Memoriam
© 2024 by Walter Reimer


Ed hunkered down behind the parapet before doffing his helmet and fanning himself. The weather had been cool and damp, with occasional rain as Summer gave way to Autumn. It had been a warm day in another sense, though, with German bullets filling the air. With the sun going down, the fire had slackened somewhat, although he and his fellows in the American First Army had been giving as good as they got.

It was all part of the game, the private thought. The Germans were withdrawing, but not fast enough to suit anyone on his side of the line.

He tucked back an errant lock of black hair before putting his helmet back on and, taking up his rifle, peered over the parapet. The woods, he supposed, were very like the ones near his home in rural Pennsylvania, but those trees didn’t have war stripping their leaves, bark, and branches, and filling the air with swift death. The setting sun found a slight break in the clouds, and there was a fleeting warmth on his back.

“Jackson!” and Ed twisted slightly as the sergeant made his way along the trench to him. “The Lieutenant sent me to find you.”

“Uh-huh,” Ed grunted. More than a few of the others in his part of the trench glanced at him sympathetically. Like him, they knew what was coming.

The sergeant was a broad-shouldered redhead from Philadelphia. Ed didn’t like him much, but then sergeants weren’t put on Earth to be liked. “The Looey wants you to pick your time and go see what’s going on.” The redhead waited to see Ed’s reaction.

Ed had gained a reputation as a good scout, going out alone and coming back unscathed, armed with information about the enemy and any other hazards facing his unit. Most of the units in the front lines had at least one soldier like him, but he was so far the longest-lived.

The private sighed and squinted to the west. “Midnight,” he said.

The sergeant nodded, and the two of them began making their way along the trench to the dugout.

It was a cloudy, moonless night when Ed made his way along a forward sap, the sergeant trailing behind him. “Far enough,” Ed whispered, and he handed his rifle and some of his equipment to the sergeant. “Got a letter in my pack,” he added unnecessarily.

“I’ll make sure it gets sent,” the sergeant said, and he hunkered down as Ed, armed with a trench knife and his pistol, went over the top.

Well, slithered over the top; the Germans would give No Man’s Land the occasional dusting with their machine guns to dissuade nosy neighbors, or pop a flare to surprise scouts or raiding parties. Ed belly-crawled to a tree and around it.

Aha. The tree stood sentinel over a small gully that faced away from the friendly trenches but also provided a little cover from German fire. Ed slid down into the depression and spent a few moments catching his breath before peeking over the lip of the gully. He didn’t see anything, so he crawfished to the bottom of the low depression.

He hurriedly shed his helmet, boots and clothes before taking a breath.

And he Shifted.

Contrary to popular belief and countless tales told by normals, a werewolf’s ability to Shift isn’t dependent on the phases of the Moon. A youngster will undergo their first change during puberty, and apart from a little pain from that initial transformation, it generally goes easily. Subsequent uses of the ability are painless, with some actually enjoying the feeling.

Fur as black as his hair erupted all over his body and Ed squirmed as his tail appeared and his muzzle and ears grew out. He shook himself and peered over the lip of the gully again, ears swiveling.

It was a cloudy, moonless night, but he could see much better than he could as a human. Practically all the way to the German trenches. The air was alive with sounds (his ears laid back at the sudden bark of a Mauser rifle), and one sniff started feeding him information.

Well, once he got past the stink of gunpowder and turned earth.

A few more moments to see and listen and smell, and Ed emerged from the gully. He sniffed again and started to lope forward toward the German lines, pausing to trigger a deeper Shift to a wholly lupine form. Not many werewolves could do it, and truth to tell Ed hadn’t known he could do it until he got to France and was put into the front lines.

But it came in very handy for what he was doing.

He paused to urinate on the shattered stump of a tree and his ears perked, nostrils flaring. His vision supplied him with a dim outline of another wolf, while his nose and ears told him more.

The other wolf growled. [“Brother?”]

[“I expect not,”] Ed replied.

The two circled each other, hackles raised and teeth bared. The years of war hadn’t been good for the German; his fur was unkempt, and ribs were showing. He was also smaller than Ed. Hmm; might be the best they could get, after four years of war. [“Best get back home,”] Ed said, [“or you’ll die here.”] He said it with perfect, matter-of-fact conviction that made the Kraut’s ears go back further.

Another moment of staring each other down, the German werewolf’s tail tucked and he ran off. Ed huffed and went back to what he was doing.

Moving quietly, he padded along the length of the trenches and other installations facing his unit before fading back into the shadows, taking note of numbers of soldiers and placement of machine guns. A few Kraut soldiers tried to wave him over, even offering him treats that he occasionally accepted. Ed rationalized it by telling himself he was gathering information, and if they were stupid enough to let him get into their trenches, well, that was their problem.

The quality of what they were offering him had dropped over the past month, and he noted that as well.

His mission completed, Ed evaded one or two attempts by the soldiers to make him their pet and scampered out of the trench and back into No Man’s Land. Midway between the two positions, he sniffed and looked up at the sky through the gaunt branches of the surrounding trees.

It was getting late. Best be getting back home.

He returned to his gully, Shifted back to human form, and got dressed. He hunched down as a machine gun stuttered, waited, and cautiously started back to the sap he’d started from.

Ed was almost there when a star shell lit No Man’s Land up like midday, and scattered rifle fire started up. He dove for the sap.

And felt a solid impact in the area of his left kidney.

He collapsed into the sergeant’s arms, feeling pain and the muzzy feeling of shock. Ed gasped, “Got the stuff.”

“You’re bleeding,” the redhead said. He really wasn’t a bad sort, and Ed took back – well, most – of what he’d thought of him.

Ed nodded. “I’ll last,” he growled. “Get me to the Looey so I can tell him.”

As the Americans returned fire, the sergeant hustled Ed off to the command dugout.


***


The middle-aged man straightened up from where he’d been kneeling, looking down at the small American flag he’d just placed before his great-grandfather’s headstone. He took a step back from the grave to stand beside his son, and the pair stood there silently in respect.

After a few moments, the son glanced at his father. “Dad?”

“Yeah, Ed?” the older man asked.

The younger man gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you dragged me and Annie out here.” A short distance away, his mother and his wife were walking along the lines of grave markers.

His father grinned. “Dragged out to France, or dragged out here?” He lifted his gaze to take in the military cemetery.

“Both.” The two laughed before the son said, “I remember Granddad telling me about where I got my name.” His expression became solemn. “Such a waste, all this war.”

“But it was necessary at the time,” his father gently reminded him, “and it’s necessary that we remember them.” The son nodded, and the older man gave him a look. “Really?”

“What?”

“I just heard your stomach rumble, and I didn’t need to Shift to hear you.”

“I could really go for a burger.”

His father blinked. “We’re in a country that practically invented fine cooking, and you want a burger? Philistine,” and he laughed as the twenty-four year old stuck his tongue out at him. “Come on," and he put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Let’s catch up to your Mom,” he said, nodding in the direction of his wife, his daughter-in-law, and her infant daughter.

Father and son walked away from the decorated grave of the son’s great-great-grandfather, almost inconspicuous among the thousands of his fellow war dead. Rank upon rank of pristine marble crosses, each adorned with a small flag to honor the sacrifice made.



end