Necrocide by Jonathan Davison Read Free Book Online Page A

at this time; a depressing wave washed over the soldiers as they all realised that their hopes for the best possible course of events were lost. It was now time to knuckle down and take the fight to the enemy with the stiffest of upper lips.
    The barrage of artillery shells only grew more ferocious as the LCA's in their numbers neared the beach. The soldiers stooped low in their vessel as on a number of occasions, they heard the impact of the powerful munitions find their target and small pieces of shrapnel flew above their heads. Some soldiers clung to each other to offer moral support, some offered a moment of prayer but none cried out in terror. The Commandos were as mentally tough as they were physically. As the Coxswain called out to deliver the news that only a hundred yards remained before the ramp at the bow was dropped, Hawkins clutched his Sten tightly and ensured the safety catch was released. Hawkins Sergeant, Scott McBride could be heard to call out from the aft, the strain of the moment present in his voice.
    “Once the coxswain gives the call to disembark, keep moving no matter what. Rally at your designated points. If you are wounded and are able, seek cover and wait for the medics to attend to you.”
    McBride exhibited a broad Scottish accent, his robust tone inspired confidence in his men. No sooner had McBride finished his speech, the fizzling whistles of machine gun fire began to scream overhead and clang against the hull of the LCA and to a man, all stooped a little lower in the craft. Hawkins looked back of his right shoulder to the Coxswain awaiting his command to lower the ramp and make haste. The tall lean figure was seen to be ducking down into his cockpit. He was far more exposed than the Commando's in his raised platform and could no doubt see the full horror of what awaited the men as soon as the ramp was lowered. The pallid complexion of the man told a tale that needed no words. The man’s eyes were wide and black. He shuddered visibly every time a shell hummed overhead. Hawkins was in no way daunted by this man's lack of composure; instead it at least prepared him for what was to come.
    “Come on, drop the ramp!” Brooks called out as a shell struck the water on feet away from the boat causing a torrent of water to be splashed over the deck. Indeed Brooks might have been correct, the coxswain had dropped the engines revolutions and the craft felt like it was drifting aimlessly, spinning around. Hawkins looked back again to the coxswain but he was not there. The pilot had been struck by a round across the face and he was now slumped across his seat, unrecognisable as the man he once was.
    “Drop the ramp!” Others cried out. They felt it better to keep moving than drift helplessly along, easily targeted by long range weapons. Someone duly obliged and it was perhaps fortunate that when the bow dropped and the soldiers were exposed to the menace of MG42 fire from the beach head, the LCA had spun almost forty five degrees, allowing the invaders to alight their craft without the direct spray of thousands of bullets.
    Hurling themselves into the water, it quickly became apparent that the LCA had not progressed far enough towards the beach and each and every soldier plunged into the cold sea and promptly submerged, their heavy packs and guns pulling them down to the fine sandy bottom if they were not adept at rapidly removing their encumbrance. Hawkins, flailing in the dark waters and feeling himself being pulled downwards dropped his weapon and pulled his pack from his back. Even after this weight had been removed, his buoyancy was compromised by every possible pocket and compartment in his webbing being filled with survival paraphernalia. Bobbing up the surface, he gasped a breath of life and shook his head to clear his eyes. A train of bullets pierced the waters before him and he rolled away to his left in vain as the stream of flying lead passed him by but not without skimming his right