His Name was Maxwell
His name was Maxwell Anthony Jäger, born February twenty-first in the year 1896, to Heinrich and Hildegard Jäger in the village of Nienhagen, Germany.
His father had served proudly in the peacetime military, taking after his own fathers example as he had fought against the Germanic revolution in the years before him. They were a proud family of soldiers going back as long as the lines could remember so all men born to the Jäger name would serve as was tradition, or be ready to serve as such as Heinrich was prepared to do.
Their village was primarily one of fishing; the old and the youth took to the docks and the shipyard to bring back cod and herring so that their families may eat and those further inland would purchase their goods, thus bringing trade and commerce into the village.
But the time came when the country's young men were being escorted by the droves to join the war effort. Their numbers being called and they were led off to train at the hands of men who'd served years before them.
Maxwell's father towered over him, his words producing spittle with each inflection as he called him a coward and a cur, and every other possible insult he could think of. The vein in his neck bulging with anger and revulsion at his oldest son.
Maxwell was not interested in the petty fights between countries. He had no desire to fight in a war that he didn't start or support. He was but a man who enjoyed working with his hands, carving faces and animals into wood until it was perfection. Dragging fish up in a net and feeling them writhe against his hands. Feeling freshly turned soil beneath his fingernails. That was what he lived for.
So how had he ended up on this battlefield? In this trench? A rifle held firmly in his hands like he knew what he was doing with it, the sound of artillery raining down onto them into the night. Screams filled the air of the men struck, of men frightened.
A shrill whistle as it all stopped and he found himself stepping up onto the wall of his trench, his rifle aimed out into No Man's Land, ready as a flood of men poured out of a trench not that far from them on the other side. Somewhere on his right someone shouted for them to fire.
He aimed at the closest soldier to him, closed his eyes and fired. When he opened his eyes the man was falling and guilt clawed it's way up his throat. The tears pricked behind his eyes but he fired again, this time his shot went wide and didn't hit anyone. Machine gun fire roared to life somewhere nearby and it rattled his chest in the way that a dead mans bones rattle with its last breath.
Then it was over. No more soldiers rushed at them from just beyond. Now only lay bodies left to rot in the tangles of razor wire.
It went on like this for months. Series of attacks followed by counter attacks. Sometimes they would get lucky and they would go a day or few without them. Neither side taking more than inches in ground.
There were close calls for him. Artillery attacks that shattered the wood holding up the trench around him sending wood splinters flying in every direction. His helmet had saved him front countless projectiles. A gas shell had landed next to him as he slept but luckily, his friend Hans had awoken earlier with the need to urinate had slapped his gas mask on him before donning one himself. Hans would later die in the raid that followed, taking a bayonet to the chest.
Yes, Maxwell had been lucky. But even he knew luck could only get you so far.
This night though, nearly three years and three months after he had been sent to the front, had him riddled with anxiety. It was cold and the night was bright with the moonlight. Their heated breaths mixed with the cold air and sent plumes of white smoke into the sky giving away their positions. It was silent except for Wulff's heated huffs into his interlocked hands. His feeble attempt to regain feeling in his fingers.
There was a soft whistle that was coming closer and the words tore from his lips before he realized he was shouting, "Geh runter!"
Wulff's eyes widened and he dove forward, the artillery shell striking only feet behind where he'd been sitting. It didn't explode, instead lying dormant like a fallen apple from a tree.
"Aha!" Wulff laughed like he'd won a great game, he sent a big grin toward Maxwell as a thanks. Neither one of them heard the second shell coming their way.
It struck in the area between them, sending a chunk of Wulff's own rifle through his head as he was sent backward. Maxwell was lifted off the ground and sent through the air, his hands clutching his rifle like his very life depended on it.
When he landed, he realized he must have struck his head as when he came to it was daytime. Things were surprisingly different. He was surrounded by buildings that were taller than anything he'd ever seen before in his life. People of all sizes, shapes, and colors bustled around him, simply ignoring the filthy bloodied man. Slowly he pressed his rifle to his chest, unsure of what to make of his predicament. Perhaps he was dreaming, surely this colorful world was a product of his color deprived mind.
What was it his mother always told him? If you were unsure if you were in a dream, prick your thumb, if you bleed it's real, if not you must wake up. He checked himself for his bayonet and stuck it into his thumb with a hiss. Well it certainly hurt; he instinctively stuck it in his mouth and sucked. He could taste the copper and salt that was blood but he checked to be sure; he was bleeding.
