Mud and Misery: Dickerson Series, #1

By Patrick Kirk

The year is 1917, Europe is embroiled in mortal combat. Nationalism, militarism and the tar pit of mutual defense agreements has made the Western Front a desolate wasteland. American Forces are in France and General Pershing, America's Commanding General, is faced with increasing pressure to deploy troops to the front in support of the French and British planned offensive. Pershing knows his forces are unproven and barely trained and he is left with little options. He must move his timetable forward and deploy forces into combat to instill confidence among the Allies in the abilities of the inexperienced American Expeditionary Forces.

 

A young American, Tom Dickerson, from a tiny town in Texas volunteers for duty in WWI, and quickly learns the brutality of war. His unit, part of the 1st Infantry Division, is the lead element for the attack to reduce a small salient made by the Imperial German Army. Their objective is the little village of Cantingy, France pummeled to the ground by relentless artillery fire. But the German Army isn't willing to concede the village or it's strategic position. Oblivious to the brutality that waits for him, Dickerson lives the nightmare of close combat,

 

In the desolate rear area of the German Imperial Army, a gifted sergeant who made a name for himself in hand-to-hand combat is given the mission to disrupt the American advance on Cantingy. Handpicked for this mission, Hans Weber and his squad must not allow the Americans access to, or capture the village. Faced with an daunting task of disrupting the American advance, he must also protect the deployment of a new German code box designed specifically to increase the speed and security communications along the front.

 

The two are destined to meet in the mud and misery of France.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Kirk
• Release date: May 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215106853

Book preview

Preface

The sky in October hardly changed from grey in France, and the relentless rain fell for days on end. On the off-chance rain didn’t fall, the sun rarely broke through the dense clouds. The wind, however, never disappointed always blowing in from all directions. Today was no different; the sky was dreary, and the wind reminded us that the first moments of winter weren’t far off.

The office in Chaumont, France wasn't grand by anyone’s imagination, suiting the personality of General John J. Pershing perfectly. Rectangular in shape, his desk sat between two large windows with an unobtrusive armchair to the left of his desk and a bookcase of incredible works of literature. The classic manuscripts seemed outnumbered by the heaps of scrap paper, military diagrams, half-finished plans, and a myriad of official dispatches strewn throughout the half dozen shelves. To the right of the desk sat an overstuffed leather couch and a lone wooden chair. The worn seat was covered with a myriad of maps and reports. Pershing’s overcoat dropped over the chair’s high backrest.

The window shades in the room never stayed level. They were either crookedly half-open or pulled down and shut. Today, half open, they let a ray of grey light fill a small path in the dimly lit room; dust from the room danced effortlessly in and across the beam of light.

‘Blackjack’ (a nickname he earned commanding the Troopers of the 10th US Cavalry on the plains of Montana) Pershing spent the day deep in thought; he peered out the large window from his desk chair, his back to two other officers in the room. Usually a stickler for precise military traditions and appropriate military dress, Pershing’s collar and first button of his olive drab tunic laid open.

Sir, we’re getting constant pressure to integrate our troops with the British and French Armies, grumbled Brigadier General James Harbord, Pershing's Chief of Staff.

Harbord knew the French were wary of the American’s hesitation to attach troops to French Divisions. The pressure was relentless and Pershing faced daily criticism for not increasing the pace of training for trench warfare. To this point, Pershing adamantly pushed back on both ideas.

Harbord had been part of the late December conversations between the French Commander in Chief and General Pershing, to which the divide in training philosophies didn’t end well. However, a provisional agreement was reached to allow American troops to train in sectors with a stabilized front. He chose his next words carefully. Knowing the report in his hand drastically changed that agreement and wasn’t a popular topic with his boss.

General Pershing didn’t move; the two officers in the room knew his persistent point of view on maintaining the sanctity of the American Forces. Pershing passionately argued his forces must fall under a single American command structure to control the American Forces and strictly employ them as an all-American Army. Pershing never strayed from his reasoning to align American Forces under an appropriate Allied Command structure. The President weighed in but made it clear; this decision must come from Pershing. He struggled mightily on the basis of ‘principled leadership’ and didn’t want to give an inch on this crucial point.

However, the Kaiser’s Army had a different plan, and an uneasy feeling prevailed in the office as Harbord continued his oral report to Pershing. Barely using any inflection in his voice, he started, The Somme offensive is reaching a crisis; our Allies are in dire need of support; the French and British are exhausted after halting the advance of the German 18th Army, he placed the report from the front in the center the General's cluttered desk. He kept his eyes on the report and broke the awkward silence by confidently stating, We need to respond, Sir. Our allies are expecting some relief. Some kind of hope. With his voice trailing off, Harbord said, We’ve given them nothing to plan to…

That will be all Jim, thanks, Pershing responded, never moving or breaking his gaze out the window.

