Chapter 5: “Irish Songs”

One of the Irishmen close by started singing a song. The Irish were always singing. They never stopped. They sang for breakfast. They sang for lunch. They sang for dinner. They sang during battle. They sang in their sleep.
Connor told Pap that the Irish were born singing.
Miles was the name of the Irishman singing. The song was from long, long ago—Connor recognized it. The Girl I Left Behind me. A solemn and heartfelt song, to be sure.
I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill,
And o'er the moorland sedgy
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,
Since parting with my Betsey
I seek for one as fair and gay,
But find none to remind me
How sweet the hours I passed away,
With the girl I left behind me.

O ne'er shall I foget the night,
the stars were bright above me
And gently lent their silv'ry light
when first she vowed to love me
But now I'm bound to Brighton camp
kind heaven then pray guide me
And send me safely back again,
to the girl I left behind me

Her golden hair in ringlets fair,
her eyes like diamonds shining
Her slender waist, her heavenly face,
that leaves my heart still pining
Ye gods above oh hear my prayer
to my beauteous fair to find me
And send me safely back again,
to the girl I left behind me

The bee shall honey taste no more,
the dove become a ranger
The falling waters cease to roar,
ere I shall seek to change her
The vows we made to heav'n above
shall ever cheer and bind me
In constancy to her I love,
the girl I left behind me.

Chapter 4: “Conversations for Lunch”

Lunchtime at war comes whenever it comes—there is no real set time. That was just one more slice of civilization that had been lost in the trenches. It was bad enough that war lunch consisted of stale crackers and canned meat—hardly recognizable as food—but it had to lose all its importance as a mark of half of the day.

Connor looked at his lunch and realized why the Americans called it Grub, for he felt like a worm eating whatever he could get his hands on. It didn’t help that they were sitting in mud and slop, just like a grub-worm would. Yes, this was definitely grub.

Connor wondered if he would ever have a real lunch again—clean-cut sandwiches with lettuce and fresh tomato, a spread of mustard or horseradish, and pickles. All toasted up and served on a clean plate with a cup of tea to drink.

And a tablecloth… and napkins… and a place to wash up before eating.

Maybe a slice of lemon for his tea.

Connor looked down at his crackers and meat. He devoured it like there was no tomorrow.
The men around him seemed to all talk to each other while they ate, but Connor never did that. He always ate alone, at least when he could. The other men talked about their school days or how they worked for a farmer or a pressman or a cobbler before the war.

One man told a story about his girl back home, how she could make the best bread in the town. He said that people would come and pay top dollar for a slice of the bread she baked in a simple oven. Her secret was to put some honey in the bread to sweeten it up some. She would mix the honey with warm water and then knead it into the dough.

Another—a corporal—spoke of his father’s wood shop. They would make chairs and tables and shelves for people, and then sell them for top dollar at their local market. Sometimes they would get to build an entire kitchen set all to match. Those, he said, were the days.

A red-haired chap went on and on about his older brother who joined the Navy. They had not heard from him in over six months but had high hopes for good news very soon.

A short fellow had a small group together and was obviously telling a dirty joke. His whispers and their smiles and a loud chortle brought everyone’s attention to them for the moment. They were laughing and smiling like they were at a picnic.

All the while, Pap and Connor just listened to everyone chatter and gossip. Connor, if he had to guess, figured that maybe half of what the men spoke of was actually true.

Two of the men argued over the results of a cricket match from years gone by. They obviously had grown up together, but were on opposite sides of that discussion.

Cricket was a game that Pap just did not understand. He would talk about Base Ball and the favorite teams in the States. When Pap did speak, it was often about that game of base ball. He would talk about teams and players, their statistics and scores. It was an obsession, a hobby, a calling for him. Connor would act interested when Pap would talk about base ball, but he could never quite grasp the concept.

When Connor spoke about cricket, Pap would give the same look back to him. Polite, friendly, respectful, … well-mannered. But it was obvious that Pap did not understand Cricket like Connor did not understand base ball. But they were considerate of each other and let the other talk about what they liked.

Lunch was nearly over, such that it was. The men continued to talk to each other. Sometimes one or two would come up to Connor and speak to him, but then move on before Connor could answer.

That was a kind of unspoken law among the men. They would speak to Connor and sometimes to Pap, but knowing that neither of them wanted to actually be in conversation, they would move on before an answer would come. This was a strange and yet very convenient rule of the trench men in battle—they could build camaraderie with everyone in the trench, but on each man’s own terms.

