In war, the most expensive commodity is sleep. On March 21, we faced an artillery bombardment that lasted hours; a person can die any second when it starts raining artillery shells. In the blink of an eye, metal shrapnel lodged itself into the right side of Carl’s forehead in the five minutes he did not have his helmet on. There was nothing I could have done. I could not even see an artillery shell or a metal piece flying in; he was just dead like that. Part of the trench we dug fell in, or rather expanded out due to a big crater formed by an artillery explosion; the trembling caused rocks, dust, and wood to fall on Carl’s body.
Those Germans are devils. They made me realize that even breathing in a war is a privilege. Nearing the end of the Artillery bombardment, Mustard Gas rose up in the air and flew in our direction by the wind. I remember when Matthew, with a gray complexion and one hand clutching on his throat, desperately tried to forcefully take the gasmask off a British soldier. One minute later, he is dead on the ground with blood gushing out of the bullet hole in his throat. The British soldier killed him. Out of the sheer mountain of anger, Raphael roared as he pointed his rifle and shot the British soldier who killed Matthew. Right afterward, Raphael looked like he was subjugated by guilt; he picked up Matthew’s pistol and turned it to his head. We tried [tried] tried tried to stop him, me, Dave, and Reklaw, but a fountain of blood filled our sight the very next second. We could have prevented that. Unlike Carl, he was right in front of us, slowly turning the pistol, yet we were too late. He died due to my inaction; it is my fault as the team leader.
The air was obscured with gas, and none of us dared to take our gasmask off no matter what. We could barely see a thing before lights and fires of gunshots and fire became perceptible in the distance within the dense gas. The waves of Germans keep on coming batch after batch. I lost count of how many I killed, but if I killed one, two would come. If I killed two, four would come. My visibility was so poor that I could not even see if I was shooting at the enemy or allies, so I had to cease fire before we received an order to retreat. They tried operating the malfunctioning engine of the tank, but the whole thing caught on fire, so they put some explosives in it and blew it up to prevent it from falling into enemy hands.
We were retreating well into the night until we were gathered with other troops in a fort. We were unable to sleep, and we remained sleepless all night, aiming and pulling the trigger at any figure approaching us with anything that resembles a gun. Any minute of rest is luxury, and we finally awarded that luxury in the afternoon of the following day. I, Dave, and Reklaw, dozed in a room while others kept fighting. I was so exhausted that I felt like I was hallucinating things. Despite how tight our gas masks are, no one took them off while sleeping.
We were jolted awake by a nearby artillery explosion at night. The thunderous banshees-like screech and earthquakes register as touch, each one sending rock, dirt, and gore into the sky, fading into invisibility by the covering darkness and only becoming visible on the ground with an electric torch. Although I cannot tell, I think the outside of that night was somewhat filled with a faint visage of mustard gas. Sleep was a fantasy for the rest of that night as the fort commander alerted us that another German charge was imminent. I was out of Trench Gun ammunition, and my team did not have any machine gun bullets left—those bullets we carried were all shot, and we were surrounded by piles of bullet shells. Matthew carried the extra ammunition that we desperately needed, and his body was about a mile away. The only guns we still had bullets for were bolt-action rifles, and we used our ammunition sparingly when we could and looted supplies from the bodies that lay around on the ground. When we successfully defended against the hoard of devils, we slept outside, although I do not remember why. Perchance, it was because the inside was filled with mustard gas, or because the building was at risk of collapsing.
We were woken up sometime past the morning the following day by a French soldier wailing louder than the tank while holding a headless body. “Oh Dieu, je suis tellement désolé, s'il vous plaît, non non non non. Pourquoi m'as tu fait ça? Est-ce que je mérite ce sort ? Non, mérite-t-il vraiment ce sort ? Dieu NON NON NON NON.” His cries cut deep into the air, characterizing the number of dead bodies and blood we found ourselves surrounded by under the revealing daylight.
Even though I had no appetite to eat, I was dead hungry, and I never thought the vile ration and the rock-like hard bread had been so delicious, even when I saw swarms of flies and visages of rats every passing minute in my peripheral vision. I could not even smell the blood and the rot anymore, and I had my gas mask next to me within a foot while I ate, so I could reach it with the greatest haste should any indication of the faintest yellow gas rise in the farthest distance.
It remained silent for the rest of that day and the next day, and then reinforcement came. We discussed taking back the land lost and advancing sideways. Apparently, in other parts, the Germans pushed further, and we lost more territory. The commanders have decided to close and encircle a group of Germans at a particular stronghold they took, and we would set out in the daybreak of the next day. From the reinforcements, we got our much-needed resupply.
