The Harbinger

The Harbinger

By Rene Steen




Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant event can change the course of history

It was the morning of November the 5th 1914, a crisp autumn morning in Belgium. The push through the enemy line four days ago had seen the German forces break through their enemy's left flank just as the darkness had given away to dawn.

The Bavarians had found sanctuary in a ditch on one side of the Ypres-Armentieres Road a few kilometres out of Wytschaete where they had dug in expecting a counter attack any time. Now they waited for the inevitable artillery barrage that would commence at precisely 1100 hours and last for about three minutes. The Tommies were so predictable with their cannonade. Every morning at 1100 hours for the last four days, without fail, that barrage had fallen upon their positions and this morning they expected the fifth such attack.

Scouts had reported three British balloons a few miles west obviously spotting the German positions, relaying the coordinates back to their artillery using telephone wires that ran between the balloon's gondolas and the ground. Attempts by pilots of the German Flying Corps, in their eindekkers had so far failed to knock them out.

Reclining in the damp grass, their faces nearly as grey as their uniforms, four young men gasped at the cool autumn air. The tallest of the soldiers removed his pickelhaube to reveal short-cropped blond hair. His face bore the dimples and craters of severe chickenpox, which he had suffered as a young child. He was nearly twenty-three, the 'old man' of his platoon, and on his sleeves were the three stripes of a feldwebel. Placing the spiked helmet on the grass next to him, he reached into his tunic and extracted a silver cigarette case which, with a practiced flick of his wrist, he snapped open and offered in turns to his comrades.

"Danke" grunted Deiter, a lanky youth from Hamburg. He had sad eyes and his hand shook as he reached out and took the proffered smoke.

Nearby Lutz looked at his watch. It was a Swiss movement timepiece given to him by his muttie on his last leave before being sent to Belgium. It would have cost her two month's wages and it still brought a lump to his throat just looking at the little black hands pointing to the roman numerals. Inscribed on the back of the case was "fur mein leiblich sohn und mutig soldat - kommen sie heil zuruck" (to my lovely son and brave soldier, may you return in good health.)

It was 1035 hours and he didn't feel in good health at this moment. The night air had lain heavily on his lungs and he had developed a painful cough but when the case was held before him he took the cigarette anyway.

Next to him lay Bruno Feldmann, his pickelhaube pulled down over his eyes. He lay on his back and appeared to be asleep but his scrawny hand reached unerringly for a cigarette as the case passed before him.

Hermann smiled as he retrieved the silver case. He plucked a cigarette from it before stowing it back under his tunic, then struck a match. Reaching forward he lit Bruno's and Lutz's cigarette, shook out the flame and broke the little sliver of wood in two. He discarded the shattered stick, struck another match and lit Deiter's and his own smoke before again extinguishing the match, breaking it and discarding it. They hadn't been soldiers for long but soldier's superstitions were quickly learned...never light a third cigarette on the same match. On the first light the sniper spots you...on the second light he sights...on the third light a man dies.

Occasionally there was a whispering, rushing noise in the air and a thunderous crash as a stray shell exploded nearby but generally the war had quietened down to a dull, restless murmur. Otherwise the Ypres-Armentieres Road was quiet and void of any military traffic with all of the Bavarian Division tucked away in roadside ditches.

Lutz pointed along the muddy road, his cigarette dangling.

"Look at that!" he said and the others followed his beckoning. Coming towards them from the direction of Wytschaete a small, grey figure mounted precariously on a bicycle peddled energetically against the sucking mud, his machine wobbling perilously. On his back he wore a rifle, the barrel of which stuck up like a mast, while a large satchel bumped at his side. As the soldier came near, Hermann stood up in a crouch and ran onto the road, intercepting the man. "Halt, bitte!" he shouted as he held up his right hand. The stranger placed a muddy boot into the mire and skidded to a halt. Piercing eyes looked at Hermann from under a forage cap yet the young gefreiter smiled politely and dismounted from his bike.

"Yes, Sergeant?" His voice was quiet yet there was power to it. "I carry dispatch to Herr Major Gertenhaulder of the 24th Regiment Eisernkorps. Why do you stop me in my duty?"

"You are in danger. The enemy has this area zeroed in with their artillery and we are expecting a 3 minute barrage at 1100 hours. Take cover quickly or it could mean your life!"

The smaller man frowned and looked at his watch. It was just after 1050 hours. "I have to make headquarters before their 1300 hour briefing and it will take me at least an hour and a half to get there through this mud."

