Cannon fodder is a term for combatants regarded or treated by government or military command as expendable in the face of enemy fire. Generally used in situations where combatants are deliberately forced to fight against hopeless odds with the foreknowledge that they will suffer extremely high casualties in an effort to achieve a strategic goal.

#####

But first: I should have suspected something awry when little Oscar wheeled in the mini-tank of liquid nitrogen. Where does a three-year old get liquid nitrogen? He didn’t respond when I asked him, focused on handing me a colander to put on my head. The bundle of dangling wires and tubing should have been a clue, but I played along. What could happen? Little did I know that his most recent “sparamint” was a cryogenic suspended animation device. Does he even know how to spell cryogenic?

… So now here it is, a month since my last post. What’s been happening? Is the pandemic over? Have they found a vaccine? What’s the story with all those people marching? Why is there a fence around the White House?
… Guess I’ll download some data and see what’s what.
And poor Oscar? He looks so sad. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m okay. I just slept for a while.”
“I know,” he sighs. “It didn’t work. You were supposed to get imbizzbubble. I’m going to play with my garbage trucks now.”

#####

Okay — let’s look at the data [08-June] … Oh my!

The green projection just keeps on keepin’ on (linear), while the red dotted curve seems to be following suit. Both curves are essentially the same, indicating about the same number of new cases (~20,000) per day. We will have to wait a few more weeks to see how the re-opening and/or protest marches might increase this rate. The projection indicates about 180,000 deaths by August 1. This is above the ~145,000 deaths predicted by the much more sophisticated Johns Hopkins IHME model often cited on the news.

Warriors

“Kilroy!”
“Here sir.”
“The clutches. Have you repaired them then?”
“Just finished ‘em up yessir. They’re all ready to go.”
Group Captain regards the doughboy: undisciplined, but knows his motors. American volunteer. Old man Woodrow needs a bit more convincing.
“And the rest?” Group Captain waves toward the rows of ungainly vehicles.
“All set sir. All three dozen spit polished, tip-topped up with gas, uh, petrol.”
“They had best make it to the front this time.”
“Sure as… that is, yes sir. Tractor treads are new TR-X’s straight from the U.S. of A. Forged not far from where I grew up, just north of…”
“Yes, yes. Find the Quartermaster and sign them off then. And remember, your name will be on the ticket.”
“Sure thing. Yessir. No problem.”
Group Captain scans the steel contraptions as Kilroy shuffles away.
“I suppose they do resemble water tanks,” he murmurs, “sporting a stubby pipe and tractor treads. Tanks. Winny’s pretty good with names, but the Boche will soon learn that they carry no water.”
—–
Dearest Mary,
Four more days we’re told. I’m doing just fine. Plenty to eat, but I and the lads always enjoy the packages of sweets you post. It rains now and again, but we manage to keep dry. Three to a dugout. They say this push will be the last. We have the Hun on the run. They are suffering horribly with lice and rats and filthy porridge the only thing to eat. Or so we’re told. Dying in the mud this way and that. Three more days. More later. Yours, Tommy.
—–
“And the tanks, Group Captain?”
“Yes sir. Loaded on the lorries this morning and underway. Will reach the Somme in three days.”
“They will make the difference. It’s been too many months, too many casualties. Those Mark-I’s will make the difference.”
“Yes sir.”
“And their reliability?”
“Up to pitch sir. Tested and proven.”
“Fine, fine, yes. Some thousands of troops will live to fight another day then, yes.”
“Yes sir. Definitely sir.”
—–
“Maschinengewehr Maxims ammunition?”
“Thirty 250-round belts at each post, sir. Sandbagged and on-station.”
“Danke, das wäre dann alles.”
—–
“What’s all this claptrap then?”
“We’re here, got this convoy of tanks. Where you want ‘em?”
The guard flips through his clipboard as he steps into the pitted road to survey the trucks.
“Ah, so these are the secret weapons that’ll get us all home, then.”
“Sure are. Yep.”
“Head down that way to the crossroad. Left and left to the staging area.”
Kilroy pins a palm to his ear. It was impossible to hear over the constant artillery barrages this near to the front.
“Left and right?”
“Left and LEFT!”
“Gotcha.”
—–
My Dearest Mary,
Tomorrow at dawn we attack. I’m not ashamed to say that I am a bit afraid, as we all are. Some more than others. I’ve finished packing my kit and will make sure postmaster has this bundle of letters. After we run off the Huns I will write again as soon as I am able. They’ll be finished. Then it will be home for me. For us. Maybe I will surprise you on your doorstep one fine morning, before Christmas for sure. I can hardly breathe, waiting to see your smile again. It hasn’t changed since school, year three. Remember? My books flung across the grounds and the other girls snickering? Raining, like here now. You marched over to help. My face burned so, but you took no notice, your spectacles dripping, your shoes and socks wet through. The best thing, that I will never forget, was your quick wink as you ran back to your friends. I miss you so. After all this we will be together, rain or shine! All my love, Tommy.
—–
“Yes sir. Of course, sir. We’ll own their trenches by noon. Yes sir. I am assured the tanks are ready. Casualties? I expect we’ll take our share. How many? Hold a minute please, sir.”

