Chapter 4

Revelations Of The Heart

Blanche

The day is dark and bleak as a steady rain falls over Atlanta. There is a damp chill throughout her house that causes the arthritis in Blanche's fingers and shoulders to ache with a dull discomfort that only adds to the depressive nature of a melancholy day. She sits in her rocking chair and stares at the raindrops as they trickle down the front windows and glimmer in the indistinct light that is sparingly permitted by the gray skies. She listens to the hollow sound of the rain as it pelts against the roof and gently rolls down in the gutters and recalls when she was a little girl, lying in her upstairs bedroom listening to the same sounds. She looks about the shadowed room and can vividly see faces of her mother and father and can lovingly recall such days as this when she and Charles would sit on the front porch and make up all sorts of games to forestall the gloom of a dreary day. Her thoughts revive Euclid Avenue as it was so long ago when she and her whole family were together in this house. These were the happiest times of her life. Even when Charles returned from The Great War, only a diminished reflection of the man he had once been, the birth of Loren had blessed them with a consoling dimension  and helped sustain them through the difficult years of The Depression.

Within the past week, those happy images from the past have been all the more vibrant in her mind since at the last Sunday Mass, Father O'Connor's homily was spoken on the importance of love and understanding in the family. She picks up her Sunday Missal and turns to the opening prayer of the Mass. Her lips move but emit no sound as she reads the prayer again:

May we pray, recalling  the family that brought us into this world gave us a

love and understanding we must permit to endure beyond this life. Father in heaven,

he who created each of us to feel love for one another above any other of your living

creations, you ordered the Earth to bring forth life and crowned its goodness

by creating the family of man. In history's moment when it was all ready, you sent

your son to dwell in time, obedient to the laws of life in our world. Teach us the

sanctity of human love, show us the value of family life and help us to live in

peace with all men that we may share in your life forever. Grant this through Christ

our Lord who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God

forever and ever.

Amen.

Since her childhood, she can recall the priests at Sacred Heart Church speaking of love and understanding. For all her life, she has believed in the teachings of the Church but sometimes has not completely understood all viewpoints of the faith. Love and happiness had always been present in her home, but that certainly was not the case in some of the other homes along Euclid Avenue. The world seems not to have reached the point where "all men can live in peace and share in God's life forever" because it was disputes among these same men and wars that took both Charles and Loren from the family that truly loved them. The prayer must have intended to depict more a goal rather than present-day factuality. In his homily, Father O'Connor had even touched on that. She can remember almost word for word the manner in which he explained how the lack of faith often appear in one's mind when that person is afraid or unhappy. As he put it, "We know how difficult it would be to explain the intricacies of a computer or the complexity of ballistics used for space flights to a person without formal education. Such a person lacks the very concepts necessary to understand such things. We face somewhat the same condition when we apply our limited hearts and minds to the contemplation of the infinite God and outpouring of the His spirit. We should, therefore, realize all the Bible can do is to introduce us to meaningful truths about the Spirit of God in limited human terminology. Human speech cannot possibly adequately explain why the pattern of one's life leads him down the path of disappointment, while the opposite may be true for someone else is less deserving in the terms our minds can fathom."

Loren and Charles did not seem to deserve what their lives had allotted them. Towards the end when his health began to collapse, the fear Charles felt radiated from his body. You could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice as it became progressively weaker. During all those days he lay helpless in the downstairs bedroom, he never cursed the Army or the man who had thrust that bayonet through his stomach. Charles was attempting to do the same thing to him.

Fear had been his constant companion, almost from the first moment he set foot in France. Blanche and Mary could see that his letters a different outlook from the one of a brash, young man whom they had seen away at the Union Station on that day long ago. He was frightened by nearly everything he found around him. He wrote of how he feared the sound and shock of the constant artillery fire. Seeing men strangle in their own body fluids during the gas attacks had been something that continued to torment him until the day he died. He feared rushing towards the machine gun positions and the distinct sound made when multiple rounds perforated a man's body. With their last breaths, some would release an anguished cry of pain as they fell to the ground. Others would quietly fall, still grasping their rifles.

Blanche especially remembers one letter when he wrote he could no longer bear to look at the torn bodies lying on the battlefield with the scar of fear written on their faces for all eternity. Seeing dead bodies littering hundreds of yards of barren earth was frightening enough but to see a wounded man lying on the ground, crying in agony and always with that helpless, pleading look on his face was many times worse.

It was so obvious from his letters Charles feared the hand to hand fighting in the trenches most of all. Several times, he wrote that looking into the eye of  someone intent on killing him, while besieged by the sounds of men screaming in pain and the flat sound of wood and metal slamming against human flesh and bone had purged every degree of resolution from him. Some men had seemed to become conditioned to it, but he found himself only becoming more and more afraid with each passing day. It seemed especially cruel on that fateful day when it was Charles who fell to the ground screaming in pain, it was during hand-to-hand fighting in the trenches he feared so much – not to mention the fact he was wounded so close to the armistice.

One would think when the fighting ended, a man could gradually regain himself and resume the life he had left. In Charles case, his handicap deprived him of that, but in time he reconciled himself to the fact he would never be the man he once was. He then became ruled by a different kind of fear because then, he could see and feel his life, ever so slowly, slipping away. Such fear finally prevailed over all else; and instead of looking forward to what should have been the happiest time of his life, he found himself dreading the passing of each day because he was afraid what the next day might inflict on him.

When he was finally confined to his bed, even though he did not mention it in so many words, his fear at last claimed his final and most treasured bond to this world when he knew he had nothing left to give. He could only take. Blanche remembers sitting with him at his bedside, only wanting to find something to say that would life his spirits but many times, just not finding the words. A consuming fear began to possess her as well when she realized that sitting there with him, grasping for words as she did, was making Charles feel all the more helpless. Finally, his helplessness dominated all that remained in the shadow of his life, and he only wanted to die. Even then, he would always manage an obscure smile, and his hand would always extend to Blanche and Mary as they stood at his bedside.

Blanch stands and walks to one of the front windows. She brushes the curtain back and looks up at the dark sky. The trees have shed some of their leaves, and the raindrops hand on the bear limbs as if to resist falling to the ground and disappearing into the earth. She can picture Loren as a child, standing there at the same window and asking her to make it stop raining so he could go out and play. He loved him just as though he were her son.

Compared to his father, Loren's service time had been quite different. He had been so in love with flying and already had his pilot's license before enlisting. That was before Pearl Harbor but he had no trouble in getting into the Army Air Corps flight school. He was among the first American troops to be stationed in England and one of the first men of the Eighth Air Force to face the Luftwaffe in the skies over Europe.

He first, he was so excited by it all. He was a storybook adventure and so unlike his father's first touch with war, because he was fighting from a distance. He never saws scores of lifeless bodies with their uniforms soaked in their own blood. At first, his letters were so enthusiastic as to how impregnable the B-17 and how precision daylight bombing offered the surest hope of ending the war, but it soon became obvious fear was claiming him, just as it had his father. The Luftwaffe had learned how to break the tight formations, and the anti-aircraft batteries were perfecting the use of radar. More and more planes and crews were going down.

Seeing a plane from another group, hundreds of yards across the sky, descending with smoke pouring from its engines or exploding in mid-air seemed strangely unthreatening, but when he began seeing his wingmen's planes ripped apart by flak and lifelessly fall from formation, his growing fright administered the cruel reality that each day could be his last.

When he began losing his friends, his letters would sometimes mention how many parachutes he had seen as the stricken B-17s, sometimes with whole sections of their fuselages blown away, disappeared into the clouds. She especially remembers one letter mentioning no parachutes had been seen, and as the airplane faded from sight, he wonder if all the crew were dead or possibly if some were still alive but wounded too badly to bail out from the doomed airplane. He was terrified at the thought of sitting helplessly strapped to his seat, in pain and knowing he had only a few more moments to live as he watched the ground coming closer and closer.

Receiving such letters would always leave Blanche and Mary with strange feelings. Any mother always treasures the reminiscences of her son as a child. It seemed such a short time ago that Loren had been with them, running in and out of the house and playing with the boys down the street. He was unthinkable that the same little child was then so far away from them and so afraid. Once, becoming a pilot had been the dream of his life but then, each time the group taxied single file down the runway before a mission, he hands began to tremble. Ironically, the German pilots who were soon to encounter them in the air no doubt had the same feelings.

The day is depressing, and the room is dimly lit by the dispiriting gloom of the rainy day. Her eyes search across the walls and the old furniture and then remain set for a moment on the pictures of Charles and Loren on the table in the back of the room. Again, she gazes out the window at the corner bus stop and remembers the years during World War II. The Railway Express Agency office was on Luckie Street, and Mary worked for the Hartford Fire Insurance Company in the old Trust Company of Georgia Building only a few blocks away. Each night, they would meet at the bus stop in front of King Hardware Store on Peachtree Street. From the moment they got off the bus on Euclid Avenue, their eyes would remain fixed on the mailbox on their porch in hopes there would be a letter from Loren. By the time they reached the walkway, they could see the blue stationary Loren always used, and their hearts would begin to pound as they hurried up the steps.

Loren would always write once a week, but it took the letters quite awhile to reach them. Even though they so much looked forward to his letters, it was disquieting to read them, because they knew he might not still be alive. When the letters stopped, they knew something was wrong. After three weeks, everyday Mary called Mrs. Vest, who lived across the street, and asked her to check the mailbox after the mailman had come, but a letter was never there. It was such a trying time – knowing that something had happened to Loren. The uncertainty and worry were overpowering.