"If you don't shelter now you will never get there" Hermann replied. "The Tommies will begin their morning barrage at 1100 hours." His big right hand rested in the centre of the bicycle handlebars and, as he spoke, he pushed the machine towards the ditch. Again the little man frowned, holding the big Sergeant with his dark, piercing eyes for several seconds then he smiled and nodded.

"Very well. I will shelter with you until after the 1100 hour shelling, but I must leave by 1105 hours or I may be late and that, I will not tolerate."

The newcomer fell onto the grass, his left elbow supporting him, legs thrust out before him. Dark eyes fixed each man in turn with a deep stare yet he smiled at each one and nodded in return as they inclined their heads.

"Zigarette?" The feldwebel offered his prized silver case to the young corporal who looked at the proffered tobacco with notable distaste, then smiled at him. "Thank you, no. I do not smoke."

Hermann nodded, still smiling. "It is fortunate you came along when you did. Another few minutes and the shelling would have started preventing me from saving your life."

"Perhaps." The young gefreiter glanced anxiously at his watch and patted the leather bag at his side as if checking that the contents were still intact. "Perhaps also I may have cycled past the target zone safely before the shells came. Such is fate."

"Fate!" Bruno sat up abruptly, his left hand pushing at his pickelhaube, thrusting it back onto his head. "There is not such a thing as fate. A man makes his own fate. By his own actions history is shaped" He looked around at his comrades, his handsome young face curled into a big smile that made his icy blue eyes dance with light.

Still the grefreiter smiled but his dark eyes seemed to flash as they sought the soldier's blue ones. "Fate is destiny." He said firmly, "And destiny cannot be thwarted."

Lutz shook his head and grinned lopsidedly. "Fate, destiny. Great men with vision and acts of grandeur carve history. Look at this war. One day it will be over and the world will continue down its path, but it will be a new path. A different path to the one before this war started."

"I think you are mistaken mein freund. Sometimes it is not the big, catastrophic events that change the course of history but the little, insignificant things a man does that trigger great events. Like a small rock that rolls down the mountainside. It hits other small rocks that hit bigger rocks and they hit still bigger rocks until there is an avalanche that can sweep away a village." Deiter may have come from the working class of Hamburg but sometimes his philosophies were profound. Even the little gefreiter looked at him wide-eyed.

"Where did you get that scheisse about little rocks and avalanches?" Lutz scoffed. He flicked away the butt of his cigarette. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a meerschaum pipe that used to belong to his father and began plugging it with tobacco from a pigskin pouch. It was one minute to eleven and the morning had gotten deathly still as if nature was holding its breath.

Bombardier Harrison stood by his six pounder, lanyard in his hand. Sergeant Atkinson stood nearby, his right arm raised over his head. Nearby Private Jones and Private Dawson stood with a finger wedged tightly in each ear in anticipation of the cannon's thunderous roar when the lanyard was pulled.

Lieutenant Smyth-Raleigh's eyes were fixed on the dial of his watch as the second-hand swept around its face with less than a minute to go before 11 o'clock. He held the whistle between his teeth and glanced at the five guns in the battery all awaiting his signal to begin the bombardment at precisely 11 o'clock.

Sergeant Atkinson watched him intently awaiting his signal as the second hand swept upward towards the twelve. Smyth-Raleigh drew in his breath and raised his right hand. Every morning the barrage had been exactly on time. He prided himself on being on time. Somewhere nearby a small bird chirruped in the still morning air and it sounded like a little boy whispering too loudly during the most solemn part of a church service. Bird chirrup? But, thought Lieutenant Smyth-Raleigh, I shouldn't be able to hear that.

Suddenly he realised that he had forgotten to plug his ears. Always he plugged his ears using great dollops of cotton wool to block out the brain-crashing concussion of the guns as they exploded and spewed forth their deadly missiles. He frowned as the sweep-hand hit the twelve. He had never been late with his bombardments, but how could he order the cannons to life without ear protection?

Lieutenant Smyth-Raleigh spat out his whistle letting it fall until checked by the yellow cord around his neck.

"Hold fire!" he shouted as loudly as he could. His sergeants would have cotton wool in their ears and he doubted that they could hear him but he also crossed his hands over his head signalling that the fire order was to be aborted.

