I'm told that this particular region of France
was once very beautiful. Lush, green forest as far as the eye could see, and a place where
Europe's dwindling wildlife could find refuge. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine
it- cool breeze rustling through the leaves, wild deer lazily grazing
in patches of open meadow. “Wake the hell up, soldier!” I get snapped back to reality by a rude shove
from my squad leader. I guess I was picturing my lush green forest a little too hard and drifted
off. Truth is, I'm so exhausted that even blinking is temptation for a nap. But I can't nap now,
because it's almost time to go over the top. What used to be a thick forest is now a barren
hellscape of craters and the occasional shattered tree stump. I'm downright impressed by just
how thorough the destruction has been. Like a jagged scar running for hundreds of miles across
Europe, trench warfare has reduced the terrain to a blighted no-man's land. Thousands upon thousands
of artillery bombardments have obliterated the landscape and turned it into a muddy quagmire.
There isn't even a hint of grass left. The destruction truly is... absolute. “Boots and rifles!” The cry is echoed up and down
the trench, though not loud enough to alert the enemy to our plan to attack. Then again the six
hour artillery bombardment they just endured was probably enough to tip our hand- sometimes these
preparatory strikes are nothing more than feints, meant to make the enemy think that's where
you're planning to attack. More often than not, they're not- and today is one of those days. I quickly check and double check the laces on my
boots, then inspect my rifle for the hundredth time. The boots and rifle check sounds silly,
but in the frightly anticipation of combat, you'd be surprised what you might forget
to check before you go up and over the top. Loose or untied boots is a good way
to get yourself killed as you rush like crazy to the enemy trenches, and your
rifle must be clear and free of mud and dirt. No easy feat in the perpetual
sludge that are the trenches. Groundwater seeps into the trenches, which
must be dug deep in order to protect the men inside of them. This part of
France has a shallow water table, and water seepage is constant and completely
unavoidable. To make matters worse, it's been an extraordinarily rainy season. I don't remember
the last time I was dry. We eat in the mud, we fight in the mud, and we sleep in the mud.
Inevitably, most of us will die in it too. Whistles begin to blow all across the front
lines, and I no longer have time to think. Mechanically, my tired, sore body pulls itself
up the short ladder to the top of the trench, and I along with thousands of my fellow
infantrymen scramble to my feet. This is a massive attack spanning a mile and a half of
the front. One of the largest of the war so far. I immediately start running as soon
as I'm on my feet. Speed is safety, because the only way to live to tomorrow
is to get clear of no man's land as fast as possible. As insane as it sounds,
once an attack starts the safest place to be is in the enemy's trench. There the
machine guns and artillery can't get you. It is insane, I find myself thinking,
almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. A wall of steel meets us almost
from the moment the attack begins, as dozens of machine guns open up on the enemy's
side. I'm amazed that I even climbed out of the trench and into this certain death- it dawns
on me how incredibly ludicrous this all is. Sure, I'll climb out of my trench and run
straight into machine gun fire, no problem…. Nuts. Somebody, later, will call it courage. Or that we
were fighting for freedom or some such nonsense. Funny, because all of these trenches are about
four thousand miles from my home in New York. Why are we fighting yet another
one of Europe's endless wars? But here I am, and now the only
way to live long enough to make it back home is to run as fast as I
can. Safety is the enemy's trench. The machine gun fire is intense, and men fall
by the scores. There is no defense from this, the only thing you can do
is run and keep on running. Some men stop, raise their rifles and
try to fire back. It's a death sentence- the machine guns find them first, and
they don't have to be accurate about it. As I run I see yet other men huddled in shallow
craters or behind the few remaining stumps that litter the battlefield. One man is even building
a barricade out of dead bodies. That will be a death sentence for them too, enemy snipers
inevitably find each and every one of them. Running is safety, and
safety is the enemy's trench. Halfway across no man's land, artillery begins
to burst around us. It's too late to do serious damage, communications are slow even in the
well-built networks of trenches across the front, and the artillery officers fear hitting
their own troops by firing too close to friendly lines. Despite the terror of
the exploding shells, I find myself glad for the incoming fire. The giant gouts of
mud and dirt they kick up helps obscure my line of sight to the enemy's trench, which means
their machine gunners can't see me either. I pump my legs harder now, only a hundred
yards to go. Incredibly I find that it's not the incoming rifle and machine gun fire
that scares me the most. I keep replaying a horrible scene over and over in my mind- me,
running straight into an old artillery crater now filled with fresh mud. Getting stuck,
and slowly being sucked under. It's happened, and I find that slow suffocating death
more terrifying than getting gunned down. A loud roar breaks out across the charging troops
as we close the gap to the first trench. I have no idea how many of us made it across, that
doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting into that trench. I can feel bullets
cracking through the air around me, and with a final desperate lunge I throw myself
straight into the yawning trench before me. And come crashing straight
down on a German soldier. I can hear him groan as I accidentally knock the
breath out of him. He must have been ducking to reload, or perhaps he was a coward and couldn't
face the incoming attack. Whatever the case, he's now scrambling to get out from under
me, and I spot his free hand going for a knife at his hip. I'm faster though, and in
the mud at the bottom of the German trench, I wrestle the enemy soldier's hand
away. Our rifles are forgotten, and after a few more moments of struggle it's
finally me who comes out the victor, my own knife finding home between the soldier's ribs.
