Into The Trenches: A World War I Journal [2019]

Chapter 6

[NEXT TWO CHAPTERS-- TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT. I will summarize these two at the beginning of chapter 8. ]

24 March 1915

I have no recollection of being quite so scared as I was today.

We were in the trench preparing to attack. The whistle blew, and soldiers began to climb the ladders, Jacob among them. I was about to join them when I found a rifle in the trench at my feet. It took me a moment to recognize it as Jacob's. 

This was the first sign that something was wrong. Jacob is the best soldier I know. He never misses a shot, and I've certainly never seen him drop his weapon in battle. Without a second thought I holstered my own gun and climbed the ladder.

Jacob stood with his back to me several paces ahead, seemingly oblivious to the mortal danger about him. His empty holster was visible on his back. 

"Jacob!" I shouted, aware that I was drawing attention to myself. Why was he standing there, ignoring the bullets that shot by him? Why had he dropped his gun? 

He looked at me, his gaze as calm as ever. Shots were flying past, each coming dangerously close to him. Any moment now he would run back to me, take the gun and fire a perfectly aimed shot. Instead he turned and walked away from me. 

"No, wait!" My voice rose into a desperate cry as I ran after him, dodging another bullet. Jacob stopped in an open space unmarred by craters and fences, halfway across the field. He faced the enemy trench, his back to me. A shot narrowly missed his head. 

"Jacob, please." Terror clawed at my throat, leaving my voice hoarse and ragged. For a moment the sounds of war seemed to fade into an eerie silence, and the only thing that mattered was the short distance between me and Jacob. 

Then he turned towards me, and the next shot caught him in the side. He stood still, his eyes meeting mine, and then he collapsed to one knee, his hands clasping over his blood-soaked uniform. 

"No!" I ran to him as he listed sideways, steadying him and shielding him from further shots. I found a nearby crater and half carried, half dragged him to the limited shelter. Jacob's eyes fluttered open and shut as I eased him onto the rough ground. Dark red blood stained the fabric beneath his fingers, soaking his hand and mine. The color seeping from his side had drained from his face, leaving him ashen. My heart clenched with fear. 

He would die if I left him, or if we stayed here for much longer. I heaved his body over my shoulder and stood, staggering under his weight, malnourished though he was. Jacob's blood was spreading onto my own uniform, the wet sensation bringing bile into my throat. I could no longer feel his shuddering breaths, and a sick hopelessness set into me. A bullet grazed my arm, but the pain hardly slowed me down. I ran back to the trench and made for the ladder, stopping when I saw Richard in the trench with his rifle pointed at me.

"Don't shoot, Richard; it's me, Henry. Jacob's been shot," I gasped, barely able to keep the panic from my voice. Richard's eyes widened in horror and he lowered his gun, helping me climb down. I stumbled to the infirmary, Jacob still on my back.

A nurse rushed to me and helped me ease Jacob onto the cot, asking what sounded like a question in rapid French. I shook my head and stammered, "I don't speak French," unable to remember proper French in my frenzy. 

"Are you hurt as well?" said the nurse in accented English, bending over Jacob to examine him. 

"No, I'm fine," I said quickly, ignoring the stinging pain in my arm. The blood stained across my shoulder and hands belonged to Jacob. "Just tend to him. Is he alive? Will he..." 

"He lives," she said, "for now. I will do my best, monsieur. I do not think a vital organ was hit, but he's lost a lot of blood." 

I watched her strip away his shirt and fought down nausea at the sight of his bloody side. She cleaned and bandaged it, then filled out a report and asked me for his name and whether he had any family. She saw the wound on my arm, but I would not let her treat it until she was finished with Jacob. I finally could not bear to remain there, and returned to the open trench where I sit now, writing and praying that Jacob will live through the day.

How could he do what he did? Throw away his gun and walk unarmed into no man's land? He knew— knows— it is nothing less than suicide. Unless... he planned it that way. It sickens me to think of it, but the calm in his eyes and the way he walked away... it was as if he wanted them to shoot him. In any case he may yet die, and the blood on my hands is a perpetual reminder of the fact.