Chapter 10

The next morning the men kept their heads down and held their hard-won positions as the Germans counterattacked in other areas. During that long, damp and foggy day the rest of the 29th Division moved up and into the lines behind them, clogging all the roads with their trucks and guns. Several thrusts at the German fortifications were repulsed with heavy losses and by nightfall the A.E.F. and French corps leaders decided to hold what they had, regroup and resupply.

When they finally had to get up and move, the general consensus among Sammy's compatriots was that they were perfectly happy to let somebody else do the fighting for the rest of the war.

On the 11th of October Sammy and his buddies ate their first hot meal in several days and began feeling a lot better about themselves. They told each other of their varied experiences, which they seemed to remember in small fragments, like puzzle pieces that did not fit together properly, and tried to recall the faces and names of those who were still among the missing. Parties were sent out to scour the woods for equipment and ammunition. Evidently many men had thrown away their packs and dropped their extra ammo as they moved toward the enemy. Gas masks littered several areas.

Since someone had stolen Sammy's pack, or perhaps taken it by mistake, he was glad to get one of the recovered blankets. He mourned the loss of his hoarded candy, extra socks, his letters from home and the vulgar postcards he had acquired in trade for some chocolate, but he curled up in his hole, grasped his genitals and slept well until someone deep in the night began banging on a large shell casing with a bayonet and screaming, "Gas! Gas!"

Sammy fumbled out his mask and pulled it over his face before he inhaled again. He lay back, his helmet lying atop the mask and breathed as shallowly as he could in his private cave. He tried to put a name on what the air smelled like and decided it was similar to the odor generated by the trolley cars' electric engines. When the metallic clanging came again, he pulled his mask down and let it lie on his chest. He slept, exhausted, and did not dream.

Sammy and his comrades woke to find the ground and themselves covered with a heavy frost. They shivered their way to the latrine holes and prayed they might have some hot coffee and no diarrhea.

For breakfast they got a hunk of bread with a tablespoon of cold beans pressed atop it. Sammy drank from his canteen to wash down his food and then changed his socks for the ones he had pulled out of his pants pockets and put under his arms when he slept. His groin itched but he refused to scratch it.

That Saturday they heard artillery and machine guns, had two more false gas alarms, and by dusk got a hot meal and some very weak coffee, dishwater most called it. A sergeant in a clean uniform found Sammy after he had scraped his plate and accomplished a bit of cootie killing. "Attention, private," the sergeant yelled after asking his name, and Sammy clambered to his feet and got his heels together.

"This yours?" the non-com asked, holding out an unsealed letter and looking sourly at the young soldier's unbuttoned collar and muddy legs.

Sammy cocked his head and looked at the envelope. "Yes, Sarge," he said. He could barely see the man's eyes because he wore his helmet so low.

"Take it," he said. "Rejected." The sergeant turned on his heel, pulled another letter from the rucksack dangling from his shoulder and stalked away.

It was a letter he had written to Millie more than a week before. He sat back down, looked at it and saw several things circled with what appeared to be red crayon. Lines led from the circles off to the margin where the censoring officer had written, "not allowed." For the first time in several days, Sammy smiled and felt some of the mud on his face crack.

He rolled himself a cigarette and then read though what he had written, his forehead furrowed. Evidently he had made a mistake in telling Millie that he had not seen a chaplain for a month and in writing that the boys' favorite sport, other than cootie races, was still dice games on a folded blanket. He had also said something about not gambling with men who had their own dice. Sammy put the letter in his pocket and wished he could write another but his paper, pen and ink had vanished with his missing pack.

Two more days of relative quiet followed. Sammy stood guard duty in four-hour stretches on both Sunday and Monday and listened to bombardments and clattering machinegun fire both north and south of the 115th brigade's position, but still they rested and improved their holes. For most of the time, his mind was blank and he spent some hours trying to think about what he would write when he could. He did not think he would be able to describe the last few days, not ever.

More supplies arrived and Sammy was issued a new pack, shelter half and blanket. No writing materials were available. The quiet time was, some of the men said, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Rumors multiplied like lice. Some men worked on new verses for their marching songs, all with very inventive and highly vulgar rhymes.

On October 15th the whole brigade swung back into action, advancing as part of a wide front that swept toward some high and wooded regions long held by the Germans. The fighting that day was ferocious and the Huns gave ground very grudgingly and often counterattacked to take back what they lost. By day's end soldiers on both sides fell and slept in shallow holes or old trenches, exhausted and surprised to be alive. On Wednesday the 16th the American attack resumed before dawn with its objective two more wooded hills.

Sammy shouldered his much lighter new pack, tightened up his web belts, patted his ammunition pouches, hoisted his carefully cleaned .30-06 rifle to his right shoulder and followed along in the half-light of pre-dawn to the jump off line. On a slight rise high-booted officers with large binoculars lay on their bellies and stared while the khaki uniformed men in sagging puttees shifted their weight from foot to foot, wished they had time to take another piss, traded tobacco, told lies, leaned on their rifles, and watched, hoping somebody knew what they were supposed to do this morning, wondering why they had to fight in the rain.

Yesterday had been chaos, men falling like mown hay, stretcher-bearers non-existent, units bumping into each other, much of the ground as slick as a frozen pond, just chaos. No one seemed to know where their machinegun company was, and the Stokes mortars and 37 mm guns were low on ammo. The seventy-fives had vanished; no one knew where. Senseless, thought Sammy when he had a moment to think, just plain senseless.