Erich Bauer

7. Arrival at the French rest village

When they finally arrived, the town was small but charming, scarred by war, yes, but still alive.

There was:

houses with restored red roofs,

taverns where soup boiled all day,

laundries,

and a square where exhausted soldiers simply sat and stared at the sky.

For the first time in a long time, Rick saw colors: the blue of the sky, the green of some reconstructed orchards, the yellow of some flowers that had miraculously survived.

There, in the middle of that remote corner of the war, the Americans found what they were looking for:

a royal bed,

a hot meal,

a conversation without shouting,

a break.

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8. The last night: Rick thinks about them

That night, lying in a stiff but warm bed, Rick couldn't sleep. He looked at the wooden ceiling and thought about his French colleagues.

In Moreau. In Dubois. In Lemaitre.

In their laughter, their stories, their shared silences. I was thinking about how absurd it was to separate like that, without knowing if they would ever meet again.

Then he took his mud-stained notebook and wrote:

“Today we leave the front. Today we leave the French behind. But a part of me stayed with them, in the mud, in the fog, and in the trenches. If I survive, I will not forget their names.”

And he closed the notebook.

For the first time in a long time, he was able to sleep without the echo of explosions.

5. Reaching the rear: relief and discomfort

The rear guard wasn't exactly paradise, but compared to the trenches, it seemed like another world:

houses damaged but still standing,

dirt roads without craters,

a small American camp with new tents,

Doctors, cooks, and messengers walking without running or bending down.

Rick took a deep breath. The air did not smell of death. Just rain, hot bread, and clean laundry.

It was almost unsettling.

The soldiers looked at each other nervously. The calm felt strange to them, as if it were a trap.

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6. The journey to France

The next morning, they boarded military trucks bound for a city behind the lines: it could be Amiens, Reims, Rouen, or even some quieter village that served as a rest center.

The trucks rattled along rural roads where:

elderly women were sweeping over ruined doorways,

The children watched the soldiers with a mixture of fear and fascination,

And peasants were trying to recover lands ravaged by war.

Rick sat in the back of the truck, feeling the sun on his face for the first time without the fear of a bullet.

But he also felt something else: blame.

He was leaving. The French were staying.

3. The last breakfast together

Before leaving, they shared an impromptu meal: Burnt coffee, bread as hard as a rock, and some cheese that someone had saved for a special occasion… this occasion.

Rick ate in silence, looking at his French companions:

Corporal Moreau, with his mustache full of mud,

Dubois, who always told stories that no one knew if they were true,

and Lemaitre, who played a small harmonica when the night was too dark.

Moreau lifted his metal cup and clinked it against Rick's.

—Restez en vie, petit yankee. Stay alive, little Yankee.

Rick smiled, although his smile trembled.

"We'll meet again," he replied. "I'm sure of it."

But deep down, neither of them was.

---

4. The walk towards the rear

Finally, the Americans left the trench through the communication tunnel, a narrow passageway of hardened mud. As we left the last post behind, the sound of the artillery became less intense, although it still throbbed like a sick heart in the distance.

During the hike:

The mutilated trees seemed to greet them with broken fingers,

The wind carried the smell of damp metal and old smoke,

and the hooves echoed with every step.

As they moved away, the French signaled to them from the parapets.

One wave of hands waved goodbye to another.

Rick kept looking back until the last blue uniform disappeared into the fog.

“The rest that came too late”

1. The unexpected announcement

He had spent a night under continuous bombardment. The sky was still smoky when, at dawn, an American messenger came running up the trench, splashing mud with every step.

Her voice, broken by exhaustion, burst forth with a phrase that seemed impossible:

—Company D has permission to withdraw to the rear! We depart today!

For a moment, no one reacted. The American soldiers stared at each other, their eyes blank, as if their ears refused to believe it.

Rick felt his heart race. Retire? Really? It was the first time in weeks, maybe months, that I had heard the word rest without sarcasm.

The French, stationed nearby, reacted with tired but sincere smiles.

—Bonne chance, les Américains… —Vous l'avez mérité. —Repose.

Some even patted Rick and his companions on the shoulders. But there was something more in their eyes: a serene sadness, the awareness that they would not rest. Not yet.

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2. Pack your luggage… if there was anything to pack at all

Rick entered his underground shelter. The half-burned lamp flickered with a yellowish light. He checked the backpack:

a pair of wet stockings,

a blurry photograph of his family,

a notebook full of mud stains,

ammunition,

and an extra jacket that smelled of dampness and smoke.

