The Soldiering Life

UPDATE: 9/19/2016. This chapter was originally posted on 9/18/2016. Some edits have been made.

7: On The Move

Like battles had a rhythm, so, too, did the days of service. Usually, it would be four days at the front, four days at the back, and four days on support. The riskiest days were the ones spent moving, and the worst nights were those on the front. Still, Jim leaned into the routine, the hours spent digging or replacing barbed wire, of filling and moving sandbags, stand-to and the morning hate of shouting and shooting across the vast expanse between them and the Gerries, and restless sleep in shifts while the raid could come at any second.

Luckily, there was company. Guy had recovered from his trench foot, and without constant pain pricking the soles of his feet, he had become much cheerier, whistling tunes that Jim sometimes recognized from his guard post and quietly singing as he hauled sandbags. Simon was stoic and quiet, but for the occasional outburst at Guy, and though the language barrier was still a problem when Jim was trying to shout for him to bring another shovel, he couldn't complain of him. Hank was ever his delightful self, dependable, patching up anyone who was injured and digging dutifully at Jim's side.

They hadn't faced any major operations since Arras, but they'd been on the move. PBI like them didn't get to know where they were going, but Jim could tell that they were moving North. He often ended up marching at Hank's side, out of habit as much as anything else. Even if they had no clue of their destination, it felt good to be moving.

"If we're marching, I feel like we're getting somewhere." Hank subtly shifted his rifle against his shoulder, and Jim grunted.

"Yeah, I get restless if we sit in one spot for long." Jim glanced back at the rows and rows lined up behind them. He was sure he wasn't the only one who thought so. The morning hate was sometimes the only action they saw in a day - pathetic, for a load of boys who'd signed up to be heroes. "Ain't got the foggiest clue where, of course."

Hank swallowed and glanced around, then pulled his canteen from his pocket and brought it to his lips. "I can guess."

"Shit, can you?" Jim dropped into a whisper and leaned in, as if to share the canteen and not just gossip. "What ya got?"

"We've been moving steadily North, yes?" Hank nodded towards the sun, still rising towards high noon from their right hand side.

"Yeah. But what's that mean?" Jim tucked his canteen away and licked his lips. He was still parched, but nobody wanted to be the idiot who stepped out of line for a piss at the wrong time. Hank, meanwhile, was already analyzing. Jim could feel thoughts buzzing through his helmet.

"Belgium. We seem to be headed for Belgium. I heard through gossip that there's a major conflict in Ypres."

"No shit." Jim grinned to himself. He couldn't help it. As dangerous as the front lines of a skirmish were, he loved the thrill.

"Except I'm not certain we're heading there." Hank rubbed his chin as he thought, and Jim found his grin had wiped away.

"No?"

"No, we'd want to be heading slightly more east." Jim felt a chill as Hank's brow furrowed in thought, because he hadn't realized that. Hank surely had the map memorized, bright soul he was. "We're headed north-by-northwest, and slightly north of that. We're headed for the Brittany shoreline."

"You don't think they're sending us home, do you?"

"No. I also am aware that we're moving covertly. I've seen no sign that the Engineer Corps is doing any work in creating railways. Whatever we're doing is likely on the hush." Hank heaved a nervous sigh, and lowered his voice further. "As little as I relish the thought of further conflict, I loathe not know where we're going. I've been piecing as much as I can together, but we've all of us got blinders on."

"It's our job, though, innit?" Jim grimaced and glanced around at the rest of the soldier. He knew he and Hank weren't the only ones whispering as they walked. "We go where we're told, we do what we're told."

"So it is." Hank sighed and adjusted his rifle. "Truth be told, I wish my father had been of the peerage and forced me into military school. At least then, I'd be able to see the maps and pathways, and understand. I do so much better at things when I understand."

Jim guffawed. "Really?" He shook his head. "Mate, I've seen you in the trenches. Like a mad bull, you are, utterly unstoppable. Unflappable, that's the word."

Hank smiled, though he didn't lift his eyes from the dirt under his boots. "Charging at the nearest sign of danger. It's what any animal would do. Imagine what I'd be like if you gave me a target to aim for. It's a comparison of the soaring bullet, the kind that crashes where it's aimed and blows out everything in its wake, and the shot pellet, striking at everything all at once but spreading its efforts so that it never gets too deep."

"You need something to aim for." Jim nodded again. He understood that sentiment. Hank's chin dropped even further.

"I do. Something closer than merely survival."

Jim hadn't thought of it like that. "Ain't the point of it just to fight and win? For country, and all?"

"Who won at our last battlefield?"

Jim missed a step. "Er." He scratched his head. "Well, we're alive, ain't we? And we got where we needed to be, didn't we?"

