Junker's Defecation
Just as the Battle of Arras was winding down, I managed to get promoted from lieutenant to captain. Of course, that didn't mean I was handed an infantry company right away; instead, I served as a staff officer with the 1st Bavarian Royal Division, until the spring of 1915. With the Second Battle of Ypres looming, another round of personnel reassignments hit. From then on, I was back in the muck, facing life and death alongside the troops once more.
"Hoo... This is really gonna drive me nuts..."
It had only been a year since World War I kicked off. July 1915. In that short time, the war's character had shifted dramatically, and so had the soldiers' mindset toward it. The sheer devastation was staggering. We'd already traded hundreds of thousands of casualties, faces vanishing and replacing one another in endless churn. And the kicker? This was just the prelude. If the Second World War had Stalingrad, the First had Verdun. The real game hadn't even begun.
"Company commander."
"Yes."
"All clear. Company commander."
"Keep it up."
The war had settled into the trench stalemate I knew all too well. I hunkered down in the lines with the men, hearts pounding at every hint of a French assault. Italy betrayed the Triple Alliance, lunging at the Austro-Hungarian Empire; the Ottoman Empire got strong-armed into the fray by Germany. History on rails, just as I remembered.
"Stay out of the command post for a bit. Security—you get it."
"Understood, company commander."
I slipped into the cramped bunker I'd carved out in one corner of the trench and latched the wooden door. Lately, speech practice had become a daily ritual. I'd draft scripts, dissect gestures, fine-tune vocal delivery with obsessive precision. Modeled after Hitler from my memories. His devilish gift wasn't the words—it was the gestures. The sweeping hands, the heaving body, the electric atmosphere. Barking like a rabid dog, pleading in manic frenzy. Culminate in passion, beam it nationwide via radio. Lace it with that thick southern German accent, let the broadcast fuzz it just right—boom, cheat code unlocked. Hearts ignited.
Of course, mastery doesn't happen overnight. I could rally troops with pep talks, but I needed the German people's souls. No Hitler talent? Double down on sweat.
"In your hearts, Germany has always burned! Germany! Different thoughts, deeds, lives—yet you are all Germans!"
I kept it private—no audience wanted. "Security needs alone time," I'd say. Solo drills only.
"What have you done so wrong?! Whose fault is this misery? Your hardship born of your sins? This war, this filth—your doing?! As one German, I declare: No! It is not!"
After bellowing full-throated, I'd revise the script. Paper feels worlds apart from spoken fire. A chills-inducing roar reads flat; tweak, rewrite. Language was sorcery. A versus eo—nuance flips everything. Voice timbre shifts the vibe. Hitler's instinct for it? Enviable. Me? Endless trials, revisions, agonies.
Practice done, step out—business as usual, sentries vigilant.
"Trouble? Why clustered here?"
"Nothing, company commander."
Sometimes stares followed me out, soldiers lounging by the bunker. They'd scatter. Slacking when the boss is watching? Pointless.
I patrolled the line, double-checked defenses. That's when my adjutant—company-exclusive now—Lieutenant Richter approached.
"Lieutenant Richter. All good?"
"Yes."
"Good work."
"Sir, company commander."
"What?"
Lieutenant Richter: fresh transfer a few months back, battle-promoted, solid right-hand man.
"Truth is... the men draw real strength from your speeches."
"News to me."
"Bunkers aren't soundproof wonders, sir. Everyone knows about your daily drills."
My face went rigid. They'd heard every cringeworthy line? For a split second, revolver to temple, loop four flashed tempting.
"Such a waste, no? Share with all, not just practice?"
"Richter, I get the sentiment. But I'm not stage-ready."
"Nonsense. We're homesick in this hell, clinging for the fatherland. A speech—or transcripts—could mean the world."
"Battlefield, not salon."
"Pre-war, I ran a little print shop back home. Dad's legacy. Get me a press, I'll print speeches for everyone."
Started shaking my head—paused. Feedback beats preaching to walls for honing skills. Eyes sharpened. No loop needed.
"If it lifts spirits, I'm in. How smuggle a press?"
"My savings. Sneak it in."
"To the trench bunker?"
"Yessir."
"You're insane... Mad genius. Make it happen."
The Brits ran Wipers Times from their trenches—officer-funded rag, no official press. Massive morale booster. Why not a German edition? Downtime boredom anyway. Not full news—speeches, jokes, poems, essays.
"On me."
August 1915. Launched my first speech-laden rag: Junker's Defecation. Provocative? I'm the Junker "shitting" these words. Catharsis. No gov slams—suicide risk. Purely writing grind, speech prep. No wild gambles.
Exhortations to troops, enemy mockery, full transcripts. But dry won't fly. Added simple jokes for stern Germans. Poems, shorts too.
First run: 100 copies, company-only. Word leaked—demands poured in. Buzz in the 1st Bavarian Royal Division. Neighbor CO requested copies, even title tweak plea: fellow Junker, why mock our class?
Hard pass. Junker's Defecation etched in stone.
"Lieutenant. If I buy it tomorrow, swear you'll keep the name."
"Naturally, Captain von Falkenrain. Junker here—why ditch quirky brilliance?"
"Attaboy."
Richter's lunatic vibe fueled it. His worldview, jokes flew off shelves—sometimes outshining my speeches. Fun as filler, though. Real goal: feedback. Fellow officers chimed: "Stirring, but soften here?" "Civilized men need velvet words sometimes."
Nuance sank in. What lines gripped grunts? Dissected it. Richter's brainstorm honed my prose daily.
"Your doing, Lieutenant. War's end—drinks on me."
"Sir, you endured my jokes and dumps—I owe you."
"Hahahaha!"
February 1916. Verdun offensive erupts—Richter takes a headshot, gone.