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The rest of what was left of my team, Dave and Reklaw, followed me and the British as we marched. The morning was ruined by the rain as if the devil took hold of nature to mock us. The trenches are filled with mud and plash, and the ground was covered with squash of reddish-brown mud and slimes of what is left of once fully functioning human beings. Our combat boots were wet inside, and the feeling of stepping on someone’s decaying corpse, with maggots climbing out, and bones poking against your boots is indescribable. Reklaw made the mistake of throwing up in his gas mask, and he refused to take it off regardless of if there were any signs of gas around. Once in a while, you will catch sight of a deserter, tormented by a forest of barbed wire and limbs contorted and convulsed unnaturally, staring with haunting and unmoving eyes back at the living.
To deal with the lack of supplies, we had to stick our hand in what was left of our fallen brothers and defeated enemies for ammunition, ration, and habiliments. Most of the time, the habiliments were unable to be used as they were wet and lice-infested. None of the thousands of bodies, lying as part of some grotesque art, were buried. We yanked the rifles away from the hand that trapped the gun within its grasp. Once you get close, you can see some bodies are bloated, while others have their fingernails and teeth falling out and have a mix of internal sludge littered with maggots crawling and wriggling about. The commander ordered us to not expose our position and waste bullets on the rats keen on profaning whatever honor the fallen had. We could only watch as the rats multiplied and enjoy themselves using the suffering of human beings.
We came across one deserted, wanton German soldier, who was holding his helmet with both of his hands. He fled when he saw us. His leg was seized on a barbed wire, and he, in desperation, drew a grenade out and exploded without throwing the grenade at us. We avoided looking at his body. Another German soldier, with one of his legs bending unnaturally forward and bones poking out, begged us for mercy. We tried to take him as a prisoner of war, but he died a few hours after while we were marching.
We marched for hours and took a rest at night. The once disgusting food tastes heavenly. Our guns were cleaned, and our supplies were sorted. I have playing cards in the bag, but no one was in the mood to give it a single glance. The next morning, the British commander gave a short speech about serving Mother Britain and defeating the evil Germans. Then, he told us that we had another round of combat as we would be assaulting a German-held stronghold from the back while other units of troops, already fighting for days trying to take the stronghold from the front, would launch a big assault. That British commander was not very good at giving morale-raising speeches.
On March 29, we began the assault. It was raining, and luckily we saw no sign of mustard gas. We did not take our gas mask off mauger how hard it was to breathe; hard-to-breathe is better than unable-to-breathing. That was a suicide mission; no wonder why that British commander had to give a speech. I, and the rest of my team, luckily got to stay back and shoot from a distance; meanwhile, squadrons of British troops were sent to the meat grinder. Our guns malfunctioned many times due to the rainwater, and we could see the soldiers in the meat grinder fighting with bayonets and shovels instead of guns. Those bayonets no longer reflect a pale light, yet regardless of how dull they were, their quest to seek blood tore flesh and pierced through bodies with nauseating crunches. After an hour, we finally took the fort. When we treaded to the fort to rest, we had to walk through the scarlet-tainted mud that was covered in wet bodies— men that were just alive two hours ago—men that might have been inspired by the awful speech by that British commander—men, sent to their death to fight against the German soldiers.
It is like navigating through a forest but with bodies and barbed wires instead of trees and bushes. The mud, slime, and blood while walking through the trenches stuck onto me like a second skin, and every step within the dense mud trap felt more formidable than the last. Whenever I touched a body, accidentally or intentionally, I felt the last warmth fading as the cold rain seeped in. Inside and beside the German stronghold are the corpses of those devils. In death, those corpses have little difference from each other — all of them were defiled by the weapons of man. When we tread further into the stronghold, we find the German prisoners of war and one French soldier brutally beating a German prisoner with his bloody fists again, and again, and again, and again, while hollering what I presume to be anguished curses. He was eventually stopped by other French soldiers when he nearly slaughtered the prisoner.
In that stronghold, the telegraph sent us good news: all American soldiers here, which was what remains of my squad and one other partial squad, are called rendezvous with The American Expeditionary Forces. We march back for miles and days, seeing with our fatigued eyes the landscape we crossed, now splattered with holes and rats - bloated with their feast - gnawing on what remains of the stolen lives. The monotone trenches stare back at us as if trying to finish us off with their glare and add to its canvas of grotesque abstract art. Eventually, we journeyed to a meeting spot. We were put in a car without telling us where our destination was. I feel relieved, if not else, and I am writing my journal on that car right now, as this ride is pretty smooth. I took my gas masks off, and the air, however spoiled and repulsive, never smelled so fresh before. I took my boots off, and I am lucky my trench foot is not as pus-filled and gruesome as those of Reklaw. As I am writing, Dave fell asleep and snored loudly. We do not have any obvious injuries, so I do not think I or any member of my team is going to get discharged.