On April 6, 1917, the US Congress announced they would be going to war, even though the US wanted to remain neutral. The war had been raging in Europe since July of 1914, but the sinking of the Lusitania by German U-Boats in May of 1915 had been instrumental in bringing the US into the war. In July 1917, conscription was introduced in the US, and men were drafted into the Army. Jack Dawson was one of these men.
October 20, 1917
Jack Dawson lay in the trenches which he had called home for the last two months. Several sandbags lined the sides of the trenches and on the lip of the trench there were sandbags and barbed wire. The allied and enemy trenches were just fifty feet apart. Here and there dugouts were literally dug into the earth to provide shelter when the fighting wasn't too intense. Other than that, there was little shelter. In summer, the trench had been exposed to the hot sun, and in winter, to pouring rain and snow. The rain filled up the trench and water seeped in through the sides, leaving the troops up to their knees in thick, stinking mud that made any movement difficult. There was no sanitation and rats were a problem. Diseases were rife, such as dysentery and trenchfoot. There was no relief for front line troops for weeks on end. Even a near miss from an artillery shell could collapse a trench or cause dugout to collapse, burying those inside alive. The nearness of death, the fear of it and smell of it, the horrific sights of shattered bodies, the screams of a friend cut in half, and the constant shelling combined to turn many men insane, either at the time or later in life. This was what Jack lived through. His life was literally not worth living.
Troops around him slept, some ate, some prayed or sang, while others simply sat and cried. The men here were young, most with wives and children. Jack had no wife or child, just a memory. A memory which haunted him night and day–the memory of Rose. Not a day went by when he didn't think of her beautiful face. She was the reason he had managed to stay alive for so long. How he had avoided death, he didn't know. He had killed men, men who he knew would have children and a wife. Many of the bodies were just left lying around in trenches and more than once Jack had slept next to a dead man. Many men could not cope and developed trench fever, which meant they could not stop themselves shaking.
Shakily rummaging around in his pack, Jack found what he was looking for, what he looked at night after night. It was the photograph of Rose, which he had taken from her house the year before. He stared at her beautiful face, her smile, and her shining eyes. Memories of the night which they had shared together raced back to him and tears fell from his eyes. His hands were covered in dirt and mud, thick and wet. His face was lined from sleepless nights; dirt covered his cheeks and forehead. His hair was matted in a thick, tangled mess, covered in dirt and debris. His shaking hand touched the face of Rose, and he cried harder. When he had first arrived on the front line, he had prayed hard for a miracle, for the war to be over, but he had stopped believing in God a long time ago now. If God did exist, then how could He let such evil live in the world? How could so many innocent men die and go through the hell which he now called his life?
When Jack had left Santa Monica in September of 1916, he had returned to Chippewa Falls in an attempt to forget Rose. He had taken up work on a farm and kept himself as busy as he could until he had received his draft notice. Resting his tired head on his pack, Jack gazed at the night's sky, the endless, gorgeous stars, at a night like the one aboard the Titanic when he and Rose had kissed.
“Good night, Rose. I love you,” he whispered to no one but himself. There was no point to his life. He knew that. It was only a matter of time before he was killed out here in No Man's Land.