Hank, his face still low, spoke as if he hadn't heard Jim. "What is winning, anyway? No flags were lowered, neither army stood down. We merely pushed through their line, only to find another line. In days of yore, a war was won when one side stopped moving and was consumed. Simpler times. With trenches and reinforcements and rotations spinning us in circles, it'll never be so simple."

"Hank." Jim elbowed him. "We won the day because we got through. C'mon, show me some backbone."

Hank laughed humorlessly, but lifted his face. "Survival. Like I said."

Sometimes, Jim couldn't help but agree. Still, he would count it as a win, and simply push the argument no further. "So you just want to know what it is we're actually doing?"

"Always."

"We're marching, mate." Jim jostled his elbow and bounded a step faster, just so he could turn and look him in the eyes. "Sometimes, you just got to be in the here and now, y'know?"

This earned a giggle, and Hank touched his hand to his lips to button it up. "I suppose so."

The walk was long, mindless, a great distance for one with nothing to think about but what the next day might bring. They would stop every few hours for a meal, a piss break, and at night, they slept in slapdash tents and swaddled in their civvies, their rifles ever at their sides. Jim found himself unable to sleep that night, like he was coming to find many nights, and wound up pulling out the pistol Simon had swapped for his own.

St. Etienne. Jim wasn't a praying man, and he had no interest in a Saint at his side. He'd rather the neat, slick Smith & Wesson Simon had swiped, like the one Hank had. He hadn't yet had much opportunity to confront the bastard about it, but even then, what was he going to say? Nothing Simon would understand, likely. He didn't even seem to be trying to learn more English than enough to ask for a cigarette. He kept resolving to ask Guy to ask Simon, but there never seemed to be a good time when there wasn't someone else listening. The last thing he wanted was to get Simon in trouble again. He was a prat, but Guy cared for him, and really, Jim could admit that he admired how cool Simon seemed to stay when things were going bad. It wasn't every man who could take a bullet to the leg and keep his head on straight enough to notice that the pistol of the man on his left was nicer than his own.

He marched on, trying only to think of their destination. Otherwise, he might keep thinking down those lines. About why he was the one who panicked. Why he was thinking of complaining about his aching feet, but didn't because he would be the only one, the nail sticking out to be hammered down.

8 JULY 1917

60 KM SOUTH OF NIEUPORT, BELGIUM

Days of marching led them through the ragged remnants of battles past, a countryside ravaged by deep trenches and dilapidated rings of barbed wire. The wind whipped the moor, and it howled through the uneven dirt and the abandoned structures, the breached pillboxes, the tattered flags that still remained. The company skirted gingerly around the outsides of what had been major lines, where the ground was tamped down by the hundreds of boots that had passed over before them. There was still the now-familiar scent of war lingering in the air, hung there like so many nooses on a witching tree: clear evidence of what had come to pass here.

Guy shivered as they passed the carcass of a horse, mostly bone now, and muttered what sounded like dejected mourning under his breath. Simon lit another cigarette and growled to him, "Si cela vous fait peur, arrêter de regarder eux. Faire face."

"Faire face," Guy repeated, and tried to keep his head up. He and Simon were walking in the same row as Hank and Jim today, with what remained of the French contingent scattered nearby. The other Tommies gave the French soldiers berth, which was fine by Jim. Out here, he felt safest when he was next to Hank, and not worried about Christopher or Ben or whoever else happened to be around. He had a feeling Guy felt the same with Simon. He'd not yet seen the pair of them in action, but they were never far from one another, despite Simon's choleric attitude. Jim couldn't tell what Simon was trying to say to Guy, but it wasn't bringing back Guy's bright smile.

"Hey, little man, what's got you low?" Jim nudged him with his elbow, and Guy crossed his arms and scoffed.

"Nothing!" He turned his nose up, but Jim elbowed him again.

"Come off it, mate. You can tell me."

Hank glanced over, but turned when Guy bit his lip and Jim leaned down to listen. "The horses. It is so unfair." Simon made an inquiring noise, and Guy scowled and bitterly muttered, "Ce n'est rien."

"Unfair? What d'you mean?" Jim frowned and glanced over at one of the gaping ribcages left over from the cavalry. He wondered what it took to take down a horse. He could only imagine the dreadful sound. Guy, however, crossed his arms.

"The horses did not ask for this. The horses do not even know what is happening. Only that they die, and in pain. They are only animals."

"Ah." Jim glanced at the animal's remains again, but saw no sign of the rider. He'd likely either crawled away or had to be dragged out later. "I suppose I see what you mean." He broadly swung his arm over his shoulder and hooked him in. "But hey, they're in a better place, y'know?"

"Oui," Guy muttered. "Not here." He shook Jim off and stepped a little closer to Simon, and Jim snorted and faced Hank.

"So, what'd you rather, mate? Wipers or something else?"