As Blanche walks back to her rocking chair, she remembers it was on a Saturday morning, and the mailman had just come.

Again, there had been no letter. She and Mary were sitting in the living room, almost in tears, when they saw the olive drab sedan stop in front of their house. Their eyes caught one another's. A tight, choking feeling came to their throats as they got up, slowly walked to the door, stopped with their arms around one another and watched the Army major walking up the walkway. Mary open the door, began to cry and weakly said, "It's about Loren, isn't it.?

Loren was dead, as were all the members of his crew. Their plane had exploded during a fighter engagement. This was all the major could tell them. Mary always clipped out the newspaper reports of anything pertaining to the war, and within a few days after the major was there, they began to receive a few letters from some of Loren's friends. Between the letters and newspaper reports, they gradually pieced together what had happened. It seemed something had gone wrong with the flight plan. The operation order had called for several bomber groups to reach the target at the same time while flying at different altitudes to confuse the enemy anti-aircraft batteries. Loren's group had suffered an intense fighter attack, soon after he was in range of the German fighter squadrons. Two planes had already gone down by the time the group reached the point where they were to meet the other bomber groups and continue to the target. Several of the group commander's crew had been wounded during the fighter attack, which had been so violent the group was slightly off course. Between trying to get help for the wounded and communications with the navigator to get back on course, he never notice something was wrong with the timing, and the other groups had not joined the formation. By then, there were already in the flack space, and nothing but empty skies surrounded them. The German radar stations had tracked them for as long as they had been in range, and the anti-aircraft batteries had the formation bracketed with accurate fire

The group leader faced an impossible decision – whether to abort the mission without dripping a single bomb, attempting a ninety degree turn with evasive action or to continue the bomb path for just a few more minutes and try to salvage something from the developing disaster. He must have been thinking the foremost thought in any soldier's mind should be the accomplishment of the mission when he gave the order to continue to the target.

The target was hit, and a fair amount of damage was achieved, but by the time the planes closed their bomb bay doors, several had been so seriously damaged by flack, they could not hold their positions in the formation. Loren's plane had lost one engine, and the group was scattered all over the sky. When they finally flew out of the flack space, the fighters were waiting for them.

After a target was hit, the German commanders would usually re-commit most of the fighter force to bomber groups that had not yet hit their targets but in this case, they saw an inviting chance to score an impressive victory in an air battle and directed that all squadrons in the zone attack the crippled formation as it desperately attempted to reform into a tight formation to combat the fighter onslaught. Five more planes were lost. The German pilots seemed to instinctively recognize the B-17s whose gunners had been wounded or killed earlier in the mission, as they systematically cut them to pieces.

Death had come quickly to Loren and all the members of his crew. When their plane exploded, at least, he was spared the terrifying experience of going down with it. That had been what he feared the most.

Mary was never the same after that. War had claimed both Charles and Loren, although in such different manners. Charles's death had been slow and agonizing, while Loren had been taken in an instant. Each had brought a different feeling of loss, but both Mary and Blanche had lost the most precious things in their lives. Blanche remembers all those nights after the Second War when Mary would just sit in her room for hours at the time, looking at the same pictures in their photo album, over and over again. Sometimes, they would sit in the living room and talk of the happy times when they were all together in this house, which then seemed so depressingly empty.

Finally, Mary just resigned herself to the inevitable – the happy times of her life were lost forever. Her life had become so totally empty, and she would constantly say there was nothing left for her to live for. It is a terrible thing when one realizes the best time of his or her life has passed and only a duration remains that is not altogether meaningless but promises never to sanction the happiness of what seems another life and another time.

When Mary died only a few years after Loren had been killed, Doctor Tarpley had taken such a cold and clinical viewpoint. As he put it, "There's no scientific basis for someone's dying of a broken heart. More than likely, it was the cigarettes."

Where have all the years gone? As time ebbed away, Blanche could see so many things she could have done to bring a moment of consolation to Charles as he lay so helplessly in his bed. She recalls so many parts of her life she could have lived so much better and she wishes she could change, but whatever chances for that had faded with the passing of time and are now lost forever.

Strangely, the images of Charles's last days escape her mind and suddenly, just as though it were yesterday, she can see him as a young man the day he left for The Great War, standing there on the platform of the Union Station. Many people were at the station that day, and quite a few other young men were leaving for overseas. In bidding their loved ones farewell, some were laughing and some were crying. She and Mary waved good-bye to Charles as he disappeared into one of the passenger cars. The whistle sounded, the wheels slowly began to turn and the engine emitted a dense cloud of white smoke that momentarily covered the platform. The train slowly left the station. They both stood there and watched it until it could no longer be seen. For a moment, they remained motionless and glared at the empty tracks.

She remembers returning to the house that day, which was the first time since the death of her mother and father she had been obsessed with the tormenting feeling the house was so formidably empty. Over the years, she has asked herself so many times, how could such tragedies as those two wars ever have happened – so much death, so much loss and so much suffering? Worry and fear had been with them all the time Charles and Loren were away. Sometimes, especially when the news from the fronts had been bad, the fear was near unbearable. As the dreary day entombs her spirits, her thoughts reach far, far back into the past as she tries to phantom what it must have been like for those who were there and lived through it all.

Charles

The long line of soldiers extended far back along the winding road. The night was dark but could not veil the devastation of nearly four years of war. The ground was barren, yielding no sigh of any form of life. It was almost as thought nature itself had renounced any will to witness the same ground being lost and reclaimed, over and over again. The terrain was harsh and void of any signs of early spring. There was just that road that seemed to lead to nowhere, each bend only leading to more barren earth and giving the impression the regiment was passing the same places over and over again and was lost in a nightmare from which there was no escape. The darkness made Charles feel more alone, even though he was surrounded by hundreds of soldiers. None of them said a word, as each man was lost in his own thoughts. All that could be heard was the sound of men's feet striding across the soft ground and the turning of the wheels of the mule-drawn supply wagons. It seem strange that after all the intellectual gain of the Industrial Revolution, the mule was still the most efficient mode to negotiate the unimproved roads and deliver supplies to the off-road marshaling areas. Charles felt a kinship with both the other soldiers, or "doughboys" as they were called, and with the mules, since all of them had been transported through France in the same small, wooden boxcars called "forty and eights", because they would carry forty soldiers or eight mules.

Charles was afraid. He had been afraid since he arrived in France. In the first few weeks, he had been cold and hungry in addition to being afraid. The tins of corned beef and salmon plus the slices of "monkey meat" did little to dispel a man's hunger, because there was a limit as to how much of the unsavory substances one could consume. As spring approached during the early months of 1918, and as he got closer to the front, he was too afraid to be hungry. He was just cold and afraid. On that black night as the regiment column stalked along that winding road, he listened to the distant artillery. He wondered how many men in the forward areas had been alive only thirty minutes before and are now dead.

Being cold in May was a strange feeling. Sometimes, it is unsettling when a person finally begins to see himself as he really is – especially if the revelation tends to displace more favorable past self-evaluations. In Charles's case, in the past few weeks, it had become obvious he was not the strong-minded, committed man he had thought himself to be only a short while before. As the Second Division moved closer to the front, he had seen more and more men being evacuated to the field hospitals – men with unshaven faces, dirty uniforms, bandages soaked in blood and always, that blank stare proclaiming a total resignation to the fear they also felt. The Frenchmen would just sit there on the sides of the road, only occasionally looking up at the Americans as they moved forward.

For a moment, Charles thoughts wandered from the uncertainty that lay ahead. He could see the white picket fences, flowerbeds and shady sidewalks along Euclid Avenue and tried to determine what time it was in Atlanta at that moment. He remembered his childhood when he and Blanche had been together with his mother and father in the house he then realized he loved so much. Strangely, he feeling of loss he endured when his mother and father died was so different from the vacant feeling then possessing him. He missed his wife and sister so much and wondered if he would ever see them again, sitting around the kitchen table or on the front porch during those spring evenings. He had come to realize how important his family was to him and was sorry it had taken something like this vehement war to show him there were so many things in his life he had not appreciated nearly enough. That sobering realization added a broader dimension to his fear. He finally knew that certain parts of his life needed to be set straight but also knew he might never have the chance.

He looked down at his watch. It was 1:00 AM, May 27, 1918. It was his birthday, and he might well have been the only thirty-year old private within miles. He tried to push the thought he wished he had never enlisted out of his mind. He and his partner could still be installing the wiring in those new houses on Sinclair and Alta Avenues. His skill as an electrician had made him a better living than his mother and father, and at that instant, he could not recapture the feelings that compelled him to enlist and insist on becoming an infantryman. He debated if he had become wiser or was just a coward he had never thought himself to be.

Suddenly, towards the northeast, the sky lit up as though it was daytime, and the earth trembled with what sounded like hundreds of artillery pieces. The column came to a complete stop. No one move. Each man was petrified, as everyone knew what he was hearing could only be the beginning of a major German offensive. Shortly, the order came from the front of the column to resume the march. Charles and everyone else wondered what was about to happen. How long would it be before their company would be thrown into battle? Charles eyes remained fixed on the sky. He broke out into a cold sweat, and his heart began to pound. He had never been so afraid.

The regiment reached the village of Bursaries at 5:00 AM. That was about the time the artillery stopped. As the men pitched their pup tents in the bivouac area just outside the village, there was much speculation as to what was happening at the front. No one really knew, and everyone was beset with the threatening possibilities. The joking and laughter that had been with them since they first arrived in France had gradually expired and had been replaced by expressions of concern and silence. Charles sat on the ground in front of his tent and looked at the other men in the company. Some were restlessly walking about the bivouac area, and some were sitting in front of their own tents. His eyes searched the men's faces.