Connor liked that rule. So did Pap.

Connor moved on to start cleaning his rifle. He stripped it down and oiled and cleaned all the parts. The one thing that has to stay clean in the trenches is a rifleman’s rifle. If it goes, the whole trench goes.

The other men continued their visits with each other, as though they had forgotten where they were. They would talk about the weather or their school or anything but where they were and what they were doing. It seemed so foolish to Connor, to try to forget where you were in the most dangerous place one could be. It would be much more wise to continually and to absolutely keep your wits about you and to be prepared for anything that may come, good or bad.

At any moment, the enemy could charge. But you! You are talking about bread.

At any moment, the enemy could begin artillery attacks. But you! You are talking about cricket.

At any moment, an enemy plan could fly over and drop bombs on our position. But you! You are talking about chairs and tables.

At any moment, poison gas could come our way. But you! You are telling a dirty joke like you are on stage at the theatre in Paris.

Fools... all of them fools.

What would they do should the attack come? Would they prepare to return fire? Would they panic? Would they cower in fear? What actions would these men take if a grenade was tossed their way.

Most likely, they would die. And then their families would get a nice letter with a medal.

Chapter 3: “The Lieutenant”

A good night’s sleep is impossible in the trench. The best Connor would hope for is a half-dry blanket and a ration of brandy or rum. It would be a bonus to wake up to a hot pot of coffee, but cooking fires were almost non-existent in the trenches because they were just too dangerous. Not because something would catch fire, but because they were so bright of a light that they would draw enemy fire. They also made really nice targets for bombs to be dropped by enemy planes or an occasional overhead balloon.

The thought of balloons made Connor chuckle. He wondered how many points in their grisly game a balloon would be worth—shoot a balloon and watch them drop straight down. The Germans would fill their balloons and airships up with hydrogen, which would often times explode. Probably the fat general’s idea.

Connor always slept with his rifle, as did every man in the trench. It was a miracle that no one ever squeezed off a round in their sleep. An even better miracle would be to wake up to a hot meal—but no such luck. It had been three weeks since Connor had a hot meal.

Three days ago Pap got to take a few sips of a cup of hot coffee from the Lieutenant when his back was turned. Connor saw the whole event and could hardly keep from laughing—which is something you do not want to do while your Lieutenant is giving orders!

The Lieutenant. He probably studied at the same war college as the fat old general the Germans used. He probably studied under that same fat old general and the Lieutenant’s only purpose here was to help make the General look good to the Kaiser.

The Lieutenant was not clever at all. He would constantly change the rotation schedule and skip over people in the rotation so some could sleep more than others. He would regularly discipline soldiers for low morale—how could you not have low morale in this place?

So he would punish the men by taking away anything that might lead to higher morale. Fresh bread, hot coffee, mail—he would hide it for a day or two as punishment for not brushing one’s teeth in the morning.

Why the Lieutenant was so worried about his men’s teeth, Connor would never know. Maybe there was a medal in it for him.

Today the Lieutenant was marching back and forth among the men, acting like their friend. He would tell them that their country depended on them and that their honor was at stake. He ought to just tell them that their very lives are at stake, but then they would probably team up against him and run for Paris.

War is that way. Once it starts, it is very difficult to stop. It takes a complete defeat of one side or the other before the battles, the minds, the wills of men of power can be curdled. America had showed that in their war between the states—the Confederacy had to be completely crushed before the battle would stop. Pap said that in some states there were men who would still stand ready to fight that war.

So here is this Lieutenant, marching back and forth, encouraging his men to fight for glory and back in Georgia or Alabama there are old men waiting for the chance to go to war all over again. Connor thought it would only make sense if they could just re-assign the men from wars gone by and let them fight each other. That way, the ones that were eager to fight could do so, and the ones who did not know why they were there could avoid it.

Connor feared that one day he might become like the old men of America who still want to fight a long-lost war. Pap may already be one and does not know it yet.

This war, it did things to Pap—at least, so Connor would tell himself. When he first met Pap, the old man was bitter and worn down. He rarely spoke and could not read or write—strange for a soldier, but the Americans were that way.

Slowly, the Lieutenant would scold Pap—make him feel inferior. First for being American in a British platoon, second for being enlisted and not an officer, third for being old, and fourth for his inability to read and write. The Lieutenant wore away at Pap, like he was his favorite target. The Lieutenant had a very difficult time figuring out who the enemy was.

