World War Fluff: No Fluff's Land

BranF1akes, June 28, 2018; 23:27 / FB 51301
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World War Fluff: No Fluff's Land

The following journal was found in a chest of relics discovered by Jonathan H. Willam when moving into his new Berlin home. Amongst Relics B-221214, C-38114, B-612111519 and H-8151315 laid K-239121225. Originally mistaken as a novel that was never published, K-239121225 was later identified as the journal of Faustus Spiëlgren, a combat medic who served in the Great War and was awarded the Kaiser's Knight medal before going on to lead the medical field for years, only to succumb to an early death in 1957. The following scripture has been enhanced for English speakers for maximum enjoyment.

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-The Literatuurwetenschap,
December 30th, 1914
Today is my first day writing in my new journal. I must write about Christmas. It was stunning to see. As we were getting our uniforms cleaned and our weapons loaded, the sound of singing struck our ears. Nobody could have been ready for singing. The British and French were singing Christmas carols. Soon enough, we joined into the singing, and for a moment you could forget you were in the middle of a war. Soon enough, men began to arise from their trenches and approached us. When we met them on the field, we shook hands and those of us who spoke English translated to us that the British were willing to lay down their weapons for the day. Within the hour, our mean were drinking alongside the British and even some Frenchmen, singing along as the distant fire of mortars set the beat to the songs. It was truly a sight to behold when a German man gave a French boy, no older than sixteen, a chocolate bar for Christmas.
What a time to be alive.

January 19th, 1915
The time for peace has long gone. We've been stationed at Ypres, some Belgian town. Every day we set up our defenses and wait. I hear the sharpshooters pick off British men who dare to poke their heads above their trenches, sinking a single bullet into their brains. It becomes maddening. I had not expected this when I volunteered. I wake up, clean my weapon and clothes if I can, stand at my position and wait for the commander to give us a signal. Let this war be over, God.

March 24th, 1915
I had not imagined being able to write so little in my journal. With the lack of writing tools, almost no time to write and absolutely nothing to write about when the chance arises, my only gift is slowly wasting away. Every night I think of my wife and my home. How I miss them dearly! My crave for adventure has been satisfied, and yet I am still here, with this godforsaken gun and this ridiculous helmet and the unbearable conditions that made even the sewers of my town appear as beautiful as the Kaiser's home itself. Squalor does not begin to describe it. This war must end soon.

April 25th, 1915
Recently our trenches were attacked by the British. I was not expecting a fight at all, and yet I was battling men and boys while carrying back our men. Their groans and injuries still haunt my mind. Faces blown off, arms cleanly removed, and the screams and crying that echoed inside the tents where the sickly were being treated still ring. I hate my role. I hate having to look my friends in the face as I cut off their gangrenous fingers to save their hands. I hate having to constantly listen to explosions and screams. And most of all, I hate that I can't the image of my shovel splitting that British boy's head open out of my mind. If this continues, I will surely take my own life, lest the enemy decide not to save my soul.

September 11th, 1915
We recently received a new breed of horse. They are called "Fluffies". They are supposed to be used for reconnaissance and for morale, amongst other things. We've been told we are to strap explosives to them and let them run into the trenches of the enemy. How wonderfully contradictory the top brass is. These "fluffies" are supposed to function as comfort animals, yet we are to us them as walking mines? I see no point anymore.

September 13th, 1915 The Fluffies are becoming unbearably annoying. Their use as walking bombs has proven successful so far, as the enemy was taken by surprise to see the colorful creatures ambush their lines, speaking in the manner of a child, asking for hugs. Yet their original purpose of reconnaissance has been neutered thanks to their childlike comprehension skills and their inability to remember in detail or relay any useful info. They've become as much a pest as a pet as we often find them huddled in our beds, shitting themselves and crying because of the "boom boom munstahs". The fucking cretins expect us to hold them and comfort them as though that will somehow end the death that litters the field. If only I had more ammunition. All they do is eat and cry and defecate. They are replaceable, thankfully, and not truly animal, so I will not feel remorse as I slam my bayonet into their stupid assholes and have at some target practice before grinding their childlike vocal cords into the mud. They aren't worth the feed we give them.
Boost morale my ass.

September 26th, 1915 The British and French have caught on to our use of fluffies as bombs with legs. While at first the fluffies' disarming nature deceived them, their repeated use by our commanders made it obvious as to the danger they pose. Now whenever the fluffies come out, they are shot at immediately. Thanks to their mentally challenged nature, once the gunfire starts the fluffies run back to our own lines, bombs still strapped to them, killing our own men. I had to operate on a poor bastard whose rib cage was exposed due to the results of one such fluffy bomb. I watched his lungs contract as he breathed his last, wounds too severe to be fixed. Fucking Scheiße rats are less than useless now.

September 30th, 1915 I swear, our commanders must be as stupid as the fluffies they've sent us to use. Their strategy to solve the problem of fluffies running into our own lines is to stick them repeatedly into no-man's land without bombs, in order to get them accustomed to facing bullets. The enemy now shoot at the abominations regardless of whether or not there are bombs strapped to them, not willing to take a chance, and the results are what I would expect of damn near anyone going up against machine gun fire. I spied one fluffy that had its left cheek blown off, screaming and hacking up blood in between begging for the pain to stop. I saw yet another fluffy get a leg cut clean off by a bullet, in the middle of a jog, so sudden that it tripped and fell into patch of barbed wire. It tried to get out, but the struggling just tangled the fluffy further, and it started to cry out for its mother to "hewp fwuffy fwom meanie pointy munstah!". Yet another fluffy had its head severed from machine gun fire. The body kept going for a few seconds after the decapitation, which I found amusing. Many of the fluffies had been shot to the point where their intestines were falling out, or their brains were literally blown out of their skulls. Some of the fluffies that returned to our lines simply repeated the phrase "wan die...wan die" over and over again, which unsettled quite a few of the soldiers. I fear these creatures might be useless for war.

October 1st, 1915 Some of the soldiers have started bonding with the fluffies, trading war stories with them, and occasionally giving them treats. Others in our ranks feel as I do, that these mongoloid horses are just a nuisance and shouldn't be anywhere near our ranks. Our company is split roughly in half between those who hate the fluffies and those that want to keep them around as pets. Some of the soldiers refused to let the fluffies they had taken a liking to into no-man's land, but I say throw them out there by the cart load. At least the British and French can waste their bullets on the fluffies instead of us.