Both Harbord and Major Albert Kuegle, his Secretary of the General Staff recognized the finality in the tone of the General’s words. They simply saluted and left the office.

Pershing stood, slowly unfolded his six-foot frame, and walked toward the large window. He tugged at the small string used to anchor the shade and gently guided the shade up. The noise of the spring roller startled Pershing as the room flooded with grey light. He leaned his head onto the cool glass window as he let his body fall gently against the window frame. He slowly closed his eyes while taking a deep breath and began a silent prayer; Help me oh Lord. Give me the courage to do what’s right and confidence to see it through.

He gently tapped his forehead against the glass and yelled over his right shoulder, Albert!

Yes Sir, Kuegle replied as he quickly entered the General’s office.

Get Jim back in here; we’re going to give the 27th and 30th Divisions to the French. I want to talk with Colonel George Simone of II Corps immediately. Send for him, Pershing ordered.

He continued with a laser focus, Arrange my travel, I need to be in Compiegne before the end of the week and I must see General Petain. I’ll inform him I plan to allow him to use the 27th and 30th as the nucleus of the relief force. The French will maintain command and control of those forces until such time as we have four divisions in line. I’ll provide the French with the relief they need and troops to stop this latest advance by the damn Germans. Send a messenger to get Bill Siberia in here immediately, too. I want to be the one to tell him his division will be the first to move to the front and first to fight.

Sir? Kuegle said aloud.

Damn it Albert! Get Brigadier General Harbord in here now, Pershing bellowed. His head rested in the crook of his right arm and leaned on the cool glass window. He felt heartsick over what his decision may have done to the future of the American forces in France and his reputation in the years to come.

Weeks later, General Pershing committed five American Divisions to stem the German advance in the Somme. The men of the 1st Division started their movement to the front lines by October 21, 1917. They staged in a quiet sector near the Picardy region in northeast France to support General Marie-Eugen Debney’s First French Army.

Their baptism of fire didn't take long to materialize. Their objective was a mass of timber and bricks that was once the farming village of Cantigny, recently blown to oblivion by the unrelenting boots of the Imperial German Army. The town made the perfect perch for German artillery spotters to send a rain of death onto the Allies, and primarily the American positions. The 1st Division received their orders to deny the German’s access to the strategic advantage of Cantigny and secure the surrounding area. Their moment in history was just a mere seven months away.

Part One

Nothing Is as It Seems

Chapter 1

Sergeant Hans Weber joined the Imperial German Army in early 1913. As a young boy, he longed to see his grandfather’s uniform, sword and scabbard. He sat motionless, legs crisscrossed on the floor while he listened to story after story of the Franco-Prussian war. Through the vivid words of his grandfather, Hans fantasized about the glory of serving the German Empire at an early age.

His grandfather told incredible tales of men at war, his favorite being the Siege of Metz, where Prince Fredrick Karl of Prussia’s 150,000 men outmaneuvered, repulsed, and finally brought Francois Bazaine’s 180,000 men to their knees by starving them for three months.

My boy, his grandfather would say in between sips of apricot schnapps, We caught up to those thieving Frenchies just outside of Beaumont after marching for days. The gleam in his eye grew as he told of how Field Marshall Count Helmuth Von Motlke stole the initiative from the French. We fought like the hounds of hell destroying forty cannons and killing thousands along the way.

Other Germans that were Han’s age fantasized about women. Not him; he spent hours lost in his world of war, and imagined himself part of those grand war parties. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the pride of victory through the old man’s stories. In his vibrant adolescent imagination, the glory of Imperial Germany filled a great void in his life. But today, he felt hardly anything. The void had transformed into an empty emotional cavern.

Over the last three and a half years, the pride of serving the German Empire still burned in his belly, but the glory his grandfather spoke of tarnished as he quickly realized this hell in France offered no sign of glory. The sun rarely made an appearance, and the constant dreary sky blended the days one into another.

From the town of Meerbusch, nestled in the Lower Rhine region of Germany, Hans Weber joined the 14th Infantry Division at the age of twenty, keeping alive the family traditions. Weber grew up with a harsh view of life. Forced into a survive-now mentality, Weber matured into a tall, well-built man, with closely cropped blonde hair and lightning reflexes that combined a refined discriminatory ability to inflict pain and suffering at a professional level.

