Attack

A short story set in the World War One trenches.

Pain explodes in my chest, fire ripping through my body like an untamed beast. Through puffy slits I see him retreat, stricken. And I pity him. What’s wrong with me? I pity him and yet he is my enemy! The poison is reaching my heart. I hear a scream pierce the night air and realise it is mine. I don’t want to die! I can’t die! Not yet...

 

“You’re not trying to clean up are you?” The boy lifted his head and gave a quick embarrassed nod. “You do realise it’s a waste of time?” Two eyes gazed at me through a mud-drenched face. “But, the rats…”

“Yes, and the lice, the cold, the wet, the noise. You’ve reached hell on Earth and you’re trying to clean up?” I was past feeling sorry for any of them. The new ones. You try telling one not to take his boots off or try to have a wash, and the next day they’re at it again. Still, at least these ones aren’t scared silly by the stories some of the other lads tell them. The trouble is they’re mostly true. The stories, that is. Apart from the ghost ones. Some of the others, like Ed, swear that Sergeant Harris (recently deceased) saved them from a shell. I was there, and I certainly didn’t see Sgt Harris.

 

The scrawny kid spun back to the fire step. I wonder why, seen as there’s no fighting to be done. No real fighting, anyway. That’s another thing about the new ones: they’re always expecting something to happen, as if we’ll be storming the German lines every day. I snort. Not bloody likely. I turn back towards the dugout. It isn’t dry, but it’s the warmest place here. At least it’s out of the rain. Ugh. If anybody dares to tell me that England gets bad rain, they can try Belgium. It’s been raining for months, non-stop. No break, no blue sky. The only variant on the rain is the hail, or the snow.

 

Sudden, successive flights of bullets streak the silence. I have no doubt that they are less deadly than the air, shuddering, black with snow. The storm will hit soon. I’ve reached a flooded part of the line. It’s better, now that we’ve taken some of the German lines. They should be better; it took us enough time to get to them. The others, the British ones, are flooded up to my waist, and there were more casualties from trench foot than there were from actual fighting. I start through the flooded area. The water comes up to my knees, icy liquid seeping through my clothes. Finally I reach the dugout. The boys are in there; shivering ghosts, ragged breath dragging at the remnants of cigarettes. At least we found some more supplies here. I take my place between Dean Poynter and a new one. I don’t even know their names. I suppose I’m surprised they’ve lasted so long.

 

A few more men arrive in the dugout. I recognise one of them as the boy I got angry with before. It is a few hours before my sentry duty. Sleep doesn’t come easily, but it is late, and my eye lids are heavy with fatigue.

 

“Attack! Attack!”

 

My eyes fly open. How long have I been asleep? Not long " I had not been woken for my shift. Ed stands at the entrance to the dugout. “Come on! They’re coming!” There’s no time to think. I grab at my bayonet and follow Ed. Everyone is there: standing on the fire step, faces pale and gaunt. Shells leap over the wire at the on comers, their deadly flames lighting up the heavy, black sky. I find myself staring over the sandbags, out at the assailant. Someone barks a command. It is time to go over. I stumble up the edges of the pit, groping at the clay. Finally, I stand up. Thick, smoke-filled air chokes my lungs. I can hear cries " are they our men or theirs? My confused mind hardly knows.

 

Pain explodes in my chest, fire ripping through my body like an untamed beast. Through puffy slits I see my attacker retreat, stricken. And I pity him. What’s wrong with me? I pity him and yet he is my enemy! The poison is reaching my heart. I hear a scream pierce the night air and realise it is mine. I don’t want to die! I can’t die! Not yet...

 

Author's Note

You may recognise some lines from war poetry by Wilred Owen in here, because I've studied it in lessons. I couldn't think of a better title, so suggestions would be great :) Oh, and one more thing - my English teacher says it isn't good to repeat the begining at the end... what do you think?

Reviews

[Rachie B]

This was awesome! Really depressing of course, but awesome. I think it's fine to repeat the beginning for effect, no matter what Mrs W says :) Really really good historical accuracy as well. Yet another well written story from you! :D

[Marie]

The title is fine. It gives the basic meaning of the story. I don't like war stories, but I read this with interest.