Nothing else.

He had arrived with more things, he remembered. But the war consumed everything: clothes, time, even memory.

The French also conducted their inspections. But they held nothing back: they knew that in a few hours they would continue advancing into another sector. Another battle.

No Man's Land

In front of them lay no man's land, a deserted strip between the Allied and German trenches.

It was a deadly territory, full of:

thick mud,

craters,

unrecovered bodies,

broken helmets,

sunken boots,

and pieces of twisted barbed wire.

At night, Rick saw fleeting signs of activity from the German side: shadows, distant voices, the light from covered lanterns. And although he understood the language he heard, he forced himself not to pay too much attention to it.

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The destroyed villages

At Rick's outpost, there were remains of a nearby French village:

a church without a roof,

collapsed stone houses,

a dry well,

streets covered in mud and debris.

Sometimes men would go in to look for wood, tools, or just a little space to sit away from the mud. Rick always observed those places with a mixture of sadness and respect: it was seeing the possible future of any city, even his own.

The constant climate

The weather was another enemy:

Cold

The wind cut through his clothes as if they were nothing. The dampness froze Rick's fingers as he held the rifle.

Rain

It turned everything into a mud pool. The trenches filled up, and the French spent hours bailing water.

Fog

Dense, white, unsettling. In those days, nobody knew if the enemy was ten meters away or a hundred meters away.

Smell

There was always an omnipresent smell:

wet soil,

gunpowder,

unburied bodies,

gun oil,

stale tobacco,

stagnant sweat.

Rick learned to identify every smell without even thinking about it.

The “underground city”

Although they were outdoors, the trenches functioned as a kind of underground city.

1. The shelters

The shelters (or dugouts) were reinforced underground cavities where men could sleep, write letters, or simply breathe without fear of artillery fire. They were lit with oil lamps or candles, creating an intimate but smoky and humid atmosphere.

Rick slept in a shelter shared with French people and a few Americans. The smell of wet clothes, tobacco, metal, and sweat was constant.

2. The command posts

Every so often, a larger shelter served as a command post.

There were:

maps covered in dried mud,

messages transmitted in haste,

officers who spoke rapidly in French and English,

soldiers listening to orders in the dim light.

Rick always stayed on the sidelines, taking notes and observing.

---

The exterior landscape

When Rick had to peek out, he saw a desolate world:

giant craters created by artillery,

splintered trees that looked like skeletons,

barbed wire spreading like metal spiderwebs,

horse carcasses or remains of abandoned vehicles,

smoke that floated in the air like a dirty fog.

And always, in the background, the echo of gunshots or explosions.

The location of the soldiers: The Western Front near France

The region

Rick and the French soldiers were stationed in an area of ​​the Western Front, specifically in northern France, in a rural region near:

Artois,

Champagne,

or the area around the Somme.

These were areas where entire villages had been razed by fighting, leaving only blackened ruins, mutilated trees, and fields transformed into a hell of mud and craters.

The landscape was marked by:

gentle hills,

forests stripped bare by artillery,

murky rivers,

and small ghost towns where nobody lived anymore.

The land itself bore the scars of war.

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The camp at the front

The soldiers did not have a "camp" in the traditional sense: they lived practically inside the trenches, in a network of endless ditches that snaked for miles.

The trenches

They were deep, two meters or more, reinforced with:

wooden planks,

sandbags,

sheets of rusted metal,

and, in many sections, simple mud walls.

The ground was always damp. Always. In some places the water reached ankle-deep for days on end.

The interior was a labyrinth.

The trenches had:

rest areas (small caves dug into the ground),

guard posts,

machine gun positions,

improvised ammunition depots,

and tunnels that connected entire sectors.

Each sector had a distinct atmosphere. Some seemed calm; in others, explosions rumbled like a constant drumbeat.

The Bauer family home

The Bauer family home was right above the family bakery, a common tradition in immigrant neighborhoods: working downstairs and living upstairs.

The bakery

On the ground floor, the bakery was the economic and emotional heart of the family. It had:

a worn wooden counter,

shelves full of golden loaves, milk buns and pretzels,

a large red brick oven that gave off heat even on cold days,

a persistent aroma of fermented dough, toasted sugar and flour floating in the air.

