Giles let out a fierce yell, “Halte-la!” The unidentified figured continued pressing on. Giles couldn’t figure out what uniform he wore, the mud of the trenches had stained it brown, and his helmet was gone. “Halte-la ou je fais feu!” Giles readied his rifle and took aim as the figure fell to the ground. The figure let out a unintelligible cry, unable to distinguish if it was English, German, or French.
“Qui vive?”, asked Giles at the figure, ‘who is it?’ The figure let out a cry,
“France, soldat de patrouille,” cried out the figure.
“Avance a l’ordre!” Demanded Giles. The password was a saving grace from no man’s land for any soldier returning to their trench. It changed daily, sometimes hourly, but Giles knew the procedure. He’d been guarding this trench for weeks now.
“L’accordeoniste, l’accordeoniste!” pleaded the figure. Giles nodded, and motioned for the figure to come into the trench. The figure jumped up from the ground and ran into the trench line, giving Giles a nod as fell in. His face was covered in mud and dirt, and through all the grime Giles could barely make out a mustache and beard. Giles gave the man a pat on the back and told him to return to his post, as Giles returned to his. He strapped on his helmet, readied his rifle, and resumed scanning the vast expanse of No Man’s Land between the French and German trench line. The land was scattered in artillery shells for men to hide in, and rows and rows of barbed wire to shred down any advancing men who found themselves without the proper gear. He saw the rifles of men fallen from failed attacks on the ground, and saw the clothes of the men standing out against the dark brown mud. Giles’ job as a Sentinelle required him to keep a constant eye out for any changes in the enemy trenches. German soldiers lining up on the trench edges to prepare for an assault, or to see any returning French soldiers from a patrol or wiring party. The monotony of the trench patrols were always welcomingly broken by any soldiers returning from patrol. Giles enjoyed the work, and the ability to always know who was coming and going was comforting. There were no surprises, there were no changes from the procedures once a person showed up. If it was an enemy Giles would either shoot them or take them prisoner, but it was always their fault for approaching an enemy trench. He was scanning the vast expanse of mud when he noticed some men approaching a line of barbed wire, and he saw from their uniforms they were German. They were outside of his range, and he had no hope of shooting them so he watched instead. They were cautious, always looking out for a sniper or an enemy party sneaking up on them. Carefully they navigated the barbed wire with their wire shears, making sure to cut in a way so that it wouldn’t snap back on them, instead having the wire simply fall to the ground. Giles had seen what happens when barbed wire snaps back onto a wire cutter, the gashes of the blades which cut straight the simple cloth and wool uniforms of a soldier. But the wire did not lash back, and Giles let out a small sigh of relief for the enemy. He knew they were out to kill him, but like most of the trench soldiers they were only there because they were forced. Drafted into the service, or joined up for the money because of a failing economy. Giles then moved his sights off of the two wire cutters and back onto the expanse of mud, giving a small smile as the enemies slid back into their trenches. And so was Giles job to watch the vast expanse of mud, wire, and bodies.