Franz Weiher

"My name is Franz. Weiher, yes. Exactly. Franz Weiher." Martin coughed as the men pulled him up out of the trench.

"You were the only one who survived the trench, comrade." One of the men said with a solemn clap to his back. "How did you do it?"

"I held hands, not guns." Martin stammered. The other Germans took it as a joke and laughed. 

"He still has his sense of humor! No need to check his head!" The man said with a laugh. Martin recognized the sign on his jacket: he was a doctor, not a soldier. The paramedic turned back to Martin and took his hand, pulling him in for an iron-gripped handshake. "No worries, soldier. We're going to check you. And congratulations, we've won the Elsass (Alsace, France)!" 

He stumbled behind the trail of paramedics. He helped them load some of the corpses into an old truck. Then he got into a different truck. The paramedic who'd talked to him most sat down next to him and handed him a piece of bread. It was rather stale, but it was nourishment. Martin took it with trembling hands. "You're going to be alright, Unteroffizier Weiher." He reassured Martin with a small smile. "And you're probably going to be promoted to a higher rank, Congratulations on that!"

"Thank you." He managed to croak.

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler." 

"Good man." The paramedic clapped him on the shoulder again and then stood up and jumped out of the back of the truck. He disappeared out of sight. Martin stared at the bread in his hand. 

"I must be dreaming." He muttered. "Or maybe I passed out." He gnawed at the bread, but it tasted like cardboard. Maybe he was passed out on the floor of the attic, maybe he was delirious and chewing the box? But the image of the German soldier's face dominated his mind. The hole in his skull gaped at him as fully and roundly as an open mouth. He knew he was unable to imagine something that horrible. Heck, he was seventeen years old, and most of the war movies he'd seen were from Marvel Studios or Hollywood. There was hardly any gore. If someone got shot they just fell. Their knees didn't buckle together as if hit in the shins by a baseball bat, their arms didn't hang limply at their sides. You never saw their chests stop rising and falling. And you never saw anyone clinging to their arm as if the wings of their fallen comrade could save their life. 

There were no holes in their brains. 

Not ones that looked like their mouths.

Martin let out a strangled sob. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the images, the sounds, the smell of the trench. But it was no use. For one second he was able to drown out the echo of the bullets flying through the air, but then the metallic smell of blood clogged his nose. He'd gasp, taking a breath of air, but the oxygen never reached his lungs. They filled up and emptied, but no strength was sent to his muscles. 

Then, through the haze of his confusion and fear, he saw a little glimpse of silver. It soared closer, maybe above his head, mimicking the sight of a heavy bomber, or reflecting off the barrel of a loaded gun, but it was always silent. Deadly silent. He pressed his eyelids shut more tightly. And then the streak of silver took on a familiar form.

It was an eagle.

***

Drenched in sweat and coughing, Martin Weiher found himself on the floor of his attic. He threw the silver eagle as far as he could and ripped off the clothes he'd found in the box. Without stuffing them back into their cardboard confines he scrambled to his feet and ran. He leaped over the boxes and pushed his way through to the trapdoor hurrdily. Then he flung it open and practically threw himself against the ladder which he skimmed down.

The second his feet found the floor he let out a long and relieved sigh. He'd escaped from the room upstairs, and whatever chemicals had been in that box to have made him hallucinate so vividly. He heard his mother push open the door to the hallway he stood in. He realized he was still gripping the ladder, his knuckles white. "Hey." He said softly, his voice trembling. 

"Is everything okay, Franz?"

The words sent a chill down his spine and he turned to face the door slowly. 

It was not his mother who stood there. 

It was a beautiful woman, she cradled a baby against her chest. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were a bright blue, he could tell, even in the dim light. She looked at him with a worried expression before repeating the question: "Is everything okay, Franz?"

"Of course, darling." He said after a long moment. "Everything's alright."