August 1st, 1916
It was a cold, damp night. Not typical for this time of year—but what's typical in this madness we're stuck in? The front had been quiet, as usual lately. We'd already been in this muddy hellhole for a month. Hell on earth, I used to think. I doubt whatever awaits us after death could be worse than this place.
I was at my post, keeping watch on the enemy lines. The fog covered everything like a thick white blanket of snow, reaching into every corner of this wretched place. For a brief moment, I felt at home. I remembered my grandparents' house and those first snowfalls, how that dirty, cold white would cover everything and chill you to the bone. But even with that fleeting warmth, fear gripped me again. Foggy days on the Western Front are terrifying—you can't see what the fog might be hiding. And every soldier fears what he can't see.
I wondered if I'd ever make it out of there—if I'd see my family again—or if this all had any purpose. At least I had my good friend Pierre. At first, it wasn't hard for me to make friends, to bond with others, but after these three months, I didn't even bother learning the new recruits' names anymore. Most wouldn't live long enough for their names to matter.
Flares were going off, lighting up the area. My hands were numb. I checked that the front was still quiet, then crouched down to warm my hands by tucking them inside my underwear. Once I felt them again, I put my helmet back on, grabbed my rifle, and prepared to check the enemy lines again. As I carefully rose to look for movement, there he was—an enemy soldier right in front of me, gas mask on, shovel in hand. A terrifying image. He stared at me and lunged with animal fury.
Hundreds of them fell on our position. I was fighting the gas mask soldier hand to hand. Whistles. Gunshots. Explosions. A deafening, brutal chaos.
He was on top of me, choking me. I could barely breathe. Then I heard a muffled cry escape his mask. The pressure on my chest suddenly eased. I didn't understand what was happening—until I looked up and saw John's bayonet piercing the man's lifeless body.
— Come on, Antón! This is not the moment to die! Let's send these Krauts to hell!
My whole body trembled. I drew the sidearm on my belt and got behind John to cover his back. Two more Germans were trying to jump into the trench—I shot one before he made it over, and John stabbed the other.
— John, we have to go! Let's get to the next position—we're dead if we stay here. This sector's lost!
— What?
— Let's fucking move! — I shouted, grabbing John by the arm.
We started moving down the long, zigzagging trench line, firing and stabbing at any enemy that crossed our path, until we finally reached a safe position where the rest of the company was retreating.
That day, we lost Sector Echo—and seventy-eight men from our company. That was nearly half our strength. At least Pierre survived, though he broke two fingers in the fight.
John is the new lieutenant of the American company sent to reinforce us after the losses from our last advance. He's good people—and an even better soldier. Since the day we lost Echo, I've spoken with him a few times. He doesn't speak Spanish or French, and I do my best to understand his thick New York accent. Honestly, I don't know what these Americans are doing in this war... though I guess they could say the same about me.
***
August 23rd, 1916I don't even know what day of the week it is. I think it's Wednesday—but I'm not sure. Yesterday we tried to push forward against the German positions again. The artillery pounded them for over two days to soften them up before sending us into no man's land once more. The result was the same as always—we had to fall back. Their machine-gun fire is deadlier than ten of our divisions combined. Pierre, John, and I made it back in one piece again. I wonder how long our luck will last.
The heat and the carrion birds make the bodies rot even faster. The stench is almost as unbearable as the enemy artillery. I hardly think of home anymore. Most of the men here can only talk about going back. I don't think we'll go back—any of us. Maybe that's what keeps me going whenever they send us forward again. Knowing I won't return. Fighting without fear, because I've already accepted death.
The only thing that makes time here bearable is Pierre and John. My English has improved a lot over these past few weeks—we mostly understand each other now. We usually talk about New York and his family. He got married before coming to this war. Can you imagine? Getting married before heading to what might be your last destination. Maybe when this hell ends, I'll go visit him. We always end our chats the same way: "You have to come to Granada" and "You gotta come see me, no excuses! I'll tell you my favorite pastrami spot!" I don't know what pastrami is, but it sounds good.
***
September 30th, 1916This war will be the end of humanity. The British are using metal beasts against the Germans—I think they're called tanks. I've never seen such destructive power. I saw the fear these new machines strike in our enemies. In the last two weeks, we've advanced nonstop thanks to them. At this rate, we might actually win this war—or so Williams says. I'm not convinced. The Germans are a warrior people, noble too—I don't think they'll surrender so easily.
Morale is high. Supplies are arriving more regularly, and we've managed to deal with one of the biggest rat infestations in our trench. We still practice our aim on them, but at least there are fewer now.
There are rumors the Germans will launch a massive assault on our lines in the coming days. They've even handed out extra ammunition and told us to make sure our gas masks are in good shape. I hate the gas. There's nothing worse than fighting with that horrible mask on. Still, we'll be ready. Williams says the British government has approved the creation of more tanks and war machinery. And John and the American volunteers are more eager than ever to fight.
Pierre, though, has changed. I try to lift his spirits, reminding him we'll be replaced soon and get to go back to Paris. But all I see in his eyes is bitterness. He started this as a brave volunteer, fighting for his country. Now, he's just a shadow of what he was. His spark has faded as this war has grown bloodier.
It's only been two years since the war started—and four since we left Morocco. Feels like a lifetime.
***
"That was the last entry he wrote in his journal," Arturo said. "The next day, they ordered him to advance on German positions. During the push, they shelled the area with gas. His mask failed. He was lucky—they got him out before the gas killed him, but he lost sight in his right eye. He was transferred to a hospital in Paris where he stayed for several months until he recovered. The French army awarded him the Croix de Guerre for his service… Thank you and back to Spain. Real bastards, weren't they?" Arturo gripped the journal in both hands as he looked back at Hache."This is where my family comes from. A family that has grown—and endured—through war."