It was the place where Rick learned discipline and patience. Where he watched his father from a young age, imitating movements that would later become an essential part of his memory.

The upstairs

The home itself, where the family lived, was warm, though modest. The dwelling consisted of:

1. The kitchen

The brightest space, where her mother spent most of her time. There was always:

a steaming teapot,

a hand-embroidered tablecloth,

jars of dried flowers,

smell of soup or homemade bread.

It was the place where Rick took refuge from his doubts and where Margaret listened without judging.

2. The living room

Small, but full of personality: a worn sofa, black and white family photographs, a floor lamp that shook when a tram passed by on the street.

Here, at night, Friedrich would play the accordion. That sound was Rick's strongest reminder of his German identity… and also the music he missed most at the front.

3. The rooms

Rick shared a room with his sister Klara until he was ten, then he moved into a small room of his own:

walls that her mother painted light blue,

a narrow bed,

a window that looked out onto the street,

a bookshelf with books in English and stories in German,

a wooden box where he kept his drawings, letters and small treasures.

It was his most intimate space, where he dreamed of a peaceful future, before war appeared on his horizon.

The region and environment where Rick Bauer was born

The city: Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Rick was born and raised in Milwaukee, a city that at the beginning of the 20th century was a vibrant mosaic of cultures, dominated largely by European immigrants—especially Germans, Poles, and Scandinavians. In those years Milwaukee was known for:

Their factories and workshops filled the air with a metallic and smoky smell.

Its working-class neighborhoods, where foreign accents mingled with American English.

The strong presence of bakeries, taverns and breweries founded by German immigrants.

Its green corners, newly opened parks, and cobblestone streets still retained a rustic charm.

It was a city that was both noisy and welcoming, where the sound of trams mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the echo of European melodies.

That was the city Rick loved, even as it began to turn hostile to families like his.

The neighborhood: A small German enclave

The Bauer family lived in a simple, lively neighborhood, populated mostly by first- and second-generation German immigrants. Both English and German were spoken there; on Sundays, the air was filled with the aroma of roasted coffee, sweet bread, and stews that were not found in American cookbooks.

The houses were modest but well maintained:

sloping roofs to support the snow,

small gardens with cold-resistant flowers,

wooden facades painted in soft colors.

In summer, the windows would open and you could hear the neighbors singing or arguing excitedly. In winter, the silent snow turned the neighborhood into a muted scene, where the chimneys seemed to be the only sources of heat.

It was a peaceful place… until the war broke out. Then, glances began to harden, and some neighbors who had previously greeted each other enthusiastically began to do so cautiously or not at all.

In short: his life on the front

Rick's routine was tough, repetitive, and emotionally draining. But it was also full of unexpected learning experiences and connections.

Each day was:

a struggle against mud,

against hunger,

against fatigue,

against fear…

and against himself.

With the French, he learned to survive, to observe, to recognize invisible dangers. But he also learned to find humanity amidst the chaos.

And although every night she went to sleep wondering if she would see the next dawn… Every morning he would wake up, take a deep breath, and carry on.

The emotional shock

Every day, Rick had to face the paradox of war:

He lived with French people who valued him,

He fought against Germans who spoke like his family,

And within it coexisted two halves that the war insisted on separating.

It was exhausting.

Julien, who noticed, said to him one day while they were sharing a cigarette:

"You don't choose your blood, Bauer. But you do choose who you protect. And that's what makes you a soldier."

That phrase was etched in his memory.

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The nights: the unsettling silence

The night on the front lines was a mixture of fear and exhaustion. The sky, dark and starless with smoke, seemed to weigh them down. The men slept in fits and starts; Rick, almost always with one eye open.

The sound of bombers, distant shouts, footsteps on wet mud… everything was constant.

But there was a curious detail:

Even in the darkest of times, the French found a way to joke. Small teasing, absurd comments… A way to defy death.

Rick, who didn't grow up with that kind of humor, took some time to get used to it, but he ended up appreciating it. Sometimes a brief laugh was the only thing that reminded them they were still alive.

3. Night patrols

These were the tasks that Rick feared the most.

The patrols were conducted in small groups that crept out of the trench, hugging the ground, trying to advance silently so as not to alert the Germans. It was then that Rick's identity weighed most heavily on him: hearing German voices on the other side, words he understood perfectly… but which he had to ignore.

Sometimes, the French would ask him to translate words they heard from a distance. Rick would do it, but always with a heavy heart.

