When their training ended, the
Americans boarded trucks—the camions—that would take them to the front lines.
When the camions neared the battlefield, the soldiers heard explosions in the
distance. The trucks stopped along an invisible line in the countryside,
disgorging their cargo. Winston’s platoon, along with several others, formed up
a hundred yards from a thick stand of trees. The ground vibrated from an
explosion, and dark-black smoke billowed from the far side of the trees.
Mack Jones, a wiry lieutenant with
tattoos of naked women on his forearms, yelled, “We’re going into the trenches.
Keep your heads down; stay low. We’ll go into the reserve trenches first, then
we’ll move to the front lines. Remember, the Boshes are trying to kill you. So
keep your heads down.”
The troops marched through the stand
of trees. On the other side, opening out in front of them, the French and
German trenches faced each other across narrow fields covered with long coils
of barbed wire. The wind shifted and blew towards the troops, and the stench
nearly gagged them. Winston coughed and covered his nose and mouth with his
handkerchief.
They scrambled down into a
seven-foot-deep trench that made a hundred-and-fifty-foot-long groove through
the ground. Bent over, Winston ran along the muddy duckboards, the blasts in
the distance getting louder, the ground shaking harder. Mud splattered against
his pant legs, sticking to the khaki material. He came to a much longer trench
running perpendicular to the one he was in. Muddy-faced soldiers squatting
there smirked and said, “Welcome to hell, mates.”
“Watch out for the cooties,” said a
British soldier, who had several teeth missing and a dirt-caked beard, laughing
at the Americans as they slithered by.
When Winston reached his station, he
leaned back against the earthen wall, the wet soil soaking the seat of his
pants. He and the others glared at each other as if they had been led into a
trap.
“Okay, this is going to be your home
for a while,” Jones said. “Make yourselves comfortable, men.”
The dirt trench was an ugly gray,
the walls uneven, and the duckboards caked with mud. The stench from the
latrines was nauseating. There was no place to sit except against the walls or
on the fire step. There were shallow caves previous soldiers had dug that were
shored up with pieces of timber. The caves were barely deep enough in the earth
for a man to lie in.
The
sun beat down on Winston as he waited, wondering what was going to happen next,
explosions and gunfire farther away never stopping. An hour later, several
French soldiers came along carrying rifles, handing one to each American.
“This is your piece,” Lieutenant
Jones shouted, holding up his rifle. “Make love to it. It might be the last
piece you ever get.”
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