Stuart Mascair - A Short Story
Letters from the Verdun Anomaly
These letters were written by Damien Neuville and were collected from the attic of his home in Bordeaux and have since been donated to the University of Paris. These letters have been translated by Sofie Brooks and offer an excellent view of the Verdun anomaly.
My dearest Lynette,
My heart swells with anticipation of the momentous events I am about to partake in. I have been given orders to take my place at the front. It is hard to explain the joy welling within my breast. France has called up a generation of its young men to take part in the most glorious event of our day. I am thankful I have been given the chance to prove my mettle against the Germans, for there is no greater foe in all the world. My only complaint is that we are being sent to a quiet sector of the front near the city of Verdun. While I understand the need to protect such a treasure, I find it difficult knowing that I will be a glorified gatekeeper when so many young men are spilling their blood to repel the invaders. However, I am honored that my efforts can be of service to France.
Many of my comrades in arms feel similarly. Every occupation is represented in our number, from lawyers, bakers, goldsmiths, farmers, architects, and dozens more, and oh Lynette, the Algerians! I have never seen so many in uniform. It gladdens my heart that so many from so far away are taking up the saber in defense of France. I feel out of place being a student of the finer arts of music and composition. I must continually remind myself that even though my occupation is not so physically demanding, my spirit will not be found wanting on the battlefield.
Even so, our commanders are very strict and are ever vigilant for signs of sickly courage. Just yesterday I witnessed the execution of a would-be deserter. The man, Jean-Claude, was led away to the firing squad. But before the unfortunate wretch was executed, he was brought before the company for a demonstration in discipline. Our commander explained that he was not sentencing this man to death for dereliction of duty, but to safeguard the morals of France. Our commander explained that “This death will be in service to a higher cause, one that transcends the laws of man. A cause for the nation. His death would remind those whose souls are given to melancholy that we must remain steely of heart and mind. It will harden those hearts and remind them of their duty.” I admit I was moved by the commander’s eloquence. Jean-Claude was filled with such vigor that he walked to the firing squad with his head held high.
He too was giving his life for France!
I apologize if this letter has become distasteful or macabre, a side effect of living so long with hardened men, but I wish to impress upon you the realities of war. While perhaps I should shield you from such things, I gave my vows before God that I would be true and faithful to you. To hide the truth would be a sin against not only you but to God!
That reminds me, recently several German spies were captured wandering the fields of Verdun. They claimed they were archeologists on an excavation dig, but we saw right through their lies as they carried cameras of such sophistication that they could only be used for spying. They were in such outlandish garb as well. One had a shirt from a “band” called Ramstein. While another had a button of a mouse in red shorts. All seemed to favor denim trousers. They were taken away by the military police. The Kaiser will have to dress his agents in less conspicuous clothing if he wants to sneak into our lines.
Lynette, I miss you so. My heart aches when I think of you. I hope this war will be finished before you give birth to our child. I am thankful that if the worst were to happen that you at least have the family to look after. Even so, I will endeavor to give my everything so that we will be victorious, and we will be reunited. The sourest aspect of my adventure is that I do not get to hear your daily exercise at the piano. I am forced to relive your delicate handling of Debussy and Satie in my memory. War, in all its courage and bombast and grandeur, lacks the civilized sensibilities that can be found in your fingers once they touch the keys of a piano.
I miss you terribly.
Damien
February 16th, 1916.
To my lovely Lynette,
I can scarcely believe my good fortune, as the past two weeks have been a trial. On the 21st of February, the Germans began their offensive to capture Verdun. It wasn’t even dawn when they began their initial bombardment. There are no words that can accurately describe the hurricane of shell fire we endured. The sound alone would be unendurable by softer men. Not in all the world has anyone experienced what we have on this section of the front. A howling, roaring, thundering storm of shellfire. Absent were the pops and booms of individual guns as they fired off their munitions. I have trouble finding words for the sensation of all sounds being subsumed into the continuous thunderclap of explosions. The concussive waves were so great that it pressed on my skull like a vise. One can’t even shout in such a cacophony as the words are drowned out by the explosion. I knew I screamed in horror, but I couldn’t even hear my voice amid the maelstrom. I only knew I was screaming because my throat became raw with the effort.
