The Vintner's Legacy (The Vintner's Daughter Series Book 3) by Kristen Harnisch

Author:Kristen Harnisch [Harnisch, Kristen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wenham Lake Press LLC
Published: 2022-05-09T16:00:00+00:00

Hill 204, west of Château-Thierry

When the French blew up the stone bridge that crossed the Marne on June 1, four men of the 231st had flown sky-high. Nine others had sustained shrapnel injuries but survived. After four days of house-to-house combat in the streets of Château-Thierry, the Kaiser’s 231st Division was now on the defensive, precariously dug into position atop Hill 204.

Hauptmann Wilhemy had ordered Heinrich and a handful of medical officers into the slit trenches at the hill’s summit. There, as the cool night air swept across his dugout and a soft rain danced across his face and hands, Heinrich prayed.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the wooden rosary beads his mother had given him before she died. With a Hail Mary, he begged the Blessed Mother to protect his son, to end the barbarous killing. Before Heinrich could finish the decade, Leutnant Weber, a fellow medical officer, slithered on his belly and elbows to the rim of the dugout and dropped in.

“Comrade,” Leutnant Weber said and offered Heinrich a soil-covered potato. By this point in the war, Germany lacked flour, sugar and milk. Heinrich could feel his hipbones and his ribs beneath his tunic. His mass had always been equally spread over his six-foot-two frame, but a few more weeks of near-starvation rations might just whittle him down to a pile of bones. A few gulps of water each day were a victory.

Weber chomped on his own potato. “Hauptmann says if we hold this hill and Belleau Wood to the north, nothing will stand between us and Paris.” Weber beamed with anticipation. Of defeating the Allies? What would a victory even mean at this point?

Heinrich tried to clean the potato with the corner of his tunic and bit in. It crunched between his teeth and tasted like dirt. “This war is a swindle.”

“You just miss the Heimat. We all do.”

Yes, Heinrich missed his homeland, but he was more desperate for this bloody mess to be over, even if it meant abandoning the Fatherland to become French.

Weber rambled on. “The poilus have slid southeast and taken the village directly west of us.”

“Monneaux?” Heinrich’s stomach sank. The French would not retreat now the Americans had arrived. Wilhemy and the German commanders had to be mad to press on and invite even more casualties.

“Yes, that’s the spot.” Weber wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Heinrich sank back against the trench wall, batting away a scrawny rat that landed on his shoulder, but not before its claws, like tiny knives, shredded a piece of his tunic. Tired of idle talk, he pulled his helmet down over his eyes and slept fitfully until awakened by a barrage of machine-gun fire. Soldiers shrieked like animals in pain; others shouted for help.

Weber grabbed Heinrich’s arm. “Stay down.” The bitter smell of smoke and singed flesh wafted over the trench.

“What’s happening?” Heinrich wondered aloud.

“The French and Americans have dug in with machine-gun nests on the southern side of the hill. We must have sent some men to try to clear them.

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