The Sergeant, seeing the Lieutenant's signal, crossed his hands as well signalling to the bombardiers to hold their fire. He scowled at the hold up, puzzled that the Lieutenant had called off the salvo.

Glancing at his watch Sergeant Atkinson saw that the sweep hand had passed the twelve and was now heading around the clock face again. It was a minute after eleven. He looked up to see the lieutenant searching near the stack of empty ammunition cases and shook his head at the delay.

Lieutenant Smyth-Raleigh finally found what he was looking for. A drab-olive tin containing cotton wool. He wrenched at the lid and tore a fair chunk of the white fluffy stuff from the main wad inside. Still frowning at his own oversight he tore the wad, splitting it into two bits and hurriedly began stuffing them into each ear while the gun crews looked on curiously.

The clock showed five minutes past eleven.



The young gefreiter stood, picking up his bicycle as he did so. He had been looking at his watch with interest and now his gaze fell upon the four comrades. "Well gentlemen. It seems that your Tommies are late today. Maybe they will not shell us at all. Either way I cannot afford to wait any longer as it is now near enough to five minutes past eleven, so I shall be off."

He looked at Lutz and smiled as he straddled the bike. "You say that small events may have large effects on history. Perhaps you are right, because it is a small thing that I get to Major Gertenhaulder's headquarters on time but it will be a big thing should I get my behind in a sling because I am late. Auf wiedersehen, gentlemen" And with that the little man began peddling furiously through the mud.

Lieutenant Smyth-Raleigh finished arranging the cotton wool and now could only hear muffled sounds as he walked back to his place. He clutched at the whistle swinging off the cord at his throat and placed it into his mouth. His arm raised up above his head as he glanced once more at his watch. It was now eight minutes after eleven and the men at the guns were just getting themselves back into position.

The lieutenant waited another couple of minutes until he was sure he had all their attention before he brought his right hand down in a sharp chopping motion while simultaneously giving a long hard blast on the whistle.

"Fire!" Shouted Sergeant Atkinson as his hand also chopped down. The Bombardier tugged hard on the gun's lanyard, as did the other four bombardiers at the other four guns. The deafening roar of five, six-pounder field pieces discharging almost simultaneously shattered the morning peace as the first of several volleys streaked towards the target.

A howling moan in the air became a loud shushing noise. A lot of soldiers describe it as freight trains but it is nothing like that. It is the most frightening sound a soldier may hear. The sound of incoming artillery shells. You can dig in all you like but there is no guarantee of safety from the long-range death coming in from the sky.

Lutz glanced up into the heavens trying to spot the incoming shells. It was a futile act.

Hermann buried his face into the damp smelly loam while Deiter and Bruno huddled together curled into foetal positions.

There was no escape from the six-pound missile that fell from heaven that day. It crashed into the earth amongst the four men and exploded in a flurry of flame and smoke. Earth mixed with shattered metal. Hot shards of iron and chunks of shattered rock tore into the four men, ripping their bodies into bloody tatters.

After the explosion died away four mangled corpses lay around a smoking hole. High in the sky a small object sparkled in the morning sunlight, tumbling end over end. Lutz's watch reached the apex of its climb, pausing for a few milliseconds, then began its plunge back to the muddy earth below, a wisp of smoke coming from its torn guts.

More explosions rocked the area as men cowered down trying to hide from the fiery death that fell upon them.

Further along the road a small figure placed both feet into the mud. He sat straddling his bicycle as he looked back a few hundred meters at the sprays of mud and fire from exploding shells. His ears rang with the deafening detonations but his strange, hypnotic eyes never blinked. He stared at the small ditch where he had reclined only minutes before. He could not see the carnage clearly but he could make out the broken bundles that had been the four comrades who had shown him such concern for his welfare. Small things, hey? He thought to himself. If the Tommies had been on time with their bombardment, or if he hadn't been in such a hurry...

He pushed the bicycle forward and began peddling against the drag of the mud. No time to grieve for the fallen. Corporal Adolf Hitler had to get the dispatch to Major Gertenhaulder before 1300 hours.

THE END

Copyright 1998 by Rene Steen

Bio: My name is Rene Steen, I am a 45 year old man living in Port Lincoln (South Australia) and currently working as a police sergeant. SciFi and Horror have been a passion of mine for decades and have read most of the well known authors of this century and the last. Writing is a hobby at the moment but I'd love to be published (for money) one day and am working towards that end.

E-mail: renest@basshams.com.au

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