I haven’t even spoken of the destructive power of these guns. The expert artillerymen of the enemy went about destroying every centimeter of the battlefield. Before my eyes, forests and hills were turned to mulch and powder. As though using a hose the Germans showered shrapnel across Verdun and turned it into a brown smear of dirt. It was as though the whole landscape was picked up and shaken into new and alien shapes. The green grass has been replaced with churned-up dirt resembling mounds of brown sugar. What’s left of the trees has been turned into splintered teeth. We dug into the earth like moles or rabbits, as to stay on the surface is to court death.
When the artillery finally ceased after who knows how long, we took our place on the battlements of the trench. Only one in five were capable of fighting, the rest were either blown to horrid pieces or buried alive in the collapsing trench. We waited for the incoming German attack. We were prepared to return the predawn bombardment with steel, and grit. To throw back the enemy with French blood and valor.
However, this was a German ploy to expose our positions. We were not greeted with the grey uniforms of men. Instead, we were met with another withering hurricane of German bombardment. I lived for two weeks fighting the enemy as they showered us with endless munitions. They stormed trenches with frightful flamethrowers that belched out fiery death. The foe was on the march, meeting more success in two weeks than they had in years of sustained warfare. They took fortresses, trenches, and killed so many young French men that my hand trembles as I write this. Even so, we threw back those brave and gallant warriors by the thousands. It is such a tragic thing to see those brave stalwart Germans cut down.
Lynette, forgive the splotches of tears on this letter for I cannot hold them back any longer. I sit now at a café in Bar-le-Duc as part of the rotation program the army has. In another two weeks, I will be sent back into the trenches to do my part. While I don’t feel myself a coward, I tremble at the thought of going back into that meat grinder. I will talk no more of the menagerie of grotesqueries I saw on that battlefield. It is not right for the fairer sex to be forced to imagine such horrid sights as a modern battlefield.
However, I must tell you of a most peculiar event that happened during my time in the trenches. It was either on the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh of February when a man from no man’s land stumbled into our trench in the middle of the night. The poor devil is lucky that he wasn’t shot on sight. What was peculiar about him was not only his attire but his nationality. He was an American! He was dressed so outlandishly as he wore an oversized shirt depicting the tropics with a pair of shorts and a pair of brightly colored shoes. Around his belt was a pack that contained sundries, the most peculiar being a brightly colored currency called a euro. The man seemed to be dressed for the summer. Not for early spring. One of our number who spoke a little English tried to ask what he was doing on a European battlefield. But he was so shocked by his encounter in no man’s land that he only babbled. So, we sent him to the commander to hopefully get some answers out of that poor devil.
But Lynette, my trials on the front have proven that I am no coward. I have my strength, and you can be proud that I have endured the sights and horrors I have related to you in this letter. I am thrilled to know that Verdun is the site of a major German offensive. I will be contributing directly to the defense of France. I know for certain we can turn the tide here and throw the foe back to Berlin. For even if the earth and trees are laid low by German ferocity, you can be sure that French men will stand.
With all my love,
Damien
March 7th, 1916
My joy, my Lynette,
I am to be rotated back into Verdun. Despite what my previous letters have mentioned I am filled with utter horror at being sent back into that maw that devours men and material like some diabolic beast. Even from the safe distance of Bar-le-Duc, I can hear the thundering of the cannonade as French guns seek to match the frightful outpour of German artillery. Men have been replaced with machines in this war. Fear rises in my chest when I think about going back to Verdun. I dare not refuse as just yesterday a man was shot for doing so. He was screaming how he would never go back, that he couldn’t. I wish to call him a coward, but I know the words he shouted matched the words in the quiet of my skull. Lynette, to say that I am frightened does not do justice to the paralytic fear I feel at every waking moment. When I dream, I dream of the roaring guns and mutilated decaying bodies. The smell, Lynette. Remember that mouse you found dead in our cabinet last year? How its rotting carcass sickened you so that you had to lay down to calm your nerves? That smell chokes Verdun. It sticks to your clothes, your hair and skin. God help me I shouldn’t expose you to such horrors, but I need to voice these anxious thoughts. I hope you will forgive me. Despite my fear, I will not forsake my duty to France.
Aside from my trepidations, there have been other peculiar sights in the area. There are strange planes that fly higher than any known winged craft or dirigible. A decent spyglass or binoculars show that these aircraft are not flown by pilots. There has been no consensus about where they come from or who they belong to. Our only clue is the U.N. stenciled on the side of these craft with an occasional symbol of the planet Earth as seen from above wreathed in laurels.