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Moments of respite: humanity in hell

It wasn't all tension. There were small moments of humanity.

Letters and photographs

The French pulled out faded photographs of wives, children, and mothers. Some teased each other gently, but deep down, those little pieces of paper were more valuable than a weapon.

Rick had the photo of his family and Klara's drawing. The French encouraged him to show them.

—Une sour? Elle est mignonne! (A sister? How lovely!)

Rick smiled shyly.

---

Songs and stories

On some quiet nights, the French sang in whispers. Rick listened to melodies that, though different, shared the nostalgia of the songs his mother had sung to him as a child. Sometimes he tried to follow along in a low voice; other times he simply closed his eyes and let himself be carried away.

The daily work: watching, repairing, surviving

1. Security guards

Rick spent several hours a day at strategic points, looking through the scope of his rifle or a small trench periscope. He observed:

enemy movements,

smoke in the distance,

suspicious shadows in the night,

the occasional flight of a German plane.

The French were experts at detecting signals that Rick would never have noticed. Someone once told him:

—If the crow is silent, it's because something is moving.

Since then, Rick learned to listen as much as he did to watch.

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2. Trench fortification

Another important part of the day was reinforcing the trench walls with sandbags, makeshift planks, and wire. The rain often turned the ground into a swamp where the men sank up to their ankles.

Rick used to work alongside Étienne, a young French soldier who had lost two brothers in the war. Étienne spoke little, but he worked with an almost ritualistic seriousness. Sometimes he hummed traditional songs, and Rick, without knowing why, felt that this humming kept him focused.

The first contact of the day: The French

The French got up early. Always.

Men with thick mustaches, tired eyes, and a gruff sense of humor that served as an emotional shield. Among them stood out Corporal Julien Marceau, a soldier who spoke English with a heavy accent and who unwittingly became a kind of mentor to Rick.

Julien would begin each morning by muttering a French proverb or making a sarcastic comment:

—If you can smell your own boots, Bauer… it means you're still alive.

Rick never knew whether to laugh or not.

The French treated him with a mixture of camaraderie and condescension, like a young cousin who needed to learn quickly or die. They taught him to distinguish the sound of shells, to identify when a mine had been recently laid by the enemy, and to move silently through the trench without stirring up any dirt.

---

Impromptu breakfast

Breakfast was simple:

stale bread,

weak coffee,

sometimes a piece of cheese or a shared can.

Americans used to complain. The French simply said:

—C'est la guerre. (It's war.)

Rick learned not to complain. He was grateful for everything.

During breakfast, the men talked amongst themselves. The French told stories about their burned villages or the seasons before the war. Rick listened silently, feeling a painful mix of emotions: They spoke of a destroyed home; he, of a distant one.

Rick Bauer's routine on the front lines alongside French soldiers

Rick's life on the front lines, near the devastated villages of northern France, was a constant mix of cold, mud, and unrelenting tension. Upon arrival, he was assigned to an American unit working alongside a group of veteran French soldiers, many of them hardened by years of war. For Rick, this shared experience became a crash course in survival… and reality.

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Mornings: Waking up in shadows

Rick would wake up before dawn, although he never actually managed to sleep deeply. In the trenches, sleep was fragmented and light; any creak or whisper could be a sign of danger.

The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the smell: an acrid mixture of mud, metal, dampness, sweat, and old gunpowder. Some mornings it also smelled of stale bread that the French shared, trying to maintain some semblance of human habit in a place that seemed forgotten by God.

When he stood up, his clothes always felt stiff with dried mud. His boots, almost always wet, reeked of leather and dampness. Many men, especially the newly arrived Americans, suffered from trench foot, but the French already knew a thousand tricks to prevent it. They taught them to change their socks daily, to dry their feet with rough cloths, and to rub them with oil if available.

Rick took those lessons very seriously.

Family dynamics

The Bauer family functioned like a small island in the ocean of suspicion and tension of the time. Inside their home, there was laughter, fresh bread, and songs in German; outside, there were harsh stares, prejudice, and a constant feeling of not belonging.

The war strained everything.

Friedrich became even more silent.

Margarete began to pray in a lower voice.

Klara stopped inviting friends to the house for fear that they would insult her family.

Rick carried the guilt of seeing them suffer without being able to protect them. That's why, when he decided to enlist, he did so with a divided heart: he wanted to prove they were "good Americans," but he also knew he was leaving them alone in a vulnerable moment.

