3
" The column swung into single file, with space between companies and platoons. Marching until 3:00 a.m., they stopped in a small forest, put their heavy packs on the ground, and unrolled their packs. The woods were thick. In the blackness, Roy could only see a few feet in front of him in the dark, and there wasn’t any acceptable cover. He had just put his pack down, when it started. A distant set of krumps went off somewhere in the distance and, moments later, the screaming shells descended, men yelled, and wood shrapnel flew from exploding trees. Roy hit the deck, grabbed his helmet, and held the fear back behind his clenched teeth. In the flash of the exploding shells, he saw his comrades and friends lying still, small, some crouched behind trees, some cursing, all helpless. Bigger shells came, shaking the landscape like a freight train speeding past a rickety station. Everything shook with diabolical red flashes and deafening roars. It went on and on, hour after hour. "
― , Courage: Roy Blanchard's Journey in America's Forgotten War
6
" Hours of bombing with the possibility of being blown to bits, buried alive, or being blown off their feet paralyzed many with fear. It is estimated that seventy percent of all casualties on the Western Front were from shellfire. As the shells fell, Roy tried to think of home, shake the hysteria with flippant humor, or just light a cigarette with shaking hands. Being shelled was like a nightmare. One soldier described it as “distant thunder, countless shells falling like rain, towers of smoke, fire, explosions, confusion, cries of help, all of it madness. "
― , Courage: Roy Blanchard's Journey in America's Forgotten War