December 7th, 1915 Some of the soldiers have been tying fluffies to sticks, and exposing them out in the open to watch them get shot by snipers. When days are slow I take the time to watch these games. I always find it comical how unaware the fluffy tied to a stick is. Once they're raised out they start cheering, saying "yay! new fwiends gon give fwuffy upsies!". The rest of the fluffies brought for the sniper game start begging for "upsies" too and vying for who gets to go first, until the sniper bullet hits the exposed fluffy. Their panic afterwards when the soldiers start placing the next fluffies on sticks is priceless. During one such game I saw a fluffy shot right in half by sniper fire, sent to the ground writhing in pain as the other fluffies started shitting themselves and begged for a "gamsie wif nu huwties pwease!". I had a hearty chuckle over it. Some of the soldiers have used these games as a way to determine the position of enemy snipers and flush them out, which is how the games are allowed to continue despite the protests of those in our company who find the practice to be barbaric and cruel. I find it strange how they can find such attachment to what amounts to a pest worse than the rats that clutter the trenches.

December 14th, 1915 I lost my patience with one of the walking shit factories today. I had a great deal of men to operate on after we attempted to attack the enemy lines today. I lost count of how many bullets and shrapnel fragments I had to dig out of them, and god knows how many broken bones and dented skulls I saw as the result of close quarters combat. After such a work heavy day, all I wanted was to lay down in my bed and take a nap. One of the fluffies was cowering under my sheets crying "huu huu, wan gu way fwom scawy munstah pwace. Nu wan see mowe huwties to fwuffies". I pulled the sheets off, surprising the little bastard, causing him to shit all over himself. Even without that little outburst, my bed had been throughly ruined by his pervious defecations. I grabbed the fucker with my left hand, squeezing him so hard I could feel a couple of his delicate ribs break. He squealed "Owies! Nu wike huwtie huggies! Nu wan! Nu wan!". I gave him no reply, instead taking out my entrenching tool and beating his ugly mug in. The first blow was hard enough to split his skull open, and he started to spasm wildly. I kept going until I had beaten his head so severely that there was barely anything left except for a stray eyeball. I hope the creator of these fluffies has to endure the pain ten times over that has befallen me and the men who have to suffer with living with these beasts!

December 27th, 1915
There was no peace this Christmas. Nobody stopped the onslaught of bullets and shells. Few sang, and if they did, you wouldn't hear it over the cacophony of explosions that drowned out any cheer that remained on the 25th. Far worse than any explosion was the hideous screeching of the fluffies we were assigned, as an enemy artillery shell hit one of our frontline shelters, creating a wailing mess of gore, feces, and fluff that could wake the dead that litter no-man's land. I had to walk through some of the mess just to get to breakfast this morning. What I thought was mud at first was the viscera of the little creatures. I subsequently lost my appetite after scraping bloodied fluff off my boots. Only our own men exchanged gifts. I gave away half of my rations and received a new pencil to write with, so I may upkeep my journal. It is hard to believe it has only been a single year since I arrived on the field.

January 30th, 1916 The commanders have constantly been attempting to find new uses for the fluffies in combat. Instead of daytime raids such as when they were first deployed, the commanders have tried sending out the fluffies at night, once again strapped with bombs, intermixed with herds of normal, non-bomb laden fluffies. Almost immediately it was a disaster, as all but the seasoned fluffies started crying about "nu wike meanie dawk times!" This gave them away instantaneously, and the British wasted no time in firing wildly into the night to ensure their lines weren't overwhelmed. Flares dominated the night sky that day. I couldn't sleep at all. The commanders are talking about using normal fluffies in such great numbers that they'll overwhelm the enemy's barbed wire defenses. Those madmen have no idea what they're doing.

March 16th, 1916
With the winter ending now, it has started raining here, making the trenches even more of a muddy, soggy mess than they were before. When the commanders tried to send out the fluffies as the advance wave to an attack today, the vermin started to sink into the mud. I heard some of them crying "wet fwuffy out mistah gwound!" or "gwound munstah twy to num fwuffy! Fwiends pwease hewp! Hewp!" over the sounds of gunfire. Quite a few of them simply drowned in the mud, unable to free themselves, while the rest were picked off easily by British gunfire. Needless to say the assault was called off.

March 18th, 1916 The commanders ordered a new assault today, this time without using fluffies as an absurd war weapon. Thankfully the British must've been worn out, because the fighting was minimal before they decided to retreat. Walking across no-man's land, I noticed that my steps made a crunching sound, so terribly was the ground ridden with the corpses of the fluffies sent out two days prior. As I was taking cover in a shell crater, I noticed a part of the mud that seemed to move. Upon closer inspection, I saw a fluffy buried in the mud. Its flesh was gangrenous, and maggots were eating away at its wounds. Amazingly it was still alive. It looked at me, a maggot hanging out of an eye socket, and moaned "pwease hewp fwuffy" weakly. I took out my sidearm and dispatched it at once. I have no fondness for these vermin, but seeing that maggot infested mess nearly made me vomit.

April 26th, 1916 We're being redeployed. Where to, we haven't been told yet. The soldiers that have taken a liking to the fluffies carry them in order to help them keep up as we march. I've seen fluffies in backpacks, pockets, I've even seen one soldier carry a fluffy in his helm. I hope he's prepared to wash that helmet before putting it back on. I just pray we aren't deployed to Verdun. I've seen far too many shellshocked faces from soldiers who have been there.

May 3rd, 1916 God has forsaken us. The fighting in Verdun is constantly sporadic, raids on both sides are occur
with far greater frequency than as was the case at our original position. The worst part is that I'm told by veterans of this battle is that this is an improvement from the fortress battles some time ago. I can barely get my bearings in this god awful place before another assault begins by the Frenchmen. The rats are huge here, having gorged themselves on the bodies of the dead. I saw a whole swarm of them overwhelm a fluffy and eat it piece by piece as it wailed like a banshee, going on about "fwuffy nu am nummies! Wet go munstahs!".

June 1st, 1916 I had to snag a pencil off a dead Frenchman to write once more. The fighting has escalated much more since I last wrote in this journal, as there have been non-stop attempts at taking and holding the forts here. I had to dig out a large piece of shrapnel from a young man's neck; he nearly bled to death. And that man with the flamethrower - no, I refuse to think about it any more. Some of the men carry their pet fluffies with them into battle. On rare occasions it is to their benefit - I witnessed a fluffy in a man's backpack take a piece of shrapnel to the face, saving the owner's life.