There have been other strange reports from the front, including strangers of all nationalities waking up in no man’s land or the trenches, utterly bewildered on how they arrived. Very similar to the American in the tropical shirt. But also, women and sometimes children! All dressed in strange ways. While some clothing is so bewildering it is difficult to describe, other clothing from these strangers is anachronistic. Some outfits go so far back as Napoleon’s time.
Lynette, you may feel these strange occurrences may be what is important, but it is just part of the milieu of Verdun. A place that bewilders and horrifies in equal measure, a place where every day the world shifts and changes from the previous day’s bombardment. There is no ground or terrain that remains the same. Even solid hills are warped or disfigured with craters, which in turn, are warped with more craters. The only precedent kept is the noise and the violence. Everything else is subject to change and uncertainty.
My love, I hope you remain well and that my letters do not cause too much undue stress to you or our child. You must be the anchor for our family. Modern battles can range from weeks to months at a time, and my survival is uncertain. I pray to God that I will be one of the lucky ones to return home, for tomorrow I follow the sacred road back to Verdun where I will join my comrades against the foe. I love you with all my heart.
Damien
March 13th, 1916
My Darling, Lynette
The front is still as terrible and atrocious, and the oddities continue to amass. The culprit appears to be that the laws of time and space have been torn asunder by the violence at Verdun. Today, a full legion of Roman soldiers marched into the middle of no man’s land out of nowhere. Their formation was disordered as they fell within shell holes containing the putrid mess of rain, decaying flesh, and noxious gas. Their shouts could only be vaguely heard over the rancor of the battle. I commend the valiance of these men as they raised a wall of shields that were no match for either bullet or bombardment. These men who conquered all of Gaul in the classical era were now being tangled up in barbed wire and shot to pieces. They razed their eagles high and tried to remake their formations, but they were turned to pulp and splinters. A grim reality, Lynette, but one I am accustomed to after so many endless days of ceaseless fighting.
That was only one of many temporal accidents that have happened here. All the while those strange unpiloted airplanes fly overhead. With neither French nor German aircraft able to reach them.
There was one instance of a plane dropping leaflets on the trenches. I managed to grab one and have enclosed it in this letter to you. The owner of these planes has a frightening knowledge of our predicament. However, we are to make no move to comply with the proposed cease-fire. The commanders were clear that the honor of France was at stake and that we should not jeopardize our position in case this is a German ploy. We are to hold our ground and continue our battle.
In your last letter, you mentioned that your brother was killed in the fighting north of here. Armond was a stout and kindly young man and I grieve for his loss. I’m thankful that you are with family to share these unhappy days. I wish I could be by your side instead of among this madness, but such is the nature of our time and the nature of war that seeks to keep our love apart. I am thankful that these letters see you well, and that one day we will be reunited.
Damien
March 19th, 1916
Below is the pamphlet clipped to the March 19th letter with both French and German translations.
Eight Hundred Thousand Dead!
Soldiers of Verdun End the Madness End the Bloodshed!
Soldiers of the French and German armies, we the people of the 21st century beseech you to end the bloodshed at Verdun. Time and space are collapsing on this battlefield and it is of great importance that you stop fighting so we may find a solution to this anomaly. We know that at this point in the war, Verdun is the most violent encounter to date. There are still 2 more years of violence ahead. Already the timelines have been contaminated, warping history and society! We have a solution that could fix the tear! But the violence around Verdun is too great to do any experimentation. Only you, the soldiers on the ground can end the bloodshed that has taken so many lives and torn a hole in time. You must end the fighting for the good of the Future. The modern governments of France and Germany are close friends and allies. Reconciliation is possible, friendship and unity are possible, end the senseless loss of life for minuscule gains. End the great tragedy that will only bring about an era of violence and bloodshed. We are doing everything we can to fix the anomaly, now you too must do your part in the mending of our collective reality.
