He turned to the left and in the distance, again across a field of fallen soldiers, he saw the other line. In looking at the bodies, he thought on how death didn’t care which army was the good guy. Both the Germans and the Allies saw themselves in the right and in truth, perhaps neither of them was right. Both were fighting to protect their way of life; and in the years to come both sides would give books to their children that taught of the oppressiveness of the opposing side and the valor in which the soldiers of their own country fought against injustice.
Vincent tried to pick out the helmets worn by men in their respected trenches but very few men could even be seen moving around – only those pulling the wounded from the field of battle. The other men knew better than to stick their head above the side of the trench, knowing a sniper could be waiting to put a bullet through that head.
With little to go by, Vincent decided to move to his right. He would know soon enough if his decision was correct. Maybe if I’m shot by a German all of this will end and I can actually wake up?
The going was very slow. The mud was extremely thick. And although the night’s cold had somewhat hardened the mud, the mud was too thick to be frozen in all areas. It took him nearly an hour to crawl one hundred feet.
Finally, just before dawn, he reached the outer perimeter of the trench that served as the base and temporary home of those who fought on that side. He looked up and saw two men running towards him with a stretcher in tow. It was then that he knew he had chosen wisely. He was at the British encampment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Passchendaele, Belgium – November 1917
They took him to the medical area, which was little more than a covered hole in the ground. A tent was placed over a large dug-out area in the earth. The walls were reinforced with sandbags that were undoubtedly filled with the same mud that was everywhere. Vincent reflected that it was definitely not the sterile medical environment of the 21st Century.
They laid him on a makeshift table and a physician covered in blood came over to him. “Can you speak?” the doctor asked with a British accent.
Vincent wondered briefly how the doctor would react when he replied back to him in an American accent. But at the same time he couldn’t not speak. “I can talk,” he answered, surprised to find he had a British accent as well.
“Very well. So what is your affliction?”
“My affliction?” the phrasing of the question threw Vincent for a moment.
The doctor appeared to grow slightly agitated but stayed calm. Vincent could imagine the doctor was exhausted and stressed for resources and assistance. “Are you shot?”
Vincent looked down at his chest and then at his arms and legs. “I don’t believe I was.”
The doctor looked closely at Vincent. “Which battalion are you with?”
Vincent didn’t know how to answer. He knew that he was more than likely with an infantry regiment but Britain had nearly seventy line infantry regiments during World War I. Each of those regiments was divided into several battalions.
“You seem confused,” the doctor noted. “Were you struck in the head?”
“Howitzer,” Vincent said softly.
“What was that?”
“I’m with the Howitzer unit,” Vincent repeated, this time a little more confidently.
The doctor leaned in and looked at Vincent closely. Vincent was sure he had named the wrong unit. Perhaps there was no Howitzer unit at this battle.
He watched the doctor’s expression and saw a sadness come across his face. “I’m sorry to tell you this, chap but most of your unit is dead. I’ve operated on many of your men today. I would guess that only a handful of you survived.”
Vincent was sad to hear that so many men had died but to pull off the effect he thought of his mother’s death two years ago and let that pain seep into his face. “I have changed units many times during this war. It appears I’ll be doing so again.”
The doctor nodded. “We’re fortunate to have men such as you on the front lines. From where did you come, before the war?”
“Birmingham,” Vincent lied, saying the first town that came to his mind. He waited for the doctor to tell him he was from Birmingham as well but the doctor merely nodded.
“Very well, if there is nothing else you require – you have no injuries that I can tell – I bid you good luck.”
Vincent thanked the doctor and left the makeshift hospital. As soon as he walked outside, the smell hit him. The inside of the medical unit had been somewhat contained by the sandbags and tent but the open air brought the fresh smell of death. He had been in the open field for many hours surrounded by dead bodies and must have grown used to the stench; now that he was freshly removed and reintroduced to the battlefield, the smell was overwhelming.
He risked a peak over the top of the trench and saw that while many of the bodies had been retrieved by the field ambulance unit, many more still remained. The night ground was filled with the vultures that always pillaged the outcome of war.
He walked along a trench and was overpowered by the smell of human waste. The trenches allowed little privacy and latrines were often an obscure hole dug as far away from the place where the soldiers would sleep as possible. The stench of human feces was almost worse than the smell of decaying bodies awaiting shipment back to England.
He made his way
