PROLOGUE
April 7, 1917 Ypres, Belgium
The massive bells rang out for what seemed an eternity from St. Martin, the partially destroyed ancient cathedral at Ypres in west Flanders. Activity around the Ypres salient had been unusually quiet for several weeks, and the soldiers asked each other what news the bells foretold. Surely, there could be no celebration here in the British lines. No ground had been gained, no successes realized in the recent months. Rather, a demoralizing stalemate was the present condition as front-line Tommies looked out across the devastated landscape between the endless cut of trench lines.
As the tolling continued, the young American officer stepped outside into the brisk morning air to take in the scene and light his first Camel cigarette of the day. His gait was strong and his head erect, reflecting a military bear- ing. He was clean-shaven, with full black hair and uncommon icy-gray eyes that attracted notice. At twenty-seven years old, he felt vigorous, yet anxious.
Captain Noah Clayton knew the message in the bells. He had been informed at first light that the United States had finally declared war on Germany and was now officially in the conflict come what may. His emotions were a mix of pride and enthusiasm tempered by the horrible reality of this war, a war he had been eyewitness to for the better part of a year.
The young captain had left the Army War College in Washington in the summer of 1916, being assigned as an observer to the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) in Belgium. Anticipating US involvement in the not-too-distant future, the American senior military staff had sent Clayton and a handful of other army officers to France and Belgium to glean knowledge and insights on the allies’ prosecution of the war. He mused at how far he was from the theory and strategic war games of the war college, now a firsthand witness to the mass slaughter on the Western Front.
A slap on the back brought him out of his reverie. “Well, my friend, you Yanks have now thrown in with our lot—and not a moment too soon by my reckoning.” The rosy cherub face of Major Nigel Buckingham was bright as he stood back to examine the American’s reaction to the momentous news. Buckingham was Adjutant to Major General Herbert Plummer, Commander of the British 2nd Army. With his lively, assured personality, Buckingham had quickly become Noah’s closest friend.
Noah hesitated, considering his response. Seeing Buckingham’s keen enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but smile. The young major quickly grabbed Noah’s hand with both of his own and shook it energetically.
“Now, we’ll show those Bosch how to mount an offensive,” he contin- ued. “Why, with you Yanks in tow, we’ll push them all the way to Berlin, eh? You and I must form a new joint command,” he joked. “The brass will have to yield to our brilliant strategies and tactics to bring this damnable war to its only rightful end. I say they just let us have a go at the campaigning, and we’ll send our boys home in glory.”
“Whoa there, Nigel,” Noah replied while laughing. “Let’s get our boys over the pond in numbers to start with. Seriously though, I fear the US is woefully unprepared for such a contest. Our army is puny by this war’s stan- dards, only about 140,000 regulars. And, I dare say my countrymen have little idea the horrors that await.”
The two stood silent for a moment looking at one another. They both knew, even with America’s involvement, there would be no expeditious end to the horrid struggle. They let that grim reality set a bit.
The major broke the awkward silence. “Well, I’m off. The Frenchies are making a woeful mess of things with their push to the southeast around Neville. I hear their lads are staunchly refusing to advance. We’ve been stale- mated up here in Flanders, but I’ll be damned if the British soldier ever refuses to go over the top. So, now it’s up to us Brits to take the heat off—again. The general has called a session to begin to compose the order of battle for the Messines Ridge affair we’ve had under plan.” Then leaning forward and lowering his voice, Buckingham continued, “You know our miners have been working the shaft to reach the Bosch lines for months now, and I expect they’re damn close.” Stepping back, he proclaimed loudly, “However, I insist on pouring you a fine whiskey in quarters this evening to celebrate our bril- liant new alliance.” Without waiting for a response, Nigel turned and briskly marched to BEF staff headquarters.
Noah stood in the warming sun, a hundred thoughts running through his mind. How would the American military prepare for battle with men and material in the madness that was the Western Front? How could the govern- ment rally the American people to the cause, dubious as it was in the minds of many? And what would his own role be in the coming fight?
And how would Jenny take the news? Closing his eyes, he thought of his bride-to-be. Jennifer Barry was the daughter of Thomas Barry, Noah’s former superintendent of West Point. In his mind’s eye, he reflected on her light, smooth complexion; luminous green-hazel eyes; and long, full, auburn hair. Suddenly, he realized how long it had been since they were together—and really, how little time they had spent together since his posting in Washington and then France and Belgium. With a start, he wondered if she would even feel the same about him when they were together again.
His mind then turned to his grandfather, Harper Clayton. He recalled how the old soldier had helped him get the appointment to West Point. He thought of his grandfather often these days. Harper’s four-year experience in America’s Civil War had always been a fascination to Noah. As a boy, he often tried to coax stories about the war from him. And occasionally Harper would open up about the campaigns in Virginia and Carolina. Places like Gettysburg, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and others were etched in the boy’s mind with a sacred reverence. What would his grandpa think of America’s coming involvement in this colossal war?
Rubbing the spent cigarette out with the toe of his boot, Noah tried to put these thoughts out of his mind. He turned to attend to duties of the day with the team of British forward observers behind the secondary trench lines. He knew the attack on the Messines Ridge, south of Ypres, was in the works. If successful, it would most certainly be ground purchased at a dear price.