Contents (45)
- DULCE ET DECORUM EST
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- CONTENTS
“Gas!”
Panicked screams raced through the trenches as the poisonous fog spilled over the parapet and into the narrow ditches. The soldier yanked off his helmet and fumbled for his gas mask. He couldn’t risk even one breath. Just one lungful of chlorine gas produced coughing and spasms. A second brought confusion and delirium. A third rendered you unconscious. And a fourth delivered death.
They’d run gas mask drills every day since he’d arrived in Ypres, but never had the soldier’s hands trembled so violently. The gas settled in the trenches like a toxic river. Soldiers struggled to hold their heads above the poisonous fumes while keeping them tucked below the trench walls as they secured their masks. Enemy snipers picked off those who failed.
A bullet struck the left shoulder of the officer clutching the ladder. Before the soldier could grab him, the officer lost his grip and fell into the deadly fog slithering through the trench. The gas struck like a snake, fast and merciless. The officer clutched his throat and writhed on the wooden duckboards lining the trench floor. His mouth contorted with pain, and his eyes bulged in terror as he choked and coughed. The young soldier looked away. The only help he could offer was a bullet, but the soldier needed all of his for the enemy. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and mucous flowed from his nose as he tucked his head lower and secured his mask. Now, finally, a high-pitched whistle pierced the panicked, agonizing screams filling the trenches. A muffled command followed: “Over the top, boys!”
Muttering one last prayer, the soldier stepped over the officer’s motionless body and climbed onto no-man’s-land.
TWO
THOMAS SULLIVAN HAD broken two of the Ten Commandments before dawn. Hours later, as he stood in line at Trafalgar Square, sandwiched between men a decade older and a head and a half taller, he prepared to break a third.
Timothy Bennett, March 1, 1899.
Timothy Bennett, March 1, 1899.
Thomas silently rehearsed the lie, burying the truth under constant repetition and an occasional prayer. Having already committed two sins, he worried his prayers might go unanswered, but reminded himself that he’d sinned for a righteous reason, which had to count for something. He whispered another Hail Mary, just in case, and rubbed a hand over his face, hoping to discover that at least one wiry hair had sprouted on his chin during the long train ride from Dover to London, including two disappointing stops in Canterbury and Rochester, but his calloused fingers found only smooth skin. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon sun, Thomas peeked around the man in front of him and counted the recruits standing between him and the wooden table flanked by two of Trafalgar’s famed lion sculptures.
Six.
Far fewer than when he’d joined the line three hours earlier. Army officers stood behind the table, asking questions and taking notes. If they accepted your answers, they ushered you to the right. If they rejected them, they dismissed you to the left.