His grandfather was his only real family. Weber barely remembered his mother. He, like everyone in town, knew she whored for bread from a Gasthaus. Weber learned that unfortunate truth at a young age when he was playing an innocent game of checkers with an older boy. As the game closed, and was evident Weber outwitted him, the older boy profoundly stated, Typical move for bastard child of a whore. He proudly wears a scar above his left eyebrow from that fight as a badge of honor protecting his mother’s integrity.

Weber’s mom died a tragic death at a young age. She suffered from tuberculosis; his most vivid memory of her was a beautiful face framed in golden hair that struggled to pull air into her lungs. She died when he was ten, and the pained look as she took her last breath and suffocated in her bed was all he remembered. His father was a factory worker; some claim he died a drunkard’s death before Weber was born, while others quietly tell a story of a murder never solved. Either way, Weber was better off without a memory of his father.

In a desperate measure to make something of his life, Weber followed his only parental image and enlisted in the Imperial Army. Assigned to the 27th Brigade of the 14th Infantry Division, he quickly built a brutal reputation. The impoverishment of his youth provided little discipline, and the Army life suited him well. He reveled in the regimen and chance to hone his natural talents. His insatiable desire to flawlessly execute military precision sprang to life in those long training exercises and fueled his mastery of small unit tactics. Combat came naturally to Weber, along with the ability to achieve unfathomable results.

Caught in the crossfire of Belgian forces and friendly fire from his 11th Brigade during the suffocating heat in the Battle of Liege in August 1914, Weber and his squad tried to maneuver between the forts of Evegnée and Fléron. The terrain made a tactical advance virtually impossible; houses littered the axis of attack while giving incredible fields of fire to Belgium’s forward observers of the artillery. The contorted landscape tested the tactical prowess of Weber.

The 27th Brigade quickly found itself disorganized as the Belgium artillery took its toll men broke ranks, orders became confused, and what started as an orderly advance in the afternoon dissolved into utter chaos by evening. Weber and what remained of his squad sought shelter from the constant bombardment and vicious crossfire. His small squad burst through cottages, hedges and fences, eliminating resistance without remorse and refusing to take any prisoners. With ruthless precision, his squad conducted brutal house-to-house fighting. The slaughter was barbaric, relentless, and uncompromising. Weber’s squad desperately pushed the German advance and his own will beyond all reasonable expectations.

Weber was rewarded for his actions and promoted to Feldwebel. With this, his ruthless reputation ignited throughout the command as word spread of his Iron Cross.

That moment seemed far away as he pulled his suspenders up over his broad shoulders and looked down at the naked young woman sprawled on the bed, reminiscing on the moments of the previous night. Weber splashed cold water from the porcelain basin on his face, and he couldn't help but think maybe this was the glory his grandfather spoke of. He half-smiled as he glared at his reflection and started to shave.

As the sharp razor made easy work of Weber’s day-old blonde stubble, a young Privatgelande knocked on the wooden door frame. Herr Felbwebel, the adjutant needs you immediately in the briefing tent, he crisply announced.

For what purpose? Weber yelled at the partially open door.

I was not told, the voice replied. My orders are to fetch you immediately. The young soldier caught sight of a woman’s bare thigh that led to a round white plump ass cheek on Weber’s bed and blushed. Weber wondered if the young private was troubled by the sight of naked women or had just never seen a woman naked before. Either way, he shook his head and washed off the last smears of lather from his face.

I am sorry, Felbwebel, I did not know you were busy. The door wasn’t closed. I regret the intrusion and sincerely apologize.

Don’t be ridiculous Private, Weber said while he waived the small white towel dismissively, She served her purpose. Let Hauptmann Elers know I am on my way.

Weber trotted towards the briefing tent. The silence was deafening around the bivouac. It finished raining seconds before he left his cantonment area, and he danced around the puddles as best he could to save the shine on his boots. Even on the wooden planks, mud and muck were everywhere. It stuck to boots and clothes like dirty honey. An unkempt uniform in the field is one thing, but a dirty mud-splattered uniform in garrison irritated Weber. He was proud of the way the uniform fit on him, and he wanted to look pristine in the command tent. Weber’s mind raced in anticipation as to why General Ludendorff’s adjutant called for him.

