feeling around for his rifle.
He felt himself jostled from the side. He had to turn his whole body round to see. Ginger was sobbing and sniffling, unwilling or unable to open his respirator bag. Atkins hurriedly did it for him then thrust the gas hood over Ginger's head. If the gas got to him while he was snivelling like that it would be the worse for him. Immediately Ginger started to panic and claw at the hood, trying to rip it from his head.
Atkins heard a muffled shout. Ketch, looking for trouble, had caught sight of the commotion and was coming towards him.
Atkins elbowed Porgy.
"Give us a hand with Ginger!"
Porgy stood one side of Ginger and grabbed his arm, Atkins stood the other side. They held him tight so he couldn't struggle.
Atkins felt a tap on his shoulder; he swivelled round as much as he could.
"Whaff gun eer?"
"Sorry, Corporal. Can't tell what you're sayin'," said Porgy.
He didn't have to. Ketch poked him in the shoulder in a manner that said 'I'm watching you.' "Pick up your gun!" he enunciated carefully though the chemically-impregnated flannel, before returning to his position.
"Thirty seconds!" called Lieutenant Everson.
Atkins picked up his rifle and held it at the ready. Ginger had been a useful diversion. There was nothing worse than waiting for the whistle. He stared again at the scaling ladder before him, noting its shabby construction. There was not even a basic joint. The rungs had been hastily nailed to two longer pieces. Whoever expected them to climb it obviously didn't expect them to have to climb it more than once. That about said it all.
"Ten seconds..."
Everson lifted his gas hood and blew his whistle before clumsily shoving the cloth back into his collar. Waving with his pistol, he watched his men scale the ladders. To his left, one fell back into the trench, immediately cut down. From beyond the parapet came cries and screams. He grabbed a rung and hauled himself up, cleared the sandbags, stepped out onto the mud and began to run, slogging through terrain the consistency of caramel, seeking to lead his men forward. He'd seen them all over the top with none left for the Battle Police to round up, which was no more than he'd expect of them. Another man fell in front of him. Everson stepped reluctantly over the body. It was not his job to stop and see if he were wounded or dead. The stretcher bearers would follow. Over to his left, he saw one of the tank machines as it nosed down into a shell hole and then reared up to clear it and rumble onwards along its terrible trajectory as spumes of earth exploded around it.
Atkins heard the whistle from far away, as if underwater, then another and another; some fainter, some louder. Up and down the line, dozens of subalterns blew their whistles or shouted their men forwards.
This was it. Under the tidal pull of fear he felt the swell of vomit and bile rise, and felt a growing urge to piss. He didn't want to go over the top. You'd be mad to.
Someone hit him on the shoulder. Twice.
Shitohshitohshitohsh -
Atkins screamed in rage and terror, which wasn't clever because it fogged up his eye pieces. He could barely see where he was going as it was. He scrambled up the ladder and over the parapet, and looked around. There to his left he saw sergeant's stripes. Hobson was walking resolutely forward. Somewhere amid the explosions he caught the rolling tinny snap of the marching snares and the harmonious wail of the bagpipes playing as the Jocks advanced over on their left flank.
Standing in the trench with his men was like standing by a pen of cattle waiting to be herded into the abattoir and meant just about as much to him. Jeffries felt no pity for them as he lifted his gas hood to blow his whistle. He caught sight of a man, his shoulders heaving as if with sobs, a dark wet patch spreading down his trouser legs. He wouldn't move. Others clambered over the top to meet their fate. This one wouldn't.
"I'm not going to have you ruin
He felt himself jostled from the side. He had to turn his whole body round to see. Ginger was sobbing and sniffling, unwilling or unable to open his respirator bag. Atkins hurriedly did it for him then thrust the gas hood over Ginger's head. If the gas got to him while he was snivelling like that it would be the worse for him. Immediately Ginger started to panic and claw at the hood, trying to rip it from his head.
Atkins heard a muffled shout. Ketch, looking for trouble, had caught sight of the commotion and was coming towards him.
Atkins elbowed Porgy.
"Give us a hand with Ginger!"
Porgy stood one side of Ginger and grabbed his arm, Atkins stood the other side. They held him tight so he couldn't struggle.
Atkins felt a tap on his shoulder; he swivelled round as much as he could.
"Whaff gun eer?"
"Sorry, Corporal. Can't tell what you're sayin'," said Porgy.
He didn't have to. Ketch poked him in the shoulder in a manner that said 'I'm watching you.' "Pick up your gun!" he enunciated carefully though the chemically-impregnated flannel, before returning to his position.
"Thirty seconds!" called Lieutenant Everson.
Atkins picked up his rifle and held it at the ready. Ginger had been a useful diversion. There was nothing worse than waiting for the whistle. He stared again at the scaling ladder before him, noting its shabby construction. There was not even a basic joint. The rungs had been hastily nailed to two longer pieces. Whoever expected them to climb it obviously didn't expect them to have to climb it more than once. That about said it all.
"Ten seconds..."
Everson lifted his gas hood and blew his whistle before clumsily shoving the cloth back into his collar. Waving with his pistol, he watched his men scale the ladders. To his left, one fell back into the trench, immediately cut down. From beyond the parapet came cries and screams. He grabbed a rung and hauled himself up, cleared the sandbags, stepped out onto the mud and began to run, slogging through terrain the consistency of caramel, seeking to lead his men forward. He'd seen them all over the top with none left for the Battle Police to round up, which was no more than he'd expect of them. Another man fell in front of him. Everson stepped reluctantly over the body. It was not his job to stop and see if he were wounded or dead. The stretcher bearers would follow. Over to his left, he saw one of the tank machines as it nosed down into a shell hole and then reared up to clear it and rumble onwards along its terrible trajectory as spumes of earth exploded around it.
Atkins heard the whistle from far away, as if underwater, then another and another; some fainter, some louder. Up and down the line, dozens of subalterns blew their whistles or shouted their men forwards.
This was it. Under the tidal pull of fear he felt the swell of vomit and bile rise, and felt a growing urge to piss. He didn't want to go over the top. You'd be mad to.
Someone hit him on the shoulder. Twice.
Shitohshitohshitohsh -
Atkins screamed in rage and terror, which wasn't clever because it fogged up his eye pieces. He could barely see where he was going as it was. He scrambled up the ladder and over the parapet, and looked around. There to his left he saw sergeant's stripes. Hobson was walking resolutely forward. Somewhere amid the explosions he caught the rolling tinny snap of the marching snares and the harmonious wail of the bagpipes playing as the Jocks advanced over on their left flank.
Standing in the trench with his men was like standing by a pen of cattle waiting to be herded into the abattoir and meant just about as much to him. Jeffries felt no pity for them as he lifted his gas hood to blow his whistle. He caught sight of a man, his shoulders heaving as if with sobs, a dark wet patch spreading down his trouser legs. He wouldn't move. Others clambered over the top to meet their fate. This one wouldn't.
"I'm not going to have you ruin
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