Gunther

Emerging from the fog just outside Chaumont-devant-Damvillers, my combat spread platoon halts, as Chambers (on point) signals movement ahead.

A staccato series of shots ring out from their position, flying high above our heads.

Even though the shots are high, muscle memory drops the platoon in one, seemingly, coordinated move.

No one wants to be the last to die in this war.

Turning my head toward the fire, I can make out the faint shapes of stahlhelm (German helmets) in a crater by the side of the road.

“Their warning us” Powell says, shifting his rifle under his body to his left side so he can clear his line of sight to the enemy.

I look back at Powell, my Sergeant now.

We used to be pals and equals.

His eyes lock with mine.

He probably knows what I’m thinking right now.

Reaching his right arm toward me, he gently says “It’s not worth it, not now.”

I turn my head from him, toward the enemy machine gun.

If I could get that before the end, I’d make things right.

Rising as I pull my bayoneted rifle up from the frost-covered mud, I feel Powell’s hand on my right thigh.

“STOP” He tries to grab my rifle as he yells.

Far enough away, so he can’t get a grip on me or my weapon, I slip out of Powell’s reach as I break into a run.

We’re so close.

I can redeem myself before it’s all over!

DAMN IT, GUNTHER, I SAID HALT! Sgt. Powell screams at me as I get within 25 meters of the enemy.

Other men of the 313th, Baltimore’s Own, yell for me to stop as well.

“It’s almost over!”, “Don’t do it Gunther!”, “They’re not worth it!”

I can capture them.

I can show how American I am.

Just aware of my approach, the gun crew waves at me.

Within 20 meters I can see through the fog the expression on their faces change.

They know I’m not stopping!

“Go. . ., Go Back!” they yell, attempting to wave me away.

One holds a watch up on his right arm, while showing two fingers with left hand.

“Almost 11, GO BACK!” another yells.

I can’t go back, there’s no going back!

Within 10 meters the German who seems to be in charge screams, “NO TIME. . ., STOP. . ., OVER!”

I’m not stopping till I make things right.

At 5 meters I scream “SURRENDER!” at the top of my lungs as I race forward, firing a round to emphasize my point.

The man behind the machine gun shifts its barrel to aim directly at me.

They won’t.

Within 2 meters I can see the soldier behind the gun looking at the one who screamed for me to stop.

He then looks down, before pulling the chain which is attached to the trigger of the gun.

I’m American!

Private Henry Gunther was the last American to be killed in World War I when he was shot through the head at 10:59 am on November 11, 1918. Gunther, who until recently had been a Sergeant, was demoted when a letter he wrote advising a friend to avoid the war because of the horrible conditions at the front was caught by Army censors and delivered to his commanding officer. A Baltimore boy of German parents, Gunther may have felt compelled to prove how American he was, rather than ending the war in disgrace. The next day Private Gunther was recognized by General Pershing, the American Expeditionary Force commander, as the last American to die in the war. He was restored as a Sergeant, awarded the Divisional Citation for Gallantry in Action and the Distinguished Service Cross, and is honored to this day with a plaque in France recognizing him as the last allied soldier to die in the war. Before the war Henry Gunther was a bookkeeper at the National Bank of Baltimore and had a girlfriend, Olga Gruebl, who he intended to marry. He is buried at Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery in Baltimore.

Investigations about the last day of the war reveal possibly 11,000 allied soldiers were killed or wounded between the time the armistice was signed at 5 am and the cessation of hostilities at 11 am. The reason for this was French commander-in-chief Marshal Foch refused to allow a cease-fire. The news of the armistice was spread instantly to units across the front on both sides, but the officers in charge of Allied units mostly maintained the attack, despite the fact all German units would surrender their positions at 11 am. To put this number of deaths in context, it was very high for a single day in World War I, even though it only captures about five hours of active combat, and it is greater than the number of soldiers who lost their lives on D-Day, June 6, 1944 when the allies stormed the beaches of Normandy to begin the liberation of Western Europe from the NAZIs. Gunther may have been striving for redemption that day. What of the other 10,999, of which more than 3,000 were American?

End

Riding toward the front, the sound of artillery fire reassures me.

I have not missed the moment.

Will all the guns fire until the end?

2nd Army’s guns will fire until 11 am. I know that much.

Watkins, my aide de campe, who is riding just behind and to my left, pipes in “Still booming, Sir.”

“Yes, seems so. No need for them to be quiet yet.” I reply.

We continue riding, listening to the distant thunder of sporadic fire from large caliber weapons, relatively rare fire from lighter guns, and practically no fire from small-arms, at least which we can hear.

“Sounds like only the bigger boys are active right now.” Watkins blurts out.

He’s been trained to know my thoughts well.

As we ride up toward a shattered building, I see a broken brick wall just high enough to serve as a seat.

“Let’s halt here, and listen for the end.” I offer.

Watkins pulls up along-side me, beginning to dismount just as my left foot hits the ground.

“Despite our attack this morning, the Hun aren’t putting up much of a fight right now.” Watkins offers.

No, they are not using their artillery to stop our advance. I don’t hear their artillery at all, in fact.

“Does not seem so.” I reply.

They are done. We should be driving them home, back across the Rhine, occupying all of Germany. Stopping here is a mistake!

I take a seat on the broken brick of what’s left of the shattered house’s wall. Watkins sits next to, and below me, on the ground at my feet.

Looking at my watch, I am sad to see we are at just a few minutes before 11 am.

“It’s almost time, Sir” Watkins gives words to my thoughts.

“Yes, the end is here.” I reply, looking past him toward an empty horizon.

Distant thunder, the reassuring god of war, echoes across the landscape.

All is right, when in order.

