Chapter 54
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 54
Chapter Title: Devils of Amiens (2)
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Private John Miller of the 93rd Division's 369th Regiment arrived near Amiens, and the first thing he did was pick up the shovel—a task that had become second nature by now.
"Dig faster! Before we all get buried!"
"Jerry's coming! If you're even an inch short on that trench, bullets will fly right over your head and into your skull! Dig faster!"
Damn field shovel. What the hell were they thinking, issuing something the size of a goddamn spoon?
Sure, it was portable, so there wasn't much choice, but digging a trench with this piece of junk was pure agony.
"What the hell are the engineers doing?"
"The engineers have been digging since forever ago."
"Shit. Command's got their reasons, I guess, but this is cutting it close."
The officers and NCOs were yapping about something, but he didn't have the bandwidth to care.
From the division commander down to the lowliest sergeant, every day they preached that this war was a holy crusade for the future of black Americans.
And right now, this seemingly pointless shoveling was their future—and their hope.
That fact alone pumped strength into his arms.
The wall of race was impossibly high.
The chains of slavery were gone, but invisible ones still choked them.
Miller had gone to college, even gotten his law degree, but the law's protection never reached black folks, while bigots' bullets flew right in their faces.
He'd crossed the Atlantic clinging to faint, vague hope, only to hear that units were being neglected and commanders were refusing black troops one after another—despair had come crashing back.
That is, until that one Asian became their new commander.
'Don't trust the white folks in D.C.! Trust me!'
That man had to be the prophet God sent for black people.
Every time his signature black Dodge Touring car appeared, the soldiers' faces lit up with energy and an inexplicable confidence swelled in their chests.
His endless grit. His unshakeable belief that nothing could stand in his way.
And his plain-spoken vision of the future, with no sugarcoating.
'You think spilling blood will make whites respect us? That's like a camel threading a needle and impregnating an elephant. Cut the soft bullshit. Tell 'em straight: treat us like people or they'll slaughter us all!'
Every man in the 93rd Division loved their young commander.
His very existence was proof that people of color had a shot too.
An meteoric rise that seemed impossible in Britain or France!
In that sense, he embodied the American Dream—the shining statue of liberty symbolizing their brightest future.
Whiiiiiirrr!!
In that instant, a horrific screech tore through the air and shredded his wandering thoughts. His mind lost control in a flash, and his body moved on instinct.
"Cease digging! Cease digging!"
"It's Jerry! Jerry's coming!!"
"Drop the shovels! Weapons up! Battle stations!!!"
The trench was far from finished.
The question flickered briefly, but what choice was there? The enemy was coming—no time for hesitation.
His mind raced with thoughts, but his body, drilled through endless repetition, was already acting on its own.
He swapped the shovel for his rifle—his third arm—shouldered it, aimed forward. He minimized his exposure and kept his finger off the trigger until ordered.
Only then did his mind regain control of his body.
He trembled.
Fear flooded his head, pushing out hope.
Could he really survive this and go home?
And if he did, would he finally taste human rights?
KABOOM!!
The ground shook.
The sky screamed.
As the earth vomited dirt in agony, he was already masked up, checks complete.
"Gas masks! Gas masks on!"
"Masks on!!"
Every soldier around him barked back at the platoon leader's shout.
Then came the silence—and the barrage.
Even the cool-headed platoon leader was probably sweating bullets behind his mask, wrestling terror.
An endless rain of shells.
Five minutes? Ten? No clue. No matter how slowly he counted the seconds, the pounding wouldn't stop.
"Uwaaa! Uwaaaaa!! Mommy!!"
"William! Hold it together! Somebody grab that fool!"
"No! I said noooo! Stop! Shut up!!"
William from the next squad hurled his rifle, clamped his ears, and screamed like a banshee.
Goddamn it. Shell shock for sure. The barrage had shaken his brain into madness.
He'd heard about it a dozen times, even wondered, 'Crazy without even getting hit?' But seeing his own squadmate crack drove the terror deep into his chest. Who could've guessed the guy who'd proudly declared he came to be a father his kids wouldn't be ashamed of would end up like this?
First, disarm him. His squadmates crept forward cautiously, snatched his rifle, and chucked it far away.
Before they could grab William, he ripped off his gas mask with all his might.
In the split second they hesitated, too shocked to stop him, he let out a dying wail—"Uwaaa!"—and bolted out of the trench toward the incoming shells.
One second.
