.

He stood firmly and silently as the captain in his till shinny and clean uniform looked around.

"The men are cleaning up the trenches capitaine." Thouvenel said.

[Mestovakia]

"Uhm...Hello...?" Viktoria had noticed that a bunch of the men had been giving her the cold shoulder, probably due to her German Origins. Quickly noticing the only other non-French person in the area, and not noticing Thouvenel had replied to her, she skirted her way around the group over to him, starting to speak English. "I say that correct, right? Hello?" She said, standing next to him with her arms behind her back, looking a little bit embarrassed. "Je suis vraiment désolé, my English...Not quite good, but passable. Tu es Anglais, n'est-ce pas?" She suddenly realised that Thouvenel had talked to her as she wheeled around, reverting to French. "I'm so sorry, Sergeant! I didn't notice you had replied...My parents always said I could be a bit scatterbrained at times... Could you repeat that, please?" She then noticed he was talking to the Captain, and quietly withdrew, before silently putting her head into her hand in self-frustration. "Viktoria, Viktoria, get a hold fo yourself. You didn't travel around France just to make a fool of yourself here..."

[Beutarch]

Dupont peered out of the trench through a battered periscope. The unit's quartermaster, not having a moment to spare, dropped a satchel full of his predcessor's possessions in his hand. Photographs, cigars and the periscope along with several other items waited in the depths of the bag. He scanned the hellish landscape, settling on a relatively peaceful view of an artillery crater. He studied the footprints and ruts in the soft mud, amazed by the range of the quaint device. Splash. Muddy water coated the lenses of the periscope, rendering it momentarily useless. A soldier sitting on his left, stared up at Dupont lazily.

"Apologies. I haven't slept all night. Real pain in the ass, being tired."

He yawned, tipping over his newly filled bucket of mud. Dupont shot him an angered look, wiping the contraption on his trench coat. He stuffed it back in the sachel, sifting around the items inside. Out of the bag, he procured a codebook. It wasn't exactly an encryption that would make the Germen Counter-Intel officers loose sleep over, but sensitive enough to order them to be burned upon the intended holder's death. Dupont filled through the pages, skimming for interesting phrases or unintended puns. Upon finding no such thing and becoming throughly bored, he set out. Splashing through the soggy trenches, he knocked on the door of the nearest under-officer.

"Hello! I was just looking for a place to burn this incredibly dull piece of spywork!"
He nudged the door open, seeing the Sgt. talking to his superior and a Nun strangely standing nearby aswell.

"Oh, excuse me. I'll - wait outside.."

[Vionna-Frankenlisch]

Thouvenel then was taken off by the captain. He gasped and turned to the captain. He saluted the officer.

"Just a minor scuffle mon capitaine. It's been reprimented." The sergeant said with a disciplined tone.

He stood firmly and silently as the captain in his till shinny and clean uniform looked around.

"The men are cleaning up the trenches capitaine." Thouvenel said.

Michaël

Michaël turned to Edward and saluted, "As you were, Caporal..." He said offhand before turning back sharply to Thouvenel, "Yes... And they are doing a rather fine job of it. Shame they have to work with such shoddy tools." He pondered for a moment before raising his eyebrows, as if in surprise, and pulling out of his pocket a battered notebook and filthy yet dry pencil. "Attendre!" He proclaimed, "Sergeant, I require your fastest runner, to get this note to Battalion. 'Captain Florentin requests fresh spades, buckets, sandbags and new blankets for the reinforcement of defensive positions immedietly.'" He ordered.

Turning to Viktoria, he said calmly, "Good morning, nurse. You have business with Sergeant Levantal?!

[Arengin Union]

Thouvenel then was taken off by the captain. He gasped and turned to the captain. He saluted the officer.

"Just a minor scuffle mon capitaine. It's been reprimented." The sergeant said with a disciplined tone.

He stood firmly and silently as the captain in his till shinny and clean uniform looked around.

