As we pause on this Memorial Day and remember those who sacrificed their lives for our freedoms, I want to share with readers this excerpt from my new WW I release WAR IN THE WASTELAND, my protagonist a lens to his platoon leader, teen atheist 2/Lt CS Lewis. “War in the Wasteland
is a gripping, informative, adrenalin-producing picture of World War I. The
awful moments of fear and the reflective conversations of men who don't know if
they'll survive the day, are captured on every page of this book.” Douglas E. Lee, Brigadier General, USA
(Ret), President, Chaplain Alliance for Religious Liberty
Excerpt from chapter 32 THIS IS WAR, moments before Nigel and his squad go over the top.
...Nigel
did not feel particularly courageous that morning. He glanced to his left. There
was Sergeant Ayres, so unlike other men. While most powerful men he had read
about in history books—kings, popes, generals—used their might to subdue
others, Ayres had the singular ability of giving his inexhaustible strength
away to others, as a gift. Nigel listened to his own breathing, hot and rapid.
He felt it was urgent. He studied the man; he had to know what made Sergeant
Ayres so unlike other men.
His
mouth set in a resolute line, Sergeant Ayres lifted his left hand and kissed
the gold band on his ring finger. Sergeant Ayres was married. Dedicated as he
was to his squad, he was married, perhaps with children at home; his wife may
have a babe in arms, one that her husband may not have met—may never meet. It
had never occurred to Nigel to think of Sergeant Ayres with a wife, children, a
life beyond the army. Nigel watched his sergeant kiss his wedding ring a second
time. He must love her dearly, more than life itself.
Nigel
felt ashamed. Being in charge was a harder condition than he had ever imagined.
Up to this moment, he had only seen his sergeant as someone to help him with
his own problems, his own fears, with Perrett’s fears. It had never occurred to
him that the man who guarded and doted over his squad, that that same man carried
on his shoulders the still weightier responsibility of family, left without him
back in England. Drenched fingers opening and closing on the fore stock of his
rifle, Nigel felt selfish and ashamed.
But in
that shame, an awakening began to occur in Nigel’s mind, a realization he had
always tried to avoid. Giving the orders, when done well, was far more about
giving something to others than taking something from them. Too many men cared
far too much about the power and status of leadership rather than its cost. Maybe
that’s why there was a war like this one. It was a consideration that Nigel
felt he needed to think about deeply, alone, away from all this. If he ever had
the chance.
Then it
began. As if frame-by-frame, Lieutenant Lewis moved his trench whistle closer to
his lips. Rain water ran off the sleeve of his trench coat, drip-dripping from
the elbows. The fingers holding the whistle, white with cold, trembled
slightly. A stream of rain water dribbled off the rim of his Tin hat onto the
whistle. The whistle and Lieutenant Lewis’s lips nearly touched, like Sergeant
Ayres and his ring. Nigel felt a twinge of hope; maybe the whistle, soaked with
water, would fail to sound.
There it
was. Trilling tunelessly, like a train nearing a crossing, a trench whistle
blew. And with that blowing time seemed to fall to its belly and creep along
like Nigel had once seen a sloth doing at The London Zoo.
The trench
whistle, it made an odd sound. How could a single whistle sound flat, off
pitch, out of tune? Out of tune with what? Beneath the thunder of the barrage
suddenly it was the close sounds, the intimate ones that became distinct,
penetrating: The shying of rainfall, the squelching of boots in mud, a raspy
cough. And labored, intentional breathing, as men attempted to marshal courage
to face the horror of what lay ahead. But there was the trench whistle.
“Why
aren’t we going?” asked Nigel.
“Not our
platoon,” said Sergeant Ayres. “Lieutenant Johnson’s boys, just there.”
“Why
before us?” said Wallace.
Nigel
watched Lieutenant Johnson, revolver in hand, whistle between his teeth, leap
out of the trench, beckoning his platoon to follow him over the top. With shouts
of defiance, Johnson’s men hurled themselves toward the enemy.
We’re for it next, thought
Nigel. But still they waited. The waiting—that was the worst of it. Encircled
by grinding hopelessness, by the unremitting slaughter of men, oddly Nigel did
not consciously consider whether it would happen to him. It seemed so utterly
inevitable that it required no consideration. All would soon be over. Nigel
found a corner of his brain toying with the notion of death. Could death be
worse than this? Would not a hasty obliteration, as he had witnessed to left
and right of him, would it not be an escape? It required a body to feel unrelenting
pain, and a brain to be numb with fear. To live each hour under the enervating
anticipation of one’s own violent dismemberment and dying, was it worse than
death itself?...
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