Pap got more dressing-down than the other men because he was American. Once I asked Pap why he didn’t tell the Lieutenant he was actually Canadian so the Lieutenant would lighten up, but Pap merely said that would probably cause more harm than good. Maybe he was right, the Lieutenant might look at him like a traitor and have a court martial hearing.

Pap did have a bit of wisdom about him, Connor thought. Maybe they would get lucky and the Lieutenant would get hit and Pap could get promoted. But then there would just be someone above him to order Pap to take the men and charge to victory and glory and other such nonsense. No, Pap likely wanted to stay right where he was. Being a rifleman did have its perks—especially being a good rifleman. No one wanted to waste a good rifleman on a charge or offensive—the riflemen protect the officers from the charges of the other side’s offensives. And no matter what, those officers wanted protection.

The Lieutenant was as scrawny as a rabbit—were it not for the uniform and the war, he would never have amounted to anything. If men had to follow him by their choice, through his leadership, they would never move.

What he lacked in size, he more than made up for in the shrillness of his voice. He would almost always yell or scream orders—he thought it made him seem more powerful and in command. All it really did was make people want to leave his presence and rub their ears a bit.

Pap was still sleeping when the Lieutenant walked by. It should have been no matter, they were not due to go on duty for at least an hour. Still, that was no excuse for the Lieutenant to kick Pap’s foot while he slept.

The Lieutenant didn’t even speak to him when Pap woke up, he just kept on walking. Pap growled and muttered, then pulled his tin can helmet back over his eyes to go back to sleep. The Lieutenant kept walking about his business.

He was more of a bully than a leader, the Lieutenant was. A weakling bully with the power of rank. A pathetic, power-hungry, pompous officer. A oppressor, a tormenter, a persecutor. A man who hated the men who depended on him for their very lives. An officer bully.

Daylight was beginning to break now, and that was a dangerous time in battle. The change in light would play its tricks and make you think that men were trees, or trees were men. The machine gunners would pop off a few extra rounds at anything that moved during this time. Once Connor used to wake to the crow of a rooster, now we woke to the fire of weapons and the sound of death.

Connor pulled his canteen out and splashed a bit of water on his face and tipped it up to his mouth for a quick jolt of water. There wasn’t much left, but in the daylight it would be easier to go get more from the quartermaster.

Pap started to move a bit, but he would still grunt and growl as he struggled to come to. Connor wished he could sleep as well as Pap could. Pap could sleep through artillery fire while Connor would wake from the sound of a mouse chewing a piece of wood.

Oh, the mice and the rats… his bedfellows it seemed. For the most part, they would leave the men alone but there was constantly several about. The new men were repulsed by so many rats and mice, but in a few days they would learn that the biggest rats were the ones who called them to war in the first place.

The Lieutenant called for revilee. Not that there was a bugler, who would want to even play a horn in this mess? Pap started to move more and it looked like he was getting ready to start his day. This was a trick that Pap would do with his eyes closed—he would stand and adjust his uniform and hat, all with his eyes pressed shut. He’d slowly wake up that way. Connor did not understand it, but that wasn’t the only thing about Pap he did not understand.

After a few minutes, Pap grabbed his rifle and started walking down the trench toward the chow line. Connor followed him but they both said nothing as they walked. Other men chattered and as they passed the Lieutenant, they heard him barking orders to a new private.

No one saluted officers in the trenches, it would just make them a target for the other side. Sometimes Pap and Connor would salute the Lieutenant behind his back. An evil deed, but one that could likely save the lives of the men under his command.

And that was how the day started. With the Lieutenant kicking Pap, barking orders, and doing his best to feel important in a place where the only important thing was to keep breathing.

Chapter 2: "Poor Sacks"

You’d think that they would have figured out at least to keep their heads down and seek some kind of defensive position. But the slow-moving German soldiers—likely in fear—just froze in a state of panic. It was as if they were small toy ducks in a shoot-em gallery at a circus. Pay your penny, shoot the duck. Five points for the red one, ten points for the blue one. Get to 25 points and win a prize for your girl.

Sometimes Connor thought of it that way, and it made it somewhat fun—not that killing should ever be fun, but fun enough to get through it. He’d killed many during his time at war—after all, it was kill or be killed. Might as well have some fun while doing the evil deeds of battle.
Occasionally Connor would glance over at Pap, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

Pap never said much when he was shooting—actually, Pap never said much at all. His smile, his grin, his cacklish expression said it all. Pap made the most of battle.

