Fifty or sixty soldiers gathered in the foot of the front trench, swarming about their Sergeants, attaching bayonets whilst receiving final orders. A few military chaplains wandered between the crowded masses, offering words of encouragement and support, passing blessings to any who wanted them.
From deep within the confines of the British trench network, a whole volley of metallic claps clattered from gun barrels. A wave of lyddite shells flew forward with the sound and force of a fleet of express trains. They arched into the sky and dropped along the German front, casting vast mounds of yellowed earth high into the air from where they fell.
An order was given and the soldiers wordlessly slipped to the base of the trench. Ladders were produced and placed up against the facing wall of the trench. Sergeants, revolvers in hands, eyes on wrist watches, whistles firmly embedded between tightly clenched jaws, stood crouched on the first or second rungs of the ladders, counting down the final few seconds. The tension of the soldiers grew like a storm, until the pressures were unleashed in a single shrill moment.
A whistle blew, then another and a third. Up the ladders and out of the trenches the soldiers poured, faces set with determination, rifles firmly held, terrified wide eyes on the horizon and the German trenches many hundred yards away. Sergeants stepped purposefully on, their loyal men following behind, a creeping, resolute wall of British khaki and brown heading off away into the haze of No Man’s Land.
There came a sudden tumultuous roar of gunfire from the distance, followed by the strained cries of men, the blowing of many whistles, the steel ring of shells and the thump and bang as they landed. The noise sounded very far off from the bottom of the trench.
“Sergeant!” Henry cried, leaping down into the trench and scrambling along it. The relentless angry clatter of gunfire confirmed that he had missed the party. “What the hell’s going on? Why’ve the men gone over?”
“Received an order to make a forward assault, sir, from Major Pewter. The Major thought it would be prudent to keep Jerry on his toes, make him think we’re weren’t slacking, weren’t bedding in for the long stay.”
Henry stared beseechingly to the east. “Madness!” he screamed, his hands to his temples. “Sheer fucking madness! Why would the Major do such a thing?”
“Respectfully, ours isn’t the place to ask, sir. We just do as told.”
“Tell me then,” snarled the Lieutenant, “how many did we send over the top?”
Holmes blanched and then seemed to take hold of himself. “Too many, sir.”
Henry scampered up the front of the trench and peered out cautiously. The sounds of the whistles and the cries of men seemed to grow louder and, through the grime of smoke floating across No Man’s Land, he began to make out shapes, running and stumbling shapes coming back towards the British lines.
“Jesus Christ,” he swore under his breath, straining to see into the blackened swirling mists. “Someone’s coming back!” he called, his voice breaking. “I think it’s the Hun. It’s the bloody Hun! Get me my rifle!” he snapped, clicking his fingers and then pointing down the trench towards it.
“Can’t be!” Sergeant Holmes cried, scrambling alongside side. He strained his eyes towards the approaching figures. “No. It’s the bloody platoon!” Holmes cried, lamentably, “or what’s left of them,” he added, watching as they got closer, a scrabbling dribble of men, blackened by fire and ash, many bloodied and torn inside their uniforms and panic stricken.
Amongst the infantry the occasional Sergeant could be seen, urging the men back, but the entourage of young officers, who had set out moments before, had been cruelly decimated.
“Over ’ere!” Henry called towards a floundering soldier, who had lost his rifle and cap somewhere in the melee. The top right of his forehead had been blown off and blood gushed – a rivulet down the right side of his head. He moved towards the sound and collapsed to his knees, metres from the trench parapet. Henry and Sergeant Holmes reached forward and took him by the shoulders, pulling him headlong into the trench. He slithered down the side of it and was manhandled onto his backside at the bottom. He threw his head back against the trench wall and closed his eyes, exhaling loudly.
“You want a bandage on that, mate,” said Sergeant Holmes, indicating the wound on his forehead. Either a bullet or shrapnel had carved a neat furrow across the soldier’s head. He was lucky its path had been shallow enough to take only bone and skin.
“I’ll get some bandages,” said Henry, slipping away and appearing a short time later, rolls of them sweeping from his fingers like ticker tape.
“Lucky bugger, you,” Holmes laughed, tapping the shoulder of the soldier and offering him a swig of a water bottle. “Nice little trophy that,” he said, pointing to his head. “Be able to show that off when you’re home. A little trophy from the war.” Holmes laughed again and winked at the soldier.
The soldier took the bottle and had a swig from it, enough to moisten his lips. “It’s not war, chum,” he mumbled breathlessly, taking another, this time longer, swig. Henry could hear the rattle of the soldier’s throat. “It’s bloody murder.”