“I don’t really have any word for it,” Tobias said. “Nobody does. Our language, your language…language itself fails the test of conveying such horror. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about Verdun, about how units of men were fed into it like sausages into a meat grinder. Some say von Falkenhayn and P├ętain conspired to bleed the other white; I don’t know. Maybe they conspired to unleash the horrors that we saw.”

“What sort of horrors?”

“You’ve seen some of it already.” Tobias replied. “In the frenzied combat around the Douaumont, the soldiers became violent, deranged. We began to lash out at each other, as did the French, until we were killing as many of our men over petty disputes as they were. Then the dead became restless and began to rise, fighting and re-fighting battles already won and lost. Units would complete an assault only to realize that half their number were corpses and specters, and tear themselves apart.”

“And then?”

“Every death was like coal on a blaze, intensifying the effect. It was like a maelstrom of death unleashed. Some of the men called it Seelesturm, or Soulstorm, and that’s as good a name as any I suppose. Once the news broke–the higher-ups believed it was hallucination and mutiny–that entire sector of the front was bombarded by artillery from both sides until everything had been churned into fetid muck. If this…if what we’re seeing here is an attempt to artificially create those same conditions…well, I can’t say I like our chances.”