October 25th, 1916 Was all this fighting for nothing? French counter-attacks have led to our gains becoming slowly reversed. God damn this atrocious war, and God damn this wretched city! I've taken to grabbing stray fluffies I've seen wandering the trenches and tossing them out in the open, to see how badly mangled they get after getting shot at and shelled. Once there wasn't anything left of the little shits, except a few patches of fur and a mess of broken bones. The men have noticed that the French never take any fluffies as prisoners, and take joy in tearing them limb by limb. Our more pragmatic privates have taken to sawing off the legs of a fluffy, strapping them to a timed mine, and leaving them in an obscured area for the French to find, following the beasts' cries to "gif back weggies! Need wun way fwon boomie munstahs!". These people should be in charge of our war effort, not the buffoons who've led us into this hell on earth.

December 31st, 1916
There was no singing this Christmas. The commanders forgot to give us extra rations for the holidays. We were resting after our defeat at Verdun. I couldn't stop thinking about the people I had to kill there. The people I failed to save. And most of all, I can't stop seeing the pain all around me. I cannot look at a bed anymore without imagining someone I couldn't save even though I promised him he would make it out okay. I can't stop thinking about how I beat a Frenchman's skull in, until nothing was there but brain, only to discover in his pocket a locket with the face of a little girl, with the phrase "Mon Beau Fille" written in. And most of all, I can't stop seeing that god forsaken flame trooper as he sprayed the depths of hell onto the enemy, hearing their muffled laughter as the French melt and their flesh singes and melds with the fibers of their uniforms until the body is nearly one with the ground. I watch as the weak, womanly soldiers who dote on those shit factories hug them and tell them things would be alright, that the war would be over soon. I couldn't take it anymore. I screamed at them. "How can you hold those vermin like they're your child? They've been nothing but a liability to the war effort ever since they got here! They're monstrous creatures that should've been sent to an incinerator at birth!" The argument escalated until half of our unit was arguing with the other half. Those who sided with me were called barbaric monsters, equal to butchers, malevolent devils who weren't worth the air we breathe. In return we called the fluffy lovers cowardly weaklings, faggots who should be beaten and skinned alive like the traitorous fucks they are, how they were posing as true Germans so they could ruin us. Soon men were grabbing each other by the collars of their uniforms and screaming in their faces, and some even loaded their rifles until our commanding officers broke up the fight and demanded we calmed down before we were all sent home a disgrace to the Empire.
I will not stand for this idiocy much longer.

January 17th, 1917 Our commanders gave us two extra weeks of leave after the outburst on Christmas. I tried to use it as best I could, but my mind still hasn't left Verdun. I can't stop seeing the bodies piled up in the trenches until the trench and ground are level. I cannot stop hearing the moans and wails of those who have gangrene and trench foot, wasting away as their bodies rot and fall apart like a toy, the flesh blackening and becoming foul as those who possess the bodies have no choice but to accept the inevitable. I can't stop thinking about those I couldn't save, the looks on their faces as I told them everything was going to be alright as they breathed their last, how they could never go home and see their families and hug them and kiss them and cry tears of joy. I hate it. I want to take one of my knives and slam them into my skull, but I fear my incompetence is so great that I would surely survive and live life as one of those who have collapsed mentally. I have been beating all Fluffies who approach me after hours. I skin them, peeling their skin from their hides while gouging out their eyes and tongue, telling them that they aren't worth the bullets that kill them, how they are a disgrace to Germany, how nobody loves them and they will be sent out onto the battlefield to be massacred by the dozens and they can do nothing about it. It brings me no pleasure but I must relieve stress. I've been told that I'm getting re-assigned to a new unit soon, placed in an area where the fighting won't be as severe as Verdun. I dread the return to the front all the same.

January 20th, 1917 If I see my commanders, I will be the last. I've been put into a complete unit of the faggot Juden! What madman would ever put me here? Only my commanders. I arrived and was greeted by a boy who called himself Paul. A suitable queer name for a homosexual. He explained that he was aware of my distaste for Fluffies and that he would not tolerate abuse. The only good thing about my position here is that the commanders weren't lying about the fighting being lighter. There haven't been any raids on either side yet.
Yet.

January 30th, 1917 I've avoided contact as much as possible with the scum that plague this unit. Paul has tried to make small talk with me at what feels like every damn hour of the day. Every time I've brushed him off, disgusted by the pink haired monstrosity he carries with him everywhere. Today the boy came up to me without his pet fluffy, which I found odd. I decided to engage him and see why. I'll transcribe it here.

"Where's your disgrace? Shredded like all the others?"

"No, he's sleeping in my bed."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Some poor bastard could need that bed because he's been shot and somehow that fucking traitor of everything we stand for is going to stop him?"
He said nothing, but he glared at me. I decided I would break the silence once more.
"You aren't over eighteen."
He was clearly shocked.

"Why I most certainly am!"
"Then why is your voice still cracking?"
He had no retort.
"Well how old are you?"

"Going on forty one."
"I should probably take your spot. Don't want you breaking your hip."
I spun quickly and barely caught sight of his stupid fucking grin before slamming my fist into his mouth and gripping his throat, driving him into the mud.
"You listen here, you stupid cunt. I have watched too many men die, pulled too many bullets out of people, and put too many people in the grave to take backtalk from some Jewish looking girl. If I catch you mouthing me off, you will be the last person I kill on this battlefield."
He said nothing more and crawled away, holding his hand over his mouth and poorly attempting to hide the fact that he lost a tooth.
If I must operate on him, complications will arise.

February 5th, 1917 Today Paul came up to me offering his alcohol ration and a spare pencil. He told me he didn't want there to be any bad blood between us, that he was willing to hear me out. I considered rejecting his offer, but seeing as how we're going to be stuck in the same unit for a while longer, I won't be able to avoid the little bastard forever. After taking the bottle, Paul's fluffy started to prattle about how its owner had made a "new fwiend!".
"Christ on the cross, could you place a muzzle on your garbage heap, kid? It's the very least you could do if you really are willing to make amends."
"Faust, I'd really like to know what it is about our horselike companions that you find so aggravating. I just want to know where you're coming from, is all."
"I could go on for hours about all the qualities I hate about these failures of the German race, boy, but I'll try to keep things brief so that a lowlife like yourself can understand. They are not real animals, they were made by some mad scientist in a laboratory, intended to be used as a living children's toy, and were thrown haphazardly to win a war that was bad enough without them!"

"They seem real enough to me. They bleed when shot, cry when in pain, become happy when the fighting stops, just like us. If their emotions are automations, they're close enough to the real thing that I can't tell the difference."
"You absolute subhuman. Is it honestly that hard to understand my words, son? They were bred in a lab! They did not earn their place among God's creatures like we Prussians and Bavarians."
"Faust, God is a loving being. He loves all his creations equally and accepts ours as well."
"God save your poor soul, you're denser than the lead that fills our enemies."
I drank the last of the liquor and then trudged off. That boy will be the death of me, but with luck my enemies will bestow upon me that gift first.

