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CHAPTER ONE
There were a lot of things, thought Dew, worse than riding in an open lorry driven by a Frenchman. One of them was riding in a lorry filled with flea ridden soldiers. A wayward flea had made its way up to the passenger seat where Dew sat. He deftly nipped the insect between thumb and finger and without thought sliced its body in two with his thumb nail.
The last fourteen days had been very different. He wasn’t in a trench and that was, by far, the most significant difference. He was not wet, hungry, moldy, muddy, dusty, bloody, tired, or miserable. And although itchy and bitten threatened to make a fresh start, he wasn’t (yet). Quite the opposite really. Since his arrest, he had been removed from the front lines, bathed, and fed. Smells of warm bread and steaming beef slabs lingered in his nostrils. He had had third helpings and had been contemplating a fourth when he saw the pies. Apple, pecan, lemon, whipped. He had helped himself to each. After several days of this he was given a new uniform. A warm, newly pressed uniform, which came with a new rank. “The rank was essential for his new role,” they explained. They had made him a lieutenant. He wasn’t sure why. Many things had not been explained. He had been shuffled from one building to another. One barracks to another. Rarely sleeping in the same bunk two nights running. Forms were filled out, examinations were made, interviews had been conducted. And there were tests. A lot of tests both physical and mental, followed by a week’s worth of flight training, and yet another uniform, and finally orders. There was never a glimmer or a whisper as to the reason he had come there.
As the sun started to climb higher in the morning sky, Dew rested his hands behind his head. The steady breeze on his face and the bouncing, open-topped lorry had a calming effect. He closed his eyes and enjoyed this new comfort. If they didn’t want to talk about it, he could forget the whole affair as well. Being a convict wasn’t all bad.
A savage jolt to the lorry jerked him to his senses and he grabbed the side handrail to steady himself.
“Sahree,” said the French driver, “but zee craters are worse az weee get closarh to zee front, wi?” To prove his point, the lorry took another terrible lurch so that Dew clutched his seat and the side rail to stay on board.
“Merde!” said the Frenchman.
They were getting closer. The terrain had assumed a duller shade. The transformation sudden, as if someone plunked down a new backdrop during a stage play. Dew looked over his shoulder and saw that green fields, blooming trees, and an old farm house were all quickly receding on the horizon. Turning forward again the steady approach of muddy earth, craters, burnt trees and stumps of wood overwhelmed the landscape. Scraps of iron, planks, and barbed wire scattered in all directions. This wasn't the front, but had been at one time. He had forgotten. In the land of hot meals and hot water he had forgotten. So quickly had he melted into the comforts of a real bed, large meals, and hot showers that everything had unconsciously locked itself behind a dark, untouched recess. But the terrain jarred that dark place free. Behind him were life and the living. In front lay death and destruction.
Dew held on with both hands. The lorry's springs squeaked and groaned with each jolt. He and the driver swayed from side to side, rocking and bumping in their seats. The soldiers in the back clung to the wooden slats at their backs. Their feet spread wide for balance.
The road, which was essentially two ruts the driver attempted to follow, was only slightly better than the deep, ragged holes on either side. The bumps, crevices, and craters threatened to work free every bolt in the truck. Yet, the reliable Renault continued to plod confidently ahead.
Maybe it was the engine noise, the complaints from the truck springs, or the banging of the tire rims as the lorry charged into one crater after another. Maybe it was some combination of all three that kept them focused on their current course, because their undivided attention was consumed with the immediate task. Relaxing your senses, even when terribly bored or sleeping was a costly mistake Dew learned early during in the trenches. Only two weeks on convicted furlough and he had fallen into old habits. Deadly habits. The crack, crack, cracking sound almost imperceptible at the back of his mind grew louder and louder as it tried to bust through that dark, muddy area of his thoughts. Lifting his eyes from the road he saw the unmistakable flash of a machine gun muzzle. That dark recesses of his mind, the area that he had inadvertently locked away so quickly, burst into full view in the form of whizzing 30 caliber lead flying past his ears.
The Frenchman had seen the plane at the same time. The machine came swooping down upon them, a fire breathing dragon spitting flame and death. The Frenchman wrenched the brake levers. The truck's skid caused Dew to brace himself and grasp the front edge of the open lorry to prevent his whole person from being tossed over the front of the vehicle. The six men in the back slammed forward in a heap. Dew heard the slap of their bodies crashing into the wooden panels just behind his seat.
“Incoming!” yelled Dew, leaping from the truck into a crater a yard away. Wood splinters exploded from the truck frame and sprayed into the air. Everyone scrambled to get out. The chug-chug-chug of the German's Spandau punctuated the air with molten streaks of heat. Dew thought he could smell the powder. A soldier in the back of the truck screamed and then collapsed backward, a failed attempt to clamber over the side. His rifle clattered to the ground, the only part able to escape the confines of the truck bed.
And then the plane was past, a roar of engine and propeller chopping through the air followed by a whoosh sound. A single plane. The pilot had flown over quite low. Dew could see the pilot's face, a gritty smile looking backward to survey the destruction. The smell of fuel and Castor oil lingered in the plane's wake wavering to the ground like a fog. Dew recognized the machine as an Eindecker. Probably an EIII. His flight instructors had drilled him about that plane and that its pilots had been cutting up the allies something terrible these last few months.
He scrambled out of his crater and ran to the truck. Peering into the back he saw the surprised look on the face of the dead soldier. A young face. Younger than Dew thought him to have been. Then he looked around for the Frenchman.