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The essence of their bond

The Bauer family wasn't perfect, but they were united by a deep, simple, and sincere love. Rick misses:

the smell of bread at dawn,

her mother's soft voice,

Klara's unbearable jokes,

the protective silence of his father.

She carries that nostalgia like a burden and like a shield. On the front lines, his family is what keeps his hands steady and his heart beating.

Klara Bauer — The younger sister

Age: 14 years Personality: Curious, cheerful, a whirlwind of energy; the most “American” of the family.

Klara grew up between two worlds without conflict: she spoke English almost without an accent and adapted easily to school. She was in charge of translating for her mother when she couldn't find the right words, and she insisted that the family also celebrate local holidays so as "not to seem so different."

Relationship with Rick

For Rick, she was a spark. Klara idolized him, followed him everywhere when they were children, and made him laugh even when he didn't want to. She was the only one who called him "Erich" even when he preferred to be called "Rick".

Before he left, Klara gave him a small drawing: a cartoon of the two of them making faces. Rick hid it behind the family photo, where no one else could see it. It was a reminder of a simpler world.

After he left, Klara was the one who asked about him the most, writing him letters full of jokes, drawings, and trivial stories about the neighborhood so that he wouldn't feel forgotten.

When the war broke out and everyone began to look at them with suspicion, it was Friedrich who bore the weight of the neighbors' contempt so that his son would not feel it so much. And although Rick enlisted to protect the family honor, Friedrich never wanted him to feel obligated to do so.

Their last conversation before leaving marked Rick forever.

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Margarete Bauer — The Mother

Profession: Housewife; occasionally helped in the bakery. Personality: Warm, emotional, sweet, deeply rooted in her background.

Margarete was the gentle light of the family. She sang while she cooked, wrote letters to relatives in Germany using elegant handwriting, and kept alive the tradition of recipes that Rick had loved since childhood.

She suffered the most from the anti-German climate. Every time she heard a hostile comment, she pretended it didn't affect her, but Rick found her crying behind closed doors more than once.

Relationship with Rick

She was his emotional refuge. Rick might not talk about his problems, but one look was enough for her to understand. She taught him German, read him Grimm's fairy tales, and played traditional Bavarian music for him while he did his homework.

Before Rick left for camp, Margarete secretly sewed a small blue handkerchief—his favorite color—and kept it in her military bag as a talisman. Each stitch was a silent prayer for his safe return.

The family of Erich “Rick” Bauer

The Bauers were a humble, hardworking, and deeply close-knit family of German origin. Although they had emigrated seeking a new beginning, they never lost their traditions, and this balance between adaptation and memory shaped Rick's childhood.

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Friedrich Bauer — The Father

Profession: Baker Personality: Reserved, disciplined, silent protector, proud without being arrogant.

Friedrich was a man of few words but firm gestures. He spoke English with an accent he never quite managed to soften, which is why he usually avoided long conversations with strangers. Rick always saw him as a pillar: someone who held the family together without asking for anything in return.

At the bakery, Friedrich taught Rick to knead dough from a very young age. He told him that bread “wasn’t just food, but a test of effort,” because if it wasn’t made carefully, it would show at the first bite. That philosophy became one of Rick’s moral foundations: to do everything honestly, even if it hurt.

Relationship with Rick

Their relationship was close, but full of silences. They understood each other without speaking. Friedrich wasn't demonstrative, but his affection was shown in small acts: leaving a warm loaf of bread on the table before going to work, adjusting Rick's blanket when he got up early, or running his hand through his hair on difficult days without saying a word.

The Atlantic crossing

The journey was long, fraught with anxiety due to the fear of German submarines. Rick found it ironic: he was crossing an ocean to fight against men who spoke his language, while fearing being sunk by ships that shared his blood.

Many men felt seasick, others talked about their families, and some tried to hide their terror. Rick spent his nights awake on deck, staring at the dark sea and wondering if anyone would ever understand what he felt.

The arrival in Europe

After endless days, the ship finally arrived at a port near Brest, France. As he descended, Rick smelled for the first time the scent of mud, damp wood, and gunpowder that seemed to permeate the entire continent.

They had arrived ahead of schedule because the front line needed reinforcements. There would be no rest, no acclimatization, no mental preparation. From day one, they were informed that they would be sent to support exhausted units near the trenches in the western sector.