There was Arthur Harr, a frail man about twenty-three years old. He was slowly walking around his tent with his hands in his pockets. Intermittently, he would stop and run his hands through his light brown hair and look at the ground for a few moments before resuming his nervous pacing. He was even more afraid than Charles. During the past weeks, he had become more and more withdrawn, and one could read his consuming fear just by looking at him. The night before, when the artillery bombardment began, he had broken down in tears.

Frank Slaton, from all outward appearances, seemed the exact opposite. He was a large man with a heavy frame and jet-black hair. His thick eyebrows accented his stern and cold nature. From the first time Charles had seen him, he was obvious that something in his past had scarred his life and left him full of deceit and hate. He never had anything good to say about anyone and actually seemed to be looking forward to coming face to face with the enemy in the trenches, which was what Charles feared the most.

And then, there was David Kenner. He was a quiet man who went out of his way to help those around him. He had such a pleasant and obliging disposition; and his gentle face and blue eyes gave the impression he was truly sincere, but Frank always described him as a "candy ass."

David walked over and sat down with Charles and said, "I heard Captain Dickerson was called into a regiment briefing a while ago. Maybe it won't be long before we know something."

Charles was glad to have someone to speak with as he welcomed him and answered, "I hope so. This waiting and not knowing anything is starting to work on me pretty bad. What do you think is going on?"

David paused a moment and began to pick up some pebbles and throw them back to the ground. "Did you notice how the artillery stopped all at once last night? I think they probably hit the French defensive positions with everything they had and then tried to overrun them with a frontal assault."

A cold chill pierced Charles's body. Slowly, he replied, "I was thinking the same thing but I thought the Germans had everything in the zone committed against the British in Flanders." For a moment, neither man spoke, and then Charles asked, "Are you afraid?"

A negligible smile came to David's face before he responded, "Can't you tell by looking at me?"

Presently, a corporal, with eyes as big as silver dollars, came running through the bivouac area screaming in a rather high-pitched voice that did little to characterize authority, "Company assembly.....company assembly."

Men quickly stopped what they were doing, which was largely nothing, and ran to the assembly area to find Captain Dickerson positioned beside a large map of northern France. The captain was small in stature, thirty-five years old and a career soldier. Somehow, his uniform appeared neat, and he looked like someone on a recruiting poster. His small, gray mustache was neatly trimmed, and his narrow-brimmed helmet sat at a slight angle on his head. The ammunition pouches fit tightly around his waist, and his leggings were wrapped quite evenly around his ankles, an art that few soldiers in the company had mastered. He seemed quite relaxed, standing there with his hands behind him, looking at the men in the company as they sat in front of the map.

The day was clear, and the warming sun had removed an unusual morning chill. The forest offered a setting of tranquil beauty that was scarred in places by the reminders of war that was drawing ever so closer to the company. Trenches lined the rolling meadow along the borders of the forest, and several of the large trees in the vicinity had been severed by errant artillery rounds obviously intended for man and not natural resource.  Gradually, the small talk among the men subsided until there was complete quite. Every eye was on the map and the commanding large black arrows on the overlay that, alarmingly, seemed to be pointed in the general direction of Bussiares.

The captain brought his swagger stick to his side and took a few steps forward. "Gentlemen, I have just returned from Regiment S2 briefing, and as you now doubt have surmised, the enemy has launched a massive offensive to our northeast. The maneuver has taken the French Sixth Army by complete surprise, and I regret to inform that their units that were massed in the forward trenches were all but eliminated as an effective deterrent to this attack by the artillery bombardment we all witnessed last evening."

As the captain continued, Charles was overwhelmed as what he heard. The Germans had moved a large number of artillery pieces into positions under the cover of night, and a large advance had begun along the Chemin des Dames Ridge. The French defenses had first been struck by a gas attack that was followed by intensive shell saturation. Already, the enemy had advanced five miles behind the allied lines and had crossed the Aisne River.  The breakthrough was a nine mile wide salient threatening the villages of Bazoches on one side and Soissons on the other.

When Captain Dickerson said the regiment had been ordered forward to the Vaux and Belleau Woods area, Charles did not grasp very much of what was said after that. The men in the company just quizzically glanced at one another, trying to determine where the Germans were in relation to where the company was at that moment.

No one said very much as the bivouac area was cleared. The men folder their tents and were especially concerned with their equipment. Everyone was checking their Model 1917 rifles, counting their rounds of ammunition and fitting their gas masks to their faces. Most of the Second Division would be moved forward by truck, but for a reason that remained unexplained, the Ninth Regiment would march overland, up the Metz Road. Once again, it would be a night march.

As the regiment assembled on the road, the last rays of light disappeared from the sky. The wheels of the mule-drawn supply wagons sank into the earth as the animals to pull them up the embankments of each side of the road. The night was still, and the trees of the forest stood motionless against the fading light of day. The mystic sounds of some type of nocturnal birds began to fill the night air. An uneasy tinge seized Charles's stomach and that same choking stricture came into his throat. He turned, looked at David Kenner and could scarcely utter, "Well, I guess all the preparation is over."

David nodded and managed a slight smile.

In a moment, the platoon sergeant came running down the road and motioned the second platoon to gather around him. He was slightly out of breath or might have just been afraid as he conveyed still more alarming information. "The Germans have crossed the Vesle River and both Soissons and Fismes have fallen. No one is sure how much of the French Sixth Army remains between us and the Germans." He began breathing even harder before adding, "We'll be moving out in just a few minutes." He started running back down the road but then, abruptly turned around and started running the other way.

As the Ninth Regiment left Bussiares on the night of May 29, 1918, the march was very similar to the one two nights before. Again, there was a complete hush in the column, but everyone could tell from the sounds of the artillery that it had obviously been moved closer. Charles could hear his heart beating above the sounds of the bombardment, and with each step, he knew he was moving farther and farther away from his past life he had only begun to fully appreciate within the past several weeks.

When the unit marching for several hours, the platoon sergeant again came running down the road. From his depleted appearance, he looked as though he been running all the while since the last time he was seen. His face was white and his voice quivered as he shouted,  "Pass the word down the column to get everything on the right side of the road!"

For a while, there was complete turmoil as man and animal fumbled around in the darkness. Finally, everyone was sitting at the side of the road welcoming a reprieve from the long march. Some stared at the road while others looked off to the north at the frightful flashes of the artillery. Charles was among those staring at the road, because looking anywhere else opened his imagination to precisely the things he was trying to keep out of his mind. The mules made restless braying sounds and tossed their heads in protest as their normal docile nature was obviously disturbed by what seemed to them needless disarray. Charles and David looked around, trying to find the other members of their squad. While they were by no means eager to get to the front, neither of them wanted to get lost before the first shot was fired at them. Just as they were satisfied they were where they should be, David's hand reached out and clutched Charles's arm. He pointed towards the front of the column and in a troubled tone said, "Look up there."

Almost simultaneously, everyone in the company looked forward to the other side of the road. Those who were sitting slowly came to their feet as a startled gasp spread down the column. Faint silhouettes began to appear in the light from the flashing artillery. Gradually, dire sounds preceded the images before they came into view. There were the same sounds of the turning of the animal-drawn carts, but what possessed everyone's observation were the sounds of men crying out in pain. Some of the cries were shrill and at regular intervals, while others were more restrained but seemed at perfect sequence with their labored breaths. The cool night air carried the moans of the wounded, and the darkness could not conceal the terrible defeat the French had suffered.

Soon, both sides of the road were filled with man and animals. Some of the Americans slowly raised their hands in a respectful salute to the defeated army as it dragged itself down the road. Some soldiers were slowly walking. Others were sitting on the horse-drawn carts with their heads resting against the sides of the creaking vehicles. The white bandages draped around the men's bodies illuminated their agonized grimaces and clearly outlined the large stains of blood covering much of them. Men with missing arms and legs lay side by side. What remained of their broken bodies writhed in pain. The sounds of misery and agony filled the night. Some of the men cried out aloud as they reached out to those attending them. Some sat motionless.

Presently, Charles realized that most of the men who seemed so brave and strong to keep their pain quietly inside them were dead and had not been removed from the carts. All armies are organized to handle such matters. Some designated detachments look after the wounded, while others sort the dead. Such procedures, according to the medical officers, help prevent the wounded from going into shock, not to mention the efficiency gained from not having to first determine who is dead and who is alive. As green as Charles was, he could readily see how morale could deteriorate if the dead were not separated from the living, but then he thought that possibly that was not nearly as important in the case of a retreating army.

Finally, the mournful procession passed. Word circulated down the column to increase the spacing between the squads, and at last, everyone knew nothing remained between the regiment and the enemy but a few miles of what was once farmland.

Somehow, the whole Ninth Regiment arrived just west of the village of Coupru on the morning of May 30 before the rest of the division that had been transported by truck. This might have been some sort of tactical scheme or the convoys might have been delayed by the retreating French. Quickly, Charles's company was ordered off the rood into a wooded area to conceal it from observation. Slowly, the shock from seeing the retreating Frenchmen was subsiding, but everyone wondered just how far the Germans had driven behind the French lines.

As Charles removed his field pack, David sat down beside him and said, "I don't know who planned that march last night, but I can think of a thing or two that would have better prepared me for battle than seeing what we did."

Frank Slaton boldly spoke up and injected, "What in the hell did you expect? Don't tell me mother's little boy is going to wet his pants the first time he sees one of the Kaiser's bastards peeking at him through the barbed wire."

