It was after dawn. The horses had risen earlier than the men. Their black nostrils chuffed the air and dew soaked their hooves. Overhead English starlings wheeled and turned against the grey morning sky. The men lay dug into their holes. Patches of craters pocking an immense fallow meadow.
Corporal Taylor stirred. The foxhole bottom still clung to some of the night chill and he was suddenly aware of his bones poking at odd angles. Soon the chalk soil would be baked in the July sun and retain a heat well into the next eve. Taylor was still unaccustomed to waking in such a manner. He forced himself to recognize his surroundings. His breath turned white on black as he exhaled the day’s first rolled cigarette.
His foxhole mate, a Brit by the name of Gillespie woke. Gill had been on the front for the duration of the western French campaign. His fatigues bore a tincture of hastened age. Of gunpowder and sun bleached patches smattered in white mud. They had talked little since Taylor’s arrival a week prior.
Soon the morning scouts would be pressed into action. A survey of the German lines along the river Vesle would determine strategy. Some days they poked at the lines, others they sat entrenched. A mess of canned stews, cigarettes and soggy card games. Taylor preferred action to the gloom of waiting.
The Germans would shell daily to keep the combined French and British force at bay. A lazy jab that convinced Taylor they were mounting a vicious onslaught. Everyday more Americans arrived; the French command deploying them to patch holes in ranks. Soon they would be enough to form more rear lines and flesh out the flanks in the surrounding forest.
Two thousand yards were all that separated the forces. The purgatory in between was occupied by barbed wire and rotting cow carcasses. Their bovine forms enmeshed with the wire formed a horrible panorama. They had lain slaughtered before Taylor’s arrival. When he asked Gill, he told him both sides had picked them off for fun in the early goings.
As one of the first Americans to arrive, Taylor felt a deep sense of purpose. His friends and brothers were still in boot camp or deployed far behind the Western Front. They had not contributed yet as he had. Every morning he would take his Springfield rifle and sight the far riverbank. The shot was impossible, but he fancied striking someone at random.
He had only ventured on one forward attack. Several days before the scouts had returned, reporting dawn activity in the Kraut artillery batteries. Mostly they shelled only gas into the trenches. That day, it appeared the howitzers were changing positions. The French command feared the mount of a creeping forward barrage.
Marching orders were passed through the first few lines. They would double time to the near bank, take cover and fire at the forward machine gun nests. Earthworks on the bank had been built high and afforded excellent cover. Later the Krauts would raze them in light of their effectiveness. Settling for too long would invite mortar fire and they were instructed to retreat along the wooded flanks. The aim was to feint an attack and impede the Krauts from launching any major offensive.
Taylor readied himself. He advanced alongside Gill, mirroring the veteran’s diagonal tacks through trampled sections of barbed wire. The rapid press was unanticipated and the morning fog masked them. As the first line approached the earthworks, the nests roared to life. Taylor swung his Springfield into action. Aiming for the sunburst of each barrel, he ripped through several stripper clips. His hand was steady as he palmed the breech open and closed. White mud slung about his line of sight as the German Maxims pummeled the berms. Everywhere chalky white mud. His hands slimed with it and soon his chest clip pouch sagged from frequent reloads.
He switched between two nests until one fell silent. Taylor could just make out a corpse draped over the sandbag. His hand had begun to pulse with cramps from the bolt. He did not yield. Months of pent up frustration and anticipation fueled him. Headlines read across an ocean dulled aches. It wasn’t until Gill grabbed at his nape that he paused.
The Brit’s finger pointed skyward. Taylor’s eyes followed it to a somersaulting boot shape that apexed before tumbling. The crude trench mine fell at an angle that captivated the entire company’s attention. It seemed to cascade down on every man. A strange trick borne of intense focus. Taylor retracted his rifle from over the berm and curled into a ball. The shock was crushing. It rolled him into Gill with toppling force. When he came to, he could see, but not hear the cries of nearby men.
One lay facedown in the mud motionless, his helmet a full crescent against the ground. Another convulsed sporadically, his face a dripping mess. A third lay silent clutching at tattered tentacles of sinew that hung from his shoulder. With the nests roaring popcorn yellow bursts, Taylor raced half crouched towards the right tree line. The rest of the company followed suit and engulfed him.
He had difficultly sleeping for several nights. Soon though, exhaustion triumphed. Images from that morning seemed far from the present. Taylor now watched Gill begin the day with a cold can of beans. He saw him massage his knuckles as his hands cramped and curled around the tin spoon handle. A white powder of dust shook free as he did so. After, they would take shifts between cleaning their rifles and staring at the river. Taylor spent an hour writing his folks. The stationary had become brittle from the summer sun. His pen often sputtered, leaving thin letters he had to retrace.
Always first, his childhood sweetheart Bridget. He found starting with her prudent, as the mood typically darkened with each successive letter. His parents followed and he wrote his youngest brother last. Too young to serve, he wanted to impart the gravity of his honor and graveness of the situation, to him.
He was interrupted by a stir running through the lines. Soon a runner arrived and between pants told them the news. American reinforcements were arriving in droves, mostly from the 3rd Infantry Division. Taylor felt his pride swell. The Allied forces were low on morale and the Germans appeared poised to unleash their stormtroopers. An injection of fresh legs and spirit would be crucial to holding fast.
Their arrival spurred the enemy’s attack. Soon after, the German guns began their shelling. For the entire afternoon, their trenches were pounded. With the enemy out of reach Taylor could do nothing but hole up. During a brief lull, he surveyed the river. It was teaming with activity. Stormtroopers floating atop canvas boats and makeshift rafts gave the appearance of rats in a sewer. Bare boned bridges had materialized and dotted the foreground at perhaps a dozen narrow points.
The shelling slowly eased and the Allies responded. Taylor and Gill took turns firing indiscriminately at the fast approaching ranks. He found aiming for their bell-bottomed helmets to work best. If he overshot, often the round would travel into the next rank. Aiming low resulted in many slugs buried in deep clay. The advance was unhindered and steady and Taylor surprised himself with his calm demeanor. The circumstances dictated panic, but upon feeling his brethren’s presence, he became comforted.
Dusk fell in short order. Soon both sides fired at near ghosts. French bombers strafed and bombed the river in a merciless fashion. Their number so great, they seemed a cloud of slow gnats infesting the once azure sky.
As he could feel the reinforcements’ arrival, so too could Taylor feel the vanity of their defense. The Germans had organized for weeks and moved too swiftly. A counterattack would be the best tactic for slowing their rhythmic progress. The French command knew as much and a British runner with orders briefly graced their hole. They were to conserve their ammo and charge within the hour.
Taylor shifted his gas mask to the top of his head as he began to prepare his belongings. He shedded his canteen and foodstuffs onto the foxhole floor. His letters were placed in a jacket breast pocket and his dog tags untucked from his fatigues. A brief pat on Gill’s shoulder and a last tug of a cigarette were shared.
Over the top he went. His path was straight and cause righteous. Never had the enemy seen such fine valor. Bayonet fixed, he hurdled a trench. A field of fire burning with brimstone lay before him. It would consume his being that day, but till the last gasp his resolve persisted, intact. His efforts laid bare with no thought given to glory or triumph. Somewhere near, a broken bell in a ruined church rasped a weak toll in a strong breeze.
damn scott you got some talent! turn this into a book :)
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