Lovely War(76)

He groped for his helmet. The air tasted of smoke and dirt, and the faint onion smell of mustard gas. Officers ran, shouting orders. Soldiers crawled out of dugouts and found their rifles.

The ground heaved and shook like a ship in a storm. Explosion, scream. Explosion, scream. The slap of dirt raining down. They were back in the support lines, but the big guns knew it. No line in the trench network was safe from such a massive shell attack.

Third Section gathered around him in the dark. He knew them by sound, smell, height.

“You owe me two bob, Nutley,” shouted Chad Browning’s shrill voice. “I said today would be the day, but did you believe me? Nah, and it’s gonna cost you.”

“Shut it.” Billy had to shout to be heard.

“Not on your granny’s grave,” protested Browning. “Pay up. Dunno if any of us will be alive tonight, and I wouldn’t feel right picking the pockets of a dead chum, now would I?”

Mick Webber’s voice originated well below Billy Nutley’s. “Where’s McKendrick?”

“Whizz-bang!” cried Mason. They ducked. The shell exploded ten feet away.

They spread out, so one shot couldn’t get them all, and crouched low. Shells overhead shrieked. Finally their own artillery guns roared to life and belched out retaliation at the enemy.

“Lots of luck,” Mason said. “Fritz’ll be way out of range. They planned all this.”

“Is it just me,” yelled James, “or are the explosions getting closer? Pushing our way?”

“Creeping barrage,” answered Mason. “They make a canopy of shellfire, and their infantry creeps out underneath it to invade our trenches under safe cover while we’re hiding from their shells. They push it forward while their men advance. Course, if they bungle it, their guns take out their own men.”

“I wish,” muttered James. “Should I get to the snipers’ nest?”

“Wait for orders,” Mason advised. “In all this smoke and blackness, there’d be nothing to see. You’re safer here.”

Explosions and screams grew nearer. Only the occasional spurt of flame gave any light. They crouched over their knees with their hands clamped hard over their ears.

But screams wiggled between James’s fingers. Were they lads from 3rd Section? Billy, Chad, Mick, Sam, Vincent, Alph?

Where was Sergeant McKendrick? Had something happened? If nobody led them to safety, they’d die out here like sitting ducks. They couldn’t abandon a post without orders.

The assaulting wall of sound overwhelmed their ears. Their rifles, as useful as toothpicks, lay slung across their thighs where they crouched. If they hid in dugouts, a shell blast could turn that dugout into a tomb. At least, in a trench, there was a chance of being dragged away.

They took each smoke-filled breath as if it was their last, and waited to be proven right.





APHRODITE


     From Paris—March 21, 1918





THE BEDROOM WINDOWS rattled.

Hazel woke in the darkness in the bedroom she shared with Colette at Tante Solange’s.

The windows kept on rattling.

The clock on the bedside table said 4:45 a.m.

Her bare feet landed on the cold wooden floor. She went to the window and pulled back the blinds. Unlatching the casement, she swung it open and leaned into the early morning cold.

The whole city thrummed with a pulse felt in the bones. The earth rumbled, and its buildings rattled. A dog barked in the street below, and another answered from afar.

An earthquake?

Cold prickled on her skin. Other windows swung open too. She heard Colette stir in bed.

The sound came from the north. On and on it went, a sound like distant boulders tumbling against one another, or, like the clashing of a vast drum brigade.

Guns at the Front, she realized. Guns without letup. Guns to the north. Where James was.





ARES


     Handed to the French—March 21, 1918





FINALLY THE MOMENT had come.

By Thursday, March 21, the 15th New York National Guard arrived by train in Connantre, in the region of Givry-en-Argonne, and met up with the rest of their division, which had gone straight there from Saint-Nazaire.

They were given a new name. No longer were they the 15th New York National Guard. They were now the 369th United States Infantry. Or rather, the 369e Régiment d’Infanterie US (RIUS). They’d been handed over to the French Army to fight with them.

The French and British Armies had begged the United States to send supporting reinforcements, but General Pershing had refused to relinquish command of any US troops. They were his responsibility to lead and, as much as possible, to safeguard. He didn’t want Americans used as expendable cannon fodder by non-American generals.

But he could spare a black regiment, to be used as needed.





ARES


     Fog—March 21, 1918





THE HEAVY GUNS droned on for hours. Howitzers and field guns, searching for James.

There was nothing to do but wait. No place to go any more safe, nor any less.

Through the smoke and dirt and confusion, the risen sun barely showed itself, until well after seven in the morning, when a lull fell over the battle. The guns stopped. The sky was lighter, wreathed in fog. It hung, cold and damp and heavy, over the trenches. James couldn’t even see Frank Mason, a yard or two away.