Discovery

Featuring the amazing Órla Mc Govern.

Discovery

A brisk wind pulls at my great coat, pushing up through the open bottom to chill my panted legs. Residue of last night’s storm cannot deter me from thrashing out near the rocks.

What nerve, to ask for my hand!

I weave my way between the jutting rocks of the shoreline. Soft sand sinks beneath my quick-paced feet.

There is a war on. I cannot marry a man who will soon be sent away.

Dark moss-covered rocks, wet with the ocean mist and crashing waves, feel cool to my hands as I climb up a small slope from the shoreline.

If Braden had not volunteered to go, then maybe. But how can I give my heart to a man who will fight in this mistake of humanity?

Rising atop the mass of broken rocks I look down the shoreline where the fog meets the ground and sea in a single point of outward triangles.

Air, land, and sea stab all at once against my heart. Which direction do I go from here?

A dark object with a twisted limb juts out from behind one of the rocks just visible before the morning mist swallows everything. It floats and bumps, coming above the rock in rhythm with the tidal waves before disappearing behind the rock again as the tide goes out.

What could that be?

Slowly descending the damp rocks, I make my way toward the object. I keep my eyes fixed on the rocks at my feet so as not to slip on the wet moss. A gale blows across the upper rocks, a last gasp of last night’s tumult. Howls and screams of powerful wind rushing past jagged wet rocks remind me of the tales of witches and monsters.

Can’t he stay out of the war? Nothing good can come of it.

Making my way toward the object, I can’t quite make out what it is. As I approach, I start to see what looks like a bloated dark bobbing thing the size of a large seal.

It must be dead since it’s only moving with the current of the waves.

The twisted limb comes into view above the rock. Clenched fingers in the shape of a fist appear at the end of the limb.

It’s a man!

Rushing over, I slip on a small rock, falling to the soft sand so my knees, coat, and hands get covered. I look back at the rock upon which I slipped, but it’s no rock. Tufts of hair stick out from an almost completely buried man’s head.

Two dead men!

Without thinking, my hands quickly start digging around the head, exposing a soft, gentle, still, bloated, and rotting face.

He must have been here for a while.

I keep digging. A whole head comes into view.

Who are these men?

What are they doing here?

A scream tears at my ears.

This war takes men I don’t even know, kills them, and brings them to me!

I pause; bringing my sand-covered hands toward my face. Staring at them, my body collapses under its own weight.

I cannot marry any man in THIS world.

A hand touches my right shoulder. Screaming out, I turn to see Braden standing, in shock, behind me. My arms drape around his broad shoulders as he squeezes me tight against his warm body.

His warm body. God, his warm body feels good. Please keep him warm!

My tears fall on his shoulder as he pulls me away from the bloated cold bodies on the beach. I don’t look back.

*****

HMS Viknor

http://dawlishchronicles.com/the-loss-of-hms-viknor-13th-january-1915/

From late January 1915 through mid-year, bodies began washing up along the shores of Donegal, North Antrim, Raghery (Northern Ireland) and the Scottish Islands. For a long time, they could not be identified. People from coastal towns simply kept finding more bodies every few days until one was discovered who still had ID tags. His name was Private J. Griffin. Research revealed Private Griffin was from the HMS Viknor, an armed merchant cruiser that disappeared January 13, off the coast of Ireland.

No one knows for sure what happened to the Viknor, but it is supposed that after capturing the German spy, Baron H A Wedell, the ship struck a German mine in a storm. All 291 men aboard, including the German spy, disappeared until many of them washed ashore over the ensuing months. Their remains are now scattered in cemeteries across Northern Ireland and Scotland.

Private Griffin, whose ID tags led to the realization of the ship’s loss, is buried with four unidentified companions at Bonamargie Friary, in a small corner of North Antrim Northern Ireland. Bally castle erected a Celtic cross memorial with an anchor, harp, and shamrock on it. The Viknor’s wreck was found by the Irish survey vessel Celtic Explorer in 2006 but the reason for her loss could still not be identified with absolute certainty. A small flag was placed upon the wreck to commemorate the loss of life.

Height

Pounding against the walls of my head, my heart’s dramatic rush of blood shoots adrenaline throughout my body.

 Before me crumples the German officer whose surrender I was taking until he pulled his .38 pistol on me.

 A bullet from my rifle drilled a hole in his face where his left eye used to be.

 Why did he have to do that?

 I didn’t want to shoot him.

 Frozen in place, I simply stare down at the body.

 Why didn’t you just surrender?

 You could have lived.

 My eyes lift off of his lifeless body, though my rifle still points directly at him.

 Moving toward eye level, I realize I still have to take the surrender of the rest of the Germans falling out of this bunker.

 They are quiet, shuffling peacefully with arms raised, toward me.

 I don’t want to shoot them too.

 Please, surrender.

 Eying the first man in line, I can’t see any signs of resistance.

 Can I trust this one?

 Lowering my rifle, I reach out to begin frisking him.

 His arms stay raised as I pat all up and down his body before passing him on to Lucas, who stands about 10 feet away.

 Thank you for surrendering without incident.

 I eye the next one. He is also passive, arms raised.

 Patting him down, I don’t feel anything, so pass him on as well.

 This is so much better than shooting them.

 I get into a rhythm of turning to the next German, patting him down, then passing him back.

 No looking at faces.

 Just get the job done.

 German after German passes before me.

 How many men were in this bunker?

 Turning to the next German, I’m taken aback as my eyes fall upon his lower chest.

 I start patting him down, but have to reach really high to get to his armpits.

 Chuckles ring out behind me, though I pay them no heed.

 I just want to get this over with.

 Turning to laughs, I can tell several men behind me are finding something funny.

 What are they laughing at?

 I pass the prisoner back, turning to the next one.

 Frisking three more prisoners, I finish the group before turning around to see the Germans and my fellow Canadians all looking at me with smiles on their faces.

 What the hell is going on?

 Lucas approaches me, big grin across his face.

 “Roberts, that was a hell of a sight!” he says.

 “What are you talking about?” I reply.

 “You frisking that giant!” He counters, as if I should know what’s going on.

 “Oh, the tall one?” I offer, not really thinking anything of it.

 “Tall, they say he’s the tallest man in the whole German Army.” Lucas laughs.

 I look across the men standing there to the giant within the German ranks. He towers above all the others.

 Wow, he is really tall.

 “We all got a good kick out of you straining to reach up to him” Lucas says has he puts his arm around my shoulder.

 I’m glad someone can laugh about something today.

 I’m exhausted.

Corporal Bob Roberts was overseeing the surrender of dozens of enemy solders during the Battle of Normandy when he processed the surrender of a 7ft 6in German. Standing at 5ft 6in himself, Corporal Roberts initially did not notice the man’s height. Roberts had been shaken moments before by having to kill a German officer who had pulled a pistol on him, rather than surrender.

 Only after processing the Giant was Roberts made aware of the height discrepancy between himself and the tallest man in the German Army. His mates, as well as the other German prisoners of war, had a good laugh watching him try to frisk a man two feet taller than himself. They even captured a picture of the event.

 Levity at war may be the only way to get past the rest of it.

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?