"The men are cleaning up the trenches capitaine." Thouvenel said.

Michaël

Michaël turned to Edward and saluted, "As you were, Caporal..." He said offhand before turning back sharply to Thouvenel, "Yes... And they are doing a rather fine job of it. Shame they have to work with such shoddy tools." He pondered for a moment before raising his eyebrows, as if in surprise, and pulling out of his pocket a battered notebook and filthy yet dry pencil. "Attendre!" He proclaimed, "Sergeant, I require your fastest runner, to get this note to Battalion. 'Captain Florentin requests fresh spades, buckets, sandbags and new blankets for the reinforcement of defensive positions immedietly.'" He ordered.

Turning to Viktoria, he said calmly, "Good morning, nurse. You have business with Sergeant Levantal?!

"Yes Capitaine." Thouvenel said and immediately got to rallying all the newcomers that were young. He thought of soldat Pierre. Though he was inexperienced and new to the regiment he saw that he was young and deemed fit.

"Attention. All soldiers that are new to the regiment come forward!" The sergeants words echoed all along the trench and soldiers began to flock in front of him and the captain.

Thouvenel had assemble all newcomers that were young and after considering each one he made a decision. He assembled the soldiers and they were in file in front of Florentin. Thouvenel looked at Pierre, he made up his mind, if he was so excited to do something then this would do.

"Okay... Prive Pierre. Come here." The sergent said. The young soldier approached, much of his uniform still covered by mud.

"This is privé Pierre, capitaine. He's young and a bit rash but he's strong and seems capable. He can take the message." Thouvenel said.

[Vionna-Frankenlisch]

"Yes Capitaine." Thouvenel said and immediately got to rallying all the newcomers that were young. He thought of soldat Pierre. Though he was inexperienced and new to the regiment he saw that he was young and deemed fit.

"Attention. All soldiers that are new to the regiment come forward!" The sergeants words echoed all along the trench and soldiers began to flock in front of him and the captain.

Thouvenel had assemble all newcomers that were young and after considering each one he made a decision. He assembled the soldiers and they were in file in front of Florentin. Thouvenel looked at Pierre, he made up his mind, if he was so excited to do something then this would do.

"Okay... Prive Pierre. Come here." The sergent said. The young soldier approached, much of his uniform still covered by mud.

"This is privé Pierre, capitaine. He's young and a bit rash but he's strong and seems capable. He can take the message." Thouvenel said.

Michaël

"Very good Sergent..." Michaël replied nodding, "I'm sure he'll do. Make sure when the equipment arrives you use it for cleaning up the trench and the men. Our position is strong enough as it is." He turned to the young soldier who was standing smartly to attention. "Private..." He ordered, "Run this message to Battalion HQ, say it's urgent. If you're back in ten minutes I'll give you two francs."

He turned back to Viktoria, awaiting her reply.

[Hothnia]

Pierre quickly saluted the officer, took the message, and sprinted towards battalion headquarters. He ran through the muddy trenches towards the rear passed soldiers emptying the trenches of water and going daily buissness. 4 soldiers playing cards in a dugout, man sleeping on the side of the trench, a few drunkards singing an off pitched version of the Marsailles. Pierre pushed one of the drunkards that was standing in the middle of trench. The man fell face first in the mud, yelling something inaudible. Pierre kicked over a bucket full of water removed from the, on accident of course, spilling it all back on the bottom of the trench. The three men working on it yelled obscenities at him.

Pierre climbed out of the last trench and continued running towards battalion headquarters, located in a farmhouse just out of range of German artillery. Pierre ran through the shell pocketed ground, passing two French artillery dugouts that were preparing to fire. Pierre reached the farmhouse and proceeded to hand the message to a staff officer currently there. Pierre saluted again and ran back out just as the first French gun released a shell towards the Germans. The guns continued cracking as Pierre back to his Captain. He arrived back 11 minutes later after being held up by the drunkard he had pushed. " Message delivered sir."

