us to go over in the rain and mud. But we did. And they were. Nobody in my company was going to disobey orders. We were good men, all of us. But pushing on was slow and hard work. There was so much mud, so much fucking mud. The shell holes were the worst though. Because of all the rain, they were more like pools; brown, slimy pools. If you wanted to be in cover, which you would unless you were barking mad or had a death wish, you would have to be waist deep in murky water to be fully covered. That deep and you've got to make sure your pack and your matches stay dry. A lot of gear was wasted because it got wet.
“The Jerries blasted bullets at us as we advanced on them. The further we got, the more scattered we were, and the easier it was to pick us off one by one. One by fucking one.” He pauses and thinks it over. “I remember it was Turner who I saw shot first. It's unforgettable seeing a friend die. Suddenly he's there and then he isn't. I mean, he's there, but he's empty. He's dead. Shit, I don't know. You don't know either. You don't unless you were there and even then you still don't really know.” Tom stops and smokes some more. It calms him.
“You can't be in this and not know you're going to die. You also have to know that your friends are going to die too. Think yourself dead and there isn't anything left for Jerry to kill. But there isn't any amount of mental preparation that can get you ready for this. I suppose it helps making yourself somewhat prepared; as much as possible, I suppose. Even just the noise would have scared me off if I wasn't at least a little ready. A gun is a loud thing. At basic training, it scared the hell out of me when I fired my Lee-Enfield for the first time. It scared me so bad that I dropped it. The sergeant had it in for me after that!” Tom laughs. “But the battlefield is different. There's our rifles and there's their rifles. And then there are the grenades and the artillery and the machine guns- oh, God, the machine guns. One of my greatest fears was to be on the front end of a machine gun.” He stops and sips more of his whiskey.
“We charged and I got to my foxhole already sopping wet and dirty. There was another man with me, Private Wolsey. I didn't know Wolsey very well, but he got mud in his receiver and his rifle gave him fits of trouble I had to help him with. I remember how he died. He stood up to take a shot, but his gun misfired. When he tried to fix it, I suppose he forgot to get back down in cover or something. His blood fell onto my face like the rain, but I could hardly tell the difference. And then he fell straight back into the water. Lost. I never saw his face again. He was totally under. It kills me now that I think about it too because what if he was still alive and the poor bastard drowned in there?”
He closes his eyes, sits under the shade of the tree, and starts on a second cigarette. “I killed three men that day. I don't remember their faces; they were just men with helmets. I wish I did though. Some part of me wants to believe that I killed human beings. It's sad to me that I have to convince myself of that because that other part of me wants me to think that I was killing those animals on those bloody posters. The Huns. They aren't mindless Huns though. I think it's just the part of me, or maybe, I don't know. I suppose it's just some kind of stupid honour. Don't tell me it's better to think of my enemy as Huns; I know that. I should absolutely want to kill them and never let myself over think it. I can't just erase them though. Some poor Jerry bastard has a stupid notebook like I do where he writes his name. This Jerry has a family and a sister and they're all going to cry when they hear he's fucking dead.
“Do you see where I'm going with this? I can't help but keep thinking about all of that. What if I didn't have a family back home to cry for me? Who would cry for me then? Nobody!” He sighs and throws his arms into the air. “I can't
“The Jerries blasted bullets at us as we advanced on them. The further we got, the more scattered we were, and the easier it was to pick us off one by one. One by fucking one.” He pauses and thinks it over. “I remember it was Turner who I saw shot first. It's unforgettable seeing a friend die. Suddenly he's there and then he isn't. I mean, he's there, but he's empty. He's dead. Shit, I don't know. You don't know either. You don't unless you were there and even then you still don't really know.” Tom stops and smokes some more. It calms him.
“You can't be in this and not know you're going to die. You also have to know that your friends are going to die too. Think yourself dead and there isn't anything left for Jerry to kill. But there isn't any amount of mental preparation that can get you ready for this. I suppose it helps making yourself somewhat prepared; as much as possible, I suppose. Even just the noise would have scared me off if I wasn't at least a little ready. A gun is a loud thing. At basic training, it scared the hell out of me when I fired my Lee-Enfield for the first time. It scared me so bad that I dropped it. The sergeant had it in for me after that!” Tom laughs. “But the battlefield is different. There's our rifles and there's their rifles. And then there are the grenades and the artillery and the machine guns- oh, God, the machine guns. One of my greatest fears was to be on the front end of a machine gun.” He stops and sips more of his whiskey.
“We charged and I got to my foxhole already sopping wet and dirty. There was another man with me, Private Wolsey. I didn't know Wolsey very well, but he got mud in his receiver and his rifle gave him fits of trouble I had to help him with. I remember how he died. He stood up to take a shot, but his gun misfired. When he tried to fix it, I suppose he forgot to get back down in cover or something. His blood fell onto my face like the rain, but I could hardly tell the difference. And then he fell straight back into the water. Lost. I never saw his face again. He was totally under. It kills me now that I think about it too because what if he was still alive and the poor bastard drowned in there?”
He closes his eyes, sits under the shade of the tree, and starts on a second cigarette. “I killed three men that day. I don't remember their faces; they were just men with helmets. I wish I did though. Some part of me wants to believe that I killed human beings. It's sad to me that I have to convince myself of that because that other part of me wants me to think that I was killing those animals on those bloody posters. The Huns. They aren't mindless Huns though. I think it's just the part of me, or maybe, I don't know. I suppose it's just some kind of stupid honour. Don't tell me it's better to think of my enemy as Huns; I know that. I should absolutely want to kill them and never let myself over think it. I can't just erase them though. Some poor Jerry bastard has a stupid notebook like I do where he writes his name. This Jerry has a family and a sister and they're all going to cry when they hear he's fucking dead.
“Do you see where I'm going with this? I can't help but keep thinking about all of that. What if I didn't have a family back home to cry for me? Who would cry for me then? Nobody!” He sighs and throws his arms into the air. “I can't
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