To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [21]
HE COMPLETED THREE SHIFTS ON THE PARAPET, HAD SEEN NOTHING, heard no sounds but the hard pounding in his chest. He had two more hours of rest before the artillery would begin, lay in his dugout, staring sleeplessly into the black dirt above him. Then the order came, Graves himself coming for them, the young lieutenant wearing his own helmet, carrying a rifle. It was the first time he realized that the lieutenant was, after all, a soldier just like the rest of them. The lessons of Blighty had come back. Of course, lieutenants lead their men into the fight.
They moved through the trench, past more rows of sandbags, the darkness above them matched by the black silence of the men. He followed the man in front of him, his feet bouncing on duckboards, the routine so familiar now. Then they were halted, and he could feel the presence of more men, the trench thick with smells and small sounds, belts and bayonets, rifles and Mills bombs, each man preparing for what was to come. He had thought Duke was close to him, wasn’t sure now, could see no faces, only the dark shapes. A whisper, passed down the line, “Muddy your bayonets. Muddy your helmets.”
He heard the sound of metal, then men digging into the trench wall, another lesson from Blighty. Bayonets reflect light. And if your helmet has no cloth covering, it will shine as well, a deadly beacon for an enemy rifleman. He reached out, felt for the side of the trench, grabbed a handful of soft dirt, ran it along his bayonet, then put a hand flat on his helmet, the thin shredded canvas barely holding. He grabbed another handful, spread it out on his helmet. He had done this at Blighty, drill after drill, the lessons taught day after day: the shrapnel-proof helmet, a first in modern times, essential in modern combat, and the bitter sarcasm of the sergeants: shrapnel-proof unless it’s actually hit by a piece of shrapnel.
Another hard whisper: “Fix bayonets!”
He felt for the muzzle of his rifle, his hands shaking, fingers not working, stiff and cold. He rattled the bayonet into place, gave a hard tug, held the rifle straight up in front of him, tight against his chest, the bayonet pointing skyward, no accidents in the trenches. There was a long silent moment, and then a hard clap of thunder rolled into the trench, startling them all, followed by a great long roar, unbroken, the ground shaking beneath him. He put a hand out, felt himself rocking, unsteady, the roar louder, deafening, filling his brain, his bones. He dropped down to his knees, pulled his head low into his shoulders, the top of his helmet tight against the rifle. He wanted to look up, had heard you could see the artillery shells as they passed over, streaks of red and white light whistling overhead. But the roar was pressing him down, curling him into one tight hard ball.
After long minutes, the sounds had a rhythm, his mind absorbing the noise, growing used to it. His knees ached, his feet crushed into his boots, his hands throbbed, gripping his rifle, but he was held tight in the grasp of the shelling, no movement, no relief. His mind began to wander, out into the darkness, what was happening over there, beyond the wire. He realized now that there were no explosions around them. Of course, the artillery is all ours. They’re not firing back, at least not at us, not here. Does that mean we’re winning? He was deathly curious, wondered if anyone was up on the parapets, if anyone could see the impact of the shelling on the enemy lines. Fritz. Heinie. The Boche. He had never seen a German, wondered if he would see one now, or if the lieutenant was right, the artillery would do the work, sweeping away any opposition. If that’s true, why are we doing this? Fight the war with cannon. No one has to use the bayonet. The thought froze him. Another lesson from Blighty: cold steel to the enemy’s throat. A line of recruits, running wildly, screaming and cursing and driving bayonets into straw dummies. It had been unreal then, a game,