God's Hand

Staring at me from the table top, these apples look so sweet

Their divine flavor is not for me.

Alas, they will go forth, to a family I rarely see.

My dead boys, who sacrificed everything.

My dear wife and other children, dying of starvation

The only respite, stolen apples from the table of the Kaiser.

Their only relief, sweetness unavailable to the rest of the nation.

Sitting atop the staff, all of whom I appoint.

This war is lost by those who I chose to lead it.

My choices are not mine.

They cannot be.

Just as the apples showed up on the table today,

The hand of god is in everything, even the most unbearable.

If not, then you are lost.

General Moriz von Lyncker was the Chief of the Military Cabinet for Kaiser Wilhelm II throughout World War I. His job was to appoint all who led the German military. As part of the Military Cabinet, General Lyncker was by the Kaiser’s side, sitting at his table during dinners. After one such dinner, upon the departure of the Kaiser, the General noticed apples remaining on the table. Knowing full well they would be taken by another, he seized them for his own family, sending them back home to his wife. He did this because his own family, along with the entire population of war blockaded Germany, was starving. As the scion of a military family himself, General von Lyncker’s sons all went into military service. He lost two of them by the summer of 1917. When his brother-in-law wrote him to say the war was lost, and it was all for nothing, General von Lyncker replied back “If you do not want to see God’s hand in everything, even in the most unbearable, you are lost.”

Sometimes we cannot see our own actions for what brings us suffering. When that happens, we often attribute the suffering to God’s hand. There may be an invisible hand in all things, but it’s our rational choices which bring forth our own realities. General von Lyncker was an advocate of War with Russia and France until 1915, at which point he realized he may have been mistaken. Was his hand forced by God, or simply the norms of the world in which he was raised and lived? Either way, choices matter, and his choices bore consequences, just as all our choices do, every day.

If you do not want to see God’s hand in everything, even in the most unbearable, you are lost.” Experiencing the First World War Alongside Kaiser Wilhelm II. Episode: http://media.podcasts.ox.ac.uk/chri/ww1/2014-02-25-chri-ww1-5.mp3. Media: http://media.podcasts.ox.ac.uk/chri/ww1/2014-02-25-chri-ww1-5.mp3. Sent from Podcast Republic.

Rest

Four braided metal ropes are all which separate me from the ocean beyond. Spaced evenly, one above the next, they serve as a small fence against an accidental fall.

It wouldn't take much, just a little hop.

Shining off the water, the half moon above the Atlantic Ocean looks bigger than it did at the Front.

Everything looks bigger than it did at the Front.

Our eyes were narrowed.

Our existence focused.

Our awareness fine.

Shimmering reflections of the moon, itself a reflection, dance on the crests of choppy ocean.

It’s all a reflection, isn’t it?

Aren’t I?

A reflection of this time.

A reflection of my experience.

A reflection of what the world has endured.

My left foot rises, finding a place to rest on the bottom metal braided rope.

Many no longer have the chance to reflect.

Josh, Tom, Eric, Mark, Gene. . . the whole lot of’em never made it out.

My right foot rises off the deck, resting on the second metal braided rope.

Pushing against my groin, the top rope tells me I’m almost high enough.

I can’t reflect anymore.

I don’t want to reflect anything again.

My left foot leaves the bottom rope, rising to the third.

This may be high enough.

Leaning forward, my knees push against the top rope.

Maybe this will set me free.

I lean forward more, loosening my feet from the metal rope.

This will end the guilt.

My feet slip off the rope as I fall forward, face down toward the glistening waves.

Cool air rushes past me as I descend toward the water.

It’s cooling me.

It’s soothing.

It’s liberating.

Charles Whittlesey, commander of the 308th Battalion of the 77th “The Lost Battalion” took his own life in 1921 by jumping overboard from a ship at sea. Whittlesey was in charge when the battalion was trapped behind German lines, losing most of the 550 men under his command. He never recovered from this loss, blaming himself and his leadership abilities for it. In war, even good people, who are quality commanders, can break when situations beyond their control destroy all they hold dear.

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?