“Lieutenant!”
“Yes sir?”
“Our sector casualty estimate for tomorrow, headquarters is asking.”
“No more than 10,000, including 5,000 killed. About the same in all of the other 17 sectors.”
“Our estimate shows 10,000, sir. Yes, I understand. Necessary to win. No choice, no sir. Yes, the press. The Homefront. I understand. For his majesty. Yes, yes, Winny too of course. Promotions, yes. This is the last push, I will inform the men. We have the Boche on the run. Yes, deaths. Unfortunate. Yes, yes. But life must go on. Yes, yes. Prepared …be better prepared… wait for the Yanks? Oh, yes, of course. Of course. We must go now. We do have a few Americans here helping outfit the tanks and… Yes, yes, quite. Yes. Thank you, sir. Thank you. Warriors all. Yes sir. For God and country! We must go forward!”
—–
“It’s still dark. Why dawn? Why always dawn? Fine, fine. Let’s go rev ‘em up.”
Within the hour 31 tanks are clanking through the fog toward the forward line.
“Kilroy! Where are the rest of my tanks?”
“Yes, sir. That is, I mean, some wouldn’t start. Maybe rats in the fuel tanks, I don’t know. Some wouldn’t spark, the rain and…”
“Yes, yes… but the rest are…”
“Right ‘n ready, sir. See?”

As the last tank passes by its left tread wrenches loose, clattering like a steely skeletal snake to stop at Group Captain’s boots. 
“Kilroy?”
“Don’t know what happened there Cap’n sir. She was good ‘s rain and…”
Kilroy’s excuse is drowned beneath the clamor of more tanks shuddering to grinding halts ahead down the line, shedding treads at mortar craters and potholes. Kilroy runs forward before the reprimand reaches his ears.
—–
“At dawn, ja?
“Ja. Our spies heiss gut, no?”
“Ja.”
—–
My Dearest Mary,
One last note. The fog is so thick, but the sun will be up soon to burn it off. We are all drenched, but in good spirits. My rifle is clean, fitted with a clip of 6 and I have plenty more clips in my kit. We none of us thinks we’ll need them, though. There will be casualties, but we expect them to be light. Yes, I will be careful. We must do this for the sake of our nation. Little consolation, I know. Dear Mary I am so sorry to go on like this. We are strong, and so many of us. Thousands and thousands. How can we not prove victorious? Just picture the medals pinned to my chest when I see you that morning, not too long from now. We’ll have to be careful they don’t stick you! I love you so. Yours always. Your warrior, Tommy.
—–
“On the whistle, men. On the whistle.”
Tommy squints over his mates in the trench. Twenty meters away. A tank, they call it, teetering on the edge of the trench, half off a sagging bridge of cobbled together lumber. Will they hear the whistle, inside there? He imagines there are peepholes to see and shoot from. And the cannon. The Boche are doomed. Doomed.

As the sun whisks the fog from no man’s land the trench goes silent but for the rumble of the tanks. Tommy swipes a quick sign of the cross, kissing Mary’s photo, nearly worn through now.
Is that the whistle? Everyone is moving, up and over. Jumbles of legs and arms and stench and cries. Tommy wedges a boot into a notch in the trench wall, then another, then over the top. He is a warrior!