Arthur Harr nervously asserted, "I'm afraid we're going to see a lot more than just one, because........"

Frank coldly looked at him and shouted, "You sniveling little candy ass, you're just afraid." With a ridiculing laugh, he turned away and sneeringly added, "Fuckers like you don't belong over here."

David looked at Charles and asked, "Do you think he's really as fearless as he makes out?"

Charles shook his head and answered, "We'll probably all know soon enough."

David managed a quiet laugh and added, "I guess so."

The day passed slowly. Charles mind could no longer wander and picture the more pleasant times of his life. He could no longer see the quiet sidewalk along Euclid Avenue or the solacing images of Mary's gentle smile. The officers had just been called into another briefing, and everyone was left with the disturbing impression that none of them knew what they should do next – everyone except Frank Slaton. While most of the others were sitting in small groups and speculating on what lay ahead, Frank sat alone, sharpening the edge of his shovel and singing a strange little tune in perfect time:

"1, 2, 3,

Look at me.

Shine your brass,

Cut some German ass."

Arthur was annoyed. He sat outside his tent, staring at Frank until he finally pleaded, "Stop that!"

Charles and David walked over and sat down beside Arthur, and Charles suggested, "Don't let him get to you, Arthur. I've heard some men lose their heads during battle. I'm not sure what has happened to Frank."

Arthur protested, "He's always been like that. He's the coldest and most heartless person I've ever known."

David nodded in agreement but carefully commented, "In a way, I envy him. Being afraid has called a few things about myself to my mind I can't say I'm especially proud of. This place doesn't seem to have changed Frank at all. Confidence is a wonderful thing, if you have it."

Soon, the officers returned from the briefing, and a near panic very quickly seized the bivouac area. The enlisted cadre was called to the command post and immediately returned with the order to re-assemble on the road. Somehow, word quickly circulated through the company that the French defenses had broken down and the entire division was at peril from the advancing Germans. In the briefing, the situation had only been described as. "The way is wide open."

During the afternoon, there was a force march up the Paris-Metz Road. Even the mules seemed to grasp the urgent tactical conditions. Without objection to the fully-loaded supply wagons, their feet took short and rapid steps as they tugged their burdens up the dusty road.

The artillery had hushed, no doubt because there were no longer any targets. There was an eerie quiet when the Ninth Regiment entered the village of Lethiolet. Everyone had thought the march would end there, but the regiment moved straight through the village and continued some ten miles up the road. Finally, the march was halted, and Captain Dickerson ran to the front of the company. He signaled the platoon leaders to assemble the platoons in skirmish formation. The soldiers in the Second Platoon nervously held their weapons at high port and moved into the open field outside some village. As they ran across the field, already tired from the march, they breathed heavily and gradually, their arms sank to their sides. The aching twinges from their weary bodies were secondary to the obsessing fear that any moment, German machine gun fire would ring out from their objective, which was the high ground a few thousand yards in front of them.

Charles felt surprisingly relieved. He glanced from side to side and suddenly felt a compelling kinship with the panting infantrymen as they all desperately rushed towards the coveted high ground so important to the task that was then so clearly their sole responsibility. When the company reached the sharp incline at the bottom of the hill, the pace fell to a near cessation of movement. The cadre called out, "Keep moving! Keep moving!" Although the merit of such a suggestion could not be debated, it had little effect on the advance. Some of the men braced themselves with their rifle butts, moving ever so slowly up the demanding terrain. Charles's eyes remained intently fixed on the crest of the hill, and he was determined he would not fall until he reached it – more a pragmatic position rather than inspired. He could see David to his left, and Frank was a good ten paces ahead of the entire company, quite effortlessly negotiating the terrain.

Somewhere towards the rear, Charles heard a pleading voice calling out, "David, David." He stopped and saw that Arthur had fallen, was in a lather of perspiration, and lay obviously helpless on the ground some fifty yards back. Both he and David ran back down the hill to find him gasping for breath and whimpering over and over to himself, "I can't do this.!" 

The two men raised him to his feet as David whispered to him, "Come on, Arthur. You can make it . I know you can."

Arthur insisted, "I'm not going to make it," and once again, broke down into tears as he dragged his feet and seemed to resist the effort to help him.

Finally, they reached the top of the hill, a good five minutes behind everyone else. Arthur again fell to the ground.

Frank looked down at him, and said in a jeering tone, "Glad you could make it, Arthur."

The squad leaders quickly circulated among the platoon and positioned men at regular intervals along the defensive line and gave orders to dig in.

Immediately, Frank snarled, "Dig in – with what?"

Without paying much attention to him, everyone frantically began to claw at the earth with bayonets, shovels and mess kits as Frank's hostile attitude passed, and he began to dig with everyone else. He looked over at Arthur, who was feebly scrapping at the ground with no observable results, and scoffed, "Arthur, you don't look like much of a soldier. You look like a cat digging a hole to shit it." Frank began to strongly strike the ground with his shovel, pulling up large chunks of dirt with each blow, as he started to sing to himself:

"This little soldier dug a ditch.

That little soldier screwed a bitch.

Now, this little soldier is a zombie,

And that little bitch is a mommy."

Just as the sun was setting and a mist settled over the rolling terrain, the squad leaders again came down the line to assign each man a field of fire. So far, everything had gone just as the instructors taught in training. Charles was to fire on any enemy that appeared between a small dead tree to his left and a large rock on his right. But still, there was no sound of artillery and no sight of the Germans as the setting sun tinted the fluffy clouds with a bright orange color and a refreshing breeze composed the exhausted soldiers.

As darkness gradually claimed the last remnants of the rigorous day, each man responded somewhat differently within the thoughts that he only knew. There was a threatening unrest that ruled everyone, yet some felt more secure to be concealed by darkness. Still others felt even more afraid at not seeing what was before them.

Charles's tired body had just begun to relax when Corporal  King moved along the back of the entrenchments and whispered, "Harr, Kenner, Slaton, Wilson. Come with me."

Frank murmured, "Now what?" as the group hurried one hundred yards to rear where a first lieutenant, a major and Captain Dickerson were crouched down with a pup tent over their shoulders, pondering over a map under the feeble flickering of a small candle. Charles could scarcely make out the figures "204" on the map, which he immediately conjectured was the unimaginative name assigned to one of the hills before the defensive positions and that particular hill had some relevance to the hastily arranged meeting.

With his usual calmness, Captain Dickerson said, "Good evening, gentlemen. I know we've all had a rough day, but it is essential we send out a patrol tonight to position the artillery forward observers and lay out the communications wire to the artillery batteries." As the lieutenant and major continued to talk among themselves, Dickerson called Charles and the others to one side of the crude conference where ten other men were sitting behind ten large reels of communication wire. Dickerson kneeled down in the center of them, and they listened very intently as he explained, "The idea is to place the forward observers about 2500 yards in front of our line. When they've established communications by of the wire these men from the Signal Corps will be laying, tomorrow morning at first light, the artillery batteries to the rear will begin to register fire on certain prominent terrain features in order to establish quick reference points from which we can call in a bombardment on any attack against our perimeter."

During the entire briefing, Frank nodded his head from side to side, and his mouth had sort of a twisted smile, almost implying he was boarded by the whole procedure and had more important things to do. In a few minutes, the meeting ended and as the patrol moved back to the front of the perimeter, Charles felt encouraged. At last, he could see some method, and he immediately felt more confident.

Suddenly, a suppressed voice pierced the darkness. "Halt doughboy!"

Everyone stopped and crouched down, bewilderingly looking at one another and then at the major at the front of the patrol. The sentry had stopped then and challenged them for the password to past his post but no one knew the counter challenge. So much for method.

In a moment, Slaton spoke up and disgustedly blurted out, "What in the hell do you think this is – some sort of hide and seek game? Let us pass, because the damn fate of the world depends on what we're about to do."

The sentry seemed amused as he walked towards the huddled aggregation and inquired, "Is that you, Slaton?"

"Who in the hell do you think it is, Santa Clause?" Slaton responded and then began to snicker.

When the sentry came close enough to recognize their uniforms, he looked at the major and reassuringly said with a polite laugh, "The counterchallenge is 'strike'".

The major nodded, stepped back in front of Slaton and coldly said, "Why don't you let me do the talking?" He didn't wait for an answer, but there was no doubt in Charles mind that Frank could have given one which, although lacking in eloquence, would have been quite to the point.

Arthur was intrigued by Frank's self-confidence. He sheepishly looked at Charles and David and said, "He thinks this is all a game."

As the small patrol walked single file through the forward defensive positions, everyone on the line surveyed them in silence. Wondering men's eyes followed them as they disappeared into the night. The lieutenant was from division S2 and seemed to know where he was leading them. If he did, he had attained quite an accomplishment, having only the benefit of a map reconnaissance. Thankfully, the pitch black that concealed them no longer seemed as enshrouding as it had when they first set out. During the training, the instructors had said about one's developing "night vision" after being in the darkness for a while. It seemed to be true, and this was but another area adding to Charles's reassurance he had felt during the past hour. Still, there was that same gnawing in his stomach, his mouth was dry and a clammy chill covered his entire body.

The lieutenant led them down from the high ground to the mouth of a deep ravine. He paused a moment before moving back to the signal corpsmen and whispering, "We're going to lay the wire along the base of this ravine as far as we can. We've learned from the British that the Germans are adept at locating such things and cutting them."

As the patrol entered the gorge, Arthur lost his footing and whimpered aloud as he fell to the bottom of the yawning crevasse.