February 24th, 1917 I am on the verge of absolute madness. I was approached to day by Paul, beaming from ear to ear. Before I could tell him to ram his bayonet up his vagina, he pulled out a bag and began to speak.

"Faust, I have a proposition for you that you cannot refuse."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Come on, hear me out."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No. Okay, here it is: I will share my rations with you for one week. I'll even let you pick what you want from them."

"I didn't know they figured out how to reverse brain damage but I'm glad they di-"

"Hold on, there's a catch. I'll share my rations, but only if you take care of this for one week."
He opened the bag and pulled out one of his little satanic rats, green and yellow with blue eyes. I wanted to vomit then and there. I wanted to kill it there and then, but rations are slim, and until we rip the vertebrae out of the British and end their naval blockades, I had no choice but to accept. The toy spoke.

"Wub nyu Daddeh! Gib biggest huggies!"

"Shut your mouth, wretch. I have no patience for you, and you'd better count your blessings that I don't eat you to sate myself."

"Buh Fwuffy wub yoo! Huu huu, why nyu Daddeh nu wub Fwuffy? Fwuffy nu knu wha Fwuffy do wong!"
I put the garbage heap into my bag and set it next to my cot. With luck, artillery will shell that part of the trench and I will no longer need to deal with these Jews in Prussian clothing.

February 26th, 1917 That incessant hellspawn has been getting on my nerves ever since I brought it back to my quarters. The wretched abomination never stops talking, vying for my attention at all times when all I want is some peace and quiet until this war is long past me.
"Can fwuffy pwease haf namsies daddeh? Pwease? Aww oddah fwuffies haf namsies!"
"How many times must I repeat that I'm not your owner, you cunt? God help me, you are unt verzögern."
"Fwuffy's namsie is va-zogawn? Dat sound funny daddeh."
"No, wait, that's not what I - oh fuck it, fine. That's your name. Just leave me in peace now."
Yestrday night I heard some mortars land close to our position. I awoke with a fright and clutched my rifle, anticipating a nighttime raid. It never came. The shelling that night must have just been a fluke. This morning, I noticed a trail of shit leading to my bag. I instantly knew what happened before I looked inside to find the shaking fluffy hudling inside, trembling and lightly crying about "meanie boom-boom munstahs" in a pile of his own shit. I was furious, but I didn't say anything at that moment. I needed to think of a way to punish Verzögern without Paul noticing any obvious wounds or scarring, or I'd lose the bet for sure. As I went outside my quarters, I noticed an empty ammunition box on the ground, and a wonderful idea began to form in my head. I took the box back with me, and roughly grabbed Verzögern out of my bag, at which he started to panic.
"Munstahs! Munstahs! Daddeh pwease save va-zogawn fwom boom-boom munstas!"
"I'll make you wish those mortars landed on your stupid fucking head! Look at what you did to my bag!"
"Huu huu! Am sowwy daddeh! Nu mean to make scawdy poopies but boom-boom mustahs twy to gif huwties! Nu am bad fwuffy!"
"Enough of your excuses! If you want even a morsel of my approval, you'll be taught discipline like a Prussian!"
I promptly stuffed the screaming and crying fluffy into the cramped box, shoveling some of the shit it left for me in there with it for good measure before closing the top. I spent the rest of the day washing out my bag and clothes of shit. Hopefully Verzögern learns from the experience well. I'm only willing to leave my rifle unloaded for so long.

March 4th, 1917 I'm pleased to say that the new method of punishment I've devised for Verzögern has worked out rather well. There have been no more incidents, and the beast is much less chatty than before, making living with it much more tolerable than I had expected. Today was when the bet between Paul and I ended, but seeing as how living with the creature is no longer as much of a pain as before, and how much I enjoy taking some of that worthless faggot's rations, I asked him if he could extend the deadline of the bet. Of course that asshole had to aggravate me over it.
"I knew you'd come around Faust. I'm glad to see you've started to see our little companions in a more positive light."
"Shut your filthy mouth, you British whore. I'm only asking for an extenson so that I can help myself to more of your rations. If we're going to purge you filthy fucking Jews from the Fatherland, we'll start with you."
The little shit just laughed and said "Sure thing, Faust." before walking off. I almost wanted to call off the bet right then and there, but my better judgement won out. I'm going to milk this cocksucking bootlicker for all he's worth before I grind his teeth into a fine powder.

April 8th, 1917 Bad news seems to plague the air. First there was word of some kind of uprising in Russia, which initially gave me hope that we would get reinforcements from the Eastern Front, but for now they seem to still be committed to the fighting. A week ago the British launched several assaults on some positions not far from us and captured several of our positions in the fighting. Now word has gotten out that the Americans are joining the war effort against us. That last development has all the white skinned niggers spooked, Paul especially.
"Faust, I'm worried about the Americans. If they're really serious about getting involved in the war, they could field more men than there are on the frontlines today. They could easily outdo even the Russians in terms of sheer manpower!"
I almost choked on my rations before laughing my ass off. "And here I was thinking the British were pussies! The Americans may be able to field more men than us, but they're as filthy and useless as the dirt under our heels! No matter how many armies they field, the German race will annihilate them like we have so many other subhumans. Even the damnable Fluffies are a step above them!"
"I hope you're right Faust, I really do. I'm just afraid of having our enemies bolstered by another million troops to field, is all."
"Well they won't all be here at once. The Atlantic Ocean is a large place. It'll take quite a while for the Americans to get here, and they aren't even prepared for war yet. We'll have some time before we have to meet them face to face."
He didn't respond after that. I couldn't believe how worried he is. I'm far more concerned about the rumors of an incoming French offensive that's supposed to happen soon. Allegedly it's supposed to be the largest offensive of the entire war, but I doubt anything could top Verdun.
Could it?

April 20th, 1917 I have barely had time to write since the French have launched their attack four days ago. We've been withdrawing almost non-stop since our original position was overrun, fighting every inch of the way as shells have gone off all around us and the French have hounded us at every step. I've lost count of how many Frenchmen I had to jam my bayonet into, or how many of our men I had to dig bullets out of as bombs went off all around us. I had to stay hunched over as I operated, to make sure a stray piece of shrapnel or bullet didn't hit me as I was operating, leaving me close enough to the wounds of the injured that I had to keep wiping the blood out of my eyes. When our original position was becoming overwhelmed, I considered chopping off the legs of Verzögern and strapping a bomb to him as some men in my previous unit had done in Verdun, but I noticed something about our attackers that made me reconsider the idea. The patches on some of their uniforms were familiar to me, and I realized that some of our attackers were veterans of that accursed battle. They'd be prepared for any such stunts like that. Regardless, I lost the creature after we were forced to retreat. So much for extra rations at meal time. Speaking of which, the queer surprised me during the assault. I figured the infantile wretch would've started crying as the artillery barrages started, but he remained stoic throughout. When we had to fight the enemy in our trenches, he held his own rather well. I witnessed him break the arm of a Frenchman with what seemed like practiced ease, which intrigued me. Once this assault is over I'll have to ask him where he learned to fight. He is still lesser than human, but perhaps better trained than I imagined.

