Even though it's been days since the last time the Germans tried to drown your trench
in poison, you can’t get the acrid tang smell of the gas out of your nose.
You were lucky that day, you'd been awake and on sentry duty so you had plenty of time
to throw on your mask even as you shouted warnings to others.
But it's hard to shout in your gas mask and be heard, even more so when the men in your
platoon are sleeping in dirt holes dug a dozen feet into the French mud.
You did your best, running from hole to hole and sticking your head in, but the gas beat
you to many of the makeshift barracks.
Heavier than air, it swamped the man-made caves sleeping a dozen or more men, filling
their lungs with death.
That's why it's the sleeping that's the most terrifying part of the front for you.
Other soldiers say it's the terrible barrages which can last days- and they're not wrong.
When Jerry is working up for an attack you can always tell, because the bombardment doesn't
let up for a day or two, sometimes three.
If there is a hell it pales in comparison to living through seventy two straight hours
of constant shelling.
The never ending cacophony breaks the men the artillery doesn't kill, but as long as
they can still hold a rifle in their hands they're good enough to be at the front.
Even if those hands are shaking so badly they can hardly aim.
Barrages are bad, but the thought of waking up in a hole choking to death on poison gas
terrifies you more than any German shelling.
You can't help but think about it every time it's your turn to head down into your makeshift
tomb and grab a few hours of shut-eye.
As you slip into unconsciousness you're all too aware that the next time you wake up,
it could be fighting for breath as poison destroys your lungs.
But there's other dangers that'll kill you while you're sleeping.
To protect from enemy artillery, the men of the front have dug themselves deep into the
ground, and most of the time without any experience digging tunnels or anything of the sort, and
with absolutely zero materials for reinforcement.
Not that you'd find any anyways, every tree for miles around has been blasted into oblivion
by years of shelling.
All of eastern France is a moonscape of craters, punctuated only by the shattered trunks and
limbs of the few trees to remain upright, stabbing up into the sky like broken skeletal
fingers.
There was a forest all across this land once, and green grass, and deer, and babbling brooks.
Now there's only mud, blood, corpses, and shit.
Without reinforcing planks, the tunnels and underground living spaces you construct are
under constant threat of collapse.
They're meant to protect you from German shelling, but in reality run the risk of collapsing
from even a glancing blow.
Sometimes, there's not even a need for artillery- with the wettest season on record for this
part of France, some of the underground quarters simply collapse in a heap of mud, burying
alive everyone sleeping inside.
You've even heard of rivers of mud drowning men sleeping on the floor of the trench, completely
overwhelmed and too exhausted to notice and wake in time.
If this war is going to kill you, let it at least be the conventional way.
That damned rain has only recently let up.
Back home you're used to heavy rains, but this- this is something else entirely.
It's like the heavens opened up on just this one specific area of France, as if God himself
wished to add to the hellish misery of the western front.
Things could hardly get any worse, but you know better because they're about to get a
lot worse.
With a pause in the rains, someone up the chain of command decided this is it, the opportunity
they've been waiting for.
It's time to attack.
The rationale is simple- the enemy must be as miserable as you, and after nearly drowning
in mud and piss in their trenches, surely the last thing they would be expecting, or
even ready for, is a full-force assault across a wide section of the front.
Hell, maybe they're right, after all it's certainly the last thing you would expect
them to do.
Probably because it's such a goddamned stupid idea.
Orders are orders though.
Even when they're suicidal- which really makes you think...
you and the hundreds of your fellow soldiers are all armed to the teeth.
Who exactly would stop you all from simply refusing the obviously suicidal order to attack?
You shake such treasonous thoughts from your head and double check your equipment for the
nineteenth time.
You're not carrying much, you never do when you go over the top, because you don't really
need much.
When the war first started both men ordered their infantry to assault with full packs
on their backs, expecting to take large tracts of land at a time which would require the
men to dig in and live off their own supplies until new supply lines could be linked up
with the front.