Slaton disapprovingly gasped, "Damn!"

Everyone stopped and scowled at Arthur as he lay on the ground and seemed unable, or unwilling, to get up.

David slid down, picked him up and noticed his face was white as snow, his body was trembling and large beads of perspiration covered his face. David looked him straight into his eyes, rested his hand on his shoulder for a moment and quietly said, "Come on, Arthur. Everything's going to be all right."

Arthur took off his helmet, swept his sleeve across his face and in a somewhat skeptical inflection, asked, "How do you know?"

David smiled and said, "It's in my contract. You don't think I'd come out here in the dark without some sort of guarantee, do you?"

After Arthur was installed back in the file, the procession continued along the bottom of the ravine. The all made quite a bit of noise, as the ground in some places crumpled under their feet, and there was the constant creaking of the reels as they lay down the wire along the floor of the fissure. Even so, some of Charles fear relented to the point he was beginning to see the necessity of what they were doing.

Suddenly, the patrol came to an abrupt halt. Faint voices could be heard at ground level some distance ahead. For the first time, the S2 lieutenant seemed uncertain as to what to do, and Charles immediately sensed this was the first time he had found himself in a combat situation, and he was intensely trying to recall how the training manuals suggested how such a predicament be addressed.

In what seemed quite a long time under the pressing circumstances, the men stood frozen in their tracks. The night was still and void of any sound, save the suppressed breathing of the terrified men, all of whom were waiting for someone else to do something to extricate the patrol from its dilemma. Finally, Corporal King seized the initiative and motioned for everyone to hug the sides of the ravine. He looked down the row of quivering men, except for Frank, and held his palms down to signal for complete quiet, as though no one knew that was precisely what was prescribed under the present circumstances.  All Charles could hear was his own breathing and the intermittent sounds of whoever was on the ground above them. Soon, it was clear that the approaching voices were speaking German. Movement could be heard for a few moments, then there would be nothing but the sounds of the voices. Then, the movement would continue.

Puzzled thoughts came into Charles's mind. Finally, he concluded the German patrol must be on a mission very similar to is own and the sporadic starting and stopping probably meant they were lost.

There was a long silence and then, the voices resumed. The steps came progressively closer. Finally, the enemy patrol was at the top of the ravine which they must have felt was an inviting means to hid themselves until they figured out where they were and depending on that determination, select what they should do next.

The Americans tried to press their bodies closer and closer to the tighter and tighter against the walls of the ravine. Charles recognized the sound of the German's breathing as identical to his own only a few moments earlier and tried to determine how many of them were there. A sharp chill ran through his body, as he could not remember if the safety of his rifle was on or off. He debate what he should do first – pull the trigger or push the safety latch forward.

At that moment, the enemy patrol began sliding feet-first down into the ravine. Their arms holding their rifles were extended helplessly above their heads. There was only five of them, and they slid directly into the center of the patrol. One of the German soldiers was so close his elbow touched Charles's shoulder. The Germans were stunned for a fleeting moment when they saw the olive drab uniforms that surrounded them. Even in the darkness, Charles could see they grayish, green uniforms, the small brass buttons along the front of their tunics and could even detect the scent of perspiration as the opposing patrols stood face to face.

Everyone was stupefied except for Frank who shouted, "Oh, look what I found." He boldly stepped forward and shouted again, "You son of a bitch!" delivering a strong blow with his shovel to the base of one of the enemy's neck. The blow produced a splatting type sound and a coughing heave from the enemy soldier. His head was severed, and a mist of his blood sprayed throughout the trench. The head, with the helmet still on, thudded as it struck the ground while his lifeless body remained erect for a few seconds before his knees folded and he collapsed to the ground.

Arthur cried out and fell against the other side of the trench, as his body was seized by convulsions. He lay there trembling.

One of the German soldiers dropped his rifle and reached out to strongly clutch Charles's arm. Reflexively, Charles unsheathed his bayonet, and with all the force he could collect, shoved it underhanded into his side. Charles could hear his ribs crack, as the bayonet went through his ribs and into his lungs. Charles was looking directly into his blue eyes and at his wrenched mouth when he released an agonized scream. Slowly, his grip became weaker and weaker, and he looked down at the blood gushing from his wound. Charles could feel his warm blood trickling down his hand, which was still securely grasping his bayonet; and with his last breath, his terrified eyes glared directly into Charles's eyes before he fell to the ground.

Charles reeled around in the ravine and could see groups of men desperately struggling. There were cries of pain, filthy utterances of profanity and the blunt sound of metal as it struck flesh and bone. In only a few moments, all of the Germans lay dead at the bottom of the ravine. Corporal King had crushed one of their heads with his rifle butt, while David had snapped another's neck before he could turn around and see who was about to kill him. At least, that was merciful in the respect that soldier was spared the terror of seeing a trench filled with the enemy and knowing he had but moments to live. Frank claimed to have scared the others to death simply by looking at them.

Momentarily, the S2 lieutenant seemed to forget he was leading the mission, as he sat on the ground glaring at the dead bodies, which only a few moments earlier had been wondering around in the dark, just has his patrol. No doubt, they all had hopes and dreams for their future lives, just as he did, but now they all lay dead at the hands of others just like themselves. Slowly, he looked up and whispered, "Men, let's...let's get our gear together and resume our mission."

As Charles looked for his rifle, his hand brushed across his waist, and he noticed his bayonet sheath was empty. He looked down at the man he had just killed and noticed it was still protruding from his body. When he reached down to remove it, he saw the man's eyes were still open and continued to stare at him just as they did at the last moment of his life.  His eyes remained fixed on his twisted face, as he gently tugged at his bayonet. Gradually, he began to pull harder, but he stopped when he began to hear his enemy's ribs crack, just as they had done when he thrust the bayonet into his body.

Frank pushed him aside and said, "This is how you do it, sissy-pants," as he began to jerk up and down, tearing a large gash in the man's side. Frank held the bayonet out with blood dripping from it impatiently said, "Take this!" You might need it to cut up your supper tomorrow night."

Charles looked at the fallen soldier. His intestines began to ooze through the large gash Frank had left in him. With a panting gasp, Charles vomited all over himself and the enemy soldier.

Frank handed Charles his bayonet, slung his rifle over his shoulder and sarcastically said, "Good grief. Send out for trench service and get this mess cleaned up."

David pulled Charles to one side and asked, "Are you all right?"

Charles rubbed his hand across his mouth and began to cough before he responded, "I guess so. How about you?"

"I'm okay. We're very lucky. I don't believe they ever knew what happened."

Charles looked down at the man he had just killed and said in a soft whisper, "That one knew what was about to happen to him. I could see it in his eyes."

The lieutenant protested in a loud whisper, "You men, be quiet back there. We don't know how many more are out there."

Frank began to toss his head from side to side and held his finger in front of his mouth before turning it towards the lieutenant and making an obscene gesture.

Charles was dumbfounded when it suddenly occurred to him that the mission was not over.

They continued down the base of the ravine. The terrified expression on the enemy's face remained ingrained in Charles mind where it would be for the remainder of his life. He knew he would always be haunted by that helpless countenance as he fell to the ground.

The ravine slowly tapered off, and the patrol found itself again at ground level. After pausing for a moment, the lieutenant motioned for them to continue in single file across an open field.

Frank muttered, "Damn, I was expecting Times Square."

All night, Charles had been expecting  machine gun fire to ring out all around him but again, all was strangely silent. All that could be heard was the men's tired steps and their labored breathing, mixed with the constant creaking of the spools as they slowly laid down the communication wire along the ground.

The file came to the base of a steep hill. The lieutenant stopped a moment before looking at the major and saying, "I think this is it." He signaled for everyone to start up the hill.

When they reached the crest, everyone was again breathing very heavily. The men crouched down on their knees as the signal corps soldiers fumbled around with the communications contraptions. One man took off his shirt to conceal the matches others lit. Finally, to everyone's delight, someone said in a triumphant voice, "It works!"

Corporal King looked at the lieutenant and asked, "What do we do now?"

Frank made sort of a hissing sound and muttered, "Shit, don't tell me no one thought of that."

The lieutenant must have heard him, because he looked directly at Frank and said, "We wait here until relieved in the morning."

Everyone was positioned in pairs along a fifty-yard front, just forward of the field telephones. Charles was glad he was placed with David. He had come to respect him so much, because between himself, Arthur and Frank, David was the only one that could keep a level head. Arthur had become frightened and withdrawn. Frank was more hating and vicious. Charles had reassessed his entire life, and his values had undergone an almost over-night alteration. Those things such as possessions and profession now seemed of such little importance and not nearly as meaningful as the touch of his wife's hand and the ever-present encouragement of his sister. She had always seemed so pleased with the happiness in his marriage and his success in his trade. He had never fully appreciated her unselfishness until now. She never seemed to resent his happiness, even though she so much wanted the same happiness for herself.

David asked, "Do you want to sleep or watch first?"

"I'll watch. I don't think I could sleep after this."

After being in the darkness for several hours, Charles night vision was good. He could clearly see rolling meadows now void of any vegetation. There were strands of tangled barbed wire and shell craters everywhere, and he wondered how many men had been killed in the limited space he could see. In the shining moonlight, he saw a small, white object lying in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand a few times before realizing what he was holding was the fragment of a human bone. He held it up and wondered how long it had been there. How had that man died? Perhaps he had been on a mission similar to his own. With the ever-present hope such a thing would not happen to him, he finally decided the man's body had been blown apart by an artillery round and probably now was dispersed across the very terrain he was watching.