April 25th, 1917 At long last the French attack has started to wind down, at least in our sector. No-man's land is covered in so many bodies that you'd have to step on them to walk across it now. The fighting rages in on in other parts of the line, but it would seem that the French have lost their steam, for which I am grateful for. I had to bash in the faces of too many scarred, screaming men and get grazed by god knows how many bullets over the past week. Since there was a lull in the fighting today, I figured today would be as good a day as any to ask Paul about his battle experiences.
"I'm shocked that you haven't dropped to your knees and started sucking off the French. Where did you receive your training?"
"Huh? I went to boot camp just like everyone else."
"Paul you nigger, that's not what I meant. Where were you stationed before getting assigned here?"
"Oh! I was stationed along the Somme for a while, where the British made their huge assault last year. Why? Were you there too?"
"The Somme? You're kidding me right? There were veterans from the 70s that hadn't survived that battle. Where were you really deployed? In the East?"
The kid shrugged at me. "You can believe me or not, but I was there. My fluffy companion can attest to it. Why do you think he was so quiet during the last battle? The both of us are used to heavy fighting."
I did indeed find it strange how quiet the little shit was. Usually they screamed and begged louder than the troops when the fighting raged on. I could barely comprehend they boy's words. How could such a Jewish milk drinker such as him survive a battle as harsh and unforgiving as the one on the Somme? I had to learn more. Since we were awarded extra alcohol rations today, I decided to have a few drinks with the boy, to see if he would share any more details. The stories he told are about what I would expect of any veteran of the Western Front, speaking of bearing witness to an entire unit getting thrown into the air like ragdolls, and the endless waves of British soldiers who charged to their deaths in the barbed wire and mud.
"The worst part of the battle by far was the British invention, the landship."
"Landship? Am I going to have to operate on your brain? That sounds like something out of a fantasy novel."
"Faust, it's the truth. That thing was packed with machine guns and a canon or two. I saw it's cannon fire turn one of my friends into red mist. We directed all of our fire on the damn thing but nothing seemed to stop it. The only reason we didn't abandon our position right then and there was because that horrible thing broke down in the mud. I still thank the Lord that our artillery was able to take it out before the British got it working again. If it had kept going we would've been mince meat for sure."
I thought the boy was trying to pull a ruse on me, but he seemed genuine enough in his re-telling of events. I've heard rumors about these war machines, but until now never heard a first-hand account of such a tool. I wonder why the damn fools running our war effort hadn't thought of the idea first. Probably because they were too focused on arming children's toys with bombs, if I had to guess. Regardless, we continued our conversation and we got, surprisingly, a little fuzzy from the liquor.
"So Faust, where were you before you joined our unit?"
"Before I landed in a British platoon, you mean. I was stationed in Verdun."
"Wow, that must have been terrible to experience. I've heard the stories about some of the things that happened there and some of it makes the Somme sound like a skirmish. Was it really that bad?"
"Worse than bad. Worse than the stories. Nobody really survived Verdun. You died even if you kept living. I died after watching my compatriots burn the French alive, only to have one crawl to me and beg for me to kill him. He couldn't speak, the skin had melted over most of his mouth and his eyeballs were charred and dried. I didn't even have the heart to leave him to suffer. Nobody deserves what the people in Verdun went through. Even Queen Victoria. I wouldn't even wish it on you. And the surgeries were a nightmare. Maggots, trench foot, bullet wounds, even suicide attempts. You can only look for so long before you have to turn away."
He said nothing. We drank in silence for the rest of our break then returned to our posts. My mind has returned again to its previous state of disarray and I feel the bitterness closing in on me.
This will be the war to end all wars.
May 5th, 1917 I am no longer sure if I can believe my mind, especially after the news I heard today. Two fluffies, including Verzögern wandered out from no-man's land and into our lines today, cuts and bruises dotting their hides. How they survived the fighting I'll never understand. Once they wandered on to our side they started crying in relief, babbling on about "boom-boom munstahs" and "scawy hoomin munstahs dat tawk funny". More pointless drivel that meant nothing. Something else that was said caught my attention, however.
"Daddeh, do hoomin munstahs hab smawties?"
"I don't even fucking know what a Smarty is. Elaborate, scum. "
Before I could say anything else the Jew decided to interject. "I know what he's talking about Faust. A smarty is what fluffies call a leader."
"Well then, why are you asking us these questions, Verzögern? Spit it out!"
"Va-zogawn see hewd a hoomin munstahs, an see some oddah hoomin mustahs tawk to hoomin munstah hewd wike smawties. Den hoomin hewd get weaw angwy, an dey stawt makin shouties at each oddah. Den dey stawt tu gib each oddah huwties and dey stawt scweamin. Va-zogawn tink dat hoomin mustahs gon stawt mowe fightin, but wif each oddah instead o daddah's hewd, su va-zogawn weave twenchies and twy findin daddeh. Nu wan be whewe hoomin fights happen! Dey too scawy, an too woud!"
"What in the actual fuck are you rambling on about? Does anyone here speak godless drivel?"
Paul spoke once more. "I think he's trying to say that the French lines are in a state of disarray. Sounds to me like there might be an outright mutiny forming within their ranks after this last battle."
It sounded too good to be true. Are the French finally growing weary of the war? The second fluffy they came back corroborated Verzögern's story, so we decided to forward the information to our commanding officer to see if the information might be of any use. He told us that there have been reports up and down the line from surviving fluffies returning to our trenches, repeating similar stories. The French are at their breaking point, refusing any further orders to attack our lines. I imagine a counter-attack to the latest offensive is about to take place soon. If the Fluffies are wrong and we are entering yet another slaughter, then they'd best wish I die alongside my men. But if they speak the truth, the war may yet be ours.

