Verdun's Inferno and the Mustache's End
Herz, the Austrian dispatch runner, died on the Eastern Front at the end of 1914 as well. Word of his death didn't reach us until 1915, months later.
1916. Richter fell at the outset of the Battle of Verdun. He died right in front of my eyes. Blowing his whistle, he climbed the ladder with his men—only for a bullet to punch straight through his forehead.
March 1916. The Battle of Verdun was as horrific and gruesome as Stalingrad itself—a scene etched in my memory. Gas shells burst randomly, leaving craters scattered everywhere. We spent half the day in gas masks and the other half surrendering our hearing to the ceaseless artillery roar.
In the midst of this nightmare war, disaster struck: the magazine I'd been publishing got flagged by the higher-ups. Of course, it never criticized command or veered into treason, so I managed to wriggle out of it somehow. But that wasn't the end. The printing press I'd used for Junker's Defecation was crushed when a bunker collapsed under bombardment, reduced to scrap.
In the end, I could only manage about ten handwritten pages for the final issue of Junker's Defecation. I explained the press breakdown and the grueling combat making further issues impossible. Not just my company, but nearby units mourned its passing.
'But it's fine. Thanks to it, I've grown.'
For me, with my fourth loop waiting if things went south, it was no big deal. If this timeline crumbled and I rolled into the fourth, I wouldn't even need speech practice anymore. My writing had improved decently too. Unlike past attempts fixated solely on strategy and tactics, this time I'd studied how to move people's hearts.
And so months dragged on like that.
BOOM!
"Gas!"
Verdun was hell. Even more despairing? I knew the Somme was next. The only reason I held onto my sanity here was that this wasn't my first rodeo. But most of the troops were unraveling, thread by thread, in this slaughter.
"Quieter now...?"
BOOM!
"Artillery!"
I at least made it to a safe bunker, but my men endured the enemy's barrage and gas attacks every waking moment. Once the shelling and assaults finally ebbed, I hurled my Pickelhaube to the dirt in frustration.
"Useless piece of junk!"
Too damn heavy for nothing. Worthless helmet. Not that I was mad at the helmet—it was just frayed nerves. I hadn't slept properly...
"Haa..."
I picked up the rolling Pickelhaube, brushed off the grime, and sat at a chair. Lighting a candle, I checked the orders that had just arrived.
Advance again. Advance orders. I got the German strategy—seize Verdun, then switch to defense. But after repeated assaults getting stonewalled, wasn't it time to revise the plan?
Military life meant obey or die, and with no mission-type command structure here, I blew the whistle once more.
"Up you go! Stay in the trench like cowards, and I'll kill you myself! Up now! Climb!"
I drove my men into the muck, and those scaling the ladders turned into beehives under French crossfire. Replacements arrived; I briefed them, sent them out. Repeat. When French guns quieted, ours roared back. Trenches grew filthier, more labyrinthine with every exchange. Collapsed sections spawned new ones alongside the rubble, twisting into resilient mazes that withstood the pounding better.
"What the hell am I even doing here..."
I cursed the game Hearts of Steel. Some days, I had to forcibly remind myself of my goals just to keep them in mind. War and mud were becoming routine.
It was in the thick of that routine when...
"You..."
"Dispatch from HQ. Orders from Sixth Army command."
A new disruption to my days. A face I'd seen countless times in photos. The man who'd tormented me nearly to madness in my second loop. That rotten-mustached bastard from Braunau am Inn, Austria.
He'd shown up with orders in hand.
"Sir, may I go now?"
"No. Wait."
I kept him standing and unfolded the orders. Insane: charge right after the next barrage. I sat at the table, scribbled something with a pen. Nothing profound—just a movie line.
"That was an order! Steiner's attack was an order!"
I folded the paper three times tight and pressed it into Hitler's palm.
"What's your name, soldier?"
"Lance Corporal Adolf Hitler, 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment, dispatch runner."
Adolf Hitler. My longtime nemesis—and superior. I clapped his shoulder with a calm expression. No, resolute.
"I'm counting on you. Crucial request—deliver it safely to command."
My words drew a resolute look from him too. He saluted and stepped out of the bunker.
'3... 2... 1...'
I counted three seconds silently. The long three ended. I drew my holstered pistol and burst from the bunker.
Hitler was just cresting the trench lip. I aimed at his head. Heaven aiding the devil's slayer? French artillery kicked off right then.
BOOM!
"Incoming!"
BANG!
After endless barrages, the noise barely registered. I watched the bullet hole bloom in Hitler's skull, clear as day. No boy-scout manga miracle survival. Physics forbade it.
I shouted coolly, "Sniper!"
Heads ducked at my voice—peek outside, and you're dead. Even so, I decided on a confirmation kill. Just in case. What if he rose as a Nazi zombie and dragged Germany to ruin?
I needed his brain and limbs pulverized into meat confetti for peace of mind.
"Hand me a grenade, you."
"Didn't catch that."
"Grenade. One."
"Ah, yes sir."
I grabbed one from a nearby assault trooper—one of our few. I tapped his helmet.
"Nice lid."
A Stahlhelm, denied even to me. Anyway, I yanked the pin at the spot Hitler had dropped and lobbed it.
Delay fuse worked fine—BOOM! Blood sprayed, flesh scattered. That'd do.
May 5, 1916. Children's Day back in Korea. The day I killed Hitler.
November 1916, as Verdun wound down. French shells pierced my shoulder and shattered my leg. My men hauled me to the rear; I spent three months in an officers' hospital.
"Captain, any more pain or discomfort?"
"None, thanks to you. You're too kind."
The officers' hospital was downright cozy. I'd been rotting in the mud with the troops until recently—now this luxury felt almost guilty. Rear areas were worlds apart from the front. Streets empty but peaceful; newspapers spun biased tales, and civilians clung to dreams of German victory.
Anyway, my combat wound earned me another Bavarian Iron Cross. Post-recovery, instead of frontline return, I got reassigned: staff officer, 1st Bavarian Infantry Division.
"You're Falkenrain? Heard plenty from your CO. Sit easy."
Front trenches still reeked of decay; here, strategy planners lounged in relative calm. Pipe-smoking officers in crisp uniforms exuded leisure. Meals? Still turnip bread.
"Thank you. Won't stand on ceremony."
"How's the front?"
"Men exhausted, French guns relentless. Good for us, though—shells ain't cheap."
"Never met anyone who talks like you, Captain Falkenrain."
"I'll take it as praise."
March 1917. Verdun's hell paused as the Somme sapped momentum; a tense stalemate set in, no major pushes.
To rally the troops, I pitched using my Junker's Defecation experience: circulate speeches.
"Solid idea. Pair it with smokes and turnips."
Higher-ups approved—thankfully. Unlike the zine, this was speeches only. No jokes, poems, or essays to irk the brass.