Free Isle Royale by John Hamilton Page A

would surely bring a hell-storm of machine gun fire down upon us.)
    As we prepared, Campion let loose a horrendous series of belches. This worried me, but Campion just smiled sheepishly and told me he was getting it out of his system. Our diet is very poor here in the trenches. In addition to making us thin as rails, it also produces a nasty variety of gasses, adding to our misery. More than a few patrols have had their positions given away by an untimely fart. I did not wish to die because of another man’s gastric distress.
    The purpose of night patrol is to skulk about in no-man’s land, checking for gaps in the wire and sniffing out enemy patrols. In the darkness, when the artillery is silenced, an eerie stillness comes over the trenches. One can actually hear the Germans on the other side, their voices lowered to harsh whispers, feet shuffling about on duckboard, hacking coughs occasionally exploding. But mostly, on that clear moonless night, I heard the pounding of my own heart as we lifted ourselves over the parapet and onto the killing grounds.
    Campion and I made for a gap in the wire, which we had noted earlier while peering through a periscope. We crawled ever so slowly, slithering through the muck like two deadly vipers. We made it through the gap, then crawled onward through an obstacle course of barbed wire beyond, each roll containing thousands of tiny daggers that bit into our flesh unless treated gingerly. First came trip wire, lined with tin cans to alert us of the enemy crossing over. Then, a high apron of barbed wire. More trip wire. Another high apron. Through this morass we crept and crawled, checking our compasses often, making all of thirty yards in half an hour.
    Eventually, we made it to the German side, having encountered no enemy patrols. A large shell crater lay before us, heavily ringed with more barbed wire. It was a German sentry post, probably manned by only one or two soldiers. Campion and I quietly dragged ourselves forward, separating so as to take opposite ends of the crater. Death was all around us. I could hear more Germans whispering in trenches not far from our position. To be discovered now meant instant death by machine gun fire.
    When I reached my destination, I carefully lifted the trip wire and slid underneath. Then I slowly, ever so slowly, poked my head over the lip of the crater, fully expecting my face to be blown off by some expectant German. To my surprise, I did not die then. Instead, I was presented with an opportunity: a single German sat in the crater. Though his back was turned to me, I could tell he was a small man, weakened from the cold, and probably only half awake after manning the sentry post most of the night. He sat there shivering, his breath coming out in clouds of steam, as he tried to warm his hands over a tin cup filled with some sort of hot liquid. His rifle lay at his side.
    Slowly, inch by inch, I slid on my belly down the steep side of the crater. Holding my knife between clenched teeth, I kept my eyes trained on the back of the unsuspecting German. Finally, I reached the bottom of the crater. Still no sign of movement from my target. I got into a low crouch, then gripped my knife in my hand, ready to strike.
    Just then Campion popped his head up over the lip of the crater opposite me, right in front of my prey. The startled German gave a shout and reached for his rifle. Campion, rather than retreat, raised his knife to hurl it at the man. But the German was too quick. He swung his weapon up and fired from the hip, striking his mark. My eyes went wide as I saw Campion, his head shattered and brains flying in every direction, pitch forward and slide into the pit. His arms and legs writhed as he refused to die, his knife still gripped in one white-knuckled hand. Finally, Campion lay still in the muck, prostrate before his executioner. The German stood there impassively, head down, his muzzle still smoking.
    Enraged, I gave a shout and leapt forward, so