Shrapnel by William Wharton

including our forward one. We lose all the gain we made. All this scared-ness, all this effort, all this everything, absolutely for nothing.

THE GALOSHES CAPER
    It’s near my nineteenth birthday now, and we’re near Metz. It’s just continually raining. There’s no way to get dry, the big worry is trench foot. That is, it’s a worry for the few people out to win the war. For us, getting trench foot and being sent back to some hospital sounds like a special kind of heaven. Guys start sleeping in their wet socks and boots, hoping and praying. Trench foot looks as if your toes have turned black and you have gangrene. I guess, in a certain sense, that’s what’s happening. We’re hearing all the time about how at the hospital they need to cut off toes or sometimes an entire foot. Most of us consider losing a few toes a small price to pay if we get to snuggle into a warm cosy hospital bed, miles away from this insane scene, and more importantly, have a chance to live.
    But the officers find out about guys trying to get trench foot on purpose so they give lectures and demonstrations about not sleeping with boots on, taking our socks off, wringing them out, wearing them next to our chests to dry when we sleep and then changing them every day. But that won’t stop trench foot, if all day long we’re in mud with boots that absolutely soak up the water and just about every night we need to spend a minimum two hours on guard in a foxhole filled with water.
    So, they bring up old time galoshes with clips on them that fit into slits and then are bent over. The trouble is they rattle. It’s the kind of galoshes I used to wear to school in the winter as a kid. When we wear them they make more noise than a tambourine. Guys start throwing the galoshes away. They’d rather have trench foot than get shot. I can relate to that.
    Next the word is sent out, that anyone who gets trench foot will be court-martialled and given a dishonourable discharge. Everybody’s caught between a black foot and a hard place. But intentional trench foot goes on anyway.
    Now I, personally, have a slight foot fetish. The calcaneus spur thing is quite enough. The idea of having black toes, or a foot cut off, is somethingI can’t live with. I’m trying to figure out a way to live and keep my toes. I come up with a crazy solution. I hunt around until I find a pair of galoshes somebody’s thrown away, much bigger than I usually wear, about size fourteen. They’re regular boats and a boat is just what I think I need. I try to dry out my own boots some, mostly by wiping them on my sopping blanket, then look around for someone with my boot size, eight and a half C, who’s ready to trade four pair of reasonably dry socks for my boots. I convince this guy in L Company he can keep one pair of boots in the fartsack with him drying while he’s wearing the other pair.
    After I make the trade, I have eight pair of fairly dry socks. I put them on all at once and then slide my enlarged feet into my enlarged galoshes. I wiggle my toes around in there, then sleep with galoshes and socks in my fartsack tucked up against my stomach or between my legs. There’s hardly enough room for the rest of me, but it works great. I make too much noise walking around, but my feet are comfortable. Every night I take off the galoshes and all the socks. The inner socks are generally dry. I sleep with all the socks tucked under my shirt. It works like a charm.
    That is, it works like a charm until SergeantEthridge notices how big my feet look. Under pressure, I explain. He says I’d better get my boots back or he’s telling the Captain how I’m trying to get trench foot. What a moron. Three days later I slip the boots off one of the line company men who’s dead. He’s lying in the mud with a piece of shrapnel in his neck. The boots are size twelve D, almost like galoshes, and I wear them with all my