"You shouldn't be here," he jumped. Then he turned to face a strange man in a cape. He hadn't understood the man but he knew he was being spoken to.
"This isn't your time. What did you do?" The man looked irritated, like he'd done something wrong.
"Ich verstehe nicht," Maxwell spoke, unsure of the man before him.
The caped man heaved a deep sigh, "Of course you don't speak English. Maybe Wong speaks, what do you speak? German?"
Maxwell was starting to get noticed by other people, they had strange black boxes pointed at him and soft flashes of light came out of some of them. He twitched and felt uncomfortable with the attention he was getting. The man in front of him seemed to have enough too as he moved his hands in a circle and suddenly the two of them were seated in a room and surrounded by hundreds of leatherbound books.
Maxwell's eyes widened in amazement; he'd never seen so many books in one place. His village didn't have a library, but he'd heard of them before. Was that where he was now? But how had they gotten there? Who was this man? Was this witchcraft? The real questions was did he care?
"Darf ich?" Maxwell gestured to the books and the man looked at him for a long moment.
"I don't know what you want," he stood up began to flip through several books, "I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. I'd ask you what your name is but you probably won't understand."
"Stephen Strange," Maxwell repeated and the caped man looked up before nodding a confirmation, he pointed to himself, "Mein nām ist Maxwell Jäger."
Strange closed the book in his hand and suddenly they were in another part of the room, Maxwell shook his head at the dizziment this caused.
"I know that name, why do I know that name?" Strange muttered to himself, his fingers flying through another book. An Asian man entered the room carrying two sandwiches but he stopped when he saw Maxwell.
"Stephen, I didn't know we'd have guests, or I would have gotten a third sandwich," Strange looked up at the man and slammed the book shut.
"Do you speak German?" The man seemed but set down the food on the table and shrugged his shoulders.
"Our guest here, he doesn't speak English, have you heard the name Maxwell Jäger?" Strange asked, his eyes taking in the haggard appearance of the soldier. He was covered in dirt and dried blood, his eyes still blown wide with the adrenaline that coursed through his blood. His arms still cradled the rifle that he depended on.
"He disappeared on a battlefield in a field of light in 1918, some say it was artillery shells bursting together, others say divine intervention. Most of his comrades called him the luckiest soldier in the trenches, he always found a way to escape death, and they called that his greatest trick. They didn't even find his tags, guess we know, if this is him, what happened to him then," Wong rubbed his hands together and sat in front of the stricken soldier.
"Hallo. Wir werden dich nicht verletzen. Wir wollen dich nur karotten," Wong spoke slowly, trying to remember all the words appropriately.
Maxwell was confused. He gave them a confused look and sat back in the seat cradling the rifle further.
"What'd you say Wong?" Strange asked, looking at the man in annoyance.
"I said hello, we're not gonna hurt you, and we're here to help you."
"Then why does he look like you insulted his mother?" Strange sighed and ran his hands over his face.
"Perhaps I am rustier than I thought," Wong spoke thoughtfully, his eyes turned up pensively.
"Tea?" Strange wave moved his hand in a subtle manner, replacing the rifle with a warm cup of tea. Maxwell hummed with disapproval at losing his weapon but at the first sip of the tea he seemed to relax.
"You stay here and watch him, I need to find something," Strange wandered into the next room while Wong casually began to eat his sandwich. His eyes softened as the soldier eyed him with hunger before staring at his torn, muddy boots. He got up to find something to cut his sandwich in half.
Maxwell found himself alone at last, unsure of what to do, he stood and made his way out of the room only to find his filthy rifle on a table next to some other old items. No one was there to stop him and eventually he found his way completely out of the Sanctum and back onto the streets of New York.
Wandering around the city that never sleeps was foreign and strange to him. The lights, the vehicles, people speaking to themselves and to little black boxes. He quickly learned he could not just cross a street, he had to cross with a group of people when the little man showed up on the box across the way. He had nearly been struck by the roaring metal beasts more than once and had been yelled at a fair deal.
"Sir! I'm gonna ask you to put the rifle down!" He turned to face the man in a black uniform, a handgun aimed at him. His face was red from exertion, he puffed out a heated breath sending a white plume into the air.
"Wäs?" Maxwell tilted his head to the side and his fingers twitched over the trigger of the rifle.
"Put it down!" The man yelled louder as if that would make him understand. Maxwell shook his head vigorously, unsure what the uniformed man wanted but aware that he posed a threat to his being.