The United Nations signed August 12th, 2026
Dearest Lynette,
I have been shot. Today a bullet grazed the side of my neck. The injury is thankfully light, but it stings every time I move my head. The shot itself was not so severe to remove me from active duty. A part of me wishes that it hit me somewhere more severe that I would have an excuse to leave this God-forsaken hell. I know such thinking is useless as the march to leave Verdun is as costly and dangerous as the battle itself. The route between the sacred road and the battle lines is a quagmire of sucking, cloying, polluted mud that drag men down into its depths. We must follow a thin trail of wooden beams, and God in heaven help the man who falls into a shell crater. As the sides are too steep to traverse and the continuous bombardment makes rescue too costly an undertaking. So, we abandon men to their fate in those holes. I have seen others, half-submerged in the mud, having screamed themselves into an exhausted stupor. Most are men and sometimes women misplaced from their time, and as I said, there is little we can do besides offering a careful shot to the head to end their suffering. Lynette, I know my words may sound callous and cruel, not befitting a gentleman, but I can assure you it is a mercy for these poor exposed persons.
If not the mud, then there is the bombardment, if not the bombardment there is the gas. My God the gas! It pollutes and clings to whatever it touches. It poisons the air and burnt flesh. It mixes with the pools of fetid water filled with noxious corpses that bloat and disintegrate over many weeks.
It is a sign of our modern way of being when nothing can be counted on, not the earth that is remade at the whims of flying shells, or the poisoned air. Even time has been unmade, as it drops all manner of mysteries upon us. Only we endure in this man-made atrocity.
[Section indecipherable from splotches of mud]
-keep returning to the people of the future. Surely, they must have sophisticated artillery or advanced rifles that would turn the tide in this struggle. Why aren’t these men from the future assisting anyone in the hasty conclusion of this conflict? Both German and Frenchmen are a pair of punch-drunk fighters. Surely the introduction of fresh troops on either side of the conflict would bring about a speedy conclusion. When I mentioned this thought to another comrade, he laughed. He explained to me that these future nations probably want nothing to do with our conflict. If the pamphlets they keep dropping are to be believed, over 8 to 9 million will die by war’s end. If this is true, then the future nations’ refusal to take part in the fighting is understandable. But what keeps us fighting for such minimal gains with such astounding losses? I don’t know the answers to this question. All I know is that we endure where we should not, and if some of the veterans are to be believed we may remain here for months at a time.
I haven’t even endured a full month on the front lines of Verdun, and I feel like I have been irrevocably altered by the experience. I doubt any of my future musical compositions will contain any drums. I think I have had my fill of bombast and explosive cords. I would not wish to hear anything louder than a flute or piano. All I ever hear is the sound of rifles, machine guns, and the ever-present artillery, mixed with the shouts of action and the whimpers of dying men. In truth, I only pray of seeing you again and hearing your dexterous hands on the piano. I think of the life that grows within you and I hold in my heart a promise of the future. Even if that future is falling into our present.
Damien
March 19th, 1916
Lynette,
The nations of the future have a plan they wish to implement. The usual pamphlets were not forthcoming with specifics, but it has something to do with the delay of ti--
[Section indecipherable from splotch of mud]
Apparently, the numberless shells fired by both sides occasionally leave duds that will last over a hundred years and are still quite dangerous to the people of the future. I can’t imagine this blighted land looking anything other than a vision of hell. I think it is a testament to the enduring nature of the human spirit, and the fortitude of God’s design that the land can one day blossom with green grass and vibrant flowers.
Our commanders are willing to participate in the future nations’ plan on the condition that it does not jeopardize our position in the theater, whether our German counterparts are willing to participate is another story entirely. In truth, I do not have high hopes for this plan. Any sense of order or strategy dissolves into butchery. There is a futility in tactics in the face of such overwhelming brutish force. We can only pray to God that our actions are successful. So, we can protect the people of the future and the past from this horrendous battlefield. If only we could protect ourselves from this calamity. Lynette, I have seen so many of my countrymen perish in this battle. There are scarcely ten faces in a hundred that I recognize. Many having been killed and replaced with wide-eyed strangers. When I look upon the replacements it’s like I am seeing myself from a month and a half ago. To my horror, I no longer recognize my features in the mirror. I find myself deconstructing my face and trying to gauge the person within. Who is this Damien Neuville, is he this dirty man in a uniform? Am I that dirty man with those cold sunken eyes? Never before have I pondered these sorts of questions. However, at Verdun, they come easily.
