Vincent slowly made his way to what was left of the Howitzer unit. Most of the men he passed in the trench were lying down, sleeping where they could. There were few blankets and men huddled together next to keep warm. Campfire would draw the German’s attention and bring gunfire.
Vincent learned he was in the fire trench at the forefront of the action. The trench was well made and nearly the entire way across was lined with sandbags. Vincent passed many dugouts as he walked: the areas dug into the side of the trench where the officers slept.
Finally, he came to the Howitzer unit and saw they were a sad lot. It was not that they weren’t valiant or noble men; it was the lack of number of men. The unit was assigned to man the eighteen artillery Howitzers that were heavy to move but were effective in slowing an advancing army. Vincent only counted thirty men including himself still left with the unit. He expected others to be reassigned and would soon join them.
He spoke briefly with a few of the men on duty and was relieved to find out that he had guessed correctly – he was indeed assigned to the Howitzer unit (he still wasn’t sure how they knew him but they did). He spoke with some of the other men near him for a brief time and then laid down for whatever sleep he could manage.
It was still dark when Vincent was called awake by an officer. Rising to his feet, Vincent was handed a shovel and ordered to repair a section of the trench that had been damaged in the previous day’s fighting. He looked around and saw other men refilling sandbags while others were cleaning the Howitzers. He counted the men who surrounded him and saw that other men had been assigned. His unit was not large but at least now they had enough men to manage the large guns.
They dug for many hours. It was hard laborious work, work to which Vincent was unaccustomed. Blisters had formed on his hands and they had already split and begun to bleed.
He kept digging but secretly hoped someone would come and save him from the unending mud. Finally a voice did, although that voice only served to move him from a menial task to a deadly one. The order came for them to prepare the Howitzers for fire. There would be a division moving to the front line.
“Shakespeare,” the Sergeant called out.
At first Vincent was too surprised to answer. How does he know my name?
“Shakespeare, do you have mud in your ears?”
“No, sir,” Vincent answered, rising and standing to attention. He was worried he would do a poor job as a soldier but coming to attention came to him as if he were well versed.
The Sergeant stepped forward, narrowing the space between them until Vincent could smell the man’s breath. “When I speak, you answer. Is that understood Private Shakespeare?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
The Sergeant stared at Vincent for a moment longer, then took a step back and smiled. “We sure gave those bloody Krauts all they could handle. They must have knackered you in the head which is why you don’t hear so well. Get on then, Winston, I’ll be right behind you.”
Vincent realized the Sergeant must have been among the few of the Howitzer unit that survived the earlier battle. Then, it hit him that the Sergeant called him Winston. Before he could ask the Sergeant about the name or where he was expected to be going, the Sergeant was off yelling at other men to get ready to move. Vincent was ushered along with other soldiers of the reformed Howitzer unit.
Vincent had taken about ten steps when he stopped suddenly, drawing curses from the men behind him. It dawned on him then why his shirt named him as Shakespeare (his actual last name) and why the Sergeant called him Winston. Winston was his great-grandfather’s name. Somehow in this dream he had assumed the form of his great-grandfather during the Battle of Passchendaele – the battle in which his grandfather had died.
Vincent turned to the man behind him. The man was still angry that Vincent had stopped suddenly, causing him to fall into the mud to avoid running into Vincent. Vincent ignored his anger. “How many days have we been fighting?” Vincent asked him.
“That is what you have to say to me after knocking me into the filth. The barrel of my rifle…”
Vincent cut him off. “I don’t care about your rifle right now. How many days?”
The soldier looked hard at Vincent but something in Vincent’s eyes caused him to answer. “We’ve been fighting for ten days. You were laid up in the mud for a day of it so I’m not sure all those days count for you.”
Ten days, Vincent repeated to himself. He knew the battle would last sixteen days, which meant sometime in the next six days, his grandfather would be killed, which meant he would be killed.
He was curious about this as