May 12th, 1917 We've advanced further In the past couple of days than we have in the past two years. We've captured at least a dozen miles, possibly more in our counter-offensive. Turns out the fluffies were right about the state of the French forces. When we advanced, many of them simply threw down their weapons and surrendered right then and there, eager to see an end to the violence and misery that's gone on for close to three years now. The ones who didn't surrender outright fled in a stampede, trampling each other and doing us the pleasure of slamming their companion's brains into the mud. On several occasions we found the bloodied and bruised bodies of French commanding officers, presumably those who tried to stop the panicked rout that was unfolding and were murdered by their own troops. The few pockets of resistance that remained in the face of our assault were encircled with ease, and subject to a torrential rain of artillery fire. Only the British have offered us any serious resistance, and with the total collapse of discipline in French troops, they were forced to withdraw too or risk getting flanked. We've had to make a temporary stop to allow our supply lines catch up with us, so during that time I and several others took to looting the supplies left behind by the retreating Frenchmen. Of course, the nigger had to come up and ruin my good mood with his prattle.
"Faust, I noticed you don't carry your pet fluffy into battle. I understand you don't have much fondness for fluffies, but I think you should give it a try with Verzögern. He radiates good luck. He helped us with this offensive by quite a bit, and survived all the fighting during that time. I just think you should consider it."
"And let that grimy bastard shit all over my bag, just to use it as a bullet sponge? The answer is no."
"I'm telling you, I think there's something special about him. I've just got a feeling about it."
I might have lied yesterday when I said he didn't deserve to be sent to Verdun.

May 20th, 1917 The French have finally rallied and set up defensive positions, if only just barely. In some areas they've even made small offensives for the land that we've taken, but for the most part they've dug in, preparing for our next assault. They'll be waiting a while though. Our commanders are eager to avoid a second Verdun, and have decided to dig in as well. Even if we wanted to press further we nearly wore out our supply lines during our offensive and need time before we're ready to launch another. Regardless, the damage to the French army is irreparable. Hundreds of thousands have surrendered, and from what we've learned from the men we've captured, desertion among their ranks has reached new heights. Maybe this horrible war is close to being over, but we're not ready to open the mead kegs just yet.

August 1st 1917 Word has come down that we're being reassigned once again. The British are launching an offensive back at my old post in Ypres. They must be desperate to keep us from launching another offensive. I can barely remember the first battle I had to endure at Ypres. Compared to what I had to fight through afterwards, Ypres was a walk in the park. Verzögern was bothering me today about our redeployment, asking "awe hoomins gon stawp fightin soon daddeh? Va-zogawn jus wan gif huggies an nu see mowe meanie waw."
"What did I tell you about talking out of line, Verzögern? Do I have to put you back in the box, where it’s dark and the monsters you fear so much could get you with ease?"
"Eeep! Sowwy! Sowwy! Nu wan be bad fwuffy!"
It's bad enough that I have to go back into heavy fighting; I don't need that harlot talking my ear off every step of the way.

August 9th, 1917 The fighting is definitely far worse now than when I was first posted here years ago. The British have attacked day and night, attempting to take the ridges we hold. I've seen some of their troops bogged down heavily in mud, barely able to walk as our guns cut through them like a hot knife through butter. Death echoes in even the deepest crevices of my skull, the wheezing of the dying as blood ceaselessly filled their lungs, teasing them with suffocation before finally ending them. Why has the morale of the British not been broken yet? Are they suicidal? Has the war driven them into madness? What is it about this half-rate Belgian town that inspires them to charge at our guns and bombs?

August 15th, 1917 I had to treat myself for a bullet wound today. A lucky British shot managed to tear out a chunk of flesh on my arm, enough for me to see my own bones. I screamed with all my might as I held the bandages in my teeth and patched the wound up as best I could. Verzögern was screaming his head off and panicking after he saw my injury.
"Pwease nu take foweva sweepies daddeh! Va-zogawn gif huggies, make daddeh feew bettah!"
"Shut your stupid fucking face! I need to concentrate!"
I pray that I'll be able to survive this battle with the rest of my body parts intact and with that monstrosity out of my hair.

September 11th, 1917 Our commanders have rolled out a new war weapon today, but after I saw it action I'm of the opinion that whoever made it should be forced to endure the very effects it causes. Some among our ranks have been talking about the production of a new poison gas agent, but I had mostly shrugged it off. After all, gas wasn't a war winner before, so I figured not much had changed. As the artillery bombardment raged on I put on my gas mask in preparation for our counter-attack, and stuffed Verzögern into my pack so that it wouldn't die. While at first nothing was noticeably different, that changed several hours later when the screams began. I hadn't heard screams like that since that horrific flamethrower incident. Once the barrage was over, we went over the top, but our commander stopped us halfway through no-man's land. Aside from the cries of the injured, there was no sound. The British weren't firing on us. Fearing a surprise attack was lying in wait, the commander had two fluffies go scout out the British trench and report back. They went over, surveyed the trench, and waddled back over to us. In the time it took them to get back to us, the effects took hold.
"Fwuffy nu feew su gud. Wai fwuff feew su itchy?"
The two started itching away at their skin with their soft hooves, fruitlessly. Gradually multiple large yellow blisters started to form on their skin, which was about when they doubled over in pain, screaming in pure agony. Shortly after that, the fluffies began to cough up blood, and their eyes started to swell up.
"Huu huu, it nu dawkie time yet! Wai fwuffy see onwy dawkies?"
The damn things just wheezed and cried in agony after that, occasionally punctuated with statements like "wan die" or "huwties too much fow fwuffy". We put them down and returned to our trenches that night without saying a word.

September 13th, 1917 Some of our men finally entered the trenches of the British today to survey the damage, and came back with stories that sounded as if they were ripped from Dante's Inferno, along with some of the corpses of the British men we had gassed. The gore was unreal. Some were barely alive, begging us to kill them as their bodies betrayed them and held them tied to this earthly realm but a while longer, prolonging the agony as their skin and flesh bubbled and eyes swelled, gasping in for air only to take in more gas, their suffering never ending as the world cruelly smiled in their faces as they withered into dust. I have never seen anything like it before. If Verdun hadn't scarred me, this surely will. Some of our own men even caught but a few breaths and soon enough they too fell apart at the seams. I cannot stop hearing their groans.
This war is not meant for humans, for if it were, our suffering would not be as painful.