Machine guns and miles of trenches put a real quick stop to that thinking.
Now advances were measured in dozens of meters, sometimes even a hundred if things went incredibly
well.
If anyone wanted to resupply a successful assault often all they really needed was a
strong pitching arm to lob fresh ammo over to the next trench.
In some places opposing trenches were barely a basketball court's width away from each
other and people shot each other with pistols, not rifles.
As you prep to go over the top, you'll only be taking the absolute short-term essentials.
That means helmet, rifle, bayonet, ammo pouches, canteen, knife, and gas mask.
You're not important enough to get a pistol for a side arm, typically only officers get
those- but as officers die or enemy officers are killed, more and more rank and file grunts
are picking them up for themselves.
You want to leave the heavy wool jacket you're wearing behind, but it helps protect you from
mustard gas and the nights get really cold out here on the front.
You just hope that wherever you end up tonight- back here in defeat, or in the enemy trench
in victory- you have a chance to dry it off over a fire.
Unlikely, again there's no wood to be found anywhere.
You check and double check your rifle, your literal life line out here on the front.
One unlucky jam at the wrong time and you're as good as dead.
It's not just a good routine though, it's calming.
Checking your rifle is in working order gives your anxious mind something to do, and a little
bit of peace and security in a chaotic world.
You can't control the war, you can't control who is or isn't shooting at you, but you can
keep your weapon functioning.
Suddenly, a loud piercing whistle breaks the stillness of the early evening air.
Like floodgates bursting in a storm, more whistles quickly join in, immediately followed
by the roar of hundreds of human voices.
It's time, and without even thinking you're already up and over the top.
Your voice joins in the battlecry, though you're not sure if you're roaring in victorious
defiance or screaming in blind panic.
To be fair, there's plenty of both going on all around you.
Five meters, ten meters, fifteen meters!
You estimate your progress as you join in the battlecry.
How many meters to the enemy lines?
Was it a hundred or a hundred and fifty?
How much further to relative safety?
It doesn't matter, because on your next step your boot sinks in the soft mud all the way
to your ankle and you go tumbling down onto your face.
It's a wonder you didn't snap your ankle, but the accident saves your life because a
breath later and German machine gunners open up on the far trench, unleashing a blistering
wall of lead on the advancing infantry.
Men are cut down mid-charge by the dozens as machine gunners sweep in wide arcs, unleashing
death to the tune of hundreds of rounds a minute.
Ahead of you, like stars twinkling evilly in the dark, hundreds of muzzle flashes from
machine guns and rifles spell out death for the attackers.
But sitting in no man's land is not an option, because you know exactly what's coming next-
and are not disappointed.
With a sickening thump, German trench mortars begin their horrible work.
Shells land amongst the advancing soldiers, blowing limbs off and killing others with
shrapnel.
Staying low to the ground may seem the safer option, but the only real safety is to get
across no man's land and into the enemy trench where machine guns, mortar, and artillery
can't reach you.
At least then you only have to worry about rifles and knives.
So you struggle to pick yourself up, tugging at your damned foot, now buried to the shin
in mud.
With a sickening squelch you pull your foot free- and straight out of the boot, which
remains buried a foot deep.
The hell with your boot, if you don't start moving and start moving now a missing boot
will be the least of your problems.
You pick yourself up and start hobbling forward again.
Running is impossible.
The thick mud makes it a chore to move at any amount of speed, and looking left and
right reveals that you're not the only person battling to free limbs from the thick, soupy
mud.
Those men are easy targets though, especially once the sky lights up with illumination flares
fired from German mortars and artillery.
German snipers pick off the stuck soldiers like mice caught by a glue trap.
It's a wonder the machine guns haven't found you yet, even as you can hear the sickening
splat sound of rounds impacting the thick mud around you.
Nothing you can do about it though so you push the thought out of your mind and continue
running forward.
But the damned mud is exhausting to work through- you can't.
You have to take a break.
You hurl yourself into a small shell crater, likely a previous impact from a large mortar.
