557 - (FREE TO READ) : Ernst Junger vs Lewis Wetzel - Labyrinth of Mud and Death
James Lafond and Jeth Randolph's novel serialisation: Paul Vunak of Antares continues in Chapter 14!
Copyright 2025 LaFond & Randolph
A Casting Darts Publishing Original
Written by James LaFond & Jeth Randolph
Martial arts maestro Paul Vunak leads “The Dirty Dozen you always wanted” against an opposing team lead by non other than Bruce Lee!
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Click to read Chapter one: “Like Water”
Click to read Chapter two: “Stardust Express”
Click to read Chapter three, part one: “The Galactic Fix is In”
Click to read Chapter three, part two: “Charon’s Song”
Click to read Chapter three, part three: “Best and the Blessed”
Click to read Chapter four: “The Dawning Of A New Sun”
Click to read Chapter five, Part one: “Upon the Scales of Right”
Click to read Chapter 5 (Part 2): “Where’s Charlie?”
Click to read Chapter 6: “自由”
Click to read Chapter 7: “Knives Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 8: “Flags Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 9: “Champions Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 10: “Bloody Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 11: “Fists Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 12: “Naked Fray”
Click to read Chapter 13: “Shields Of the Voidspan”
Labyrinth of mud and death : Vunak of Antares #14
Afternoon: Lewis “Death Wind” Wetzel faces Ernst Junger in a trench warfare manhunt.
The youthful hand paused only as its owner’s eyes observed with wonder the returned suppleness and ease of movement that it possessed before continuing to write in the small notebook. The fingers moved fluidly in staccato bursts with the pencil across the surface of the notebook page, in concise German, the lead making permanent the thoughts of the man that commanded it;
“...and the bare tree of winter now finds itself renewed as though returned to springtime, a regaining of vigour, the wild, exuberant spirit of youth.
And so it would seem, once more, that it is a time for the pen to be put aside, along with ideas of fiction, as fiction is not part of this landscape, only the events that play out here with a grim relentlessness. There can be no place on the sands for the creative writer, only the observer and the notes of his experiences , recording like some grim, removed scribe, what was felt and what was endured.
One has the sense in this strange world, a mirror of the last but with a reflection of some more dreadful mocking manifestation, that the warrior has been reduced by the gods and titans and recast just as before as a unit of profit, but now twinned with an even more humiliating role; that of a jester for the unthinking hive below rulers who feast not just on death, but on our very flesh. The Anarch (1) must again return inwards to resis…”
The hand was jarred to a standstill by the shouting address of Lee;
“Junger!”
The German silently closed the notebook, taking care to slide the pencil back in its slot in the spine. He stood and faced the Chinese man who had made his way towards him, his flared denim trousers rustling as he did.
"Die Stunde ist mein geworden."
Then seeing the look of confusion on Lee’s face, he smiled and added;
"Sorry, mein Enklish ist not gut… ze hour has bekumm mein."
He then struggled to understand as Lee nodded and spoke fast paced English that sounded to him like;
"Yehs, Err-nst, ze lot wahs drrawn foh you. Ow-ah sourses tehll us dat you ah to fight Loo-is Wet-zel in some sohrt of set peece. He is a hun-tah an’ fron-tiers-man, you muss drraw him to attak you an’ den in-ter-sep him as he doh so. Hee-ah is yoh wep-pon."
Junger’s eyes squinted slightly as he tried to understand the non-German burst of information he had received. Only Lee’s emphasis on the words “Draw”, and “Intercept” had hinted the possible meaning to him as he handed a trench shovel to him.
"Ah, zo you mean to lurrre him to me und kill him as he attakks, yehs?"
“Yes, A.B.D. - you got it Ernst!”
Junger looked around at the remaining faces of Figg and Musashi and then back at Lee;
“Oon-der-shtood"
Wetzel stood before Vu, inspecting the tomahawk in his large, leather-like hands, he brushed the razor edge with his thumb and felt its grab at his thick skin.
Vu fixed his eyes on his team mate and stated with gravity; “Lewis, whatever bullshit they’ve got planned out there to please that mob, try and get close to take his vision with sand and then close and finish him with the ‘hawk.”