I've learned not to look at their faces, that way you don't have to remember them.
But we were both so physically entangled that its impossible not to. It's a kid, maybe
freshly eighteen years old. I can see very new, very thin growth of hair on his upper lip,
probably his attempt at a first mustache. The kid lets out his final breath hot against
my own face as I struggle to disentangle myself from him. I bet they told him he'd be a hero as
he marched off to war just weeks ago. I quickly rise to my feet and pick up my rifle, but I
hold it with my knife in my non-shooting hand. The trenches are such tight confines that I know
inevitably it'll come down to the knife again. I much prefer the rifle. A
lot less personal that way. I race along the enemy trench, they're
built with sharp L-shaped turns to limit the amount of damage a direct artillery
impact can do, which makes it impossible to know where enemy soldiers are physically
at until you run right into them. I'm struck by just how undefended this small piece
of the trench was- just a single soldier. Maybe the war really is finally turning,
and the krauts are running out of soldiers. I almost get my head blown off when
one of our own comes down from above, having finished his mad dash across no-man's land.
He spots my uniform though and lowers his rifle, as I signal for him to follow
me. There's only two of us here, I suspect most of the men I went
over the top with didn't make it. We move along the trenches and come
upon a new stretch filled with Germans. The two of us immediately open fire, and the
roar of the rifles in such tight confines is enough to temporarily deafen me. I work the
bolt furiously, feeding a fresh round into the chamber, and fire again before the Germans
can turn on us. Then, I lower my rifle and charge straight at the small group of Germans,
roaring a guttural battle cry of fear and rage. Rifles are simply too slow firing for trench
warfare, the killing is done mostly hand-to-hand. My bayonet finds home in one of the Germans just
as he raises his rifle up to fire. Another German opens up and I can feel the burning pain of a near
miss grazing my abdomen. Just a few centimeters over and he would've destroyed one of my kidneys-
a certain death sentence. Without waiting for the first man to die, I turn on the German who nearly
killed me and return the favor with my bayonet. A third German roars as he brings
his rifle down like a club, and I instinctively turn my helmet towards
the blow. My head rings as the heavy rifle smashes into the steel helmet, but it
spares me having my skull split open. With my bayonet lodged in my last victim, I drop
my rifle and lash out with the knife instead. Rifles can be good clubs, but they're terrible
weapons in close quarters. A knife is faster, more accurate, and if you come in under an enemy's
swing you leave them completely defenseless. The German is the fourth to die at my hand today. There's more whistles blown across
the trench, whistles I recognize, and I can't believe my ears. Those whistles
are the sound of victory, the signal for officers to begin attempting to piece back
together their individual units. I'm stunned, crossing no-man's land felt like an eternity,
but in my hyperactive, adrenaline-fueled state, the actual battle in the trenches felt like
mere seconds. But just like that, it was over. Well, at least this part was over. The Germans
would no doubt counter attack and attempt to reclaim their trench. Doing so through the
slit trenches that ran perpendicular to the main trenches would be suicidal- those
were meant to move men and equipment from the rear to the front, and only two men
side-by-side could march down those trenches. No, if they wanted their trench
back they'd have to take it the same way we did- by going up and over the top. I immediately start working on a
firing position from which I can engage the inevitable counter-attack, and
I hear more men coming in over the top. This time its the machine gunners
and their bulky machine guns, disassembled in pieces for the mad-dash across
no-man's land. They quickly work to set up a position and with their presence I find myself
feeling a bit better about the whole thing. Now it would be the Germans turn to face machine
guns if they really wanted their trench back. There's the roar of artillery exploding all
across our line as the Germans fire on their own previously held positions. No doubt there remain
small pockets of German troops fighting for their lives, but that's not something the generals
in charge can afford to care about right now. If this entire section of the front was to be kept
from collapse, then this trench has to be retaken, and the only way to do that is to blast it as
hard as one can before the inevitable charge. At least it won't be me going over the
top this time, and for that, I'm grateful. Ready for more action-packed war stories?
Check out How I survived Modern combat, or click this other video instead!