Connor decided to share his idea of a shooting gallery with Pap. Pap let rip a thunderous guffaw and agreed that it would help pass the time. He said that five points for a kill at the farthest trench, and five points for each kill for every trench closer. The more dangerous the soldier, the more points for the kill.

They fired and re-loaded for about fifteen or twenty minutes, each counting out their score as they made a hit. Most shots wouldn’t kill, so they agreed that whoever fired the shot to drop the man got to fire the scoring kill shot.

The poor sacks.

Connor visualized a stuffy fat German general telling young boys to go fight for the glory of the Kaiser.

Ten points.

He would wake them up early and give them great, glorious speeches of encouragement and tell of how their fame would bring honor to their families and their countries.

Five points.

Their fearless charge would show the world that Germany is the greatest country in the world and that all should bow down before it.

Ten points.

The hefty old general would stroke his beard and stick out a chest full of medals and tell the young boys how one day they too could have medals like he had.

Fifteen points.

It would turn out that all those young men would get is a body full of lead and a chance to die in the mud. At least with their game, he and Pap could guarantee that they would be worth a minimum of five points in their little game.

Five points.

Did any of these kids have girlfriends before they left?

Five points.

Did any of them have wives?

Ten points.

Did they have children?

Five points.

Did the old, fat, bloated general care? Did he even think that there was a hope that Germany would win?

Ten points.

With America in the war now, supplies were coming in plenty. Ammunition, food, medicine. And more was on its way.

Fifteen points.

President Wilson and old Teddy Roosevelt had been arguing in the news about America’s entry into the war in Europe. Some said it was Europe’s problem, some said it was everyone’s problem.

Five points.

Roosevelt was looking for any reason to get in to the war. Wilson was looking for every reason to stay out.

Ten points.

Connor used to think that the Americans were only interested in themselves and making something for nothing. His experience with Pap could only confirm that.

Five points.

Some say that if Teddy Roosevelt were here in France right now, he would lead a charge against the Germans and win the battle once and for all.

Five points.

Connor believed that if Teddy Roosevelt were in France right now, he would get the hell out of the trenches and send someone else to go fight.

Ten points.

Roosevelt had seen war up close. Wilson had not. Why did Roosevelt crave it so much again? Why was Wilson so fearful of it?

Five points.

Pap fired a burst of rounds and shouted that he made three kills for a total of 25 points. Connor didn’t care. He just kept adding up his own totals.

Ten points.

Another charge came from the German lines. Everyone down the Allied lines opened fire in a rumbling cascade of riflery.

Ten points, Five points, Five points, Five points.

More soldiers to kill. More points to score.

Five points.

Connor told Pap that they don’t count if the artillery finishes them off.

Ten points.

Three more kids—they did not look over the age of fifteen—jumped up out of the German trench and bellowed a mighty roar, as if that would make them invincible to bullets. All it would do is draw the fire to them and kill them more quickly.

Five points, five points, five points.

If they would ever get training, they would learn that they could be quiet and sneak around at night rather than being shot.

Ten points.

But the war was drawing to a close, and the Kaiser was afraid of losing his legacy and his power. Men like that will do anything to keep their dominance, their authority, their control.

Five points.

The Kaiser would do anything to keep his supremacy over his people.

Ten points.

One of the previous kills seemed to be moving. Connor fired a shot just to make sure.

No score for that one.

The German Offensive continued in horrendous and spontaneous eruption throughout their shift. Each time, a new supply of children soldiers would pop their heads up and shout their last death-cry for battle and glory.

They did look smart in their fresh and clean uniforms, Connor gave them that. It was a true sign that they had not been in the muddy trench for more than five or ten minutes. That meant that a truck probably had dropped them off and the artillery would be firing soon trying to find the drop-off point.

Connor chuckled to himself as he fondly and warmly remembered the story of the man who was saving lives at the river. The story went that a man came by a river and saw another man drowning, so he pulled the man free only to find two more men floating down the river in need of help. The man pulled them out and to his surprise four more men appeared in the river. He did his best and used all of his energy to get all four men to safety, when he looked up and saw eight men drowning in the river. In sheer exhaustion, the man collapsed. Then in a word of encouragement, one of the would-be victims told him to go upstream and put a stop to the fellow that was throwing people in.

In this war… in this trench… there was a man throwing people into this river of gunfire and death and horror. The artillery would likely put a stop to that soon… for the time being.

