This is a piece written By Daniel Moran. Dan is a contributor to my favorite website, militaryhistoryonline.com
I always enjoy Dan's posts, but this one blew me away. It is his work, and I display it here, proudly, with his permission.
Pinned down in the freezing cold of late fall having thanked God for a setting sun, anyone left alive between the battle lines was stuck to survive the frigid night. The
ground that was won was indeed hard fought but not enough had been gained to win the day. Those who were careful to move slowly and look about them realized
that if the sniping from the infantry above didn't find them, the long night would certainly claim them all.
Just above, a bit further up the immense incline appeared the thin line of soldiers sleeping on the ground. The image of which made a rank and file perfect and with it
perfectly motionless. What profound sleep, not one awoke and got up, no one came to their relief. The hardship and fatigue of the day certainly would have
overpowered, but to all? Officer and private alike? They were nearest to the objective, the wall. That cold hearted stonewall sitting at the very crest, unreachable and
so cold hearted.
The fog that lay about the ground would have been enough to shield them. One could have stood but ten paces away and not seen them. No one from the top could
have known what was crawling around, what was moving out there, but still they lay motionless and not waking. To look closely upon the faces of any of them, they
were pallid, closed eyes, the mouth open, the hair disheveled, the looks on the faces however, was often times painful, there were blood marks as well. All had been
killed.
The acoustics in the night air carried well. The sounds from the disabled and helpless rang in the ears of the men forever. Cries for water, and pleas for help that
would not come. What one must have felt like to hear the wagon wheels of the ambulance ride close by, assistance is so close, and then fade, they've passed and
gone on without you?
The tongue of a wounded German could be heard, the brogue from that of the Irish, a cry of agony, a sigh, a groan, succession of shrieks, a call of despair, a prayer
for God, a horrid scream, the recognizable death rattle. Voices that called out loudly and those just barely audible as their last breath had gone out of them.
What is to be gained by renewing the attack on the 14th?
Daniel Moran
This page was last updated on: October 28, 2001