"Wipers?" Hank raised an eyebrow, but quickly turned away, twisting his neck left and right. "Do you mean Ypres?"

"Ain't that what I said?" Jim squinted as they broke from tree cover into sun for a moment, then relaxed as they ducked into the shade again. They were leaving the field behind and ducking into a path beaten through a thick, dense copse of aspen trees. The path was close, and Hank and Jim had unconsciously moved shoulder to shoulder as they descended into the shade. "Wipers."

"Ypres," Hank repeated. "Mind your step." He skirted around a pothole, and Jim glanced down to peek at it. It looked like something had been driven in deep, like a fence post, and the crumbled bits of log scattered around under their feet in splinters. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see other detritus of battle, spent machine gun rounds littered along the gutters, bits of flag, part of a boot, a spatter of dried blood along the bank. Jim could only guess that this path had been hard fought, and he couldn't tell who'd been going which direction. Still, he forced his eyes forward, then smirked at Hank.

"S'what I said, mate. Wipers."

"Ypres. Ee-press."

"Wipers." Jim hopped over another bump in the road. Someone had started to dig in a low trench, but had obviously had to stop midway for one reason or another.

"You're teasing me now." Hank crossed his arms, but Jim laughed and jostled his arm.

"Ee-pres. You're the one what par-lay Fran-say between us." He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and kicked his legs out. He didn't think the corporal would see him walking out of perfect formation. "Still, y'think we're goin'?"

"No. I don't." Hank pursed his lips and glanced around. "If you'll look." He gestured at the scattered detritus of battle. "The fighting on this path was recent. The field behind us was fought some time ago, but this was recent. I think we're heading to wherever the line here was pushed." He tilted his gaze around them, as the trees swished and swayed. "We're following in someone else's tracks, and we're not moving towards Ypres at all. We're likely following up on whatever came through here before us." He sucked in air and exhaled a thick, heavy sigh. "I essentially know nil further than that, and I can't confirm what I have deduced."

"So, we ain't goin' to where the fighting is." Jim stuffed his hands in his pockets, but Hank shook his head.

"We wouldn't be sent somewhere there was no fighting to be done. My concern is that I know nothing about it. I've heard nothing. It must be some plot by the higher-ups, or they're anticipating something big." Hank took yet another ungainly step over a fallen branch, then hopped a step to keep from disrupting the line. "Not knowing is terribly frightening. It's like peering into an unlit night, for nothing is more frightening than the dark."

Jim heard the trees around him rustle, and wrenched his neck around. "Yeah?" The path was getting narrower, and the men were bunching up more and more. Guy was all but under Simon's arm now, still talking to him in quiet French as Simon growled his responses and tried to shoo him off. The normalcy of the march was shadowed by the thickening patches of leaves, making the mud on the path nearly black. "I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was a lad, mate."

"It's not the dark itself that is frightening. Let me correct myself." Hank cleared his throat, but lowered his voice. "It's what we cannot see. One cannot lift a shield against a blade he can't see."

A chill wind rattled through Jim's bones, and he found himself whipping his neck around, left and right. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't place it. "Suppose that makes sense, but what're we supposed to do?"

"As soldiers? We keep marching forward." Hank tipped his helmet down his forehead. "As men? Pray."

Jim faintly realized what was driving his heartbeat faster, why panic was singing under the ache in his muscles and reverberating through his bones: the smell. "Mate, wait. Do you smell flowers?"

There was an impact somewhere ahead of them, harmonized with shouts and cries, and then whooping and coughing erupted in front of them. Jim's heartrate spiked, because he could just scent something foul over the perfume in the air. "Gas!" He scrambled for his pack and yanked out his gas mask, thanking his stars it hadn't been nicked. He kept working at strapping it on, but shouted again, "Gas! Gas! Masks on!"

"Le chlore! Masques!" Hank added, too frantic for proper grammar, but all the French soldiers were already following suit with the other soldiers around them, strapping their gas masks on, ducking down onto their fronts, fetching out their rifles.

Jim could see it now past the yellowed glass of his mask's goggles, a massive greenish cloud rolling towards them and a silhouette play of agony unfurling behind the veil. The men at the epicenter were just visible through the greenish gloom, collapsed, coughing, retching, drowning in their own bile and beyond help. Jim had read about the gas attacks, heard of them in training. He never thought he'd watch a man vomit his own organs. Someone was striking a bell, an empty shell, to alert the back of the line to what was coming, but as the man spending his last seconds of life warning the others of impending doom withered and slowed, a voice cut through to Jim's ears:

"It's cracked!" Hank was scrabbling with his mask, the tube where it hooked to the small box, the straps, and gasped. "It's broken. It's -" He tried to gesture, then sucked in a deep breath. Jim had gotten the message and spotted a nasty crack in the tube.