Rick gripped the rifle in his hands. He didn't know what awaited him. But he did know one thing: It was too late to turn back.

The early departure to the front

Rick had hoped for at least a few more weeks of training, but the realities of war allowed no such luxuries. In December 1917, an officer entered the barracks with a list in his hand. He named several men, including Rick.

They would be sent to the front before completing their training.

The news hit like a ton of bricks. Some recruits celebrated, imagining glory. Rick just felt his chest tighten until it hurt. He wasn't ready. Nobody was.

The journey into the unknown

They were put on a military train that would take them to the East Coast. During the journey, Rick stared out the window, watching the landscapes of his country slowly fade away: endless prairies, rural stations, smoking chimneys. He wondered how many of those places he would ever see again.

In his pocket he carried the blue handkerchief that his mother had hidden in his luggage, and the family photo, almost erased from being folded so many times.

Upon arriving at the port, Rick saw for the first time the ship that would transport them: a huge grayish vessel loaded with soldiers, supplies, and a nervous silence that did not match the bustle outside. The air smelled of salt, fuel, and fear.

The divided language

Sometimes, without meaning to, a German word would slip out. A “Ja, señor” instead of “Yes, sir.” That cost him several extra push-ups, and more than a few snarky comments from his classmates. However, Rick didn't complain; he knew that any small mistake could make him a suspect.

Despite this, some recruits began to appreciate him. Rick was helpful repairing backpacks, sewing uniforms, translating letters from immigrant families, and above all, listening. His natural silence made him an accidental confidant to many.

Discovering its strength

As the weeks passed, his body changed. His arms grew stronger, his stride became more steady, and he learned to handle the rifle without flinching. He began to develop an unexpected mental resilience: he learned to take deep breaths before firing, to remain calm in tense situations, and to follow orders even when his heart was racing.

But he never stopped feeling a knot in his stomach every time they talked about "the German enemy". Hearing his native language associated with danger, betrayal, and barbarity... that hurt him silently.

Erich “Rick” Bauer's Training

Rick's training began at Camp Grant, Illinois, a place where the cold seemed to seep into your bones before dawn. The barracks were packed with recruits just as young as he was, some proud to serve, others fearful, and many with the same rigid expression as Rick: a mixture of uncertainty and a need to appear brave.

The first days

The first day was a shock. Rick, who had grown up in a bakery helping to carry sacks of flour, wasn't afraid of hard work; but the military pace was different. At five in the morning, the drill sergeant would shout orders at them in a voice that boomed like small artillery. Rick's stomach would churn whenever the sergeant looked at him a little longer than usual, fearing he might find something "too German" about him.

One of the worst parts was the endurance training. Running in full gear left him breathless. The Springfield M1903 rifle seemed like a strange, cold object to him, more a tool of death than an instrument of defense. Every time he fired it in practice, the recoil shook his body, and for a moment he imagined an enemy face on the other side… and his heart sank.

The farewell was difficult. Her mother wept silently during dinner. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder and said to her in German, his voice breaking: “Mach das nicht für die anderen… mach es für dich.” (Don't do it for others... do it for yourself.)

But Rick knew he wasn't doing it for himself. He was leaving to prove something he should never have needed to prove.

Since then, he has carried with him the fear, the guilt, and the confusion of belonging to two worlds that have suddenly become enemies. And although he walked to the train in his new uniform, feeling like a stranger in it, he also carried a trembling determination: to prove he was a good soldier… even though deep down he never wanted to be one.

That's when the social pressure became unbearable. Several young men from the neighborhood enlisted voluntarily, proud to serve their country. And Rick, despite being born on American soil, was looked at as if he were "waiting for the moment to betray them." Even those who had been close to him began to avoid him. One neighbor told him bluntly: “If you’re not with us, kid… we already know which side you’re on.”

Rick didn't want to go to war. He didn't want to shoot anyone, or fight men who spoke his family's language. But he feared something deeper: staying home and having everyone, including himself, think he wasn't "American enough." Furthermore, he knew that his family needed him to clear his name to avoid further retaliation.

Finally, one cold autumn afternoon, without telling his parents, he walked to the recruiting office. His stomach was in knots, his hands were trembling, and he felt an indescribable mix of fear and resignation. When the recruiter asked him why he wanted to enlist, Rick swallowed hard and replied: “Because… because this is my country.”

The recruiter just looked at him for one second longer than usual, as if evaluating him, before approving him.