September 18th, 1917 The men who were sent out to investigate the gassed British trench a few days ago have started to show burns on their bodies similar to the kinds we saw on our fluffy scouts and the British men they brought back to our lines, despite the fact that these same men had been wearing gas masks the entire time. The worst of the blisters, the ones that look as though they're about to pop, are located in some of the nooks and crannies of their bodies, such as the buttocks, armpits, and groin. So many men came in, some crying as they showed me their burns. Some refused to show me because of the places they were burned, simply begging me to give them some sort of treatment oil. The blood and pus didn't even look right. It was tinged a dingy yellowish. Paul came over to the makeshift hospital we had to put the poor bastards in. Upon witnessing the tortured souls that adorned the area, he looked as if he wanted to vomit.
"I have no patience for your shit today Paul, so if you've got something to say, say it fast."
"I...I just wanted to see how bad it really was. Who could think of such a wicked punishment? What have our commanders been creating?" He and I stayed silent for a long minute after that. When he next spoke, it was very slow, as if thinking of the right words to say. "I'd rather have to fight a thousand British landships than become like this." He shook his head and took his leave after that.
For once, I cannot find myself disagreeing with what he says.

October 14th, 1917 The rain has caused the mud to significantly worsen. Things have gotten so bad that both our trenches and the British trenches have been crumbling into mush, leaving a number of people on both sides exposed to the bullets and shrapnel that we trade with each other on a daily basis. The downpour of rain has led to innumerable bodies being unconvered once more, relics of past battles. Among the bloated and worm infested husks that now adorn the battlefield are the rotted corpses of many fluffies, their once colorful bodies now a grey and brown mush that blends with the ground like the blood of millions has the rain that falls now. I can barely remember a time before they were first put out on the battlefield now.

December 25th, 1917 The British assault ended not too long ago. We managed to hold the ridges, if only just barely. Good news has come from the other fronts as well. The Italians were routed at Caporetto, suffering a defeat similar to the one we inflicted on the French back in May. Unlike the French, the Italians hadn't been able to regroup, and even now still retreat and surrender en masse. Last month a socialist revolution in Russia led to almost immediate peace on the Eastern Front. In a few months time we'll be receiving reinforcements from the East and be going on the offensive once more. There was no fighting from either side today. Despite all the good news, none of us felt particularly festive. We've lost an uncountable number of men in that muddy shithole near Ypres. And the memories of those British soldiers, scarred and crippled from our new gas weapon, will never leave our minds for as long as we live. Verzögern asked me if he could play with the other fluffies that have seen frontline combat, so I let him out. I wanted a few hours alone to drink, and didn't feel like babysitting him. As I had a few cups to drink, Paul sat down beside me and began drinking too. After a while he struck up a conversation.
"You know, there's something that's really been on my mind lately, after hearing all the news, and how we've been doing well on the frontlines. What are we going to do once this war is over?"
"I'll probably go home and go back to surgery. Live out the rest of my days in peace with my wife. Why? What's your plan after all this is over?"
He stayed silent for quite some time. "Well honestly, I'm not really sure. This war has taken up a couple years of my life now. It's hard to imagine a life without it. Maybe I'll stay in the army once this is all over. I guess time will tell."
Not long after that we heard a commotion, what sounded like fluffies arguing with each other. We got up to see two groups of fluffies shouting, one of them covered in dirt, mud and dust, showing that these were fluffies that had clearly seen frontline fighting. The other group was far fresher and cleaner, indicating that they were from behind the lines. I spotted Verzögern crying, with a visible nosebleed, the frontline fluffies protecting him.
"What the fuck is going on here? What's all this shouting about?"
One of the frontline fluffies spoke up, saying "Meanie dummies hewe twy huwtin new fwiend! Dey bad fwuffies!" Then a fluffy from the other group retorted with "Dese fwuffies pwotect munstah fwuffy! Dese fwuffies awe dummies!" The absolute retardation that spewed from that little fuck's mouth nearly gave me an aneurysm.
"Now you listen to me, and you listen fucking well. That fluffy you beat up isn't anywhere close to a monster. You want to see a real monster? Huh? You're looking right at one. I've killed countless men, sawn off countless limbs and lost countless lives because I wasn't good enough. You wanna see more? Poke your stupid fucking skull over the trench. You'll see real monsters kill each other and beat their corpses right into the fucking ground. That fluffy over there is nothing compared to what I've seen, and if you don't shut your whore mouth, I'll throw you right into that goddamned battlefield and you can join the monsters. Now get out of my sight before I slam my bayonet in your eyes!"
After that, the fluffies from behind the lines promptly dispersed, pissing themselves and crying "nu wan huwties!" The frontline fluffies cheered me on, celebrating the rout of the "meanie fwuffies" and the addition of the "funny wookin fwuffy" into their ranks.
It was cute.
March 25th, 1918 We've been stuck back in central France once more, and our commanders have ordered us to go on the offensive. The operation has been a great success thus far, since the French and British still haven't recovered from the losses they were dealt with last year. For the most part, our enemies have been on the retreat, offering only limited resistance to our lightning advances. Once again, we've taken a fair amount of prisoners. We even managed to get a hold of some of those British landships Paul had told me about, though tragically we don't yet know how to operate them. We get closer and closer to Paris each day.

April 4th, 1918 After a bit of effort, we managed to get one of the landships ready and prepared for the next series of offensives. Many of us huddled behind the hulking metal monstrosities whenever it's time to storm a trench, as the landship provides excellent cover from machine gun fire. When not in combat some of the men and their pet fluffies ride on top of it to spare themselves the trouble of walking. Some of the fluffies even hug the landship, talking to it as if it was alive. One particular sight from the skies caught my eye today. A group of colorful airplanes, including a bright red one, came down to strafe some of the retreating British and French troops today. If I'm not mistaken, I believe we just witnessed the famed Red Baron appear to aid us. What luck! I've always admired his bravery. I hope to meet him after the war, and we can exchange stories. From what I've heard he's a pleasant fellow.

April 13th, 1918 After today I hope that the whole North American continent crumbles apart and disintegrates into the Atlantic Ocean! We encountered our first Americans today, and God help me should we ever do so again. Since the British and French have been mostly retreating in the face of our advance, we had hoped that the Americans would do the same. Instead they stayed put. There had to be at least two units of them dug in and refusing to budge. Even after we encircled them, they made no effort whatsoever to surrender. Instead the crazy bastards tried attacking our fucking lines. They were beaten back relatively easily due to their lack of combat experience, but the ferocity of the assault was alarming to all of us. They were definitely not going to go quietly. After a multi hour artillery barrage, we assaulted their lines, as we cannot make any further delays on the way to Paris. They contested us for every inch, fighting as if they were legions from hell. I had to witness the degenerate filth stomp one of our men to near death, giving the man permanent brain damage. Only after we had killed or injured them almost to a man did the pigs finally surrender. I was assigned to help pat down the prisoners we did take. One of those fucks, a man with a gaudy cowboy hat, had the audacity to shove me and called me a, I'll try to recite it as best as I can, "Ugly fucking Hun". I had enough. I slammed his skull into everything I could as I pulled him out of line. Into bedposts, mud, the walls, and even a barrel before submerging him in a container of blood meant to catch that of the diseased we were treating. I held him down, screaming at him, telling him how he meant nothing, his apelike family would be purged and how the Germans would wipe out every last of their disgusting kind that dared to tread the same fucking ground as us. Verzögern even joined in, as did his friends. "Take sowwy poopies dummeh munstah!" "Dis fow twying to huwt daddeh!" With one last punch to the skull, the American went limp. That's when the rest of the prisoners began to riot. They didn't stand a chance, coming at us with nothing but their fists as we were armed with rifles and bayonets. We fired into the crowd until there was no man left standing. These Americans make the French seem like Prussians. No more mercy. I'm sick of being pushed around by these degenerates. I will no longer take prisoners.

