June 4, 1915
A sneaky American soldier unloaded himself from a box that contained extra supplies for British forces. It rained slightly, a good drizzle woke up the French and British troops on the battle field, somewhere over between France and Germany. The soldier wiped the sweat and rain from his forehead and stared out on the green and brown battlefield darkened by the cover of the dreary clouds above them. It seemed like the most peaceful thing that ever happened in war, but that was only as tranquil as it could ever get.
In the distance, he could hear the bombs and crackles of cannons and rifles of the German empire, dissolving or testing even, on the British and French soldiers, reckless and determined for victory for the common good.
The soldier was Skipper, an average Joe that survived well before the war with his best friend a British one. They visited each other before the Great War often in America or Britain. But then everything went dreadful as the stillness before combat came, when the fuse of war was lit at last.
Private was the name of his friend. Skipper grew fond of him over the years and they were good friends since then. During the way, they were separated and haven t seen each other from that point.
Skipper thought now was a good time to catch up, during battle. He was wrong.
Skipper came to Private, looking around to to see if anyone noticed an extra soldier sneak into a trench in the early bombardment, done on by the special ballistics division that belonged to the British military, the most current artillery division in the entire Allied force.
"Private!" he called down the trench, nobody in the trenched, soldiers, except Private himself, turned to the source of the call.
Some then came his friend, the same person that he said hello to every now and then. He didn t look different at all, even if he had a rank in the military or a rounded helmet that seemed of it.
"Skipper, what are you doing here?" the friend asked.
"I wanted to see victory here in the European state", Skipper answered, trying to sound convincing, knowing that that was't the reason why he was really there.
An awkward silence fell upon the two.
"You wanted to see me, didn t you?" smiled the Briton.
"True, maybe..."
Private laughed and patted his American comrade on the back leading him around the trenches, and showing him his new friends that he met in the beginning of the war. Some where French, spite the fact that he couldn t speak their language.
"Here" Private said, "is Lieutenant Adelbert Kowanski, a smart one I must say actually, he knows a bit of English, French, he used to work with chemicals..." he said, didn t want to spoil what he was working on The smart Frenchman nodded, gripping to his agile weapon used only for snipers.
"This is Ricardo Bernare" introduced the Briton, pointing to an average sized person with the same style hat of Kowanski, a dark grey kepi, Skipper could tell they were both French. You can call him Rico though, that s what everyone calls him by Rico stared, then after a moment took his hand out as a friendly gesture, signaling a handshake. Skipper nodded and shook his hand in response.
After introducing, they heard the bugle, as if was just in time, for rallying and attack.
It was already raining when he met them at the trench, now, the rain had become heavier now, no longer a slight drizzle but a regular storm, though, for some reason, lacking thunder and lightning. The four crawled out from the trenches and assembled into a double line, a long line. Skipper, not knowing really where to go, followed Private and stood right to his next. The Brigade Colonel spoke, giving the force their orders, as Skipper thought, 'I wonder where those two Frenchmen are ', he looked to his right, say Kowanski, and Rico in perfect lining right next to him. Skipper swallowed as the brigade began to move forward, in a perfect solid line. It was an outdated tactic, line engagement, he thought, 'wasn t it abandoned after the Civil War?.'
The line was then hit and pestered by bullets and bombs, shrapnel included. Luckily, the four managed to fight and retreat unharmed.
Once they were back at camp, they were all but determined now, frightened by the risk that they may be killed in action the next day, especially with the line infantry, it was risky and outdated.
After at least a month of idling and being quarantined to the rear, in early July was their next engagement. The month had everything between curing the wounded, to small birthday parties even. War rations where moderate, a good egg and bread, sometimes bacon, was served. Sweet curd was rare, so was cereal, as well was milk. But that was alright though, you would soon learn to get used to it.
Surprisingly, it was still the hard rain that kept the regiments and brigades awake those nights.
When the bugle sounded, he expected a line engagement, he was right.
The bugle call sounded, and they went from a relaxing lot to a disciplined group of military soldiers. But as soon as they formed up, they scattered instead, to make them harder targets.
Here was a new tactic, getting rid of Napoleanic strikes with massive infantry lines. This was a new war, with Machine Gunners and sometimes even airplanes zooming in and firing upon the ground troops. This was war. This was hell.
Skirmish lines became scattered, brigade lines with flank support became scattered, it was a new and confusing thing for the well trained men that have never done scattering before. Most of them were saved though by the doing, it was a good fight and they penetrated the enemy lines, finally dissolving the ones who was dissolved them previously. Victory lasted bittersweet when they figured the casualties. The brigade colonel was dead, along with his successor. Captain Rosen took command of what was left of the men and let camp start in the new trench. It was only an hour when they figured another enemy trench was down yonder, taunting and booing. Tempted already, Rosen's superior, Brigadier Halleck, commanded the division down in attack. Rosen was completely against any thought of further attack, but court martial would only be the reward for him. So with one, pained expression and his sabre in his hand, he had to order a general downhill brigade advance.
The soldiers scattered down the hill like ants, and in one swift moment, Skipper heard the thunder, and he felt the lightning.
An artillery shell smashed the four into a trench, and then there was another explosion that came just right after, artillery and shrapnel, the most dangerous of all.
Rubbing their foreheads, they all sat sighing, slightly wounded, against the wall of the trench they where blasted in. Private immediately turned his attention to Skipper, which shocked him more than ever, Kowanski and Rico even looked. Skipper bled from the lungs and torso, three pieces of metal stuck inside him like blades, shrapnel actually hit him. At that moment, Private began to tear up.
"No Private, don t cry I m alright", the American said weakly.
"Skipper" Private said shaking his head, "No not you ,Skipper!"
"Please Don t doubt me, Private, I ll be fine", Skipper said with blood already dripping out the side of his mouth, closing his eyes, drawing the last breaths
Kowanski teared slightly, so Ricardo did not tear much, he saluted, but only one tear coming down from to scar. They had known Skipper so well the past month, they didn t want to lose him then and there.
"Don t doubt me, please, I ll be-" Skipper spoke, right before he coughed out his own blood.
The sound of battle still raged on above them, and the rain still fell in ambience.
"What date is it?" the American asked.
"July the Fourth", Private answered, his voice faltering.
"Well tell Uncle Sam, and Mother Liberty..." Skipper never finished the sentence. But the battle still raged on, as if nothing happened. The combat continued, in the mad world of fighting...