The night passed so slowly – even more slowly when Charles was trying to sleep. He could not get the images of the dead German soldiers out of his mind, and he kept hearing over and over again the terrifying sounds of the brief struggle. One moment, he could see images of his mother, father, Blanche and Mary and the next, that headless German soldier standing there in that ravine, staring at him just before he fell to the ground. Towards morning, a damp chill settled over what had become the domain of the infantryman, which was only as far as he could see and might not last the day, for every man knew that each day could indeed be his last.

Charles crawled up a few feet beside David and, as they both stared across the field, almost impatiently said, "Where are they?"

As David shook his head and remained silent, the lieutenant passed along the back of the line, bidding each pair, "Eat your rations."

Charles, David, Arthur and Frank sat side-by-side just below the crest of the hill and began to eat a substance that resembled potted meat. It had a pink tint, a very stale taste and was very pliable to the five flavorless, white crackers in each of the small, circular tins in their field packs.

Just as Frank was bitching about the nutritional value of the dry essence, which became more difficult to swallow the longer it remained in the gourmet's mouth, there was a humming noise from the north. The four men rolled over on their stomachs and crawled back to the summit of the hill to glare across the meadow but saw nothing.

In a moment, David tugged at Charles's sleeve and excitedly said, "There it is!" as he pointed to the sky.

Two low-flying Fokkers were approaching their position, one flying directly above the other. The top airplane peeled off and came to the side of the other as they both swooped closer to the ground. As several men who were casually walking about the outpost madly dashed for cover, the planes began to strafe the hilltop. Charles could clearly see the pilots and the flashes from the machine guns mounted above the motors. The rounds hit all around them and spit up dirt that momentarily left them blinded. As Charles turned his head to shield it with one arm, he saw three of the signal corpsmen to the right fall to the ground where they remained without movement. He knew they were dead.

The planes circled around to make another strafing run but this time, came in parallel with the hovels the men had dug out in the ground. This gave the pilots a much more favorable angle of attack. No one knew what to do. The machine gun rounds dug out perfect straight lines in the ground and were on a direct bearing to the four men as they crouched on their knees, still holding their ration tins in their hands.

Frank reached out and grabbed Arthur and Charles by the arms and with authority and demanded, "Wait a second!" When the planes were only a short distance from them, he shouted, "Now!" and pushed the other three to one side. All four men fell to the ground, and Charles could feel the rounds whistle past them. The dirt pelted against his face as he embraced the ground and wished he could bury himself in it.

The lieutenant stood up and ran down in the direction of the signal corpsmen shouting, "Get the field telephones out of sight!"

When he was immediately behind Charles and David, there was a long burst of fire from one of the planes. Astonishingly, the sound of the gunfire was displaced by the flat, popping sounds made by the projectiles as they entered his back and were expelled from his chest, leaving large, gaping ruptures all across the front of his body, which was propelled a good twenty feet forward, before slamming to the ground and slowly rolling down the slight incline behind the field telephones he had so desperately been trying to protect.

The planes circled around to the right, and Frank stood up to fire a few rounds. One struck one of the planes with a ringing thud as Frank grumbled in a disgusted voice, "Must I do everything?"

It was clear they had detected the entire regiment some 2500 yards to the rear, as the planes quickly ascended to get out of ground fire range. They made several wide passes around the regiment area.

Frank murmured to himself in a singing sort of tone, "Now they know our little secret."

In a few moments the planes flew back into the north and disappeared into the sky, which had suddenly become overcast and ominous.

Charles and David stood up, looked at the three dead signal corpsmen and then at the lieutenant. He lay flat on his back with his arms extended across the ground and most of his internal organs were visible.

David said in a deliberate voice, "I didn't even know is name."

Charles rested his hand on David's shoulder and remarked, "Did you notice how intent he was on protecting the field telephones? I don't think he was even thinking about himself."

Frank stood up, began to dust himself off and observed, "A lot of good it did him. Do you really think one of those fuckers could have hit those wretched telephones? Hell, they probably didn't even see them. Look at him down there. He looks like the floor of a butcher shop and all for damn nothing."

Charles and David glanced at one another without comment and began to look for Arthur who they found a few yards away, still clinging to the ground. They walked over and reassured him, "There're gone, Arthur."

Arthur looked up and whimpered, "We're never going to make it back. Not any of us."

Frank snapped, "Damnit, don't start that shit again." He turned around and shouted down to the signal corpsmen, "Hey, get the Kaiser on the telephone, and tell him Arthur's ready to surrender now."

They paid little attention to him because at the same time, the major was instructing them, "Get the artillery batteries," as he pointed to the field telephones. He looked back at the four riflemen and said, "Get back in position!"

Charles and David again lay side-by-side and again began to stare across the open field. Occasionally, they would glance over at the major, who seemed to have taken over the tactical aspect of the mission, as he mulled over the map he had carried with him since the night before.

Presently, one of the men on the telephones shouted, "They're ready, major."

In a few moments, artillery rounds began to whish overhead and explode some one thousand yards ahead.

The major roared, "Short fifty, right forty!" and the men on the telephones relayed his range corrections to the artillery batteries.

After a brief pause, a few more rounds passed overhead. The major stood up at the summit of the hill, peered through his binoculars and yelled, "Mark it!"

He continued the procedure until the artillery batteries had registered their fire on a number of prominent terrain features that could be seen from the hill. The major had assigned each of them a number, and the artillery batteries recorded the numbers. He folded his map in a very business-like manner, inserted it into his carrying case and quietly remarked, "We've accomplished our mission. We can get back to our lines as soon as we're relieved."

The patrol spent more time looking for the replacements than monitoring the no-man's land before them. They became even more restless when a steady rain began to fall. They all huddled under their ponchos, as the ground quickly became very soggy. Small puddles of water appeared everywhere. The raindrops glittered on the barbed wires, and Charles recalled those spring showers along Euclid Avenue. The raindrops would hang on the banisters of the front porch, just as they were hanging on those obstacles, which by that time, no one even knew which side erected. The setting reminded him one moment of a time long ago when he was happy and secure but the next refusing to permit him to forget he might not live through the day. 

David motioned to Charles and said, "Listen!" as suddenly, gunfire could be heard from the northeast. The sound of foot soldiers' weapons and automatic weapons fire were mixed in a non-harmonious chorus that could only mean the Germans were attacking what was left of the French defenders around the village of Vaux. Everyone glanced uneasily at one another. Charles so much wanted the replacements to come, but the patrol found itself just laying there on the wet ground, hour after hour, listening to the formidable sounds of the war as it came all the more closer to them.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the replacements arrived. Everyone was surprised to see only two squads led by another young lieutenant who walk up to the major and rendered a very snappy salute, which somehow seemed inappropriate for the occasion. They talked for a few minutes and then walked to the crest of the hill where the major began pointing across the bleak terrain, while the lieutenant intermittently would glance down at his map and then back out at the terrain. In a few minutes, the major motioned for Corporal King.

Everyone who had come the night before began to gather their gear but as King walked back towards them, he held up his hand and motioned for them all to gather around him. The concern was obvious in his voice as he said, "We're not going anywhere. The French forces have broken down and abandoned Belleau, Torcy and Bussiares. The American Second Artillery Brigade has taken positions on the crowns of the hills behind Lucy-de-Bocage and Coupru and on both sides of the Paris-Metz Road. I'm afraid several division-size enemy forces are massed on a fifteen mile front directly in front of us."

Shock claimed everyone's hearts and minds – even Frank's – as they slowly turned around and walked back to the ruts they have carved out in the ground, which some were being to call "our graves."

Finally, Arthur asked, "What do you think is going to happen to us?"

Frank seemed annoyed, as he snapped, "Damn, can't you see we're expendable? We're out here to direct the fucking artillery fire and give our lines as much notice as possible. It's much more economical to protect the regiment and waste a few fucking doughboys out here."

Arthur didn't respond, as he must have seen the cold logic to Frank's evaluation. He just turned and began to stare across the ground. There was a perfect stillness except for the sound of a steady rain. It made a cracking sound beating down against the ponchos that were pulled up over the men's heads, and Charles noticed it sounded very similar to rain striking an old black umbrella his mother once had. It was strange that such thoughts entered his mind just then. He pictured his mother and recalled himself as a small child huddled close to her under that old umbrella as they walked up Euclid Avenue to the grocery store. They went to the store everyday; and on rainy days, such as this one, he and Blanche would scatter the groceries across the kitchen counter and pretend they operated the grocery store.

Towards nightfall, the rain stopped and the damp night air was chilling. The wet uniforms felt clammy against the men's bodies, and their legs began to ache from lying there hour after hour. With each heartbeat, Charles felt a sharp, fearful coldness flow through his entire body. This night was worse than the one before, because it seemed more and more probably right when he said none of them would make it back. Frank's observation about their being expendable seemed so cold-hearted at first, but the longer he thought about it, the more he was persuaded Frank was probably correct. He began deliberating that in the battle that was most certainly ahead, many men would be killed. What difference did it make where a few of them were at the instant they died? At the moment, the observation post was very valuable to the regiment, but if the Germans overran it or even cut the telephone wires, its value would immediately cease. The lieutenant no doubt realized that, moments before the Fokker cut him down.

