things, Bristow. Get over!" said Jeffries in cold measured tones. Bristow snivelled but didn't stir. Jeffries sniffed derisively then shot him. "A death is a death Bristow, out there or down here, it's all the same to me. You'll have done your part either way."
He climbed the ladder and stepped from the still security of the trenches into a maelstrom of noise and fury. Shots, cries, bullets and bombs raged about him but he felt no fear. Anticipation, excitement, even, but fear? No. What had he to fear, today of all days?
In front of him, Appleton fell. And Harlow. Burton just vanished in a plume of wet offal and dirt. Still Jeffries strode on, unencumbered by the pack, webbing and bandoliers that weighed down his men. Every step a step closer to his destiny. When the day's bloodletting accrued to a critical mass, charging the landscape with a talisman of binding, he would speak the words he had long practised. The air screamed as shrapnel burst overhead, tearing down through flesh and mud alike. But none of it touched Jeffries.
Tendrils of chlorine lapped at his feet. Beneath his gas hood he wore a contented smile as he waded into the choking cloud with a surety that took the place of heroism. To be a hero you needed to feel fear. Jeffries didn't feel fear. He didn't need to. The sigil that he had drawn on his chest with Seeston's blood, now beginning to crust and pull uncomfortably at the hairs there, saw to that.
Around Atkins, men were marching forward into the clouds of gas; a rising tide of asphyxiating death. The ground was soft and treacherous underfoot. Muffled by his gas hood, the crump and boom of shells assumed a continuous roar that made his ear drums crackle. He glanced to his left. Pot Shot and Mercy were striding forward. He could make out the weak sunlight glinting off the tin triangles on their backpacks.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the forward German lines. Running with full pack through this mud would tire you out before you got there and you'd have no puff left for the fight. Already he could feel the muscles of his legs begin to ache from pulling against the mud. It was better, so they said, to walk and conserve your strength. Fair enough. But that bollocks about carrying on and not seeking cover? Stuff that.
Following the tape he reached the British wire. He could hear the insistent stuttering of the British machine guns, while above them shells burst, leaving lazy black woolly clouds hanging in the air as shards of hot metal ripped down through bodies below. Ahead of him now, men began to drop, some hanging on the wire as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. He walked on past the fallen, some dead, some wounded, crying and begging for help. Most still wore their gas hoods and Atkins was grateful that he could not see their faces. You weren't supposed to stop for them. You weren't allowed to. Carry on. Forward. Always forward. He walked on aware that every step could be his last. Was it this one? This one? This?
The great bank of greenish grey fog, a mixture of chlorine, cordite and smoke rolled over them, enveloping the soldiers like a shroud. Atkins lost sight of his Section. He stepped aside to avoid a shell hole that loomed up out of the ground before him and found his leg caught. He looked down; a hand had grabbed his mud-encrusted puttee. A man, maskless, green froth oozing slowly from his mouth, gagged and struggled, tearing at his own throat with a bloodied hand, drowning on dry land as the chlorine reacted in his lungs. Atkins tugged his ankle free and marched on. Shell holes were death traps now. The gas was sinking to the lowest point it could find, settling in pockets like ghostly green rock pools, where the weary and wounded had sought shelter.
As he walked on, he began to experience a light-headed feeling. Around him the gas cloud seemed to glow with a diffuse phosphorescence. The noise of battle, the rattle of machine guns and the constant crumpcrumpcrump of
He climbed the ladder and stepped from the still security of the trenches into a maelstrom of noise and fury. Shots, cries, bullets and bombs raged about him but he felt no fear. Anticipation, excitement, even, but fear? No. What had he to fear, today of all days?
In front of him, Appleton fell. And Harlow. Burton just vanished in a plume of wet offal and dirt. Still Jeffries strode on, unencumbered by the pack, webbing and bandoliers that weighed down his men. Every step a step closer to his destiny. When the day's bloodletting accrued to a critical mass, charging the landscape with a talisman of binding, he would speak the words he had long practised. The air screamed as shrapnel burst overhead, tearing down through flesh and mud alike. But none of it touched Jeffries.
Tendrils of chlorine lapped at his feet. Beneath his gas hood he wore a contented smile as he waded into the choking cloud with a surety that took the place of heroism. To be a hero you needed to feel fear. Jeffries didn't feel fear. He didn't need to. The sigil that he had drawn on his chest with Seeston's blood, now beginning to crust and pull uncomfortably at the hairs there, saw to that.
Around Atkins, men were marching forward into the clouds of gas; a rising tide of asphyxiating death. The ground was soft and treacherous underfoot. Muffled by his gas hood, the crump and boom of shells assumed a continuous roar that made his ear drums crackle. He glanced to his left. Pot Shot and Mercy were striding forward. He could make out the weak sunlight glinting off the tin triangles on their backpacks.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the forward German lines. Running with full pack through this mud would tire you out before you got there and you'd have no puff left for the fight. Already he could feel the muscles of his legs begin to ache from pulling against the mud. It was better, so they said, to walk and conserve your strength. Fair enough. But that bollocks about carrying on and not seeking cover? Stuff that.
Following the tape he reached the British wire. He could hear the insistent stuttering of the British machine guns, while above them shells burst, leaving lazy black woolly clouds hanging in the air as shards of hot metal ripped down through bodies below. Ahead of him now, men began to drop, some hanging on the wire as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. He walked on past the fallen, some dead, some wounded, crying and begging for help. Most still wore their gas hoods and Atkins was grateful that he could not see their faces. You weren't supposed to stop for them. You weren't allowed to. Carry on. Forward. Always forward. He walked on aware that every step could be his last. Was it this one? This one? This?
The great bank of greenish grey fog, a mixture of chlorine, cordite and smoke rolled over them, enveloping the soldiers like a shroud. Atkins lost sight of his Section. He stepped aside to avoid a shell hole that loomed up out of the ground before him and found his leg caught. He looked down; a hand had grabbed his mud-encrusted puttee. A man, maskless, green froth oozing slowly from his mouth, gagged and struggled, tearing at his own throat with a bloodied hand, drowning on dry land as the chlorine reacted in his lungs. Atkins tugged his ankle free and marched on. Shell holes were death traps now. The gas was sinking to the lowest point it could find, settling in pockets like ghostly green rock pools, where the weary and wounded had sought shelter.
As he walked on, he began to experience a light-headed feeling. Around him the gas cloud seemed to glow with a diffuse phosphorescence. The noise of battle, the rattle of machine guns and the constant crumpcrumpcrump of
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