gathering in its harvest in commercial quantities. Death had been industrialised.
Everson had never wanted responsibility. When he joined up he'd just wanted to be one of the men, a small cog in a big machine, but when your father was twice mayor of Broughtonthwaite and owner of the largest brewery in town there were bigger wheels turning against yours. So he'd been given a commission. Men he'd known before the war, men whose families had been intertwined with his for generations, now depended on him for their lives and he didn't want the responsibility. But now that it was his he wasn't going to shirk it. He'd done his damnedest to keep them alive through the bloodshed of the preceding summer, and by God, he'd do the same today.
He ran a finger around the inside of his collar and unconsciously began chewing his lower lip.
The artillery bombardment began. It started in No-Man's Land and, every minute, crept forwards another hundred yards towards the German lines - a barrage designed to shield the advancing soldiers from enemy fire. They would then move behind the line of smoke and shells, with the huge armoured hulks of the ironclad landships crushing paths through the German wire. At least that was the theory.
The ground began to shake. A loud rumbling filled the air. Atkins felt himself flinch involuntarily, expecting a shell burst or trench mortar, but the sound went on and on, increasing in volume. Dirt started dancing off the sandbags on the parapet.
"What the hell is it?" said Porgy, looking round. Down in the trench it was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from.
Along with the deep bass roar came another noise now, a squeaking and whining, a repetitive metallic clank.
"Blood and sand!" said Atkins as, several bays down, a fearsome metal monster belching white smoke from its back rolled across the reinforced bridge over the trenches into No Man's Land.
It was an ironclad landship; armour-plated, its side-mounted sponsons seemingly bristling with guns. He'd never seen anything like it, not even in the adventure stories he read. On the side he could make out a painted identity number, I-5, and then underneath, painted in a scruffier hand, the legend, HMLS Ivanhoe .
"Boojums!" yelled Pot Shot ecstatically.
"Tanks! Read about 'em on leave," said Mercy. "The papers were full of 'em. Oh, we're going take that wood now. Fritz'll shit himself when he sees these coming at him, eh Ginger?"
Ginger managed to crack a weak smile but then, as soon as the huge great armoured rhomboid rolled over the firing trench, he began flinching and jerking.
Not now , thought Atkins. Not now .
If Ginger fled the Battle Police would get him. If they didn't, Ketch certainly would. This close to a show, he wouldn't get the courtesy of a court martial before they marched him out to a stake and his mates had to shoot him.
"Ginger, quiet!" But before he could say anything more to calm the boy there came the dull repetitive clang of a cracked warning bell and the cry of: "Gas! Gas! Gas!"
The Germans, now aware that something was going off and having the prevailing wind in their favour, had opened their gas canisters and, heavier than air, the sluggish green cloud had begun to slue down the incline toward the British trenches.
At once, Atkins put his rifle down, took off his helmet and began to fumble at the canvas bag on his chest, undoing the buckle to get at the P. H. gas helmet inside. Well, the Quarterblokes called it a helmet. The men called it "the goggle-eyed bugger with the tit". What he pulled out was a cloth hood. He flapped it to open it out and pulled it on over his head, tucking its neck down into his shirt collar to form a rudimentary seal. He bit on the rubber clamp inside and took a couple of breaths, in through the nose and out through the tube in his mouth with its distinctive red rubber valve. Peering out through the greenish eye-pieces, he picked up his battle bowler and placed it back on his head before
Everson had never wanted responsibility. When he joined up he'd just wanted to be one of the men, a small cog in a big machine, but when your father was twice mayor of Broughtonthwaite and owner of the largest brewery in town there were bigger wheels turning against yours. So he'd been given a commission. Men he'd known before the war, men whose families had been intertwined with his for generations, now depended on him for their lives and he didn't want the responsibility. But now that it was his he wasn't going to shirk it. He'd done his damnedest to keep them alive through the bloodshed of the preceding summer, and by God, he'd do the same today.
He ran a finger around the inside of his collar and unconsciously began chewing his lower lip.
The artillery bombardment began. It started in No-Man's Land and, every minute, crept forwards another hundred yards towards the German lines - a barrage designed to shield the advancing soldiers from enemy fire. They would then move behind the line of smoke and shells, with the huge armoured hulks of the ironclad landships crushing paths through the German wire. At least that was the theory.
The ground began to shake. A loud rumbling filled the air. Atkins felt himself flinch involuntarily, expecting a shell burst or trench mortar, but the sound went on and on, increasing in volume. Dirt started dancing off the sandbags on the parapet.
"What the hell is it?" said Porgy, looking round. Down in the trench it was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from.
Along with the deep bass roar came another noise now, a squeaking and whining, a repetitive metallic clank.
"Blood and sand!" said Atkins as, several bays down, a fearsome metal monster belching white smoke from its back rolled across the reinforced bridge over the trenches into No Man's Land.
It was an ironclad landship; armour-plated, its side-mounted sponsons seemingly bristling with guns. He'd never seen anything like it, not even in the adventure stories he read. On the side he could make out a painted identity number, I-5, and then underneath, painted in a scruffier hand, the legend, HMLS Ivanhoe .
"Boojums!" yelled Pot Shot ecstatically.
"Tanks! Read about 'em on leave," said Mercy. "The papers were full of 'em. Oh, we're going take that wood now. Fritz'll shit himself when he sees these coming at him, eh Ginger?"
Ginger managed to crack a weak smile but then, as soon as the huge great armoured rhomboid rolled over the firing trench, he began flinching and jerking.
Not now , thought Atkins. Not now .
If Ginger fled the Battle Police would get him. If they didn't, Ketch certainly would. This close to a show, he wouldn't get the courtesy of a court martial before they marched him out to a stake and his mates had to shoot him.
"Ginger, quiet!" But before he could say anything more to calm the boy there came the dull repetitive clang of a cracked warning bell and the cry of: "Gas! Gas! Gas!"
The Germans, now aware that something was going off and having the prevailing wind in their favour, had opened their gas canisters and, heavier than air, the sluggish green cloud had begun to slue down the incline toward the British trenches.
At once, Atkins put his rifle down, took off his helmet and began to fumble at the canvas bag on his chest, undoing the buckle to get at the P. H. gas helmet inside. Well, the Quarterblokes called it a helmet. The men called it "the goggle-eyed bugger with the tit". What he pulled out was a cloth hood. He flapped it to open it out and pulled it on over his head, tucking its neck down into his shirt collar to form a rudimentary seal. He bit on the rubber clamp inside and took a couple of breaths, in through the nose and out through the tube in his mouth with its distinctive red rubber valve. Peering out through the greenish eye-pieces, he picked up his battle bowler and placed it back on his head before
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