Across the Killing Field

28 August, 1916
Somme, France

         Dirt sprayed over the edge of the trench and sent clumps of earth splashing into the muddy pools at the bottom. Private James Finlayson threw himself against the dirt wall of the trench as a second shell blew chunks of soil into the air with a roar like thunder. The clumps fell like thick rain over the mass of men packed into the trench, and James found himself clutching his rifle with white-knuckled fear, hoping for all he was worth that the letter he’d penned that morning would never have to be delivered.
         My dearest Molly…
         A third explosion left his ears ringing.
         If you’re reading this…Well, I guess I didn’t make it back…
         The words were flashing in front of his eyes, mixing with the dirt-filled hell around him. He flinched involuntarily as the artillery bombardment continued: a fourth explosion, a fifth, a sixth; too many went off in succession and he lost count. He could hardly hear; his sergeant might have been yelling something at him but he could only see the man’s mouth moving.
         Know that my last thought on this earth was of you, Molly.
         The sergeant was definitely yelling something now, pointing at the edge of the trench and waving his pistol.
         More hand-written words flitted across his vision. I know you didn’t want me to go and play the hero, but I had to, or else the Germans would ravage all of Europe.
         He didn’t feel much like a hero right now, though, cowering in a trench as the German guns blasted the land around him to bits. He gripped his rifle tightly, hoping desperately that the letter wouldn’t have to be sent-
         And then the trench exploded into life as the men around him scrambled up the walls and over the edge. James hardly realized what was happening; he felt himself clambering up alongside them, holding his rifle out of the mud as he hauled himself over the lip.
         It was another world altogether. The ground was cratered and broken and filled with twisted metal and mangled wire; any sign of green was gone and replaced with smoke and dust and dirt. The German guns were still firing, throwing up great plumes of black smoke and causing sections of earth to erupt like volcanoes of dirt and stone. All James could do was advance alongside thousands of others, praying that the howitzers wouldn’t find him.
         Machine guns from the German trenches opened up like furious drumbeats, flashing in the smoke and filling the air with shrieking bullets. Men around him were falling, screaming; others simply dropped without a sound. James didn’t know if he was terrified or just numb. His feet moved by their own accord; he could have been running or he could have been walking. He couldn’t tell.
         And then the ground fell away beneath him and for a moment he thought he’d plunged into a crater. All around him men were leaping in, yelling like mad, and suddenly he saw the hundreds of other men in spiked helmets – Germans.
         He’d made it over the killing field.
         The sight of his comrades roaring with bayonets raised at the Germans sent a surge of courage through James’ heart. He gripped his weapon, pointed the razor-edged bayonet at the enemy, and charged.
         The world blurred. There were men falling and screaming all around him but he didn’t know if they were his allies or enemies. The base of the trench was growing slicker as the dirt was trampled into mud. He was waving the bayonet in every direction; his boot slipped and he fell into the muck. It wasn’t just water now. The mud had taken a red hue and was getting deeper and more slippery with every passing second. He scrambled to his feet and thrust out with the bayonet.
         The blurring world seemed to spin and he heard shouts of triumph as his fellow soldiers surged forwards. A German man who’d lost his weapon raised his hands at James and bellowed something at him; James didn’t know if it was by design or accident as he stumbled forwards and drove the bayonet into the man’s chest.
         The German sagged forwards, a little trickle of blood tracing down his chin. He gazed up at James, not with anger, just with…James didn’t know.
         And as the rest of the Germans fled down the trench, James suddenly realized that the man hadn’t been yelling at him.
         He’d been pleading.
         The rest of his comrades raced off along the trench, driving the Germans back with whoops of triumph. James felt the rifle slip from his nerveless hands. He sank to his knees in the mud, staring at the man on the ground in front of him.
         The words from the letter seemed to float in front of his eyes again. I know you didn’t want me to go and play the hero.
         Only now, as the dead man’s eyes gazed sightlessly up at the dust-filled sky, James didn’t feel very heroic at all.



Word count: 843