“Water Tank?” More like a landship. Yesterday, we did not escort a “tank”, but followed behind a metal death machine called “Renault FT” and eliminated any enemies at its flanks. That thing is a beast, with two factory conveyor belts going all the way around itself, moving relentlessly across enemy trenches, humming as loud as Matthew’s screaming, and so solid that no bullets can penetrate it. The heat of the vibrant fires of the machine gun barrels of the “tank” radiates like the forge in a blacksmith’s shop, with bullets hammering away the orderly formation of the enemy army. The thunderous gunshots tremble the earth to anyone who stands next to it, and the very next second the earth reeks with blood. The carnage became covered in dust and soil; bared wires snared anyone with an ounce of pusillanimity who fled from their fate, and a swift bullet painted the walls and soil with crimson red. I can only speculate if this metal machine is on the German’s side. As I tasted the sweat in my mouth and felt the soft trigger of my gun, slippery from my sweat, I shot any Germans holding anything resembling explosives or grenades.

Despite the loud objection from Carl, the bullets of the tank penetrated the chest of men who were surrendering (but did not have their hands up as they were slowly lowering their weapons).

There was one suicidal German devil holding two grenades sprinting at the tank. Marcus gave his life by impaling him with a bayonet (as he was out of bullets and had no time to reload). I do not think I could ever forget the sight of his body bursting open and his arms contorting due to the blast shockwaves. We were still advancing forward with the tank, and did not and could not retrieve his body, still left there divided into pieces and scattered throughout some twenty feet radius, for burial. Now as I am writing this, Matthew is hunching in the corner after puking out our limited ration. Ever since yesterday, Matthew was “shell shocked”, according to a medic, and he remained entirely voiceless, refusing to speak to anyone. Fighting this war requires a strong mind; maybe I should request Matthew be sent home even though he has no injuries whatsoever.

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The spearhead charge continued for about one or two miles before an artillery shell landed about three hundred feet away, sending a large shrapnel to the tank, which caused it to have some engine problems. Whenever my ears recovered from the deafening bangs of the machine gun, there would always be echoes of desperate yells of dying men in the distance. We secured the area and hunkered down, and we are currently waiting for the engineers to finish fixing the landship. I was lucky enough to avoid the blast while clearing out a trench nearby, thank God. However, Raghnall was not as lucky. Maybe God condemned him for being Catholic, but I do not think he deserved to have a piece of shrapnel half-cutting off his right arm. His arm was amputated, and he is being sent home.

Earlier today, each of us received a gas mask, because, in these areas, Germans are no different from demons and devils. We will push back those devils and finish the work before us. I heard that we will get some reinforcements in March, and our orders are to guard the tank until reinforcements arrive. I also heard that the New York division (77th Division) will arrive sometime later this year. New York got its own division! (I cannot focus on writing the journal while Matthew is uttering unintelligible words now; he was just voiceless and silent earlier. I will call Carl to try to talk some sense into him. )