"Mist’r Voonak”, I’m a-gonna stalk ’im an’ cut ’im daown." said Wetzel in a low and steady voice, his dark, intimidating eyes unwavering.
“Cool, just try and get any advantage you can get, just try and break him down first indirectly and then do your thing”.
Saying nothing else, the tall, powerful form of Wetzel turned and moved towards the gate, his thigh length black hair, tied back by a black braid and in a plait that hung down his wide back like a rope, the tomahawk buried in his fist.
As the gate raised, he felt the breeze on his face, like a warm Virginia summer day, and his feet crunched in the sand as he made his first steps into the arena towards his mark which had been made just outside the Blue gate, much nearer than the previous fights he’d seen that day.
Above his head he heard a noise cutting through the din of the crowds and shielding his eyes from the suns with his hand beheld the sight of large metal birds, at least that’s what he could reason them to be. They flew back and forth in the air high above the arena with a shrieking noise that sounded like a tearing of the firmament.
From their tails came long, white lines of cloud that seemed to form a checker board in the sky as they returned again and again, until the suns seemed to be blotted out with the lines that now grew wider and wider, creating what looked like a thick blanket of cloud to the stupefied Wetzel.
The cloud started to descend lower like a huge blanket that then hung over the ellipse and the light started to darken. Wetzel felt the pressure change;
‘Reckon is about t’ rain’
But unlike any natural storm he had ever seen, the sky was now a hateful black and peels of thunder were heard as the rain fell in sheets towards the sands, turning them into a quagmire of mud as the crowds leered down from above, still basking in the light of the twin suns, separate from the perfect ellipse of storm that hung only above the sands.
Through the downpour Wetzel could just make out the figure of Charon, his arms waving wildly as he began;
"Ye high Lords o’ the heavens, ye fine ladies an’ gents o’ Antares, cast yer eyes on Lewis Wetzel!
A stalkin’ terror o’ the wilds, tempered in the blazin’ hellfires o’ the Ohio Valley! Born in the year of our lord seventeen sixty three, fate cut him sharp at just thirteen years when them savages nigh tore his chest open with a musket ball, leavin’ him burnin’ fer blood.
From that dark day, he swore a fearsome oath, turned hisself into a lone engine o’ war—tall as a pine, sinew like iron, swift as a panther, with his hair hangin’ to his knees, darin’ any red foe to take ‘em fer a prize!
They call him ‘Deathwind’—them Shawnee an’ Delaware quake at the name—prowlin’ the thickets like a vengeful spirit, pilin’ up kills by the score with a skill none can match. This day, he steps forth with naught but his dread tomahawk, a livin’ tale o’ the frontier, set to hack down any fool bold enough to cross him!
He ain’t just flesh—an’ blood; he’s a storm o’ nature, whetted keen by years o’ slaughter. His might’s thrown down many a foe in fierce tussles, his feet outrun whole war parties, an’ his wits made the woods a graveyard.
Now this Antarian ring’s his huntin’ ground—each swing o’ that hatchet’ll sing o’ raw fury. Step to him if ye’ve the guts, an’ face the Deathwind let loose!"
The crowd screamed and flares were tossed down from the stands that fell through the black cloud like shooting stars falling to earth, creating an ominous, glowing red hell-scape.
Charon’s voice changed from the Virginian drawl to that of an Austro-Hungarian aristocrat as he donned a large theatrical moustache and began to haughtily call out across the ellipse;
"Lords of Antares! Men and women of the Empire, cast your eyes upon a spectacle of true mettle, a contest forged in grit and iron resolve!
Here, before you, behold Ernst Jünger—restored by fate to the vigour of his 19th year, a lad not of flesh alone, but of steel, hammered and tempered in the roaring furnace of the Great War!
On the scarred and bloody fields of the Western Front, where the earth trembled and the skies wept fire, he stood as a stormtrooper—unbowed, unflinching—serving his country amidst the thunder of cannon and the shrill whistle of shells!
Ernst Jünger—Your name shall ring out across the nations as surely as shots on a Sarajevo summer morning!