There's big shell craters all over the field around you, some of them from enemy or friendly
artillery that fell short of their targets.
Others were created on purpose in anticipation of an assault.
They're meant to provide shelter for advancing infantry, give them a place where they can
drop down into and recover for the final leg to the trenches.
But you know better than to dive into one of the larger craters- it's been raining for
days and all that water has collected inside many of the deep craters.
There it's been churned together into thick, soupy mud- a death trap for anyone seeking
shelter.
Not everyone is as keen as you, and men hurl themselves into perceived safety only to find
themselves trapped by the mud.
It's exhausting work to tear yourself free, you watch a man to your left covered head
to toe struggle to free himself, only to get to the lip of the crater and have his head
blown off.
Some won't even make it that far though, drowning in the mud.
It doesn't help that the rain is starting to pick back up again, slow and steady for
now but you know a torrential downpour can't be far behind.
On the one hand, you're glad for the cover even a little bit of rain gives you.
On the other, you know it spells doom for all the men stuck in the mud.
The shell craters will fill up and drown every last one of them, their only hope is that
you can take the enemy trench fast enough to send help back for them.
What had started as a massed, mad rush for the enemy trench, has largely been broken
up into sporadic runs by smaller groups.
Some of them even make it, diving into the enemy's trench and blessedly reducing the
volume of fire murdering you and your friends still out in no man's land.
A lot don't even make it halfway.
You though, you've made it halfway, and you're determined to make it all the way.
Ahead and to your right another soldier is huddling in his own crater, and you both catch
each other's eyes as you survey the hellscape around you.
With an unspoken nod between you, you both leap up and begin the dash to the enemy anew,
emboldened by each other's presence.
He takes three steps before a machine gun round blows his left hand off.
He stumbles forward in shock and goes to scream but more rounds stitch a pattern up his chest.
You don't even hear him hit the ground as you rush past and dive into another shell
hole, someone's screaming so loud it's actually overpowering the machine guns and mortars.
When your voice finally breaks you realize it's you.
A series of explosions ahead of you snaps you out of the dazed reverie inside your all-too-shallow
hole.
Somewhere not too far ahead men have run into the enemy's barbed wire fortifications.
These have been set in rows of threes a few dozen meters ahead of the enemy's trench,
and are meant to slow infantry down and make them easy pickings for machine guns and rifles.
Mortars and grenades can even be dropped directly on top of them and do little more than turn
the neat rows of barbed wire into a single twisted mess of gouging steel- they might
be even better at their job this way.
There's three options for dealing with barbed wire.
Well, technically four, but number four involves you getting blasted as you try to figure out
a way through it and nobody likes that option.
Number one is to cut your way through with wire cutters.
This is an excellent way of dealing with barbed wire, if it wasn't so damned slow.
Each strand has to be cut individually, clearing a path for the rest of the assault.
It's so painstakingly slow that wire cutters are only brought on an assault as a last resort-
options two and three are preferable.
Instead, saboteurs will often try to sneak across no man's land in the dead of night
and snip the wire under cover of darkness in advance of an assault.
Sometimes they even survive the attempt.
Option number two is to use explosives.
The British have developed a special type of explosive called the Bangalore Torpedo.
Doesn't look much like a torpedo, so no clue why they named it that.
All it really is, is several lengths of explosives inside metal tubes which can be screwed together.
Then a sapper simply shoves the lengths of pipe through the barbed wire, lights one end,
and finds whatever cover he can.
The resulting explosion blasts the barbed wire apart, creating a neat channel to pour
through and past the obstacle.
Option three is almost as bad as option four, but better than option one.
For everyone except you of course.
If there's no wire cutters nearby, no explosive charges, or you're simply taking casualties
at a truly frightening rate, then it's up to some brave soul to simply hurl themselves
on the barbed wire and allow his buddies to use him as a human bridge.
This is surprisingly effective, but rarely ends up well for the volunteer who gets left
behind, struggling to extricate himself from tangles of razor-sharp wire.