You see, time is not working correctly anymore. Sometimes I will be doing my duties and with a blink of an eye, I am transported to some other more serene land. One filled with grass and trees. A place with monuments to this battle I had fought in. I walk around these places in a daze. Maybe, I have survived this horror and grown old. That I can finally rest and relax and breathe freely. Then with the crack of a rifle or the shout of a coming gas attack, I fall back into this blighted hell. This seems to be happening to a lot of us, and it is driving men mad. Even without the sundering of time men were losing their nerve from the beginning.
I do not think you should worry too much as I do not think myself mad, but I must ask what is considered sane in a mad world. I am straying from the point. My pen follows my wondering mind when I should be telling you that I am safe and continue to be so. I am safe, and I will be rotated out within four days. For two blessed weeks of relative quiet, and the civilization of Bar-le-Duc. I will write to you then.
Damien
March 26th, 1916
Another pamphlet was found clipped to the letter, this having to do with an operation called the “Nails of God.” Translated from French and German.
Activate the Nails of God
Soldiers of Verdun we have a plan to heal the tear in time. We have created sophisticated devices that use quantum mechanics to repair the damage in the temporal fabric. We will send them through the tear, and it is your duty to place them in specific places around the battlefield. They have been designed to interface with the technology of 1916. The idea is simple. The devices will be used and be buried on the battlefield so that they may travel to the future in real- time. Once they are excavated, they will be activated to create a quantum entanglement to close the tear that is causing so much havoc with time. Your job is of great importance to the plan, as the violence on the battlefield may disrupt or destroy the devices. Both your respective nations and the nations of the future need you to give it your all!
United Nations August 24th, 2028
Lynette,
I suffered a heartbreak today. I was cleaning my injury when a watchman shouted. I was at the ready, pointing my rifle toward the German line expecting a saboteur or possibly a line of grey-clad soldiers marching toward our trench. Instead, I saw a deer, a full antlered buck so regal and majestic in its demeanor that I could not help but yelp in awe from its magnificence. It had a noble bearing, and clean coat indicative of a leisurely forest life. Its strength was obvious, and it elicited a cheer of delight amongst the weather-beaten men of our company. A similar cry could be heard from the German lines.
The tragedy was that this brave and noble animal was caught out in no man’s land amidst the barbed wire, the shelling, and the pools of toxic water. The buck must have fallen through time as the wildlife had all fled from the horrors we unleashed onto this land. The animal with grace and poise hopped over tangles of barbed wire meant to trap the least agile soldier, whilst darting with ease around the pits of polluted filth. A roar of exaltation began to rise amongst us as we cheered on the animal to make its escape from that wretched land. The German cheers and encouragements met ours and the whole battlefield joined for this noble buck. A frenzied euphoria descended on us as we whooped and hollered, we clattered our helmets with ladles and stamped our feet with joy. For me, all the sound of the world vanished, and I could hear the delicate notes of Debussy’s Clair de Lune play in my mind as I watched that noble animal make its way to safety. I could not stop the tears from tracing rivers on the dirt of my face, but I was not the only one stirred to such emotion. For the first time in a month, I have felt true joy. It was an affirmation of the human spirit and the enduring beauty of God.
Then a stray shell blew that noble animal to pieces.
The collective lament could be heard from the hearts of hundreds across this wasteland. Some of us swore, others punched the dirt walls of the trench with fury. Some of us, those whose hearts were protected with some strange indefatigable fortitude shook their heads in remorse and carried on with their duties. Lynette, upon seeing the sight of the murdered buck, my legs turned to jelly. I collapsed against the walls of the trench. It took hours before I could summon the strength to pull out my pen and write this letter.
I also wanted to let you know that I have been assigned to plant one of these temporal nails in no man’s land. Thankfully, both French and German forces have agreed to a ceasefire so that we may safely seed this battlefield with the devices. One more evening of hard work and I will be safe again in Bar-le-Duc. I will also qualify for some leave time so that I may visit you once again. Indeed, this news has invigorated me into action, and I will do my utmost so that I can hasten our reunion. You may say I still have to wait a day. But the passage of time has little meaning for me anymore. It is only our meeting again that fills me with joy.
Till we meet again.
Damien
March 31st, 1916.
Damien Neuville never returned home and was listed as missing in action on his March 31st mission. Neuville was later found wandering the fields of Verdun on December 9th, 1973 having fallen through time. He spent Christmas with his child for the first time as well as his grandchildren. The photo below shows both Damien and the elderly Lynette playing the piano together.