"Get down!  You wanna die?  If not - don't poke your head out when I don't tell you to," my captain screamed at me.

   The rain of gunfire poured over the small town of Grenoble, France.  Our tanks drove through houses and budings, trying to keep the Germans from reaching Paris.

   I wrote in my diary all the time, and today in a small sentence (which I don't do often when I write) something plain and simple and dark.

   "Today, April 12, 1918, we march to Grenoble to crush the Germans."

   And now, I was in the middle of this violent confrontation:  bodies falling faster than imagined, the cries of the wounded, and I was sure I was going to join those men.

   We were given hand genades to destroy the machine gun posts if we got close enough, also gas masks to survive the tear gas, and hemlets to withstand some of the force of the cannon's blast. Then we were given orders and news of what would happen if we died.

   "You can leave your personal belongings here, Your money willgo to your families for serving your Tour of Duty.  May God be with you brave men," our commander said, with a few tears in his eyes.

   Then we all ran to the ladders that led us out of the trenches, ready to perhaps run toward our death.  Then our commander belw the whistle that was around his neck and said, "Forward!  Forward to the Germans."