April 30th, 1918 We've encircled Paris, as our commanders are hesitant to attack the city directly right now. There must be well over a million French troops ready to defend the city, not counting the British and Americans detachments trapped as well. I fear there may be no choice but to attack it head on though. The armies assigned to capturing the channel ports failed in their objectives, and now a combined British and American counter-offensive has begun that could seriously threaten our encirclement of Paris and make this offensive all for nothing. I heard our commanders are going to throw everything they have at the city before the attack, even mustard gas. God help the civilians still trapped inside if that is the case. We may yet witness another Ypres.
May 2nd, 1918 I thought this war could surprise me no more, but I was proven wrong this morning when a small group of French commanders came to our lines waving a white flag. We questioned them, and they told us that the French were looking to discuss surrender terms with our commanders. It came as quite a shock to us. We were expecting a long, drawn out fight in the heart of the city itself. The French commanders told us that they wished no harm come to the city of Paris or its people and wanted to avoid a bloodbath that would leave the city a bombed out ruin. After checking them for weapons and confirming their ranks, we sent them behind the lines. A few hours later, they came back and were sent into the city once more. Is this how the war ends? With Paris being taken without so much as a shot fired on either side? God only knows.

May 8th, 1918 Entering Paris was surreal. The French soldiers put their hands up and walked to our ranks, eager to avoid death and destruction being brought upon their most sacred and cherished city. I wanted to burn the whole thing down after the four years of hell we had to go through, but the commanders gave us instructions not to raze the city. Bastards. They weren't able to control the looting though, as masses of our hungry troops, myself included, started taking as much food as we could carry and taking home whatever we thought would make a nice trophy or keepsake. I decided on a Lebel a Frenchman left in his weapons safe, tucked alongside some ammunition and, next to the safe, a very pretty painting of Berlin, small enough to fit into my pocket. An armistice with France was unsurprisingly announced later today. We held a victory parade throughout the streets, and even took pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower. Some of the Jews took their pictures with their pet fluffies. I might never fully understand what draws these men to fluffies, but I suppose it is not worth complaining about any longer. The war is nearly won, and soon I will not have to deal with fluffies on a daily basis. Paul came up to me after getting his picture taken.
"We did it Faust! We won!"
"Don't be too hasty. The British and Americans haven't made peace yet."
"Oh, don't be such a downer. They'll have to give up soon too. After all, they can't count on France anymore, and they're going to be outnumbered by us. But enough about that. How are you enjoying Paris?"
"I think I'd much better enjoy it if the French were made to pay for this war, and have their precious city reduced to rubble."
"But this city is beautiful! I almost wish we could take the whole thing home with us. The art galleries are simply fantastic."
Before we could argue any further, Verzögern and Paul's fluffy came up to us, giddy with excitement.
"Daddeh com pway wif fwuffies? Am so happy dat dewe nu mowe bom boom munstahs comin to huwt fwuffies ow daddeh!"
"You coming Faust?"
"I don't like men, let alone you. I'll pass."
Paul simply smiled before leaving with the fluffies. Even if the war isn't over tonight, I might as well get drunk and have a good time. I'd like a few more happy memories before I potentially get sent back to the front.

May 11th, 1918. The British and Americans have asked for an armistice with us. Is this real, or a dream? Am I going to wake up tomorrow, back to the trenches and fighting and shelling? Everyone was ecstatic once the news came down. Paul offered me a drink, fine French wine from Paris.
"I guess you were right kid. It's over, for good now."
"I'm glad we can put all this senseless violence behind us. This day should be made a national holiday, in honor of all the men that died getting to this point. Let us hope that there will never be a war as terrible and bloody as this one ever again."
"I'll drink to that."
"Hey, I know we talked about what we would do after the war was over, but do you have any plans for the fluffy I gave you?"
"I admit I never thought about it before now. I guess I figured I'd be dead long before I'd have to worry about it, or more conveniently, you would die."
"Well what do you think now?"
I had to ponder the question for a long minute. I never intended to keep Verzögern, as I still firmly believe fluffies are for small children and faggots only. I also didn't intend to kill him, since I figured it wasn't worth the trouble, unnecessary. I had to make a decision though.
"I suppose...you can keep him Paul. How's that sound?"
The boy seemed taken by surprise by my decision. "Are you sure you don't want to keep him?"
"I don't like repeating myself. Besides, the damn thing is just going to remind me of the war every time I look at it. Do you want it or not?"
"I'll make sure to take good care of him, I promise you."
With that matter settled, I went to go get Verzögern from my quarters.
"Verzögern! Stand to attention, I've got an important announcement for you."
"Huh? Wat am anoun-ment daddeh? Dat a tweat fow va-zogawn?"
"Silence! You're going to be under the care of a new owner soon. I'm not going to be your caretaker anymore."
"Wha? Bu' va-zogawn wuv yoo daddeh! Wai daddeh nu gun be daddeh nu mowe? Nu wuv va-zogawn nu mowe?"
"Quiet. You have been sufficiently good, but I need not a token of war. You are not coming home with me."
The creature was bawling its eyes out every step of the way, carrying on about "nu weave va-zogawn daddeh!". I could hardly wait to hand it off to Paul. As I handed the fluffy off, it had a few parting words.
"Va-zogawn nu foget yoo daddeh. Va-zogawn gun miss yoo evewy day! Huu huu!" As Paul craddled the crying fluffy in his arms, he had a few parting words for me. "I'll make sure he's well taken care of Faust. Before we get to go home, I just want to let you know that it was an honor serving with you." "I suppose you're not too bad yourself, for a Jew anyway. Goodbye Paul." "Take care Faust."
And that was that. The fluffy was out of my possession. Now I can live out the rest of my life in peace. Hopefully.
All that is left to go home. I'd best not keep the Kaiser waiting, or more importantly, my wife.