About 2200 hours, the artillery fire to the northeast resumed. The low-hanging clouds reflected the flashes of the explosions even more than a few nights before, which now seemed so long ago. For the next two days, the artillery continued, and it was obvious the ground fighting was coming closer, because small arms fire could not be distinctly heard. At last, in the afternoon of June 3, what everyone had feared for so long began. A roaring noise was heard in the northeast. Men recognized the sound of Fokkers from a few days before, except this time, there must have been fifteen of them. They flew directly over the small outpost and headed directly for the defense perimeter of the regiment. Immediately, ground fire rang out, and Charles recognized the sound of the water-cooled machine guns as they fired short, irregular bursts at the attacking airplanes that first flew over them, circled around, and began to strafe from the rear. Charles could not help but be impressed at how keen such a maneuver was an how terrified the soldiers behind the forward positions must have been to have the Fokkers as well as their own gunmen firing in their direction.

Frank pointed at two of the planes that were flying much higher than the others and were circling the defense perimeter. He shouted above the sound of the gunfire, "They're painting the picture for their artillery!"

Arthur injected, "How can they do that without someone on the ground without us?"

Frank bellowed, "Hell, this ground has been taken and lost so many times, they probably no longer even need a map. They know it like the cock of their regular pussy."

Frank seemed the perfect type person for a soldier. His explanations always seemed so logical, his disposition was so villainous and he never seemed to be afraid.

Everyone's eyes were steadfast on the line as the strafing attack continued for some ten minutes. One of the plane's motors began to skip, and a dark column of smoke began to pour from it. It suddenly stopped, and the plane fell straight to the ground and burst into flames. The pilot, still strapped to the seat could barely be seen. His body slowly burned.

When the planes broke off the attack, the ground fire intermittently ceased, and for a few moments, there was calm. Then, small figures of the medics could be seen hurrying to the forward positions. The men out the outpost all wondered how many had been killed.

The new lieutenant spoke the first words Charles had heard him say. "Get back to your post."

Frank asked, "Is that all those bastards know how to say?"

Charles lost track of time. His watch had stopped and after a while, he was not even sure what day it was, but time and date were of little consequence to the infantryman. Towards nightfall, he heard several whooshing sounds overhead and momentarily, did not know what they were. Frightened, he looked around and then heard the artillery rounds begin to explode to the rear.

Frank threw his helmet to the ground and blurted, "I knew it!"

The sky had cleared, and the setting sun crowned the horizon with an amber glow that was the same color as the flashes from the explosives as they hurled large clods of earth into the sky. The fading light of day offered just enough illumination to expose the startled expressions on the faces of the men huddled around the precious field telephones.

David moved closer to Charles, and with his head covered with both arms said, "What if this cuts the communication lines?"

Charles thought for a moment and responded, "All this will have been for nothing."

Soon it was pitch black, and throughout the night the incoming bombardment continued, but it was much more sporadic than what they had witnessed from a distance several nights earlier. Frank felt the German foot soldiers were advancing so rapidly into the salient in the French defenses that they had outrun their own fire support. As the night wore on, between sequences of artillery explosions, movement could be heard along the ground forward of the outpost. The sounds of trucks and voices became louder and louder throughout the night. No one slept or even attempted to. They were too afraid.

Unexpectedly, the images of home departed Charles's mind, and he could think only of his training. He never took it especially seriously, because the war seemed so far away and somehow not even real within the sheltered life he had led. That night, when the enemy was drawing close enough to hear, he wished he had been more receptive to the trainers, and he intensively attempted to remember the instructions on distance estimation, adjusted aiming points and firing procedures. He knew very soon he would need to apply all the skills of marksmanship, and the keenness of is application of those skills could well save his life and the lives of others.

Through the night, none of the artillery rounds fell directly on the outpost, although close enough to "prompt an involuntary urination" as Frank put it. At about 3:00 AM in the flashes of the exploding artillery, he had stood behind the foxholes, pissing in such a heavy volume it sounded like a garden hose and chanting in an almost party-like tone, "All this is making it very difficult for me to get my beauty rest."

Only then did it occur to Charles what Frank had meant all those times he would brag about "hosing all those women at home."

The pilots of the Fokkers had reported the location of the main body of the regiment and apparently not even mentioned the  outpost. That had been a critical error, because without it, all the regiment's artillery would be firing blind. Charles and David continued to worry about the field telephones. There were haunted by the vivid recollection of seeing those signal corpsmen fall under the fire of the enemy airplanes. Their minds were encumbered by the scene of their stiff bodies being dragged across the ground by the graves registration detachment that came forward with the replacements to recover the dead. Frank maintained  this was not so much a gesture of respect as it was simply to get the dead out of the sight of the living and thus preserve some fragment of, as he put it, "an overall constructive mental outlook."

Sometime in the early morning hours, Charles whispered to David, "All this has caused me to think about some things."

David moved closer to him, and in his typical consoling manner responded, "It's too late for us to change anything now. If we come out of this, we'll be better men. Some think suffering builds character. Maybe that's more authentic than an on the spot repentance."  

Charles thought about what he said for quite a long time. It was strange it had taken almost unmanageable fear to unveil what was really important to him and why he never should have taken his happy life for granted as he always had. Only then, did he fully realize the misdeeds of his life that were not exactly intentional but were wrongs simply as matters of omissions and failures to consider the needs of others with as much interest as he had pursued the things he had wanted for himself. He could remember so many times when his mother and father had placed the needs and those of Blanche first. He felt so sorry he had not appreciated them nearly enough. Now, it was too late.

He wondered where their souls were at that moment and what sort of awareness a person's soul has after his body was dead. He asked himself if his mother and father had any perception of where it was. He was troubled, as he wondered how long a person's soul must languish in Purgatory before it was purged of all its worldly sins – weeks, years, decades? Could suffering in this world also purge sin? What of those like Frank Slaton, who seemed to have no conscience? Was there any hope for them or were their souls hopelessly lost and doomed forever to Hell? Then a disquieting prospect entered his mind. Frank Slaton made no effort to put up a front to persuade anyone he was something other than exactly what he was. In that sense, he was sincere; and his personality, crude as it was, no doubt was an accurate pronouncement of the real Frank Slaton. As the regiment had moved closer and closer to the front, Charles had formed doubts as to the type person he was. With an indirect rationality, he admired Frank Slaton – his sincerity and straightforwardness, if nothing else.

 Frank, David and Arthur were so different in nature, but at that moment, they were all doing precisely the same thing. They were checking their gear, cleaning their weapons with their handkerchiefs and counting their ammunition. Personality and nature had ceased to become meaningful issues.

Arthur was nervous and trembling, as usual. David and Frank seemed amazingly calm, although for completely different reasons. Frank had such an adverse attitude towards most everything and seemed without any order of emotion except to hate. David had always been so kind and obliging since the first day Charles met him. He always seemed to have a reassuring confidence, and Charles admired that – just as he did Frank's authenticity. Charles and Arthur were somewhere between the two extremes represented by Frank and David. Charles felt sorry for Arthur, as well as for himself. He found himself wanting so much to live and was possessed with the compelling need to change many aspects of his life and better return the love and understanding he had always been so fortunate to have.

As the sun rose, a cloudless and beautiful day seemed such a disaffirmation of the ruin that lay below it. The atmosphere was still. Nothing moved. There was complete quiet. Everyone crept closer to the hilltop, and anxious eyes gaped out across the unavailing ground.

Abruptly, David put his hand on Charles's shoulder and gasped, "Look there!" as he pointed to a curving line of trees some one thousand yards beyond the observation post.

Two German soldiers could be seen kneeling. One appeared to hold binoculars and was surveying the terrain in front of him. Movement could be seen in the thicket behind the two soldiers, and presently, company size formations began to move out into the open. They stopped and kneeled to the ground for a few minutes before standing and fanning out on what seemed a five hundred yard front. Slowly, they began to walk forward.

The major signaled the men on the field telephones who, carefully carrying their precious communication instruments, hurried to his side. He held his binoculars to his eyes, quickly scanned the advancing infantry and made several hurried marks on his map. Shortly, he began firing instructions for the signal corpsmen to relay to the artillery batteries. Immediately, rounds began to whoosh overhead and impact along the entire five hundred yard front of the advancing enemy. The Germans were startled and stopped in their reluctant tracks for a moment, but immediately, shouted commands could be heard that must have meant to keep moving, because hundreds of men couldn't have received the same unpleasant thought on the moment and in unison, decided to resume the advance at a much brisker pace.

The major appeared to be zeroing the bombardment on a broad line about 200 yards ahead of them, and as they advanced into it, he called in firing corrections until the enemy force was pinpointed under a merciless barrage of detonations. Frank shouted, "Those stupid bastards," as many of the soldiers were blown completely off their feet, and their dismembered bodies flew through the air. What seemed entire platoons of men systematically fell to the ground. Charles was unsure if they were all dead or just too dumbfounded to continue the advance.

Frank again observed, "Those ignorant son of a bitches don't know what's happening. They don't even know we're here."

There was mass disarray among the advancing units. The artillery fire had broken up the formations, and the leaders were having much trouble controlling the terrified men. Those in front of the formations jumped into voids in the earth made by the exploding artillery rounds. The leaders ran up behind them, pointing forward, shouting for them to continue the advance. No doubt, it occurred to no of them that hiding in artillery craters produced by zeroed patterns of fire was literally the worse thing they could do.

Charles and the others at the outpost watched in utter awe. No one had ever seen anything to equal the slaughter before their eyes. At first, Charles thought the Germans were even more afraid than he was, but then he realized some of men quivering under the storm of artillery fire had been at war for years, and he wondered what sort of shape he would be in, if he had undergone what they had.