Watkins shifts on his thighs, looking around to ensure this is a private moment.

I continue to stare away, toward the German line.

A small explosion occurs nearby.

This may be the last crack of fire in the greatest war of our age.

Of all ages.

This is the end.

Flicking past the 12, the minute hand on my watch makes it official. It’s now 11 am.

It’s all over.

Everything is over.

Where did it go?

Where will it go?

Where will I go?

Where will men like me go?

A hand appears before my face, startling me.

Jumping up, I’m surprised to see Watkins’ face staring at me. He’s already risen, without me realizing it.

“Back to HQ, Sir?” He asks.

I look back at him.

Where?

He stares at me, intent.

What’s there?

What’s anywhere now?

“Yes, back.” I say, wiping the dust of broken bricks and mortar off my trousers.

“Back” I repeat.

Lieutenant General Robert Bullard, the commander of the U.S. Second Army, was openly disappointed to see The Great War come to an end. Having received rapid promotion during the war, he had found his footing and place in the conflict. On November 11th, 1918, he wrote about how he went “near the front line, to see the last of it, to hear the crack of the last guns in the greatest war of all ages. . . . I stayed until 11 A.M., when all being over, I returned to my headquarters, thoughtful and feeling lost.” Considering he had ordered thousands of men to their deaths that very morning, fully aware the war would be over at 11 am, one’s left to ponder if any of them had the same chance for reflection or sentimentality.

10:48

There are so few of us left.

Crouching as I move so my head never rises above the parapet, my body smoothly glides through the zig-zag reserve trench toward the communication trench. Discarded fragments of ammunition boxes, compromised ration cans, torn pieces of rotting blankets, components of  discarded molding hobnailed boots, and occasionally a random blown-off body part litter the flooded trench floor. Only infrequently do I run into another soldier. We are so few and far between.

It’s quiet now.

Just one shell from the Brits, answered by one from our artillery, every few minutes to remind each other that the war is still on.

No one left to fight; so few left at all. How much longer can this continue?

Sargent Weiske looks at me askance from his dugout under the front face of the reserve trench.

Twelve men shared that dugout early last Spring. Then we had the offensive, and now the sickness.

SSSHHIIIRRRFFFFFTTTSSSSS - KAASSSHHEETT - A shrapnel round passes by, exploding innocently behind the reserve trench.

The wet, dank heat of summer melded into the frosty, chilling cool of fall. 

“Sargent, do you believe the war will stop at 11?”

Stretching his arms and legs so he looks like a fully flexed starfish, Sargent Weiske does not rise to greet me, but instead turns his pale dirt encrusted whiskered face in my general direction.

“This war will never end. It’s just an armistice. Both sides have temporally run out of men stupid enough to die.” He then pulls at his helmet before shoving his full frame out of the dugout. Rising to 3/4 his 1.8 meter height, Sargent Weiske raises his right arm, pulls his sleeve back, looking at his watch for a moment.

SSSHHIIIRRRFFFFFTTTSSSSS - KAASSSHHEETT - Another shrapnel shell.

Even after over three years at the front, I still hear each individual shell pass overhead.  Today there are only a few. Fired far off, so they won’t do damage.

Few shells, few soldiers, few minutes left of war.

Sargent Weiske regards me for a moment, his eyes catching mine in a knowing look, before he places his bone and tendon wrapped in tight-skin hand upon my left shoulder.

“It’s over for us.” He says in the most gentle voice I’ve ever heard uttered from his mouth.

From below my helmet I look up at his fatherly face. Scarred, streaked with dirt-filled wrinkles, blue eyes, and tufts of brown crust of hair protruding from under his helmet frame a sincerely caring visage.

Thank you! Thank you for guiding me these three years, for keeping me alive, for saving my skin in the Spring Offensive by pulling me out of that shell hole, for harping me to write to my mother, for comforting me when I received word my father died, for giving me some of your meager ration when you saw I was hungry, for picking me up out of the fetid water my first day in the unit when I fell in, for kicking my butt to stay fit, for easing the loss of so many of our men by honoring their sacrifice, for everything. Thank you for EVERYTHHING!!! 

“Thank you Sargent.”

He turns from me to head toward the field goggles. They are aimed at the British lines.

SSSHHIIIRRRFFFFFTTTSSSSS - KAA

(Silence)

What is that?

Where did I go?

Why is it dark?

Opening my eyes, I can’t make anything out.

Everything is fuzzy.

Blinking rapidly, I’m able to focus enough to recognize that I’m laying in the bottom of the trench, fetid water cooling my cheek.

I must have been knocked out by the concussion of the shell.

Surveying myself, I can’t see any wounds. My observable world expands beyond my body to where I can see the trench around me.

No one is around.

I keep looking.

Where is Sargent Weiske?

As I look, I turn the corner of a zag in the trench line where I encounter the remains of Sargent Weiske’s dismembered body. His left arm rests over his broken face, guarding it from the shrapnel that tore through the rest of his flesh. His sleeve is pulled back, exposing the metal faced watch on his left wrist. 

10:48 a.m. November 11, 1918.

A German Sargent who had been with his unit since 1915 was killed at 10:48 a.m. on November 11, 1918,  just 12 minutes before the Armistice between the Central Powers and the Triple Entente went into effect. He was not the only soldier killed that day. In fact, on several fronts battles raged as officers in the Entente were ordered to take as much territory as they could before the fighting stopped. In this case, a shrapnel shell took the life of a man who had endured three years of bloody war and survived until the last moment. The shell was a throw away shot by the British in response to throw away shots by the Germans in response to throw away shots by the British, and so on. Everything in war is thrown away. That is the definition of WAR: To Throw Away.