And then tomorrow… or maybe later tonight… another truck would show up with more men.

And then more German young boys would be thrown into the river for the glory of the Kaiser.
Someone would have to stop the Kaiser from throwing people into this river. If that did not happen, then the Kaiser would eventually run out of people to throw in. Who would be next—the women? The young girls? The children? The old men? The old women?

How many of a country’s men had to die before its leader would give in… the leader would have to quit… or be killed… because the leader of these people was beyond coming to his senses.

One thing Connor knew for sure, the Kaiser himself was not coming anywhere near this trench. If he did, that would end the war real quick.

Pap had said earlier he heard that Germany was working to get Mexico to join up with the German cause. The politicians there used this as another reason to join the Allied cause when word of that came out in the papers of America.

It turned out to be just another thoughtless action by the Kaiser. Get the Americans angry. Sink passenger lines in the Atlantic. Invade France. Send young men to die in the direct path of uncompromising gunfire. All for his own glory, majesty, dominion, and power.
The fat German general had to be smiling broadly somewhere. He had convinced his men to charge. He had to get new men to charge again, and eventually he believed that they would overpower the trench.

The Kaiser would probably give him another medal. Yes, another medal. Another fat German general medal. The Kaiser’s Medal of Folly and Futility for Foolishness in Battle.
In a few more minutes, the Sergeant barked out the order for changing of post. Pap and Connor would be relieved shortly.

The sad sacks that the fat general sent were all dead.

Pap won, three hundred twenty-five to three-hundred ten.

Chapter 1: "This Is War"

The explosion knocked Connor over the broken table that he had been leaning against. It wasn’t all that big of an explosion, just an unexpected one—if there is such a thing in trench warfare.

The truth is that there had been a calm come over the fighting the past few hours. That happens from time to time—either one side or the other runs low on ammunition or exhaustion sets in among the soldiers. It’s the exhaustion that really wears down a solider—the kind that comes from the combined mental and physical strain of relentless, repeated volleys of solid lead to the chorus of rifles and artillery. Who thinks war is a good idea? Only people who sit in buildings far, far, away think that.

No, war is never a good idea. It’s just that sometimes war is the only idea.

Connor tucked himself down into the mud and looked for a way to try to finish his meal—or to at least find some way to lose himself in his ration of brandy. It would be dark soon and time for another smoke before it would be his shift to send covering fire to the poor bastards that had been recruited to charge the enemy.

That part of this war especially didn’t make any sense to Connor. Take fresh, new recruits and whip them into a lather to fight and send them directly into a cyclone of enemy fire. Usually two out of ten of them would last over fifteen seconds. For sport, Pap would run a betting pool on which would live the longest. A grisly sport, but in war one does what one can for entertainment.
Pap was about as gruff of a character as probably had ever served in any man’s army. He’d been in the service for his entire adult life, and had probably bathed only once or twice with fresh water during that time. His education, so he said, consisted of what he managed to learn from his mother and sisters growing up. When he was twelve, Pap spent his time working in the fields to raise money for the family until his sixteenth birthday when he struck out to Winnipeg.

Pap said that about two weeks of city life was all he could stand and he decided to cross the border into the states and join the Cavalry. From then on he’d spent most of his life living in a tent and riding a horse—first assigned around Chicago but later further west to Nebraska. He said he was always two or three steps behind the pioneers and spent most of his time as a quartermaster of a fort or some other well-established post.

And now, the old cuss has found himself with us, in this long and muddy hole of a home. This world that Conner found himself was so mixed up that men from one unit or another would mix together like spaghetti. Just a few days ago one unit was moving along their line and walked straight in to a detachment of German soldiers in the same trench. At least, that was the story.

So war it is, and war it has been for the last year for Connor.

You never forget the smell of war—especially close-range and hand-to-hand war. The rotting dead, the sewage, the gunpowder, the oil, the fumes… the cocktail smell of everything bitter. Just once, to have a fresh herb or a flower—or even the smell of cooked bacon! But here, the only relief that anyone here ever had from the smell would be a fresh-lit cigarette.

Connor tossed the rest of his so-called meal aside—somebody would eat it, someone always does. Twenty or maybe thirty pounds and come off of Connor since regiment changed rations to this new assortment of canned beans and meat. No flavor. To have to fire weapons all day and night at an enemy you can’t see and is firing back at you—the least they could do is include an occasional onion.