[Torrocca]

The Trenches North of Samogneux and Haumont
9:00 A.M., February 20th, 1916

For over an hour, the trenches had been full of hectic, dangerous adventure. How had the soldiers broken so quickly so as to turn upon themselves rather than the German foe? Men who were together in arms, defending their country, instead desecrated each other with fury due to offended honor. It was a sightly thing, horrible in every aspect, as Caporal Pierre Renard found it to be, who watched on as a pair of new men to the trenches scuffled over a game of cards, and another Sergent berated a foolhardy conscript after he'd turned a bird to a puff of feathers. He, on the other hand, actually bothered with his given duties, ignoring the snide remarks of the snickering conscripts who watched these events unfold. Bucket after bucket of sloshing, thick mud and water went over the top, sickly splattering on the ground just beyond the trench. By now, most of the trench had been cleared of the flooding waters, save for a few small puddles here and there, one of which was partially bloodied after the earlier fighting.

Before any more could be done to cure the trench of its ailments, however, the Lieutenant returned, now clean-shaven and neatly dressed all around, with even the mud on his boots gone. "Gentlemen," he said in his usual boisterous, commanding voice, "your work thus far is... very good. Those of you that have recently arrived here: supper is at noon! You have three more hours to finish your duties for the day; make sure your uniforms and yourselves are nice and tidy, and make sure what's left of this muck is cleared out! Back to work!" Once again, the officer turned to leave; this time, however, a rather large rat, about as large as a cat, scurried past his feet, kicking up mud as it went along. Right on its heels was a barking Brittany, which hastily caught up to it and slammed it into the mud, killing it within seconds. Content with its hunt, the dog dropped the bloodied black corpse onto the Earth, barking twice and leaving from whence it came, followed by the bemused Lieutenant.

Renard looked down at the diseased body with disgust; it had landed mere inches from his feet, and he could almost smell the rot of its fresh corpse. With haste, he kicked it away to the other end of the trench, leaving it there and resuming his work. "What's the matter, Renard?" one of the new conscripts remarked, giving the annoyed man a goofy grin, "a little fur-ball scare you?" "No, no no no," Renard replied, filling his bucket with another load of browned water and mud, "but I'm sure it scare you when it comes back at night, festering with its plague, and kills you, eh?" "Wh-what? No! Are you out of your mind, Caporal?" "No, not at all," he said, pausing for a moment before sloshing water at the man. "Think with your head next time, not your ass, and maybe you won't get shot by the Boches for your troubles." The conscript looked at him, dumbfounded, but found it hopeless to argue, so he turned back to his young peers, chattering about irrelevant matters while putting the minimum effort needed for their work.

[Order of the Snow Lion]

Vito walked over to where Caporal Pierre Renard stood working at bailing the water and mud out of the trench and scaring a green conscript with ghost stories. Smiling savagely at the conscript, he picked up the body of the huge rat and said "No sense in letting this go to waste. Plenty of good meat on this. Isn't that right, caporal?"

Vito turned away bringing the rat with him back to his quarters where he had a small gas stove to make tea and cook whatever he could. The sergeant quickly skinned the vermin before cutting it into small pieces and quickly cooking the rodent. Vito settled down onto a small stool to munch on his bounty and think about how surprised he had been at first that rat tasted so much like chicken. The tastes were virtually indiscernible.

Vito couldn't help thinking back to the old days in Milan when his mother would never have cooked with rat. She would have used cross-cut veal shanks braised with vegetables, white wine and broth. She would have garnished it with a gremolata and served it alongside a risotto. She might have even served some mashed potatoes or maybe, if he had been good that day, baked polenta.

