Absinthe and the Art of War

In this timeline, absinthe never faced its decline in the early 20th century and instead became the patriotic drink of choice across Europe. This, my dear notes, has led me to the peculiar sight of war waged not on the precarious threads of sobriety but under the kaleidoscopic haze of wormwood and anise. Soldiers across the trenches on the Western Front—be they British, French, or German—carry flasks of absinthe almost as dutifully as their bayonets. Someone referred to it, rather optimistically, as 'liquid courage.' Though I daresay there’s a fine line between courage and attempting to poetically describe a sunset to your commanding officer mid-battle.

The French have embraced this cultural phenomenon with boundless enthusiasm. Recruitment posters now depict soldiers with halos of verdant light, as though the drink has imbued them with divine purpose. In cafes far from the front lines, philosophers debate whether the absinthe-induced fugue states might lend deeper insight into the pointlessness of war. And yet, I observe enough misdirected artillery fire aimed at 'menacing clouds' to suggest that not all insights are created equal. The soldiers, at least, seemed content. I walked past one trench and found a group loudly debating whether the enemy’s barbed wire might actually be some kind of thorned beast waiting to spring to life—a strange theory they insisted had been inspired by 'the Goddess of Evening Dew,' a name I assume is some green-hued cousin of the famous Green Fairy.

The Germans, naturally, have not been outdone. Their appointed chemists have adjusted the recipe to double the alcohol content while minimizing its hallucinogenic effects. Though, the irony of a precise German absinthe is almost too rich to process. I spoke to one officer supervising a trench mural—yes, mural—which featured an admittedly lovely depiction of soaring skylarks. He shrugged at my confusion and said, “It is not war, my friend. It is an art of controlled dissolution.” Perhaps this explains how entire German camps now carve geometric patterns into everything from their fortifications to their boots. Practicality takes precedence here: They seem just drunk enough to silence existential dread but focused enough to demolish forts with ruthless efficiency. A bizarre balancing act if ever there were one.

The British, predictably, have taken the most tepid approach to this green revolution. Purists might bemoan that their “Absinthe & Tonic” drink is nothing short of liquored betrayal, but the soldiers I spoke to were pleased enough with it. The terrifically named “Absinthe Afternoon,” a seasonal pub event held across the UK, features cucumber sandwiches flavored with fennel—an experience I do not recommend. While they weren’t prone to séances or artistic digressions like their French and German counterparts, there was something almost quaint about seeing British troops toast one another with pithy remarks like, 'To surviving another day, even if it’s through divine trickery.' I declined their offers to join, mentioning something about remaining coherent for my 'travel reports.' The lie was unnecessary—they were too busy nursing their own drinks to care.

Despite this bubbling absurdity across battlefronts, the crown for most peculiar use of nationalized absinthe surely belongs to the home front. France instituted three mandatory 'absinthe breaks' at munitions factories, replacing tea breaks and ensuring that the production schedule remains gloriously behind. One factory worker confided in me that she rather enjoyed being 'constantly looped between realism and metaphor.' To her, the gunpowder she handled resembled stardust, her fellow workers were celestial bodies, and the factory chimneys with their green smoke were ancient spires summoning alien gods—an imagery too astounding to critique. I also attended a women’s suffrage gathering in London, which devolved into a lively discussion about whether absinthe could unite Europe spiritually if it ever managed to end the war. Their slurred chanting, “Votes for Women, Time for Vision!” still rings oddly in my memory.

The folk culture bubbling from this drinking practice is equally enriched. Everyone seems to have a personal story about seeing the Green Fairy, although the tales vary wildly depending on concoction strength and personal creativity. My personal favorite involved one soldier claiming she made him swear to “divorce linear thinking entirely.” (Regrettably for him, his sergeant overheard and dismissed him as mentally unfit for duty.) The myths align poetically across cultures—a neutral ground where dreamers bond beneath moonlight with shared reverence for the ephemeral. At what cost though? For all this surrealism, the bodies pile up with unapologetic permanence, as though the illusion of chaos can neither soften war’s edge nor outright prevent it.