Hopefully the assault is successful and your buddies can come back to cut you out, but
if it isn't- well then you can only hope the enemy is merciful enough to put a bullet in
you for a mercy killing.
Beats slowly bleeding out over days on a tangle of steel.
Sometimes though soldiers will bring heavy blankets to throw on the barbed wire and try
to crawl over it that way.
A few inches of blanket isn't nearly as protective, but better than nothing.
Today though you're lucky, the sappers have actually survived the mad dash across no man's
land and a series of explosions blasts a way through the obstacle.
The good news is that the way through the jumble of razor blades is clear.
The bad news is that the breeches in the wire make for very narrow funnels through which
dozens of men must pour through- perfect targets for machine guns.
But there's more explosions across the front, and more breeches in the enemy's defenses.
By the time it's your turn to dash past the wire there's so many holes, and the assault
is so close, that enemy machine gunners are having a hard time keeping up.
Most of them have been firing non-stop for minutes now, pausing only briefly for ammo
belt changes.
Their water-cooled barrels are red-hot in the dark and in danger of catastrophic overheating.
Their accuracy is way off thanks to deforming barrels, but at close range the machine gun
fire is still withering.
Your side is doing it though.
Men are making it to the trench and hopping down.
You can hear the muffled sounds of rifles firing inside the eight foot deep trenches,
and the screams of the dying and wounded.
Just a few more seconds of running..
you're almost there.
You can feel machine gun rounds whizz by you with a sharp thwack!
It's the sound of furious hornets flying by, but none manage to strike you.
And then finally, you're there.
You don't bother to climb down, you hurl yourself into the trench, smashing against the far
wall and landing awkwardly on your back.
Something soft has broken your fall though, and as you twist and flail to try and stand
up you realize why you can't get your footing- you're standing on fresh corpses.
You crawl forward and free yourself, the bodies are so covered in blood and mud you can't
even tell which side they belong to.
Not that it matters, because nothing matters but taking and securing this trench.
You didn't run all the way across certain death and a muddy hell just to die now, and
you sure as hell aren't running back through it all again either.
A figure turns the corner of the trench and you instinctively raise your rifle.
Everyone is so filthy and looks so bedraggled that you both hesitate, unsure if you're looking
at friend or foe.
You're quicker to notice the pattern of the uniform underneath the grime and dirt than
he is though, and you squeeze the trigger.
One German down, several million to go.
The trenches are built with occasional sharp right and left turns so as to create only
small, straight sections.
This helps limit the damage from a direct hit inside the trench from an artillery shell.
It also makes it a twisting maze where every turn could put you face to face with death.
More than once you nearly blow the head off one of your own, with them returning the favor.
You group up though, running through the corridors of the trench.
By the time you run into your fourth group of Germans, you've already given up your rifle.
It's all but useless in the tight confines, and both you and your enemy fight with knives,
clubs, sharpened metal stakes, bayonets, and even your bare fists.
Outside the trench it's the early 20th century, replete with the monstrous inventions of industrialized
warfare that kill men at a rate that would have made Genghis Khan or any great general
of antiquity shiver in envy.
Here in the mud, it's war as man has waged it since antiquity- with sharpened metal,
muscle, and blood.
The rain is falling in earnest now, drowning out the sounds of the battle above and around
you.
Visibility falls, your world is now nothing more than the few meters in front or behind
you to the next bend in the zig-zagging trench.
You're exhausted, lungs on fire as you lift up your knife to parry a blow from a German
soldier.
It's a half-hearted parry, barely able to deflect the incoming attack- but that's ok,
because it too was a half-hearted attack.
Both you and your mortal enemy collapse into the mud, panting for breath.
When people die the bowels loosen, adding foulness to the blood-drenched mud quickly
turning into a vile soup at the bottom of the trench.
It covers you, seeps through your thick coat and uniform, but there's no room or energy
to complain.
Lying in filth and death both you and the German soldier struggle to catch your breath,
spent far beyond normal human capabilities.
