Trenches.
That's where he spent his days, nights, and every moment of his life for the past six months. When their army had pushed into the fortifications, they had hoped to capture the heights quickly, as they had done at Champagne, and force the French to commit their reserves to retaking the position. Instead, what was meant as a quick offensive bogged down into the longest, filthiest battle of the war so far.
Erich had been there for the majority of it, only taking a few weeks away from the front when an artillery shell had struck near his squad's position and the detonation of their ammo reserves drove a chunk of his brother Karl's skull into his leg, nearly causing him to bleed out before the neighboring squad recovered him and another who was almost as fortunate as he. The two survivors of his squad spent the next few weeks in a forward hospital, recovering before being reorganized into another unit that had lost many of their own. Reinhardt was not Erich's favorite person, but it was still good to have someone he knew close as he faced the barrage of bullets and shells every day.
And the days were the worst of it, for Erich was now assigned as a night sentry: staring into the dark with his head barely above the edge of the trench every night, scanning and using the intermittent light created by gunfire and explosions to detect intrusions of the enemy. While largely uneventful (nighttime charges by the French were rare, and most often artillery wasn't used at night because sighting was near impossible), the need to stay vigilant and protect his fellow soldiers made each sunset terrible and each sunrise a blessing.
But the days were the worst of it. Erich was meant to sleep during the day, and was provided a plan set into an alcove in the trench with a blanket and sleeping roll to facilitate this. But the constant chatter of gunfire, the shouting of orders, cries of the dying, and the deep pounding of shells striking no man's land had kept him awake for the first week or so of this duty. He had fallen asleep one night on watch, and was reprimanded severely, the sergeant so angry that Erich worried he'd be executed on the spot. Instead, he was made to bail out the trenches for a week in addition to his regular duties, spending two hours in the morning after each watch knee deep in mud and water until his arms wouldn't cooperate anymore.
The work was backbreaking and revolting, the muddy water fetid with the stink of the dead and the soldier's feet rotting in their boots. But he slept. Every morning after his bailing had ended he was so exhausted that he slept through the sounds of his comrades fighting and dying for a war they barely understood against men that were more often distantly related to them than not.
Now, Erich was used to it. He stayed awake, snacking on rations of small, hard pieces of bread and the occasional piece of salted meat, spreading it out to help it last through the night. Although he could have smoked to pass the time, he had traded his tobacco for more of the canned, salted meat. Many in his company found this strange, but the other sentries understood: the light of a cigarette in the night was easy to sight down a rifle.
Tonight, he was paired with Lars, both of them experienced night sentries (at this stage in the war having a few weeks under your belt made you experienced) and both men of few words. While it was silent in Lars' company, and one would think it would be harder to stay awake, Erich had no such problem. Lars was competent and strong, and Erich felt safe with him at his side. The two of them would sometimes agree to short naps, and Erich trusted that Lars wouldn't fall asleep while he himself was resting.
The two of them stood close together, their feet steady on the board holding them above the quarter meter deep water filling the trench. They looked out over the darkened field together, the occasional ring of gunfire to their left or right as either their comrades off the enemy fired on each other. Despite the threat of violence, little happened in the night and the two passed the first portion of their watch uneventfully.
Nearing midnight, Lars cleared his throat. Erich looked over and waited for his companion to speak, guessing Lars was going to ask for the first rest tonight. Instead, Lars was holding a photograph in his hand. The photograph was small, and one Erich had seen before, of Lars' wife back in Leipzig. She was young, and pretty, Erich supposed, and he understood the pain of missing loved ones. And so when Lars would reflect on this photo, Erich would try to think of something comforting to say, and always fail. Lars never spoke of it, and Erich never asked, but he always wished he could ease the suffering of his comrade... his friend.
"Has she written to you?" Erich was surprised to hear his own voice, the same thought that always came to mind ringing out in the night air, finally voiced. Lars turned to him, seeming equally surprised as he opened his own mouth to speak.
"No, not for two months now, not since hospital." Lars' voice was low, calm, and comforting to Erich despite the thick air of sadness so clearly evident in it. Erich never pushed Lars to speak, but he always enjoyed it when the man did. The voice inspired confidence, and never seemed to broadcast any anxiety or fear, whatever the man it belonged to felt within. This gave Erich confidence, and a feeling of safety in the dark.
"I'm sorry, Lars, and I do not mean to pour salt in the wound." Erich didn't know what else to say as he looked up into the big man's tired eyes. Lars was easily several centimeters taller than Erich, who was relatively short by the standards of his comrades, and Erich always found himself looking up into those dark eyes.
Lars sighed heavily, his body seeming to collapse somewhat under the weight of the topic. The silence dragged on, oddly not increasing Erich's discomfort as he might have expected, but giving the moment a sense of gravity and surprisingly tranquility as the sounds of war fell quiet around them. When the response did come, the tone was a mixture of grief and, oddly, relief. "I knew the letters would stop eventually, Erich. She is young, and I cannot provide what she needs."
Erich thought he understood, if not the exact sentiment then the general idea, and patted his friend firmly on the back, hoping the physical gesture would provide the comfort he meant to convey. Instead, Lars recoiled, as if touched by a fire poker, but quickly recomposed himself when he saw Erich stiffen. Erich pulled back as well, confused and hoping he hadn't embarrassed himself with the familiarity of the gesture.
Both men stared for a moment, now a half meter from each other and neither seemingly aware of what to say next as they stared out into the dark. Lars relented first, his lips opening slightly as if about to speak, closing, and then opening again. His mind seemed troubled to Erich, his body usually calm and still now tight and twitching with some energy, but Erich was patient, and waited without staring for Lars to express his thoughts.
"She doesn't understand me, Erich. I love her, and she me, but she doesn't understand my needs and desires." Lars seemed torn, his forehead and eyebrows wrinkled in emotional turmoil as he tried to explain. Erich waited, but nothing else was forthcoming as Lars' eyes cast around, searching his own mind for words to express what he was feeling.
"What do you mean?" Erich prompted when the bigger man stayed silent, looking to Erich with eyes that seemed at once filled with anguish and desperation.
"I am afraid to say." Lars said as if that settled it, as if such a cryptic statement in itself would make the thoughts behind it clear to Erich.
Erich hesitated a moment, unsure of how to proceed and concerned he was digging too deep into his friend's private life, into a painful history. But his curiosity was too great. "You can trust me, Lars." He said simply, not sure why Lars should trust him but feeling in his gut that it would not matter what his friend said, that he could confess a murder and Erich would still keep his secrets.
Lars looked into Erich's eyes, the calmness normally found in dark blue of them missing, replaced by a roiling sea of fear, similar to that Eric has only seen in the dying. Erich reached out again, this time not to pat his friend awkwardly on the shoulder, but instead to clasp the man's hands in his own.
