Re: Blood and Iron

Rain fell upon the landscape of northwestern Belgium. The sky had been blotted out by the black storm clouds, which were welcomed in a torrential downpour of epic proportions.

The only illumination which could be witnessed by the men huddling under the cover their trenches provided for them was the burning husks of Allied tanks which had tried and failed to push against the fortifications which the German and Belgians soldiers used as cover.

These ruined machines of war lie sunken halfway into the mud beneath them, as the downpour continued to create pools of water throughout the landscape. Turning the now barren and lifeless landscape into a marsh filled with nothing but the drowned corpses of the recently departed.

The charge had failed, miserably so, as the soldiers of the Central Powers bravely stood their ground and obliterated half a million men in the course of a day. And now the sound of guns echoed in the distanced as the counter battery began.

While the King of England had sought for a peaceful resolution to this war, the fighting still waged. And among the dead marshes were soldiers of the British Empire along with those from their French allies alike.

The pitter patter of the rain dropping upon the steel helmets of the allied soldiers who had survived the initial assault was drowned out by the echoes of machine guns and artillery alike.

Their cries, as they were covered in mud and blood, muffled by the symphony of war, as the Germans and Belgians continued to gun down those who were unfortunate enough to still draw breath yet be caught in between a sea of corpses and the enemy lines.

The conditions for the third battle of Ypres, better known by the name of Passchendaele, had come a year earlier than it was supposed to. For three days and three nights, the storm raged without mercy.

Turning the hellish landscape already battered and bruised by years of warfare, into a nightmarish swamp, filled with mud, blood, and the festering disease of rotting bodies.

A land once renowned for its natural beauty had become the most heinous bog ever to be witnessed by men. And the soldiers on both sides dare not rush into the middle of it, for fear that the dead would drag them into its depths by their ankles. To join them forever in eternal agony.

Rain continued to pour, blood still spilled, and bullets maintained their trajectory. All the while the Allied commanders, especially the British Generals who feared that their king would end their empire’s involvement in the war without their chance to earn glory, were ushering their soldiers towards the front line for a second and more bloody assault.

500,000 men had lost their lives in this pitiful and grim hellscape over the course of the last three days. Their bodies left to rot in the bog that lie before them. And now the survivors were being asked to charge once more?

For what? What could possibly justify such a callous waste of human life? All so the Allies could gain a mile? Maybe two? How much was the price of a mile truly worth? Were such pitiful gains valued at the expense of a million men? More?

At what point did the Allied soldiers, who continued to suffer disproportionate casualty rates with every command followed, say enough is enough? When would they turn their rifles on the petty psychopaths who dared to call themselves generals?

Well, that was a question that was silently permeating in the thick, and putrid air, as the French and British soldiers pondered whether or not their fear of being shot by a firing squad was worth obeying the orders which would most certainty end with them drowning in the water that was by now contaminated with the blood, bile, and decay of their former comrades.

Sun Tzu once was quoted as having said, “Throw your soldiers into positions, once there is no escape, and they will prefer death to flight…”

But, this was not an option where there was no escape… The path to freedom lay behind these men, and the only thing standing in their way was the chain of command which so ruthlessly and recklessly demanded they die for nothing.

All it would take for a mutiny of the most epic proportions to break out here at Ypres was for one man to raise his rifle and shoot a superior officer in the head… But likewise, all it would take for these sheep to run off a cliff and to their most certain deaths was for one of them to take the first step over the wire.

Which would it be? Nobody knew, nobody cared to guess. And few thought of disobeying orders… Not in this day and age… Ultimately, as the British General in charge of the Ypres Operations began shouting at his men to cross over the top, and run towards the enemy into a suicidal charge, it was the most unlikely of men who dared to stand up to him and refuse his orders. Explore new worlds at My Virtual Library Empire

Charles de Gaulle gazed upon the pathetic state of the allies. To say their uniforms no longer resembled their original colors and patterns was an understatement. They were tattered and stained beyond recognition. No bolts of vibrant cloth were pinned to any of their chests, no proud displays of valor on the field of battle.

Their helmets were dined, dented, and scraped in ways that even the thick coating of mud, blood, and oil which stained them could not conceal. While there was not an ounce of flesh untainted in a similar manner.

These men were battered, and if the tears which washed down their tormented expressions were anything to go by, they were broken as well. And he would no longer stand by any longer and continue to be complicit in their suffering.

As a result, the French Brigadier General stepped forward and said the words that shocked everyone present.

“If you’re so hungry for glory, then go prove your courage and step over the wire yourself. Lead the charge, and show these men that they are being led by a lion… If not, then shut the hell up! We have lost enough men already to the Germans and Belgians, and I would not see anymore of my men die for the sake of your vain pursuit of valor!”

The British General did not say a word. He was so stunned by the gall of this Frenchman that he had found himself completely at a loss for word.

As for Charles de Gaulle, he turned around and walked in the opposite direction. Heading back to the area where his quarters were located. He was tired… Not physically, but mentally and spiritually…

And he sincerely doubted that sleep would cure what ailed him… But he would attempt to do so nonetheless, because he was out of options at this point.