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Authors: Barry Sadler
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recruit could smell a trap. And there were no recruits in the Territorials so raw that they didn't know the first law of military survival-never volunteer.
The sergeant went on, "No fighting involved – the volunteer won't even need to carry his rifle. And he'll get a two-day pass to Paris at the end of his duty."
"What's left of him," Cockney Dave muttered.
"Must be suicidal," Casca replied.
"A decoy duck," another soldier breathed. Not a man in the ranks moved.
"I'd go myself," the sergeant major said in a wheedling tone, and a grim chuckle swept the ranks as each man realized that the danger of being appointed volunteer was getting closer, "but I'm afraid of heights."
Heights? What was he talking about? Casca looked about at the war-blasted landscape of the Marne River Valley. Any heights would certainly be far from this war zone.
The sergeant's tone became more aggressive. "Well then, who's it to be?" he shouted cheerily, clapping his hands together and pacing along the length of the assembled men.
Not even Cockney Dave muttered a witticism. To so much as wiggle a toe might be taken as willingness to undertake the assignment.
"Why doesn't he just volunteer some poor bastard, like always?" Casca mused to himself.
"Come on now, who's for it? Nice ride in a balloon. See the whole ruddy war from a new angle."
A ride in a balloon?
German balloons were over the lines daily, and Casca and his comrades fired at them from time to time. But the large, seemingly stationary, targets proved almost impossible to hit. The balloon was, in fact, always moving. Imperceptibly it drifted from moment to moment toward any point of the compass, up or down, or closer or farther away. And the windage effects at the height of the balloon were quite different from what they were on the ground and impossible to allow for. Casca still tried for one when an opportunity presented itself if he had plenty of ammo to spare, but he no longer expected to succeed in downing one of the huge targets.
Now a ride in one might be something worthwhile. And he certainly had a great desire to see for himself just what was going on in the enemy lines.
He stepped forward smartly.
"Blimey," was Cockey Dave's incredulous gasp. "You, a volunteer? 'ave you gone barmy?"
Within an hour Casca was standing beside a tethered balloon. An artillery captain climbed the ladder to the basket, and Casca followed. He was checking around inside the basket when the captain shouted, "Let go!"
Casca was knocked to the floor of the basket. His first attempt to rise was defeated by the rapid upward movement of the balloon, and he found himself sitting on the floor again. He tried once more, this time hauling himself erect on the side of the basket. He looked over the side.
And promptly wished he hadn't.
The ground was far away, so far away that Casca could scarcely believe it. The deep trenches, the high mounds of earth to their fronts, and the huge barbed-wire entanglements had all been flattened to one level; men inside the trenches disappeared into their shadow. Outside the trenches some tiny creatures moved about slowly and aimlessly like some stupid species of ant. From behind the lines of the trenches came puffs of gray smoke from artillery pieces that looked like children's toys.
Spread out below them was a featureless wasteland. Casca knew well enough that at close quarters no-man's-land was pitted with huge shell craters and strewn with abandoned rifles, steel helmets, packs, clothes, and here and there, arms, legs, a few heads, some whole corpses. But from the serene height that the balloon had reached, there was nothing to be seen but a dun-colored expanse of empty land.
Ahead were the German trenches, as indistinct and irrelevant as the British, the same tiny, ant-like figures moving about in an absurd, unorganized, disconnected fashion. And, beyond the trenches, some more toy guns emitting puffs of smoke.
Now and then Casca saw a sort of eruption near or
The sergeant went on, "No fighting involved – the volunteer won't even need to carry his rifle. And he'll get a two-day pass to Paris at the end of his duty."
"What's left of him," Cockney Dave muttered.
"Must be suicidal," Casca replied.
"A decoy duck," another soldier breathed. Not a man in the ranks moved.
"I'd go myself," the sergeant major said in a wheedling tone, and a grim chuckle swept the ranks as each man realized that the danger of being appointed volunteer was getting closer, "but I'm afraid of heights."
Heights? What was he talking about? Casca looked about at the war-blasted landscape of the Marne River Valley. Any heights would certainly be far from this war zone.
The sergeant's tone became more aggressive. "Well then, who's it to be?" he shouted cheerily, clapping his hands together and pacing along the length of the assembled men.
Not even Cockney Dave muttered a witticism. To so much as wiggle a toe might be taken as willingness to undertake the assignment.
"Why doesn't he just volunteer some poor bastard, like always?" Casca mused to himself.
"Come on now, who's for it? Nice ride in a balloon. See the whole ruddy war from a new angle."
A ride in a balloon?
German balloons were over the lines daily, and Casca and his comrades fired at them from time to time. But the large, seemingly stationary, targets proved almost impossible to hit. The balloon was, in fact, always moving. Imperceptibly it drifted from moment to moment toward any point of the compass, up or down, or closer or farther away. And the windage effects at the height of the balloon were quite different from what they were on the ground and impossible to allow for. Casca still tried for one when an opportunity presented itself if he had plenty of ammo to spare, but he no longer expected to succeed in downing one of the huge targets.
Now a ride in one might be something worthwhile. And he certainly had a great desire to see for himself just what was going on in the enemy lines.
He stepped forward smartly.
"Blimey," was Cockey Dave's incredulous gasp. "You, a volunteer? 'ave you gone barmy?"
Within an hour Casca was standing beside a tethered balloon. An artillery captain climbed the ladder to the basket, and Casca followed. He was checking around inside the basket when the captain shouted, "Let go!"
Casca was knocked to the floor of the basket. His first attempt to rise was defeated by the rapid upward movement of the balloon, and he found himself sitting on the floor again. He tried once more, this time hauling himself erect on the side of the basket. He looked over the side.
And promptly wished he hadn't.
The ground was far away, so far away that Casca could scarcely believe it. The deep trenches, the high mounds of earth to their fronts, and the huge barbed-wire entanglements had all been flattened to one level; men inside the trenches disappeared into their shadow. Outside the trenches some tiny creatures moved about slowly and aimlessly like some stupid species of ant. From behind the lines of the trenches came puffs of gray smoke from artillery pieces that looked like children's toys.
Spread out below them was a featureless wasteland. Casca knew well enough that at close quarters no-man's-land was pitted with huge shell craters and strewn with abandoned rifles, steel helmets, packs, clothes, and here and there, arms, legs, a few heads, some whole corpses. But from the serene height that the balloon had reached, there was nothing to be seen but a dun-colored expanse of empty land.
Ahead were the German trenches, as indistinct and irrelevant as the British, the same tiny, ant-like figures moving about in an absurd, unorganized, disconnected fashion. And, beyond the trenches, some more toy guns emitting puffs of smoke.
Now and then Casca saw a sort of eruption near or
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