For his gallantry, his breast gleamed with the Iron Cross First Class and the Pour le Mérite—marks of honour, medals of blood and valour, worn as proudly as a knight’s spurs!
And now—see him step forth, armed with naught but a trench shovel, that humble blade of the soldier’s trade. Yet in his grip it is a sceptre of defiance, wielded by a spirit unbroken, a courage that knows no faltering!
This is no mere boy—no callow youth—but a warrior of the old breed, a son of the Empire whose name shall echo through the ages!”
‘That Deutsch's naught but a young’un!’ thought Wetzel scornfully, before darkening; ‘
Though ain’t like them redskins give me much mercy as a boy when they come ‘crossed our trail.’ and his hate started to rise at the memory as he squinted against the rain that ran down his heavy brow and into his eyes.
There was a slithering noise from below and cracks started to form beneath his feet in the sands that were now transformed to thick mud. The cracks spread out like snakes in all directions, traversing the many metres between him and Junger seemingly in an instant.
The two combatants lurched as they both began descending where they stood into holes in the mud and the expanse before them opened in all directions. The cracks now formed trenches some eight feet deep and six feet wide that gaped like maws awaiting blood.
Wetzel saw a last glimpse of the fair haired youth as the mud wall rose above his head. The transformation halted and the Virginian took to a crouch, ‘hawk in hand and began to run to the corner of the trench he now found himself in.
The mob grunted and shrieked out along with the countdown as it was broadcast somewhere above, building to a crescendo at the command to fight.
Vunak gasped as he pointed to the aerial view displayed on the huge monitors either end of the arena.
“Look at that drone view Rich, it’s a fucking labyrinth!”
“Fascinating!” Replied Burton, his eyes reflecting the red light of flares that had fallen to the mud some metres away from the Gate.
“A veritable mud maze worthy of the Athenian Daedalos himself! Perhaps our friend from Virginia will have some not inconsiderable tracking advantage here Mr Vunak?”
“Yeah, he’s gonna hunt him down… just like he said”
Small, hatch doors opened at equidistant points around the ellipse and from each opening, heavy machine-gun fire issued forth, strafing the muddied ground above the maze with occasional ricochets entering the trenches themselves as the rounds careened off the rolls of wire and vertical stakes that the sands had now mimicked.
Below the cacophony, Wetzel moved forwards, hunting on instinct towards the centre of the ellipse. He’d move as far forwards as he could and then slowly seek to cut off the Deutsch and ambush him with the surprise of his progress towards him.
Arriving near his initial goal, the American let out a howl that echoed through the trenches and out to the arena where Charon exhorted the crowd to emulate it. This they did until the combined noise seemed deafening to the German youth who, unbeknown was some few metres away in a parallel trench.
And then all fell silent, and Junger knew his nemesis must be close. He looked for the telltale presence of the drone that sure enough hovered nearby filming some other location than his, its synthetic, ceaseless whine rising in pitch slowly just like the feeling of dreadful, creeping tension he felt as he moved silently, inch by agonising inch to the ladder that led over the top.
Muddied boot on its bottom rung he began his ascent. Pausing for what seemed like an eternity as the shovel clipped the edge of the ladder and he froze, holding his very breath lest it should likewise betray his position.
Charon boomed forth now in an English lord’s accent, spouting poetic phrases about the “Flower of the nation’s youth” as he ordered the artillery to deploy a barrage of gas shells.
There was a deafening series of booms as muck was thrown skyward.
Junger clung to the ladder and listened to the artificial Englisher Pig’s speech, and for a moment mused to himself how much more honest this British general was about his motives and masters than those of that first, now distant war.
There was a clanging sound… the gas alarm gong!
‘Gelbkreuz!!’
Junger’s mind raced as he recognised that sound that he and his comrades had feared perhaps more than any other sound.
He caught a partial glimpse of the screen on one end of the arena on which could be seen an eerie glowing green fog spreading like the flowing robes of the reaper through the trenches that lay around him and broadcast to the delight of the baying entities above as the gas closed in towards the two lone figures.