During his teenage years, Rick felt the weight of social scrutiny. Whenever someone mocked him for his last name, he would lower his gaze and pretend not to understand. Things became even more tense when the United States formally entered the war in 1917. Overnight, being an American with German roots became almost a moral offense. People began reporting neighbors for speaking German in public. Several communities changed their street names to erase anything "German." Even Rick's teacher once asked him to stop bringing "foreign food" to class so as not to offend other students.

That year was also when Rick's father lost a major bread supply contract for a local restaurant, using the vague excuse of "not wanting to support German businesses." The family began to struggle financially. Friedrich, proud of his family, refused to complain; but at night, when he thought Rick was asleep, he would silently smoke by the window, worried.

Rick turned 18 feeling trapped in a land that was his home, but where he constantly had to prove it. Rumors intensified when some local military personnel began patrolling immigrant neighborhoods looking for “suspicious activity.” Someone even accused Friedrich of sending secret letters to Germany; the truth was that he was only writing to his older brother, who lived in a small rural village. That was enough to send the family into weeks of anguish.

Erich “Rick” Bauer’s Past

Erich Bauer was born in 1898 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, into a German family that had come to the United States hoping to start a new life far from the political tensions of Europe. His father, Friedrich Bauer, was a disciplined, meticulous, and quiet baker; his mother, Margarete, a warm woman who kept the language and traditions of her homeland alive. At home, German was spoken, Christmas was celebrated with Bavarian carols, and spiced cookies were baked every winter. But outside, the world was different: American manners, perfect English, and near-total integration were expected.

From a young age, Rick lived between two identities. At school, he wanted to fit in, so he insisted on being called Rick instead of Erich, and he tried to hide his accent. However, many children teased him for carrying his lunch wrapped in homemade German bread or for having a “difficult” last name. Even so, Rick led a relatively quiet life: he helped out at the family bakery before dawn, ran with his friends through the open fields, and in the evenings listened to his father play the accordion while his mother hummed soft melodies.

The tranquility changed in 1914 when the First World War broke out in Europe. At first, it was just a distant rumor, something happening “over there,” on the other side of the ocean. But little by little, in newspapers and café conversations, a strong anti-German sentiment began to grow. Neighbors who had once smiled now crossed the street to avoid the Bauers. Some customers stopped buying bread. Others murmured that the family “probably supported the Kaiser.”

Outfit:

Standard U.S. Army Uniform of 1917:

M1917 jacket, khaki color, with the buttons quite worn.

Woolen trousers and boots blackened by the mud of the trenches.

A dark blue handkerchief hidden under his shirt, a gift from his mother.

In his inside pocket, he carries a photo of his family, folded so many times that it is almost indistinguishable.

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Tastes:

The folk music that his father listened to play on the accordion.

The quiet days without gunfire, where you can simply write letters or look at the sky.

Helping their peers: fixing broken backpacks, sharing food, translating immigrants' letters.

The smell of freshly baked bread, which reminds him of home.

Dogs; he says they are easier to trust than most men.

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Dislikes:

That they call him "German" in an accusatory tone.

The idea of ​​killing someone who, like him, probably didn't want to be there.

The endless marches in the cold rain.

The noise of the explosions: it makes him tense and returns him to his most insecure state.

The army bureaucracy, which constantly reminds him that he must "prove" his loyalty.

Name:

Erich “Rick” Bauer

Age:

19 years old

Context and background:

The son of German immigrants, he was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He grew up speaking both languages, but when World War I broke out, his family began to be viewed with suspicion. Neighbors, former friends, and even teachers began to suggest that the Bauers “weren’t fully American.” Finally, Rick gave in to social pressure and enlisted, not out of patriotism, but to prove that he had a place in the country where he was born.

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Personality:

Reserved and observant, he rarely raises his voice.

Loyal, although he finds it difficult to fully trust others for fear of being rejected.

He has a dry, almost accidental sense of humor that appears when least expected.

Unsure about his identity: he doesn't know if he is "American enough" or if he is betraying his German roots.

Reluctantly brave: acts more out of moral obligation than initiative.

Empathetic, especially with other young soldiers who also feel displaced.

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Appearance:

Dark blonde, slightly wavy hair, always messy under the helmet.

Grayish-blue eyes, tired and somewhat melancholic expression.

Slender build, but wiry from working on his family's farm.

Marked features of his German ancestry: strong jaw, high cheekbones.