VICTORY AT DAWN

The word had come down from headquarters last night.

We were going over the top at dawn.

Not at 6 or 6:15, but precisely at dawn. The General had been quite specific about this.

Some saw it as a romantic gesture. An appropriate chapter heading for the old man’s memoirs. “Victory At Dawn”, or some such rubbish.

“It’s bullshit, is what it is.” Danny Sullivan’s standard response to any orders. “Absolute bullshit!”, crouching, head down, flicking his cigarette butt hissing into the foot of stagnant water at the bottom of the trench. He was cold, wet, filthy and frightened. We all were.

“So, tell me.”  Still not looking up. “Who’s the poor son of a bitch that gets to stick his fookin’ head up and tell us when the fookin’ sun’s comin’ up?”

Good question. Heads up meant heads off, we always said.

And besides, none of us had even seen the sun for over a week.

Still, 40,000 men were taking quick glances to the east.

40,000 men straining to see the first signs of light in the darkness.

While, at the same time, 300 yards away, across no mans land, this coming dawn drew no more attention than any other.

But for us it was everything.

For the General, with his “romantic gesture”, had taken our destinies out of the hands of an officer with a watch and a whistle and handed it to each one of us with an eye for the light.

40,000 men. Some who had never seen a sunrise until they were in the army. Others who had seen thousands, from behind a plow, and for some, ironically, a sunrise was but a signal that the party was over.

And they say one man’s sunrise is another’s sunset.

Well, 40,000 fathers, sons, husbands, lovers, and brothers were, as one, waiting on this particular sun to rise.

But as it turned out, Danny Sullivan, and some 10,000 others on our side, would never get to see it set.

For them, there was no victory at dawn.

Only death.