The wind had picked up despite the lull in the rain and with it, Junger knew that the gas would surely come also as it was picked up and carried through the muddy channels and ultimately to him. (3)
“Behold! Salvation for the victor!!” Screamed the English voice of Charon as a drone dropped an object somewhere close by, attached to which was a strobing white light. The young man knew that it could be only one thing;
‘Gummischutzmaske!!’
Junger knew also that it must have fallen to the other side of the trench wall which he currently crouched near the top of, his feet slipping on the wet of the last rung of the ladder. As the machine gun fire moved to another quadrant, he pushed on upward and over the top.
At the summit and crawling forward, he could see Wetzel crouched below him with his back turned, he was staring at the fallen mask some metres away, it’s light flashing at a slowly rising cadence. His mind was filled with grim purpose;
‘Töte ihn und hol die Maske!’ (‘Kill him and get the mask!’)
In one all out effort, his toes dug into the mud and launching forwards, the young German threw himself from the small stretch of open ground down into the trench below him, the shovel raised and ready to strike the American only to see his prey roll as if sensing his lethal descent and he crashed headlong into the watery bottom of the walkway.
He gasped as he tried to roll to his back, his eyes filled with smeared muck.
There was a scream and the tomahawk plummeted downwards with glinting fury striking Junger in the right side of his chest, creating a gash through his woollen uniform jacket and cleaving into his upper ribs, fracturing them. His mind filled with a searing pain as he threw his right arm across wildly, the trench shovel in the death grip of his fist.
The weapon arced towards the neck of ‘Die Amerikanischen Indianer’ (2) but he threw himself backwards to evade its savage cut and clattered into a heap among ammunition crates.
Wetzel had no idea of what the flashing lantern signified or what the attached mask-like object was but he immediately sensed the desperation of the German to possess it, and then seeing the creeping green fog that had now entered the end of the trench and the adversary’s panicked glances at it and then back to the lantern, he realised it must be a protection...
At that moment, Charon broadcast the screams of Vunak and the dark eyes of the older combatant flashed with understanding;
“Lewis get the goddamn mask… put it on!!! It’s poison!!!”
Junger had turned over and was attempting to stand, his boots skidded in the mud as he fought to drive himself upright despite the pain of his chest. His face raised and the trench tool readied in his hand as Wetzel swung the ‘hawk over hand and missed. The large man nearly toppled, his feet betraying him in the muck, as the Deutsh rose nearly to his feet and raised the shovel, Wetzel threw all he had into a return backhand slash.
The ‘hawk’s head bit deep into the neck and jaw of Junger, entering his mouth and into his skull from below and his eyes rolled backwards with the force.
Wetzel dragged back at the shaft of the weapon, ripping at the jaw and dragging the head to try and free it but saw that the youth was dead and abandoned the attempt, the glowing green cloud was within a man’s length of him now.
The roar of the crowds grew deafening as he dived on the mask, clawing at it and fastening it to his face with both hands as it’s strobe light turned to a static red. The mask seemed to come alive and grip his entire head and he coughed at the watery muck still inside it as the walls fell down around him and the mud, water and wire dissolved about him, leaving him bewildered on the sands in the harsh light of day as the epitaph for the young man he had just killed was engraved into the wall of the arena:
“Ernst Junger: Writer, Soldier, Anarch.”
The men of Blue Team watched as the lone figure of Wetzel walked slowly back towards their gate. Behind him and in his wake, the sense of immanent defeat of the few remaining members of the Red Gate.
De Soto the Spaniard, looked with glee at Burton. The dyed blue finger bone in his hand from the drawing of lots and the knowledge that it was now his turn to impose his will in the next match, scheduled as a battle of swords.
Continued next week!
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NOTES:
1 – Jünger’s Anarch is not a revolutionary figure aiming to overthrow systems of power. Instead, it is an individual who maintains inner sovereignty and detachment from external authorities, institutions, and ideologies. This Anarch is someone who:
- Lives according to their own rules and values.
- Observes the world with independence, choosing when to engage or withdraw.
- Preserves personal freedom and integrity, even amidst modern technological and political forces.
This is a philosophical and existential stance rather than a political program. It reflects Jünger’s lifelong fascination with individual autonomy and his skepticism toward conformity and external control.