At least they got Brandy in their rations—probably home-made in some washtub somewhere, but it at least had the color of brandy. It smelled more like kerosene, but it did the trick for sure.
The order came out to prepare for the change in shift—that meant that in five minutes Connor would take his post at one of the trenches and shoot anything that moves above ground in the direction of the Germans. If it wasn’t so dangerous, it might be fun on occasion. But on top of that, it had become so common as to force boredom. An excited boredom—is that possible?

Connor wrapped up the rest of his Brandy and decided to save his smoke for later. He checked his weapon and wandered near his post. Pap was there too, as he always was, and they looked over their ammunition and chatted with the guys at the post about what had happened that night.

Connor had not seen them before, but Pap seemed to know them from the supply depot. They had been working their way around the lines for the past six months. They were excited to not be in the charge squad and instead were replacing some guys that had been rolled out of the rotation—that’s what they said anyway. But neither Connor nor Pap had ever actually heard of someone getting rolled out. It probably is something that just is talked about but never actually happens. One of those brilliant moves from those guys in the buildings that think war is so grand.

Pap and Connor looked at each other with a mental signal not to tell that to the new guys.

When the call came out to change, Connor took his place and fired a few rounds just to wake himself up. There was nothing in the field, but ammunition was in the plenty for now. It made him feel more like a soldier to fire the weapon, even if there wasn’t a target.

Pap took a spot next to Connor and squinted, as if he was looking more for a rabbit than an enemy soldier. Truth be told, Pap was more of a hunter than a warrior. That worked well for now because their role as riflemen was to hunt the enemy, not to actually fight them. As long as they could be scared, they would never charge. When the enemy would charge, the Allies would have no choice but to open fire with everything they had—and then the Germans would do the same. Usually the ones who get it then are the new kids that stick their heads up to see the action. In war, action is the last thing you’ll want to see—and for some it is the last thing that they ever see.

The darkness would come soon. Dark always comes sooner than you like, it was the sunshine that was elusive. The dark would come and seem to stay forever. Slowly daytime would come and at least give a little hope, but it would never last. Darkness would always come. It was the one thing that was dependable—not even daylight was dependable. Clouds, fog, rain, snow, smoke—they would team up every once in a while to block the sun and keep the dark in control.

No, darkness was always dependable.

The last blink of the sun had been gone for some time now and only a soft glow on the horizon was left. An occasional artillery burst would brighten up the field and show its ragged remains of what once was a farmer’s paradise. Just a few years ago this very land was home to a bountiful harvest. The ground was worked and the crops were harvested—Connor hoped that the farmer saved his money because this field wouldn’t produce for many years now.

For the past few years, and for the years to come, this field would be the home of lead and blood and shrapnel. What kind of farmer would want it?

The enemy charge was obvious. Pap and Connor opened fire and dropped seven or eight of them in the first few seconds. The Allied artillery kicked in and Connor saw a platoon of Germans replaced by a half-dozen explosions.

This is war. Connor wasn’t made for it exactly, but it was all he knew.

Foreward

In recognition of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), I am using this blog to create a new and (at least mostly) original novel.

"November happens to be National Novel Writing Month, a fast and furious sprint to pump out a 175-page book -- that's 50,000 words. NaNoWriMo began in San Francisco in 1999 by Chris Baty and 21 friends. By last year, nearly 60,000 scribblers worldwide signed on, with almost 10,000 completing their novels. This project is about output over quality. These proto-novelists whip out horror tales, chick lit, and fantasy yarns with equal gusto. And with hordes of fellow writers taking up the challenge, you don't have to be in a room alone. Part of the attraction of NaNoWriMo is the community it builds around the event. Whether in online forums, over the airwaves, or in cafés, writers depend on one another for advice and support. If you fancy yourself a wordsmith, then turn off the Internet, ditch the grocery list, and stow the vacuum. You have to write 1,667 words (about six pages) a day to keep pace. You'd better get started."

This novel, Too Many Trenches, is my first full-length fiction novel. I have written many technical manuals and papers, but it has been since my college years that I have put more than a page or two of fiction to paper. I look forward to this experience and I hope you do, too.

Too Many Trenches

an original novel

by Paul D. McDonald

A World War I hardened soldier teams up with a crotchety codger to win a wager. In the process they accidentally kill a nun. By the end of the novel they blow up 7 enemy planes and end up winning the admiration of their country, living happily ever after.

I sure hope it gets better as I write....