Eventually, several platoons advanced beyond the barrage. Suddenly, one of the platoon leaders detected the observation post and pointed his hand directly at the major who was on his knees, still peering through his binoculars and sending firing corrections to the artillery batteries. They were about three hundred yards away when the platoon leader ordered the beleaguered foot soldiers to advance towards the outpost.

Corporal King stammered, "Begin firing on my order."

Immediately, Charles thoughts were again filled with his marksmanship training. He began to estimate the range to the enemy soldiers and thought of the instructions regarding adjusted aiming points, depending on how far away the target was. He picked out a man to fire at first. Resting his rifle on the ground, he aimed directly at his throat. He remembered a round does not travel on a straight line to its target but follows an arched flight, high after leaving the rifle muzzle and gradually descends to the ground. When the command to commence fire was given, shots rang out immediately, but Charles did not fire. He could see that instructor, months earlier, almost sermonizing how the trigger should be gently pulled and not jerked. He slowly applied pressure, holding the blade of his sight to the man's neck. The instructor had insisted that the marksman was never supposed to know the precise moment when his weapon was going to fire. As his weapon recoiled, Charles still had his sight blade on the advancing German until he saw him drop his rifle, clutch his stomach and fall face first to the ground. Everything was just as the instructor had insisted. 

The enemy soldiers began falling in large numbers. Some were now killed by the deadly accurate small arms fire from the observation post and lay screaming in pain. Some would clasp their wounds and then look at the blood on their hands. Finally, mercifully, what remained of the enemy platoon received the order to take cover among the group of large rocks at the bottom of the hill. They huddled behind the boulders and made no effort to return fire.

A strange feeling came over Charles. He was still afraid but somehow felt a gratifying reassurance he and the small patrol that had left the regiment's defensive positions a few nights earlier had contributed something immeasurably important to the first combat encounter with a seasoned German army. He glanced at David. There was a broad smile on both their faces. Frank quietly uttered profanity to himself with each discharge of is weapon. Arthur was firing but didn't seem to be aiming at anything.

Gradually, the larger force inched forward and filled in behind the pinned-down platoon. Artillery continued to fall, but the enemy pressed forward.

Arthur heaved, "Why don't they stop?"

The lieutenant ran behind the riflemen shouting, "We've moving back!"

The men hurried to get their gear together just as the Germans began firing on them. There was a splattering noise, and Charles quickly turned his head to see a rifleman drop straight to the ground. Charles froze for a moment. He saw half of the man's head had been blown away. Fragments of his skull were splintered at the top of his head, and gray brain pulp leached down the side of his head.

David reached out and seized him by the arm and cried, "Charles....Charles! Come on."

The patrol ran at top speed down the backside of the hill. No one looked back. Through the corner of his eye, Charles saw the field telephones lying unattended on the ground. Everyone darted past them at breakneck speed towards the regiment's perimeter. Charles, David, Arthur and Frank were all side-by-side and occasionally glanced at one another. Their breathing became progressively more labored. Everyone's weakened condition had been superseded by utter fear which propelled them with unanticipated velocity towards the friendly lines.

Frank panted, "God dammit. I hope those bastards don't start shooting at us!"

No small arms fire could be heard for several minutes but suddenly, the sound of rifle fire began to sound from the rear. The man next to Charles cried out in pain and fell to the ground with a thud. He gripped his leg, and as everyone ran past him, he pleaded, "I'm hit! Help me. Help me, please."

Everyone ran past him and never broke pace.

When they were about two hundred yards from the regiment line, enemy artillery fire began to fall all around them. A mist of dirt from the explosions brushed across their faces, and the tiny particles adhered to their eyes. They could scarcely see a group of men with mule-drawn carts that must have been on some type of work detail outside the defense perimeter, running wildly towards the line, the mules only a few steps behind them, matching their fleet dispatch step-for-step.

One artillery round burst directly in the center of the retrograding work detail. Some men collapsed and some were blown were blown high into the smoke-filled air. None moved as their bodies slammed to the earth. One of the mule carts was shattered as the patrol ran past it, and one of the panting animals legs was disjoined from its body. The helpless creature lay writhing in pain as it released shape, agonized brays into the fervid surroundings.

At last, the patrol reached the trenches, and everyone dove head-first into the supposed sanctuary, only to find themselves laying in two inches of water and intermittently being trampled by the other occupants as they attempted to evade the incoming artillery.

They patrol just lay there for a few minutes, gasping for breath. One of the squad leaders from whatever platoon the patrol had rather ceremoniously joined looked down at them and directed, "Get your weapons and get on the line!"

Frank immediately retorted, "Get on line, hell! We've been out there working overtime while you bastards have been sitting on your asses!"

The squad leader looked at him with a somewhat puzzled expression but didn't say anything.

The panting men dragged themselves to their feet and on quivering legs, looked out across what had suddenly become no-man's land only to see thousands of German soldiers traversing to the right and left, as far as the eye could see.

The major was much older than the other men in the patrol and was leaning against the side of the trench, gasping for breath, as he conferred with another artillery officer. Signal corpsmen impatiently stood at their sides, nervously glancing at the advancing enemy.

Several artillery rounds landed squarely in the center of the trench, and the impact gushed through the small sanctuary, carrying fragments of the human body. Cries of hurt could be heard, even above the sounds of the explosions.

The major and other artillery officer finally concluded whatever they were discussing, and to everyone's complete satisfaction, within the next few minutes, a barrage of friendly artillery began to fall along the front of the enemy formations.

Thankfully, the forward observers in the trenches had registered fire on terrain features between the outpost and friendly lines. For the second time, the advancing foe was devastated. Enemy attach formations were destroyed. Some soldiers lay on the ground, confused and disoriented. It appeared many of the platoon leaders had been killed between the two bombardments, and there was no leadership. All order and will was quickly lost.

The artillery storm was less intense to the right of the defense perimeter, and the Germans eventually regained their presence of mind and turned the advance in that direction. Withering machinegun fire from the Seventh Machine Gun Battalion, which had come on line sometime during the time the patrol was at the outpost, erupted with deadly effectiveness. The ground across which the enemy was running was flat. The clattering weapons sprayed out their instruments of death with grim efficiency, as the level ground offered the doomed soldiers no means of escape. The mistake of the momentary change in the line of advance saw each man only waiting to be cut down.

As Charles watched the carnage, his mouth became dry, and he winced as he heard the cries of agony that seemed unheeded petitions for some degree of mercy, but mercy had no place on his hideous day. His thoughts again turned to his training. The enemy soldiers were trapped in the tactical planner's ideal defensive firing patterns. The machine guns were delivering a hail of projectiles about four feet above the ground, and anyone standing on the level surface was lost to this world. It was obvious the Second Division was achieving a massive victory, which was either the result of brilliant planning or incredible luck.

The artillery and machine gun fire became increasingly more accurate, and the riflemen in the trenches fired at will on the depleted units that stumbled out of the storm of punishing artillery and lethal machine gunnery. The German leaders at last saw the futility of their task and ordered a retreat. As whistles rang out, some dropped their rifles and impulsively began a headlong sprint back across the bloodstained ground, now blanketed with the bodies of their fallen comrades. Others seemed too self-esteemed to run and only walked at a quick pace to the rear, sometimes stopping to fire a senseless round at an unseen target. In what seemed the most obvious injustice of the day, few of those who chose to run were cut down by the American marksmen, but many who continued to fight soon were laying at the sides of the fallen. Those who were still alive held out their hands and pleaded for help. A few stopped to assist them but were immediately cut down by the machine gun fire that continued to rake the entire sector.

As suddenly as it had begun, the artillery fire stopped, and the small arms fire tapered off until there was complete silence. The American soldier's eyes were unmoving – glaring in disbelief at what was before them. A dark gray cloud from the artillery explosions hung over the ground. Bodies were heaped on top of one another. Some were screaming and clutching various parts of their bodies. Some were standing and dragging themselves ever so slowly over the same ground that the patrol had dashed just a short while before. Predictably, some of the wounded eventually fell and then remained without movement -  face down to the ground. Still others fell and attempted to stand again but were powerless to do anything but wait to be claimed by death or be taken prisoner. Everywhere, men fumbled with their first-aid bandages, pitifully attempting to preserve what remained of their mangled bodies.

 Charles sank back down into the trench and began to look at his arms and legs and run his hand across his head and neck to reassure himself he had no wounds. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to normal, and he abruptly realized how exhausted he was. His uniform was soaked with perspiration, was caked in mud and still displayed small segments of his own dried vomit from a few nights before. As he looked back across the battlefield, it seemed such a long time ago when the little patrol ventured out into no man's land – the same ground that was now littered with the dead and dying.

The victory had not been without costs. All down the trench, men lay slumped over their rifles, while others lay flat on their faces on the trench's muddy floor, now covered with spent cartridges from the violent battle. The wounded lay in a semi-conscious daze. An obsessing uncertainty came into Charles's mind as he asked himself who were the more fortunate – those who were dead or those who must continue to live and be ruled by the limitations administered to them by that frightful day.

As the wounded were removed, Charles, Arthur, David and Frank sat side-by-side at the top of their trench, glaring at the dead and watching the collection of prisoners. Each was overwhelmed by the events of the past several days; and for the first time, even Frank seemed shaken. Not one of them mentioned the wounded soldier they all had passed by as he lay there on the ground with his arms extended and that hallow, pleading glare in his eyes, begging for someone to help him. Without words, all of them looked over and over the ground where he had fallen – one moment, hoping they would see him and the next, relieved they had not. As different as they were, each knew that someone should have stopped to help him, but at the instant he lay there, a victim of the calamity he had done nothing to create, each had though only of himself.