The filter in the mask wouldn't cut it, not without the box. Hank was about to breathe raw chlorine.

"Urea," Hank choked as he tried to hold the tear shut, gesturing, and in an instant, Jim knew what to do.

He remembered training. He remembered the drills. He remembered the emergency procedure. He yanked the bandages from his side pocket, unzipped his trousers, and pissed on them.

Simon was shouting at him, Guy, panicking. Hank, however, was holding his breath with tears in his eyes, and when Jim wrapped the wet bandages around the tube, it was to a gasp of relief. Hank promptly coughed at the odor, but Jim patted his shoulder, then brought him close.

"Breathe, mate, breathe. I know it's rancid, but it's as good air as you're going to get."

Hank panted, slumping against Jim, but rasped a hoarse "Thank you." There was a bark from behind them to prepare to take the enemy, and the men all formed lines where they crouched on the ground, got their rifles in front of them, and pointed over the shoulders of the men laid out in front of them. The enemy was coming, but Jim couldn't see them and he wasn't going to waste shot on shadows. Under the noise, Hank whispered, "I can't say you're not resourceful. Seems even that has a use."

Guy snickered, and though Simon jabbed him with his elbow and whispered a warning, Jim smirked, looked past the bodies collapsed on the ground, and lined his sights up with whatever was coming next. "I'll make certain I've got plenty for you next time."

"That is disgusting!" Guy laughed into his mask. "Stop making me laugh! I don't want to knock my mask loose!"

"Ask Simon to help you plug it, eh? 'Fraid this life-saving well's gone dry." Jim snickered again, though Guy tried to kick him.

"Life-saving well, my foot! You've only just gotten the first good use out of that thing since you first discovered it!"

"Come off it, I just ain't never worked its magic on a man before!"

"Tais-toi!" Guy was still laughing, even as the corporal shouted orders. Hank, the color returning to his face, whistled to Simon.

"Urée convertit le chlore dans un gaz inoffensif. Blocks bandent gaz humide. L'urine est un outil utile pour les deux."

Simon scoffed, but from the way the muscles in his cheek had shifted, he was smirking. "Je suppose que ce genre de choses est mieux pour autre chose que l'arrosage des plantes."

"Tout est utile ici."

"Même lui." Simon snorted, and Guy laughed. Jim had a feeling they were laughing at his expense, and he swiped at Guy again.

"C'mon, mate, all that matters is that we're all alive." He aimed down the sight of his rifle, down their path forward and at the approaching enemy, watched the first few grenades fly, and did the only thing he knew to do.

Keep moving. Survive. Whatever that meant.

Translations:

Simon: "Si cela vous fait peur, arrêter de regarder eux. Faire face." - "If it scares you so much, quit looking at it. Eyes forward."

Guy: "Faire face." - "Forward."

Guy: "Ce n'est rien." - "It's nothing."

Hank: "Le chlore! Masques!" - "Chlorine! Masks!"

Guy: "Tais-toi!" - "Shut up!"

Hank: "Urée convertit le chlore dans un gaz inoffensif. Blocks bandent gaz humide. L'urine est un outil utile pour les deux." - "Urea converts chlorine into a harmless gas. Wet bandages block it. Urine is a useful tool for both."

Simon: "Je suppose que ce genre de choses est mieux pour autre chose que l'arrosage des plantes." - "I suppose even that's better for more than watering the plants."

Hank: "Tout est utile ici." - "Everything has a use here."

Simon: "Même lui." - "Even him."

Notes:

PBI: Poor bloody infantry, an "affectionate" nickname for the cannon fodder in the trenches.

"Whatever we're doing is likely on the hush." - Operation Hush: A major British operation that was planned to retake the German-held Belgian coast. However, disruptions in gathering the needed force as well as a failed advance during the concurrent Third Battle of Ypres caused the operation to be quietly canceled. In addition, German Operation Strandfest, or Beach Party, which occurred on the Belgian coast North of Nieuport (now Nieuwpoort) on July 10, 1917, disrupted British operations. While there was no record of Germans disrupting the British line as they attempted to assemble, one can imagine that this sort of thing may have happened.

"Wipers" - Most British soldiers spoke absolutely no French, so the word Ypres was unpronounceable. They often misspoke it as "Wipers," hence Hank and Jim's argument.

"Do you smell flowers?" - Before gas attacks, the Germans would put out perfumes to mask the scent of chlorine, anything to delay soldiers putting their masks on and preparing.

Urine in the gasmask: Before proper gas masks were developed, men were instructed to use a damp rag to cover their mouths and noses with hopes of blocking the chlorine gas. It was discovered that urine was a better alternative to water, because, as Hank explained, the urea essentially makes the chlorine harmless.