All the thoughts of his childhood and delicious food made Vito look at the rat in his hand with disgust, when just minutes before he thought it the best food he had ever eaten. The grizzled sergeant, a veteran of two armies and 4 wars, was on the verge of tears as he thought about his mother and relived her and his father's brutal murders. The only thing that got him through as much killing as he had, was the fact that he imagined that every time he pulled the trigger, stabbed with his bayonet, or threw a grenade, he imagined he was killing the thief who killed his parents instead of some boy pulled from his family to fight another man's war.

Forcing himself to eat his fill of the rat before sharing it with a nearby soldier, Vito got on his knees by his bedside before the little shrine he had to the Virgin Mary and prayed for the souls of his mother and father and for the Almighty to save the lives of the men he served with and put an end to this bloody war, even if it meant his own life.

[Christoslavia]

A job well done! Jean-Luc thought to himself, pleased with his own hard work, and the relative cleanliness of the trenches now, emphasis on relative; along with the fact that the undisciplined mongrols had been reprimanded, he sat down and opened his canteen.

All the water he had just dealt with made him thirsty in a cruel and sick way, no matter, soon he'd go get chow. Now with his few months of experience in the Armée, he had come to appreciate whatever he could get, the food was fit for a street begger in Paris, or a gypsy in Rome, and it definitely wasn't of the quality of food he had at home. A day running through the streets of Nice after school, coming home to the pleasantly intoxicating smell of ratatouille, or braised beef. The thought of it made his mouth water, but saddened him considering he had not left home on the best terms with his parents...

1915

"What do you men you're joining the Armée? All this work and effort you've put into school, a slot at the University of Paris?! Oh not to mention you're intelligence and you're wasting it on the Armée?"

Jean-Luc looked down in disappointment, although he couldn't tell if it was with himself, or his mother.

"Mother please, France is under attack, those bastard Huns almost sacked Paris last autumn, and I'll be damned if they destroy France. I must do my part, as must all my countrymen!"

"Son, do you have any idea what it's like out there? I know you're father has taken you to many places, you've seen many things, but this is war we're talking about, against those savage Germans nonetheless!"

His mother began crying softly, tears rolling down her cheeck, reflected in the sunlight as she shook her first born, pleading him to stay.

His father looked up from the table, somber and tired. He wiped his glasses on his shirt and rubbed his temples.

"Tell me Jean-Luc, why?"

He held his mother at bay and turned to address his father, "What do you mean?"

"Why are you going? Give me a real answer, and with your skills, why not join the Officer's Corps? Why be a grunt?"

"Becasue Father, the officer's sit there and do nothing, they send men to die and sit on their asses! I want to help save France, I want to be like grandfather!"

*sigh* "Son, it's not that simple. Killing men changes you, being on the front lines is no picnic, it's no place where you can bask in glory. Yes Grandpa has stories but if he were alive today he would tell you that war is hell, and in no way glorious. I don't want you to die"

He ran up to his father and put his hand on his shoulder, "Father, the patrie needs me. If I die or if I don't, every man is required for this fight. What if the Germans make it down here? We have to do our part"

His mother shouted frantically, "Pierre, say something, make him stay!"

His father looked at him with melancholy in his eyes, "Marie, we raised him to be independent, and the boy has made up his mind....You better come out of this alive."

[Arengin Union]

Thouvenel Levantal

Thouvenel walked over the floorboards of the trench. The squishy sound of mud could be heard as he walked fast and with determination. He inspected all soldiers he passed by, made sure they made their job right. He was known among the regiment as being sort of a meticulous fellow, nobody knew much about what he did before being drafted.

Some said he was in the army his whole life. Others said he was actually a French spy in a mission to infiltrate the German lines, others even believed he was actually a German spy. Many had heard rumors that during a battle in 1915 Thouvenel had killed an officer by his own hands, strangled him in the middle of battle.

Thouvenel kept walking, rifle strapped on his back as light drizzle tipped on his helmet. Thouvenel would do his usual walks back and forth along the regiments trench section, from time to time he would stop to rest then go back to walking. It was, odd.