He wondered if one of his men stepped out of line with a superior officer; or if maybe one of them spoke in a disrespectful tone. His squad’s reputation wasn’t a secret throughout the command. Nine of the brigade’s best filled his ranks, and while merciless on the front line, trouble didn’t have far to look to find the rambunctious men. Weber shook his head as he trotted, Damn, it...I guess I’ll find out soon enough what they’ve done, he muttered out loud. He thought a little longer and blurted out, I swear, if Schneider has done it again, I will shoot him myself.

When he got to the tent, there was no one to meet him. Relieved, Weber caught his breath and took a moment to check his uniform. He intently adjusted the black and white-clothed ribbon on his second button and looked over his gray-green wool sleeves while picking off a small mud clump from his left arm. Damn, I hate this fucking mud, he said to himself. Weber smoothed down the front of his tunic and followed the tunic seam down to his black belt, inventorying his holster and stiletto. He then adjusted the belt buckle to center on the seam. He looked briefly at his dark blue-gray wool trousers, pausing to brush his leather knee pads with the back of his hand. Weber didn't bother to inspect his blue-gray puttees; he knew they caught mud.

He inhaled deeply, stomped his feet to jettison any lingering mud from his boots, and effortlessly brushed the wind flap back and glided inside the dim-lit tent. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, dingy light that fell around him. As his vision acclimated to the faint lighting, he could see a lone image in the middle of the tent. Weber moved closer. He spotted a crumpled khaki shirt on the ground with a single brass castle on the left lapel and a bright silver bar on the right lapel.

The American Army engineer lieutenant wore only his undershirt, trousers, and shredded leggings. His boots opened and untied with the laces pulled from the eyelets blended in with the darkness that seemed to swallow the tent. Bound at his wrists with leather straps that bit into his flesh and a rope tied tightly around his chest, he slumped to the left in the wooden chair that creaked with every strained breath. Weber could see the rope made it difficult for the lieutenant to breathe; it barely gave as he struggled for air through his bloody mouth.

Weber made eye contact with the young lieutenant’s as a clear liquid dripped from his swollen left eye. He wasn’t sure if it was tears or the intraocular fluid streaming from inside the eye. Weber looked at him and quickly figured he and the American were the same age, Maybe older by a year or two, he whispered to no one. The lieutenant, soaked to the bone with sweat, bled from an open gash across his forehead. The blood quietly formed drops and when they hit the tan tarp, made an awkward, eerie plop. The American officer had dried blood around his bruised and swollen upper lip that indicated to Weber a shattered upper jaw. It was hard to tell if the undershirt was once brown or brutally stained. Either way, sweat still tattooed the cloth. The tattered and torn undershirt ripped at the neck and streaked with dried blood signaled a monumental struggle. His plum-colored nose was barely recognizable and pushed dramatically to the left of his face. His one good eye was bloodshot and desperately bulged as he tried to inhale. He was petrified.

Poor bastard, Weber thought to himself.

On the table to the left of the lieutenant was a weathered leather and canvas courier bag with the large, barely visible ‘US’ initials stamped in black on the front. Strewn about, a series of maps cluttered the top of the small wooden table. Weber brushed away a blood-stained canvas shoelace that held a round steel tag with a name neatly punched along the top half of it to see papers underneath. A single oil lamp burned and flickered its umber smoke, and the warm glow barely reached half of the drab, dark tent. Weber was captured by the flame as it crackled and danced as the wind found its way into the tent. He walked slowly around to the left side of the desk, stopped and adjusted one of the hand-drawn maps, and drank in every detail of the blatantly marked positions of the American forces to the south and west of the German front line. Weber casually moved a few papers to expose the detail of the map as he tapped his well battle-worn fingers on the side of the wooden desk.

At that moment, Weber knew why he was there.

Feldwebel Weber, this American officer was found wandering through our lines last night. Our sentries alertly subdued him. Unfortunately his presence here has compromised our positions, the adjutant Hauptmann Elers flatly stated, as if reading a verdict.

Weber calmly walked behind the lieutenant and stood to the left of the chair as Elers continued, As a result, the high command has determined the risk of releasing this officer back to his unit is not an option... Weber could see the young lieutenant mumbling as fear engulfed his remaining eye and sweat poured from his brow mixing with the blood that oozed from the open gash on his forehead. His chest heaved helplessly for air while his head thrashed back and forth, franticly trying to see what lurked behind him.

Weber’s left hand was resting effortlessly on his hip with his right pinky finger gently flicking the hilt of his stiletto knife.

Feldwebel...? Elers said invitingly and nodded at Weber.