Two seconds.
Thud.
William was dead.
Everyone who saw it froze in stunned silence.
This was war.
A life snuffed out in the time it'd take to draw a single puff from a cigarette. Was this really a place where humans lived?
The endless barrage swallowed days of their digging.
Sandbags.
Barbed wire.
One horrific shell even sucked into the trench, vaporizing comrades without a trace.
But this was by the book.
Everything was unfolding just like in training.
He was ready to endure.
He gripped his rifle tight again and waited for the enemy.
Judgment wasn't his call.
His superiors made it.
He breathed, walked, ran, and fired on their orders.
He'd forgotten his superior was less educated. Rank was rank—he was just an extension of his commander's will.
The last few months had been all about learning that. Time for lawyer John Miller to die and Private John Miller to be reborn!
"Looks like our artillery buddies are slacking! That means more Jerries for us to bag by hand! Happy? You happy, boys?!"
"Hell yes, sir!!"
"Wooo!!"
We are proud sons of the 369th.
Devils black as coal from hell's pit.
The Yellow Jesus done declared,
Original sin of not being born white runs deep, my friend.
But fear not, brothers!
Kill a Jerry, and your sins are cleared!
Kill Jerries!
Here come your indulgences on two legs!
Crusaders got saved in Jerusalem,
But we're redeemed in this goddamn trench!
Someone started humming the tune, and soon the gritty lyrics echoed through the trench from every corner.
Gas masks warped voices into eerie croaks, twisting the words even more.
Fear faded.
William's memory blurred.
Instead, the spoils of freedom—for him too—stirred their minds.
William wasn't eaten by fear. A shell just tore his brain instead of his limbs. All they could do was tell his son, 'Your dad was a brave 369th man.'
As he cleared his head and hummed along, those faint black dots in the distance began to grow.
"Aim!"
He steadied his breath.
Picked one growing black dot and lined it up in his sights.
That's my indulgence.
The one that makes me a 'person,' not a nigger.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!!
Machine gun nests everywhere unleashed their murderous screams in unison.
No pillboxes, sandbags barely piled—gunner protection was iffy at best.
But they pulled triggers without hesitation.
To force the Germans flat.
Knowing they'd die first, but firing for their brothers anyway.
"Open fire!!"
His 'mind' gave the green light.
He squeezed the trigger.
A black shape flipped ass-over-end.
Right then, Private John Miller clutched his first ticket to salvation.
Calm washed over him.
"Fire at will! Keep shooting!"
KABOOM!!
Another barrage hit.
This one was cursed bad luck. A machine gun nest nearby, spitting rounds like mad, went silent.
With the curtain of fire gone, rifles were all they had.
The crawling Germans yelled something, then charged en masse.
"Rifles down! Designated SMG men, weapons up! Rest of you, fix bayonets!"
Time for the unwieldy rifles was over.
As troops without submachine guns fumbled to attach bayonets, he grabbed the one dangling from his back instead. Cold metal chilled his hand, replacing the familiar wooden grip.
Barbed wire was long gone.
Trench was shallow.
MGs silent.
But they were ready for the bastards.
"Fire!!"
Dr-r-r-ruck!!
Seeing the Germans' shocked faces, he thrilled with joy.
In this moment, he was the trench's kaiser.
If not for that unfamiliar gun one German held.
Dr-r-ruck—the thing spat fire again, and instinct sent him ducking into the trench.
"Th-that's—"
"Enemy's got submachine guns!"
Firepower evened out in a heartbeat.
All that remained was bloody close-quarters slaughter over the trench.
"Uwaaaaa!!"
"For freedom!"
"For freedom!!"
A roar surged up at someone's lead cry.
Yeah.
This was the fight for freedom.
Just like their ancestors bled to escape slavery, they'd come here so their kids wouldn't inherit discrimination's yoke.
Fear showed on the Germans' faces.
Even whites feared bullets. Was that why he'd come all this way—to learn something so obvious?
One hurled a grenade with gusto, but hails of bullets were faster.
Blood sprayed from his body; he flopped without throwing. Seconds later, the blast shredded his arm and torso.
But more Jerries kept coming. Ignoring the boom, they leaped into the trench one by one.
"Kill 'em! Jack! Charles! Kill!!"
"Die, you fuck!!"
"#@%@!!!"
Grenades, submachine guns, screams, blood, mud, fists, entrenching tools, bayonets.
Everything went black.
The enemy filled his vision.