On a cloudy afternoon, hidden away from the brisk winter winds, inside the Philadelphia University auditorium a fervent discussion was under progress. The hall, more empty than full, was populated with a diverse group of individuals from various backgrounds, gathered together in their shared interest.

The guests sitting on the illuminated stage included a former American pilot who served in Gallipoli, a Russian war reporter and author, a British intelligence officer and the university’s own German history professor Heinrich Grimm.

The moderator sat up and spoke into the microphone in front of him. “Captain Meyers, Lord Edmondson, as riveting as this discussion about the side-effects of handling Phosgene based weapons is, I fear we have digressed too much.” Pausing to straighten his spectacles the moderator continued. “We should probably attempt to squeeze in one final question before we leave our lovely audience, who are undoubtedly famished by now.”

The two men reluctantly restrained themselves and allowed the moderator to continue. “Thank you, now let’s have a show of hands for the final question, please.“ The moderator said and pretended to gaze into the crowd. In the back of his mind, a conversation continued to play. He had been advised to pick the Frenchman for the last question if he wanted to earn the bribe he had been promised. “You there, the Gentleman with the cane.” He pointed towards the man and waited as the individual stepped up to the microphone set up for the audience members.

The man in question limped forward with his cane. As he walked into the light a scar, cutting across his thick blonde beard became visible. His eyes revealed a resolute intensity as he spoke in a rough French accent. “Bonjour Monsieur. My question, it is très simple. As the war drags on for years, what gives the soldiers in the trenches la volonté de se batter, the will to fight?”

 The moderator turned to his panel and said. “Interesting question. Why don’t all of you give our guest a quick short response for this? Let’s start with Captain Meyers.” The Captain, who unbeknownst to everyone present had barely flown in the war, smirked. Due to his family connections with superior officers in the recently started Air Force, he had been relegated to relatively safe reconnaissance missions. After the war, he had been quickly employed as a consultant by a film studio in Los Angeles to help out with post-war flicks. As such he had very limited knowledge of a soldier’s life, but he would never let that stop him.

 He moved in close to his own microphone and responded. “The rush of adrenaline that comes with an intense dogfight is incomparable. Every morning I wake up and crave that rush. The thrill of a hard-fought victory and the chance for glory, what more could a soldier ask for?”

The British intelligence officer, Lord Edmondson, sat back and sipped his tea snobbishly. In the condescending tone stereotypical of a British noble, he replied. “My gosh you yanks most certainly have a flair for the theatrical, don’t you? The reason a soldier wants to continue fighting is that he is provided sufficient intel to act upon so that he may gain the chance to rise up the ranks of the social class that he happens to have been born in.”

Before the moderator could comment, the Russian reporter and author interjected. “This right here is a prime example of the inherent evils of imperial capitalist society. Influencing the impressionable and perpetually oppressed working class with noble propaganda and false promises of social advancement. Causing men to wage war and lead a bitter existence for the hope of a better future for the advancement of some unrelated political agenda is something the monarchists have always done and now the capitalists have seemingly followed suit.”

Loud whispers erupted as the audience reacted to the Bolshevik’s inflammatory remarks. “Some very strong comments there. Professor Grimm, what is your opinion?” The moderator asked. Heinrich’s gaze was locked on the Frenchman who had asked the question as a vague sense of familiarity overwhelmed him. He sensed some measure of resemblance but couldn’t quite place the man in his memories.

When the moderator asked again to get his attention, Heinrich was broken out of his reverie and politely smiled as he shrugged and responded. “A good meal for dinner and some smuggled alcohol is probably what makes the men want to fight again.” His light-hearted response to the sombre subject and the passionate remarks made by his predecessors earned a fair few chuckles from the crowd but the moderator was not pleased.

“Come on Professor, a mature answer please.” The moderator requested again. Heinrich sighed and responded with an indifferent wave of his hand. “Well, you heard it from our esteemed panel, the glory of victory, a potential for rising up the ranks, political propaganda, all of that.”

Heinrich had spent the majority of the afternoon dodging questions whenever he could. The moderator was aware that the man was possibly uncomfortable being on the panel. The only reason why he had been included was that a Canadian battlefield medic was unable to arrive as her plane had been grounded due to heavy snowfall and they could not book anyone else at the eleventh hour. Even still, his constant unwillingness to respond and his continuous attempts at wiggling out of the situation had not sat well with the moderator.

“I’m afraid I’m not letting you go back to your classes till you give me a straight answer.” The moderator pressed on. “What makes the soldiers in the trenches want to continue-” Before he could finish his question an irritated Heinrich interrupted.

“Nothing.”

“You’re saying-“

“Yes.”

“But that means-“

“Yes.”

“Um…”

The rapid-fire exchange only continued to further confuse the moderator and exasperated Heinrich to a point where he found no other choice but to elaborate.

“Captain Meyers,” Turning to the pilot he said, annoyed. “I know the Hollywood executives probably lap up all your fake braggadocios but please don’t assume that the same will happen here. What can someone who spent the entirety of the war clicking pictures from thousands of feet in the sky know about the harsh life of a trench soldier?  The glory of victory? What fucking glory is there in fighting back and forth over a mile-long stretch in the Turkish mountains for months on end?”

“And you, you British bastard.” Facing the intelligence officer he chastised. “As much as you look down upon your cousins across the Atlantic, without their assistance, His Majesty King George’s forces would have slowly whittled away under the German onslaught. As an intelligence officer, you of all people should know about this. But then like most British nobles, you probably just picked a desk job to stay away from the front lines instead of leading your men into battle. Despite all of that, you have the gall to say that the reason soldiers want to fight is for social advancement? It is people like you who give monarchists a bad name.”

“And finally, you.” Turning to the Russian he chuckled dryly and added. “With a straight face, you’re going to tell these people that the capitalists and the monarchists use propaganda to make the working class want to fight in wars and lead a prolonged bitter existence for the promise of a better tomorrow when your revolution and its aftermath have done the exact same thing? Except you’re worse because you have made your people paranoid enough that they now suspect their peers of collusion. Why don’t you save your self-righteous drivel for the remaining part of the press junket of your book tour?”

Pausing to catch his breath, Heinrich shook his head in disgust and overflowing disappointment. “It doesn’t matter why a soldier joined up with a war. By the time he has spent years in trenches on a foreign land, starving because of low supplies, shivering without winter rations, sleeping in mud, shit and guts, watching his comrades bleed out, crawling through tunnels and across landmines, holding urine soaked rags against their faces while they run through bullets and Chlorine dancing with death, all delusions disappear. They lose parts of their soul over and over and over again. No soldier wants to continue fighting after that. They all just want to go home while they still remember who they once were.”

Picking up the glass of water placed on a nearby stool he downed the liquid and stood up. Covering the microphone with his hand he whispered to the moderator with. “You’re lucky, the medic would have cut you to pieces. Next time, invite someone who actually knows what they are talking about.”

With a final glance towards the audience, he began walking off towards the exit. The people in the crowd were simply stunned into silence and their faces were interspersed with horror and revulsion. All except one. The Frenchman still looked on at Heinrich’s retreating form intently, now with a predatory smile and when he looked at the foreigner, for the first time since his release from the prisoner of war camp, Heinrich felt fear.