Company's other three platoons on either side of them. Behind them in the communication and cover trenches, A and B companies readied themselves for the second wave of the attack. In front of him on the firestep the scaling ladder stood up against the brushwood revetment and sandbagged parapet. Atkins stared at it with deep resentment. How could something so mundane hold such sway over his life? He hated it. Every rung left him more exposed, lessened his chances. It might as well have been a ladder to the gallows.
From along the trench Corporal Ketch glowered at them. Atkins knew he wanted them to funk it and he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, but to Atkins' left Ginger was fidgeting uneasily, like a child on the verge of tears.
"I heard they got summat new lined up for Fritz today; them watchercallems, Boojums they used up Flers," said Pot Shot.
"What, here? Oh, what I wouldn't give to see one of them," said Gutsy.
"Boojums?" said Ginger.
"Like prehistoric monsters they is," said Porgy. "They knock down trees and eat houses. Bullets and bombs just bounce off 'em, I've heard,"
"Jerry up!" said Half Pint, pointing up into the sky. Glad of the diversion, Atkins looked up with the rest into the calm autumn dawn. Above, he saw a great long train of tall white clouds stretching almost from horizon to horizon moving in a slow stately procession across the sky. There, beneath their great white bellies but high above the scattered smudges of black air burst, were two small dots flying toward the British lines.
"Albatrosses, I'll be bound," said Porgy, shielding his eyes.
"There!" called Lucky. Atkins turned. Three small black dots were making for them slowly, almost casually, flying out across the British lines to meet them. The Royal Flying Corps. Atkins willed them on as if wishing could give them speed enough to smash into the enemy like jousting steeds of the air, dashing their foes from the sky and sending them plummeting to earth. Instead they drifted slowly toward each other, almost lackadaisically, then seemed to weave in and around each other, dancing like mayflies on a summer evening. Atkins watched the dumb show, spellbound. One of them left a dark soft streak across the sky as it began a slow balletic tumble towards the earth. Atkins held his breath.
"One of ours or one of theirs?" he asked nobody in particular as he craned his head.
"Dunno," said Jessop.
"Wait," said Mercy squinting his eyes. "It's one of theirs. I think."
Grasping for a sign, any sign, and fanning a small flame of hope for the day ahead, a ragged cheer went up along the line. They joined in.
Ketch growled and took a step towards them. "Quieten down. How can you listen out for the enemy, making a racket like that?"
"Well it's not like they're going to attack at the same time we are, is it?" said Mercy.
But the mood was successfully punctured and the cheer subsided. Satisfied, Ketch returned to his position with a smirk.
Indistinct barks came down the line.
"Fix bayonets!" bellowed Hobson.
Atkins slotted the handle of the seventeen inch blade onto the end of his rifle. He'd done it so often he could do it in his sleep.
Then they waited.
Everson looked at his wristwatch. The second hand swung its way inexorably round to zero hour. Ten minutes to go. He licked his lips to moisten them for the pea-whistle that waited in his hand. Everything that could be done had been done. He could feel the weight of the revolver in his hand but his world had shrunk to that small disc on his wrist, to that needle-fine finger rotating, as if winding up the thread of his life onto some celestial spool.
Once more he had to lead his men into battle. Except that this was never battle; no glorious charge, no smashing of shields or clash of swords. There was little honour or glory here; only death, despair, pain and guilt. You never saw the enemy. Death strode the field, no longer cutting men down with a scythe, but with a threshing machine,
From along the trench Corporal Ketch glowered at them. Atkins knew he wanted them to funk it and he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, but to Atkins' left Ginger was fidgeting uneasily, like a child on the verge of tears.
"I heard they got summat new lined up for Fritz today; them watchercallems, Boojums they used up Flers," said Pot Shot.
"What, here? Oh, what I wouldn't give to see one of them," said Gutsy.
"Boojums?" said Ginger.
"Like prehistoric monsters they is," said Porgy. "They knock down trees and eat houses. Bullets and bombs just bounce off 'em, I've heard,"
"Jerry up!" said Half Pint, pointing up into the sky. Glad of the diversion, Atkins looked up with the rest into the calm autumn dawn. Above, he saw a great long train of tall white clouds stretching almost from horizon to horizon moving in a slow stately procession across the sky. There, beneath their great white bellies but high above the scattered smudges of black air burst, were two small dots flying toward the British lines.
"Albatrosses, I'll be bound," said Porgy, shielding his eyes.
"There!" called Lucky. Atkins turned. Three small black dots were making for them slowly, almost casually, flying out across the British lines to meet them. The Royal Flying Corps. Atkins willed them on as if wishing could give them speed enough to smash into the enemy like jousting steeds of the air, dashing their foes from the sky and sending them plummeting to earth. Instead they drifted slowly toward each other, almost lackadaisically, then seemed to weave in and around each other, dancing like mayflies on a summer evening. Atkins watched the dumb show, spellbound. One of them left a dark soft streak across the sky as it began a slow balletic tumble towards the earth. Atkins held his breath.
"One of ours or one of theirs?" he asked nobody in particular as he craned his head.
"Dunno," said Jessop.
"Wait," said Mercy squinting his eyes. "It's one of theirs. I think."
Grasping for a sign, any sign, and fanning a small flame of hope for the day ahead, a ragged cheer went up along the line. They joined in.
Ketch growled and took a step towards them. "Quieten down. How can you listen out for the enemy, making a racket like that?"
"Well it's not like they're going to attack at the same time we are, is it?" said Mercy.
But the mood was successfully punctured and the cheer subsided. Satisfied, Ketch returned to his position with a smirk.
Indistinct barks came down the line.
"Fix bayonets!" bellowed Hobson.
Atkins slotted the handle of the seventeen inch blade onto the end of his rifle. He'd done it so often he could do it in his sleep.
Then they waited.
Everson looked at his wristwatch. The second hand swung its way inexorably round to zero hour. Ten minutes to go. He licked his lips to moisten them for the pea-whistle that waited in his hand. Everything that could be done had been done. He could feel the weight of the revolver in his hand but his world had shrunk to that small disc on his wrist, to that needle-fine finger rotating, as if winding up the thread of his life onto some celestial spool.
Once more he had to lead his men into battle. Except that this was never battle; no glorious charge, no smashing of shields or clash of swords. There was little honour or glory here; only death, despair, pain and guilt. You never saw the enemy. Death strode the field, no longer cutting men down with a scythe, but with a threshing machine,
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