Somme, 1st Battle of the, France, 1916 -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
“Sounds sort of mixed,” admitted Kentucky. “But it’s tainted some with
the truth. That redoubt is half rear to us. If another lot comes at us
in front and we get up on the front edge of this shell hole, there’s
nothing to stop the redoubt bullets hitting us in the back. Look at
that,” he concluded, nodding upward to where a bullet had smacked
noisily into the mud above their heads as they squatted in the hole.
The two commenced wearily to cut out with their trenching tools a
couple of niches in the sides of the crater which would give them
protection from the flank and rear bullets. They made reasonably
secure cover and then stayed to watch a hurricane bombardment that was
developing on the redoubt. “_Goo_ on the guns,” said Pug joyfully.
“That’s the talk; smack ’em about.”
The gunners “smacked ’em about” with fifteen savage minutes’ deluge
of light and heavy shells, blotting out the redoubt in a whirlwind of
fire-flashes, belching smoke clouds and dust haze. Then suddenly the
tempest ceased to play there, lifted and shifted and fell roaring in a
wall of fire and steel beyond the low slope which the redoubt crowned.
With past knowledge of what the lift and the further barrage meant the
two men in the shell-pit turned and craned their necks and looked out
along the line.
“There they go,” said Pug suddenly, and “Attacking round a
half-circle,” said Kentucky. The British line was curved in a
horse-shoe shape about the redoubt and the two being out near one
of the points could look back and watch clearly the infantry attack
launching from the center and half-way round the sides of the
horse-shoe. They saw the khaki figures running heavily, scrambling
round and through the scattered shell holes, and presently, as a
crackle of rifle fire rose and rose and swelled to a sullen roar with
the quick, rhythmic clatter of machine guns beating through it, they
saw also the figures stumbling and falling, the line thinning and
shredding out and wasting away under the withering fire.
The sergeant dodged along the pit-edge above them. “Covering fire,” he
shouted, “at four hundred--slam it in,” and disappeared. The two opened
fire, aiming at the crest of the slope and beyond the tangle of barbed
wire which alone indicated the position of the redoubt.
They only ceased to fire when they saw the advanced fringe of the line,
of a line by now woefully thinned and weakened, come to the edge of
the barbed wire and try to force a way through it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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