Read his book “The Forest Passage” for an exploration of this concept.
2 - During World War I, German soldiers and media used various terms to refer to American troops, often reflecting propaganda, stereotypes, or battlefield impressions. Here are some notable examples:
"Ami" - A casual abbreviation for "Amerikaner" (German for "American"). While not exclusively a WWI term, it was used informally and carried over into later periods.
"Yankee" or "Yanks" - Borrowed from English, this term was widely recognized and used by Germans to describe Americans, sometimes neutrally, sometimes mockingly. It was familiar due to pre-war cultural exchanges and became more common as American troops (often called "Yanks" by their Allies) entered the war.
"Doughboys" - The Germans picked up this American nickname for U.S. infantry soldiers, though it was more commonly used by English-speaking Allies. German soldiers might have heard it from captured prisoners or Allied communications. It wasn’t a German-coined term but was understood on the battlefield.
"Sammies" - Derived from "Uncle Sam," this was an early attempt by Americans to nickname their own troops, inspired by French "poilu" or British "Tommy." German propaganda and soldiers occasionally adopted it, though it didn’t stick as strongly as "Doughboys." It could carry a mocking tone in German usage.
"Die Amerikanischen Indianer" - Literally "the American Indians," this was a derogatory or exoticizing term sometimes used in German propaganda or by soldiers, playing on stereotypes of Americans as "wild" or "uncivilized," influenced by popular Wild West imagery in Europe at the time and an ironic choice when describing Wetzel.
"Wilson’s Crusaders" - A propaganda term tied to U.S. President Woodrow Wilson, framing American intervention as a naive or hypocritical "crusade" for democracy. This was more common in official German rhetoric than among frontline troops.
On the ground, German soldiers often viewed the newly arrived Americans (who entered combat in significant numbers in 1917-1918) as inexperienced but well-equipped and numerous. Terms could shift from dismissive—like calling them "greenhorns" (a loanword from English)—to grudging respect as the Americans proved effective in battles like the Meuse-Argonne Offensive.
3 - The attack at Ypres on 22 April 1915 was the first successful instance of gas warfare during the First World War. Instead of using artillery shells or other projectiles, as had been done previously, German soldiers under the direction of Fritz Haber (1868-1934) released chlorine gas from storage cylinders and allowed the wind to carry the large gas cloud west across “No Man’s Land.” The attack was devastating for the unprepared British, Canadian, French and Algerian defenders caught in the path of the chlorine, though German efforts to exploit the initial advantage were not ultimately successful. Afterward, the German army conducted similar attacks against the Russians at Bolimów and, on 24 September 1915, the British launched their first chlorine gas attack at Loos, using Haber’s method of releasing the gas and allowing it to drift with the wind.
Following the successful introduction of gas warfare, belligerent nations accelerated the development of protective masks and researched methods of manufacturing new war gasses. The Germans developed their Gummischutzmaske with an activated charcoal filter small enough to be worn on the face piece. The British developed the P Helmet in time for it to be issued to soldiers at Ypres during the first German phosgene gas attack in December 1915. The British Large Box Respirator and Small Box Respirator, French M2 gas mask, and Russian Zelinsky-Kumant Helmet were manufactured and issued to soldiers through 1916.
Germany remained consistently ahead of other gas warfare programs in the development of new war gasses, introducing diphosgene in May 1916 and mustard gas in July 1917. While phosgene accounted for the majority of gas casualties during the First World War, the use of mustard gas represented one of the most significant advances in gas warfare during the fighting. Mustard gas is a vesicant that can burn any exposed skin, eyes, or other tissue, unlike other poison gasses that primarily affect the victim’s lungs. The fact that mustard gas also took longer to dissipate than other types of war gasses – sometimes injuring soldiers who came into contact with the chemicals even days after employment – added to the difficulty of protecting soldiers against it.
Methods of deploying gas weapons changed over time, as systems that were less dependent on wind direction and speed were gradually developed. Most of the poison gas that was used in the Great War was delivered by artillery and mortar rounds.
The British introduced Livens projectors to the battlefield in 1916, which were capable of blanketing target areas in large clouds of poison gas.