You both stare at each other as you gasp for breath.
There's an unspoken plea in each other's eyes- “wait”, “one more breath...
another... ok just one more”.
You're both silently asking the other for just a little more time.
Why fight?
You both wordlessly ask each other.
What possible reason is there for us two, covered in mud and shit, to keep fighting?
You're the first to put a stop to the silent conversation.
You try to push the guilt away and out of your mind as your knife sinks deep into his
chest.
But you have to look away as the knife does its work.
Why keep fighting?
I don't know.
Because if I don't, maybe you'll let me live.
But your friends probably won't.
So I have to kill you, and all of your friends, so there's more of my friends than your friends,
and then am I guaranteed to live.
You pick yourself up off the muddied bottom and look up, a group of figures have turned
the corner, rifles at the ready.
But nobody fires, and as they get near and you wipe the grime out of your eyes you realize
why- they're friendlies.
And more than that, their uniforms are relatively clean- which means one thing: they didn't
cross no man's land hurling themselves into muddy death traps to avoid strafing machine
gun fire and enemy mortars.
They’re reinforcements.
The assault was a success, the enemy's guns silenced.
How long has it been since the whistles?
Couldn't have been more than five minutes, but one of the new guys tells you it's been
nearly a half an hour since the attack began.
A half an hour!
Impossible, but you take the news with a shrug of your shoulders.
Miraculously, you aren't wounded save for a few scratches here and there, but you are
completely spent.
You barely have the energy to stand.
So you don't.
You fall right where you are and one of the new guys helps lift and drag you to a place
a modicum cleaner than the muddy blood and guts where you fell.
He breaks open a tin and pulls out a few pieces of cracker and salted meat.
It's not much, but you devour it nonetheless, then reach for the canteen at your side.
It's gone though- well half of it at least.
A piece of shrapnel or maybe machine gun fire sliced the thing nearly in two.
A few inches over and it would've been your leg, with you bleeding out in a shell hole
somewhere, your remains lost in the mud forever.
The new guy slaps his canteen into your hand and you take big, greedy gulps.
When you're done he takes it back and moves to place it back in his holder, but you smack
his hand to get his attention.
Grabbing the canteen again, you unscrew the top and stick it in the mud, letting rain
fall into the canteen and slowly refill it.
It's a bit of veteran knowledge, hard-earned from six months at the front.
You never know which way the war's gonna go- today's victory could be tomorrow's reversal,
and in less than twenty four hours you might be going over the top in the opposite way
to escape a brutal enemy counterattack.
You can't rely on resupply in these situations, no telling when you might be getting fresh
water again.
That's when you finally take in the soldiers huddled around you in the trench, nervously
fingering their rifles and trying to do their best to ignore the dead bodies at their feet.
Clean-shaven, young faces, uncreased by horror or exhaustion.
No wonder they weren't in the first wave over the top, they're kids, fresh from a few accelerated
weeks of military training and fed directly into the meat grinder.
The only small mercy they received was avoiding being first over the top.
But that mercy has been dispensed and is now over, because casualties for the first wave
are always high.
You took the trench, but now it's up to them to hold it.
And already you can hear the whistles coming from the wrong side of the trenches signaling
that the Germans have something to say about you occupying their defensive works.
With a groan you pick yourself up on your feet and search around for a usable rifle.
It's not hard given the multiple Germans and friendlies, but you pick one from your side
since you're still carrying plenty of ammunition for it and you're not really sure if German
rifles take the same rounds.
You find a spot on the trench and lift yourself up so just your rifle and head are exposed.
The kids in the trench with you realize what's going on and quickly move to follow suit.
Up ahead barely seventy five meters through the falling rain you can already pick out
rushing figures.
Already machine gun fire is reaching out to them, and you press your rifle to your shoulder,
pick out a target, slowly exhale and squeeze the trigger.
Now go check out Surviving Actual Military Combat- True Story, or click this other video
instead!