“Move! Let's move! Drive!” he yelled in the direction of the driver. A moving target would be more difficult to hit. But the Frenchman just stood and pointed.
“Ai! Il tourne! Il revient! Il va faire un autre passage!”
True enough. The German was banking his machine in a rising slow turn. He was going to make another pass. There was no time to get the truck moving. Everyone was trying to get some distance between themselves and the lorry. The whole situation made him furious. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The last two weeks of rest and respite had been torn from him. Everyone was running. Total chaos. He had been thrust back into the war before he really knew what was going on. Without thinking he grabbed an ammunition clip from the dead soldier's belt. Reaching down to the rifle that the soldier had dropped he recognized the Springfield. His own Springfield had been very much a part of him when he was stationed at the front. He ate and slept with his rifle. The army had given him one tool with which to protect himself and Dew revered his rifle. His excellent marksmanship moved him to a sniper role, a supporting role that was better, slightly better, than his previous designation -- infantry. Better in that he was not required to participate in frontal assaults. As a sniper, he only watched them. Thousands of soldiers sent to the slaughter. Wave after wave of bodies swept away in a sea of bullets. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse to participate in a charge. Surely it was better not to charge, but to watch hundreds, thousands of men obliterated by machine gun fire was a sight that haunted his sleep. He would never forget.
When Dew became a sniper he flourished in his role. His was to attain forward flanking positions under the cover of darkness with the purpose of eliminating the men in the machine gun nests. Preferably this was done before a day's assault. Or better yet, just before the assault. The missions were difficult. Yet he reasoned that if taking out one nest prevented even one allied soldier from getting killed or wounded, he considered the night’s work a success. The fear and the privation were worth every minute. Indeed, he had received the silver cross only a few short months ago. And the men in the companies liked having Dew watch over them. “The morning Dew that covers the Huns,” they said. He would laugh with them, but he knew it was his gritty determination and the care and cleanliness that he practiced on his rifle that won him victories. The Springfield was an amazing tool. The best rifle mankind had ever made. Accurate up to a mile and rarely was the enemy that far away. More like 500 or 600 yards. Dew selected firing positions that afforded not only the best view but the best advantage to eliminating an entire team. Machine gun teams were usually made up of three to five men. When the charge began, Dew would hit the team methodically, his movements deft, cool, and rhythmic. Then he would hunker down, watching, ready to kill any soldier that dared to fill the nest and take up the gun.
Laying on your belly, adjusting the Leaf sight to account for the distance, weather, angle of attack and aiming at relatively solitary men was a lot different than firing at an airship moving at quite possibly 80 miles per hour. Dew didn't want to think about it. His hands moved automatically, slamming home the clip, which held five rounds. His left elbow dropped between the rifle and the thick leather strap and extended outward pulling all taught.
Already the German pilot's bullets were whizzing about him. Dirt flew up from the ground at his feet. Bullets zinged through the truck. Dew ignored all of it. His fury blinded him to everything but his task at hand. He blinked hard as his rifle cushioned into that familiar spot on his cheek. The German was firing in short bursts, the plane thrashing forward with remarkable speed. Dew aimed to the center of the propeller, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. Without looking for his mark, he lowered the rifle to work the bolt, his trigger hand coming up in one motion, then back.
The empty shell from the Springfield pinged into the air end over end clear of the chamber and the housing. A wispy trail of smoke and spent powder traced its fall to the ground. Dew rammed home the bolt but it stopped hard before closing. Jammed.
He dropped to one knee working franticly at the bolt, pulling and pushing. He could hear individual bullets from the Eindecker buzzing past his head. Hot, angry bees that piffed into the ground all about him.
“Shit!” he yelled, exasperated. Clearly, this rifle was not maintained like it should have been. His knuckles scraped raw. The round was jammed hard.
And then the airplane was past again. This time so low that Dew felt his hair stream backward. The heat from the engine wavered in the air stream about him, bathing him again in the fog of exhaust and oil.
“Merde!” said the Frenchman, running towards Dew.
Finally it moved. Dew felt the bullet chamber home as he locked the bolt. He whirled and steadied himself on one knee. Aiming at the retreating German, he tried not to think about the speed at which the airship moved. He followed his rising target, a mark that was diminishing quickly. Exhaling, he squeezed the trigger. The airplane gave a sudden jerk but then no more. Did he hit the pilot? He was certain he had aimed for him.
Then unmistakably, they could see the arm of the German pilot waiving his fist at them. Dew had missed. But had he hit something? Something that caused the German to wave his curse. There was no mistaking the gesture. Indeed, the Germen flew towards the front, away from them. The sound of the engine faded perceptibly smaller until they could hear it no more.
“You are one crayzee,” said the Frenchman, his hand moving in a circle next to his head.
The rest of the soldiers were standing at the back of the truck. Inside laid their buddy, a hole large enough for your fist at the center of his chest. They all stared at the corpse. Silence. The soldiers were used to life ending this way and that thought made Dew feel tired. Very tired.
They wrapped the body with a tarp and positioned it between their feet in the center of the truck bed. The French driver cranked the engine, a second time, and then a third when the lorry sputtered to life. The relief of having the truck no worse for the attack evident on the Frenchman’s face. Dew climbed into the passenger seat and they continued their bouncing journey. When he wasn't holding on with both hands, Dew brushed the dirt and mud from his new uniform.
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