Short stories, English; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
Along the Serbian ridge the sheepskin-clad figures lie in snug
safety and pull trigger with chuckles of satisfaction. There is no
excitement, only a keen savouring of primeval emotions that can now be
given rein. About them dance quick spurts of dust and bright splashes
of nickel appear upon the rocks. An irregular rifle fire is coming from
the hostile ridge. One or two shells burst overhead and then the guns
fall silent, are forgotten. The company on the right starts suddenly to
its feet, dashes over the crest and down the slope. The rifle fire from
the other ridge changes in character, welcomes them with rapid, violent
claps. A couple of machine-guns strike into the din with a continued
rapid and resonant hammering, nerve-racking in its persistency. Men in
the running line throw up their arms or pitch forward here and there,
but the company is lost to sight almost immediately on the rock-strewn
hill-side. The men dart forward from boulder to boulder. Behind them on
their left other companies are descending in quick succession towards
the ravine.
At the other side of the ridge, in rear, the second line of the
battalion is coming up in support, and behind them the other battalions
of the brigade are streaming forward, unhindered as yet by artillery
fire. It is a brief respite, however. In a moment or two a distant,
unseen battery has got their range, flings shell after shell to burst
over their heads and fall in a spreading cone of bullets. The brigade
advances with quick onward dashes by battalions that spring up, race a
hundred yards and disappear for a breathing space among the boulders.
Gradually they draw into the shelter of the intervening ridge, and
battalion after battalion tops it and moves down to the aid of those
in front. A strong firing-line remains on the crest, keeps up a steady
stream of bullets against the long grey line still whelmed in dust by
an unceasing hail of shrapnel. The brigadier ensconces himself in a
rock shelter at the end of this firing-line, the telephone receiver
still ready to his hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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