“On our next day off,” Otto said, “we need to go there, assuming it’s still standing.”
“Ja,” Heinrich said, wiggling his fingers. “Max plays the piano beautifully.”
Max smiled.
Three weeks earlier, Max’s unit had been given a twenty-four-hour leave. Heinrich, who had won several bottles of schnapps in a card game with a neighboring trench unit, suggested that they find a secluded spot to drink his winnings. They settled on a vacant farmhouse, which had been partially bombed by Allied infantry. The house was empty, except for a broken sofa and an upright piano, which was likely too heavy for the fleeing family to take with them. After a meal of roasted quail, thanks to Otto’s marksmanship, the men urged Max to play the piano. Placing his hands on the ivory keys resurrected fond memories of his parents, who had encouraged his dreams of someday becoming a professional pianist. He began with some of his favorite pieces, Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonataand Mozart’sRondo alla Turca. His friends applauded and urged him to play more songs. Desiring for his comrades to participate, Max turned his selections to German marches and pieces with lyrics, even though he rarely, if ever, performed them. With full bellies and light hearts, the men gathered around the piano. They drank, passing the bottles, which they slid across the top of the piano. Spilled schnapps turned the piano keys sticky. Max played. The men sang. And for the first time in months, they were joyful.
Otto finished his soup and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You’re a superb pianist.”
“Danke,” Max said, feeling grateful for the compliment.
Otto nudged Max with his elbow. “But I would stick to playing marches. People would pay to hear them.”
Max nodded.
The men cleared their tins and gathered their rifles. Otto and Heinrich made their way to a dugout, a protective cave carved into the side of the trench, while Max waited for Jakob, who was on his knees with an ear pressed to a dry section of ground.
“What are you doing?” Max asked.
“Listening for tunnelers,” Jakob said.
Max’s heart sank. An image of a German-occupied hill—exploding in a mountainous fountain of earth, iron, and bodies—flashed in his head. He shook away his thought and said, “You have little to worry about.”
“The thousand men who were blown to pieces on the ridge probably thought the same thing,” Jakob said. “If British miners are capable of tunneling into the highest point in German territory and loading an underground chamber with explosives, they can surely reach our location.”
For months, we fear death raining down from the sky,Max thought.Now, we worry about wrath rising from hell.He approached Jakob and extended his hand. “They won’t tunnel under us.”
“How do you know?” Jakob asked.
“They want the high ground. Our position is on one of the lowest areas of the line.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ja,” Max lied, hoping to quell his friend’s angst.
Jakob clasped Max’s hand and stood. The tension in his brows softened.
Max patted him on the shoulder. “Join me. I’m going to write a letter to Wilhelmina. You should write one for yourmutter.”
“All right,” Jakob said.
Reaching the dugout, they found Heinrich standing near the makeshift door, which was constructed from a tattered piece of canvas. Several soldiers, strapping their helmets to their heads, rushed down the trench.
“What’s happening?” Jakob asked.
Heinrich removed his helmet and ran a hand through his oily hair. “The infantry has been given orders to conduct a forty-eight-hour bombardment.”
Jakob’s shoulders slumped. “When?”
“Tonight,” Heinrich said.
A prelude to an infantry attack, Max thought. Every soldier on the front knew that a ground attack followed a sustained bombardment. Soon, he and his comrades would be ordered by pistol-wielding officers to climb out of the trenches and run into battle. Burying his apprehension, he opened the canvas door and gestured to Jakob. “Letters.”
The men spoke little for the next few hours. They hunkered in their bunks to either rest, read, or write. Under the flickering flame of aHindenburglicht, a flat bowl filled with waxlike fat and a short wick, Max retrieved a paper and pencil. By evening, he finished his letter to Wilhelmina and sealed it in an envelope. Jakob, who appeared to be having difficulty concentrating on anything other than the impending battle, struggled to draft a message to hismutter. Seeking a bit of fresh air before having to spend forty-eight hours hunkered in a cramped, timber-lined hole, Max left the dugout. The sky was dark, except for a crescent moon. The scent of burnt tobacco pervaded his nose. Along the trench, helmets shimmered with moonlight. Cigarette embers glowed and faded like fireflies.
As he glanced to his luminous dial watch, German artillery guns exploded. Within seconds, the boom of guns swelled into a unified, ferocious thunder. Red spheres pierced the sky. French rockets shot up light flares with attached parachutes, which slowly drifted to the ground. The flares burned for a minute, turning night into day. Showers of white and red stars filled the atmosphere. Soon, French artillery guns fired. Above Max, the air was permeated with shrills and whistles. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Explosions behind German lines trembled the ground beneath his feet. The acrid scent of gunpowder grew. Fear rippled through him.
A wave of Allied shells exploded, one after another in close proximity, compelling him to press his body to the side of the trench. As he turned to run for the dugout, a concussive blast detonated, knocking him to the ground. A high-pitched ringing buzzed in his ears. As the fog cleared from his head, a loud hissing, like a ruptured steam radiator, emanated from the vicinity of the dugout. Coughs and screams turned his blood cold. A stench of pineapple and pepper burned his nostrils. An overhead flare illuminated the trench, revealing a ruptured cylinder, spewing a green-yellow vapor.