Weber quickly stepped closer to the lieutenant, grabbing his chin in his left hand, jerking it upward and to the left as his right hand smoothly slid his stiletto knife across the exposed nape of the panicking lieutenant's neck. The blood bubbled from the gash, and in minutes the life of the young engineer lieutenant oozed down his body and out onto the floor. He slumped deep into the wooden chair. The look of sheer terror froze on his lifeless white face, and the chair moaned for the last time.

Elers stepped back to avoid any chance the blood from the dead man might contaminate his brightly polished boots. Weber reached for the lieutenant’s dark khaki brown shirt from the floor and casually wiped the blade of his stiletto knife. He slid it back into its sheath. His job, for the moment, was over.

Weber waited outside the tent as the lifeless body of the nameless lieutenant flopped out and was thrown carelessly on a cart pulled by two emaciated mules. Elers peeked his head out, quickly scanning for Weber. He ducked his head back into the tent and motioned, exposing just a small portion of his arm to the fine mist for Weber to join him.

Once back inside the tent, Elers walked widely around the wooden chair where the American lieutenant once frightenedly sat to a small wooden table where he arrogantly positioned himself. He then picked up a series of papers and flicked through them with a well-manicured fingernail until he found the one he needed.

Have a seat.

I’ll stand thank you, mein Hauptmann.

Elers glared at Weber. Exasperated he said, Suit yourself, Feldwebel Weber. He then passively outstretched his arm while letting the papers float from his hand onto the table and said, Your orders.

Weber glanced down at the paper, in between the hand-written note with Elers’ instructions, he keyed in on the coordinates that matched the map he saw when he first walked into the tent. Aren’t these the locations of the American positions from the prisoner? Weber asked.

Feldwebel, you have an amazing talent for remembering minute detail. Impressive. Yes, the American engineer lieutenant carried this and much more information when he was captured, Elers boastfully proclaimed. A circle in red pencil indicated the location and compass direction of the observation post Weber’s squad needed to occupy.

Clearly bored with having to pay Weber any kind of a compliment, Elers sighed and pulled over another chair. He sat, crossed his legs and continued, We received intelligence earlier this week, and as I described earlier, and I’m sure even you can recall, the American lieutenant confirmed the enemy is planning a major offensive. Elers’s tone swiftly shifted to more a charismatic pitch, We need eyes on their flank as quickly as possible. The General expects your squad to move immediately to disrupt the enemy’s advance with artillery fire from inside Cantigny. And when necessary, use every means to halt their attack. The high ground of Cantigny is strategically important to our ability to control the major lines of communication and see across the main battle lines. Do not allow for any delays getting into position on the front. Do you understand your mission, Feldwebel?

Calmly, Weber nodded, Yes.

Good, now walk with me; I have more to share that I don’t need others to hear. Elers stood, grabbed his fine leather gloves and quickly dipped out of the tent, pushing the tent flaps away and allowing them to flow behind him into the face of Weber. Elers abruptly stopped, adjusted his visor on his cap, and nonchalantly slipped on his brown gloves. Weber patiently waited and took solace in knowing the fine falling mist frustrated Elers.

Without waiting for Weber to join him, Elers continued in a braggart tone while he stepped onto a wooden walkway, I’ve asked the high command to sponsor your unit.

Sponsor my unit, mein Hauptmann...?

Please, please hold your questions until I finish, Feldwebel. I’m more than happy to explain as much detail as you may need, Elers responded with a nonchalant hand wave and a proud dismissive tone. He continued, Moments ago, they responded to my request. Beaming with pride and arrogance, Elers went on dramatically, As a result of my endorsement and influence on the high command, I’ve arranged for a small team to accompany you on this mission. Their role is crucial to our success in the war and future conflicts. They are responsible to deploy a prototype encryption machine throughout the duration of your mission. This will make communications more secure and faster. Elers moved closer to Weber and continued, As much as your mission is to disrupt the American's advance, you must not let anything happen to that encryption machine. It must not fall into the hands of the enemy; do you understand, now? Elers raised his voice slightly.

Faster than Weber could answer, Elers took a step back and sharply inhaled, Are you confused Feldwebel? Condescendingly, Elers’s berating tone continued, What part of this mission do you not understand, Hans? Is there something I’ve said that makes you uncomfortable?

With all due respect Hauptmann, what makes you think I don’t understand? Weber quickly retorted.

"There are complex moving parts to the mission, Feldwebel, and we cannot have mistakes. A mistake with this equipment would not only crush our nation, it would expose our enemies to advanced technology they are incapable of hatching on their own. Our Germanic race