The Pocket Watch

You wake slowly from the most remarkable dream. You were back in the United States, and you had a lovely red-headed wife who was eager to please you every way she could...and your own automobile? And the whole world seemed so...fantastic. Like some sort of Wells science fiction story.

But you're still here, in your barracks, in a ditch in the fields of France. You've been here fighting the Germans for weeks, and the Army's been here for longer, and the French have been here...well, it's a long war. It's 1918, and you, Michael Allen, are a long way from your Montana home.

Hauling yourself up off your cot, you grab your helmet and your rifle and head out into the trenches. Another long day. Another day in a seemingly endless series of days: terror, boredom, and fury mixing together in totally unpredictable, totally disorienting quantities. Perhaps this will be just another day of standing around under an ironclad gray sky, or perhaps you'll get the order to go over the top and **** the German position. In which case, you might as well give yourself up for dead right now...which might be the wisest course in any case. The order's coming. It's got to, someday. You just don't know when.

As it turns out, the day is another one of boredom - for which you're thankful, though you jump continually at small noises and shudder each time you hear a distant shell blast. This war is worse than you could ever have imagined it being, and you wish you didn't have to fight it. Your people back home are barely more than dirt farmers; you don't really know politics or the full explanations for why this war is being fought. It doesn't make any damn sense. Maybe if your people came from more money, you could find a way to survive this, but...as it is, you feel like just so much meat. Like one of the cattle your rich rancher neighbors was raising for slaughter back home.

When your shift ends, you head back toward the tents with a sigh, feet dragging on the muddy ground. You're nearly there when you hear a hissed whisper:

"Pssst! Allen - hey!"

Looking around, you see a friend of yours, George Perkins, leaning toward you from a shadowed recess. He beckons you closer and you pause, curious. "What is it, Perkins?"

"Got a lead on a good place to relax with the locals. Gonna try it tonight if you want to come along - better food, some actual booze, and lots of grateful Frenchmen. And women. C'mon, Allen - join me!"

You grin, then hesitate. Perkins is a swell guy, but actually sneaking out of your encampment is risky indeed. You could be in serious trouble if you're caught. Staying in, you might not see much excitement, but you'll be at your post and accounted for if anything happens. It's a tough decision...

"Don't be a stick in the mud, Allen!" Perkins insists.