They fall like rain throwing fountains of earth, mud, water and men into the air. I'm used to them now, the HE and shrapnel shells. "Used to them". It's strange to think it considering my reaction the first time one landed outside my trench. Face down in the mud and blood where I'd thrown myself. Cowering in fear I had wondered how a man could survive this maelstrom of noise, shock-blast and hot flying iron shrapnel. But I did. That day I had anyway.
We were about to jump off for another stunt, against two fortified positions each boasting a machine gun crew. Their murderous fire had just done in almost half of my company, some of which I could still hear wailing and moaning in no-mans-land between the trenches. It sickened me, not because they were my mates, more because in 10 minutes I could be one of them.
Adjust magazines, secure bayonet, cinch this strap, loosen that one, a muttered prayer, hunch shoulders against the drizzling rain and shiver at the cold. And repeat. Anything to take my mind off going over the top and into no-mans-land, into the killing field between our trench systems where men I called friend now lay dead or dying riddled with bullets; The broken and torn. The lucky ones? Some may think it. The ground would claim them eventually, equally broken and torn, it would reclaim those who made it so. Humanity. That made me smile...The word humanity. There was nothing human about what we did...Or maybe it was typically human.
A bump from behind woke me from my "sleep"...How I manage to fall asleep standing I'll never know but many times I seem to get bumped awake by someone as I lay vertically propped against the wall of the trench. I looked around realising that the shelling had stopped. Jump off time. I'd been dreaming of the day we marched through Sydney, tall proud southern sons. What an adventure we would have. We jostled at the ship's rail for the best positions to wave to the girls and my mate blue said, "We're off Jack, our biggest adventure yet. Ah the stories we'll come back and bullshit the girls with!" He grinned at me like the cat that got the cream.
Two months later blue's lips were pulled back in another grin, or maybe abject pain. We found him face up, vacant blue eyes staring to the sky. His body was half submerged in a shell crater, or so we thought. We pulled him free but his body was completely gone below the chest. A direct hit from an HE (high explosive) shell. Blue wasn't grinning anymore, and he wouldn't tell the ladies any stories when he got back. He would lay in the same foreign land he'd come to protect, and sleep the long night.
I wasn't the same after Blue. I knew it, the sergeant knew it, shit, the whole bloody company knew it, but I marched, stopped, slept, shot my rifle, dug trenches, filled sand (mud) bags and offered up another target for the bloody Hun to shoot at and that was enough for King and country it seemed. I looked around at the gaunt faces around me. All dirty, eyes and cheeks sunken, almost resembling the wasted land between the trench systems. It was the eyes that got me though. They never really focussed. It was like they were looking at something a long way in the distance, they saw me but almost looked right through me. These men, once proud strong and full-of-life Australian blokes were...Empty. Still, they came alive enough once over the top and facing the enemy. Most did. Their once happy, youthful faces would harden, their eyes go cold, every muscle in their bodies taut, like a spring over-wound looking for release. And release they would if they joined with the enemy.
Shouting and sudden movement announced jump off. Men mounted scaling ladders being sure to keep their heads below the parapet; A careless head would get knocked off by the boche sharp shooters easily enough. Then silence fell. I looked up and saw the first man on the ladder shaking with fear. He was a replacement. He was dead but didn't know it yet. We waited for the whistle that would send us over the top and him to a swift death.
The shrill sound of the Captain's whistle reached me from a vast distance only barely breaking through the layers of fear, excitement and hope I had surrounded myself with and we moved. The man at the ladder fell backwards into the trench a split second after the whistle blew and the machine guns opened up. I'll give him credit for moving so quickly but he wasn't fast enough to dodge the bullets. None of us are. He was quickly replaced and on we went. I was fourth over the top and managed to get into a run as the machine guns were sweeping to my left and right. They traversed around soon enough though and bullets whizzed and zipped past me at chest height.
The snap and whiz of bullets racing past. The squelch and sucking sound of my boots in the mud. The moan of one of my comrades as I step on his broken body half sunken into the sucking mud. The rattle of the barbed wire as a man falls on it riddled with bullets. The sound of my screaming and the blood pounding in my own ears as I struggle forward. Each sound seemed to come to me independently rather than all at once, like my brain repelled the completeness of it, couldn't bring it all together into one complete set of sounds. Forward I ran from crater to crater ever closer to the enemy.
Ahead I saw yellow flashes. Muzzle-flash. The measured, and almost constant, flashes from the Maschinengewehr 08, the German MG-08, and the more sporadic rifle-fire muzzle flash of the enemy troops defending their trenches. I just ran towards them hoping that the darkness would hide me from their view and the led projectiles they sent my way...
That was yesterday. Now I sit in a muddy trench with the what's left of my company: 32 men. 32 of the 195 we marched up to the front with yesterday. 163 men lay dead or dying on the muddy, shell-pocked ground between the trenches. None but the unwounded made it back to our trench, and none of the unwounded stopped to collect the wounded. Sniper fire made sure we moved smartly and lingered little. They would die in agony out there.
We took the machine gun positions on the second attempt. A great effort the British officer called it. A fucking shit-show is what I would call it and i half-recall muttering that out loud. Fucking British officer had no idea! We had pulled back and another Company occupied the position...100 yards of ground gained. They were wiped out the next morning, to a man. The German's now had their machine guns set up again and were causing havoc on that section of front all over again. Status quo.
The second action, the stunt had lasted only 30 minutes from jump-off until the lucky few staggered back towards our trench. We took the two machine gun positions with rifle, bayonet, revolver, fists, tooth and nail. Like animals we clawed and gouged one another until either we were dead, or they were. Same story, different action.
I miss blue. We'd been together since we both started school and had been virtually inseparable since then. We joined up together without a hesitation. We'd not wanted to miss out on the great adventure. We'd heard the stories the old blokes told about the Boer War and thought that'd be for us! He had told me he'd look after me. The useless bastard. Failed at that didn't he! But then again I'd told him the same thing and I had to live with the shame of my own failure.
I could hear the MG-08's probing, the rat-tat-tat of its mechanism sending hot lead into something, probably a man and it reminded me of that night me and Blue shot 30 rabbits in one night with our 22's. We just kept shooting and shooting...We were 7 years old and loved to shoot...
...I felt an arm around me and a voice speaking words I couldn't make out. I looked up and realised I'd been crying, sobbing loudly head slumped, arms around my knees that I'd pulled up to my chest. I was repeating one word over and over...Blue. Blue. Blue.
That was my last night on the line for a while. I went back of course...I had mates to look after.
I wasn't the same after Blue. I knew it, the sergeant knew it, shit, the whole bloody company knew it, but I marched, stopped, slept, shot my rifle, dug trenches, filled sand (mud) bags and offered up another target for the bloody Hun to shoot at and that was enough for King and country it seemed.