Prologue of 'Blood and Blitzkrieg'

A Chapter by Will Belford

Belgium, 20 May 1940
The last of the dive-bombers was only a speck in the sky above them, but they could already hear the beginnings of the awful scream that heralded its attack. Huddling under the overhang of the trench, Lieutenant Joe Dean clawed at the soil and tried to burrow in like a mole.
The banshee wail rose rapidly as the bomber hurtled out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. When the ear-splitting shriek had reached an unbearable pitch, the plane released its 500-pound bomb and hauled itself sluggishly out of the dive, airbrakes fully extended. The bomb continued straight down and plunged into the trench a score of yards from Joe’s position. The blast made the earth shake and a shower of dirt rained down upon the soldiers cowering in terror in their holes.
‘Christ,’ muttered Joe to himself, ‘thank God that was the last, one more of those and we’d have been finished.’
He crept up to the edge of the trench and surveyed the scene: to the south, the bomb had blown a crater thirty feet wide right across the trench. The breeze was blowing the smoke from the explosion slowly west, across a field of red poppies punctuated by dark craters. To the east, across the river Dyle, he could make out the Stuka winging its way back to Germany above the treetops.
A fly settled to drink from Joe’s sweaty cheek and buzzed as he swatted at it. His ears were ringing from the pressure of the detonation, but apart from that it was strangely quiet; no orders were being yelled out, nothing.
‘Sergeant Harris, report please. Anyone hurt?’ called Joe, taking off his helmet and shaking out the dirt.
A man with three stripes on his sleeve came scrambling along the trench ‘One killed, eight wounded, two seriously Lieutenant,’ replied Sergeant Harris breathlessly in a thick Glaswegian brogue.
‘Who bought it?’ asked Joe.
‘It was The Pollock,’ interjected Corporal Smythe, ‘I mean, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir. Direct hit: not much left of ‘im. It was definitely ’im though, I found a left ’and with a ring on it. You remember that shiny weddin’ band ’e was always showin’ off? At least ’is fiancé won’t have to put up with ’im for the rest of ‘er life now.’
‘Stone the crows Smithy,’ replied Joe, ‘the bloke might have been a bit of a silvertail, but bloody hell mate, he’s just been killed.’
‘Shall I put the corporal on a charge sir?’ asked Sergeant Harris.
‘Bugger that,’ replied Joe with the relief of the man who hasn’t been hit, ‘put him on burial detail. What’d you call him Smythe? “The Pollock”, what is that?’
‘It’s a sort of fish sir,’ replied Corporal Smythe.
‘A fish eh?’ replied Joe, ‘well he certainly had bad luck, if it was raining soup he’d have only had a fork.’
‘Aye well, ’e was a right fool,’ replied Smythe, ‘anyway, this means that you’re in command of the platoon sir.’
‘True enough. Harris, can you get the wounded stretchered along the commo trench to HQ for me? And by the way corporal, you almost copped it yourself, have a look at your tin hat.’
Corporal Smythe pulled off his soup-plate and gaped at the scar that a piece of shrapnel had scored across the side of the helmet.
‘I never even felt it,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope the one that gets you is that painless then, eh?’ said Joe.
Joe directed his voice along the trench.
‘Platoon, muster on me. Quickly now.’ Two dozen forms detached them-selves from the sides of the trench and scurried towards him.
‘Okay you blokes, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard was hit by that bomb, which means that I’m in command. There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant, and why? Because he didn’t dig his trench deep enough. Think about that for a few seconds: I don’t want to be scraping any of you off my boots after the next attack, so have a lash at it and dig deep.’
‘I’m no expert, but I’ll bet ten pounds that little entrée from Herr Goering’s flying poofters is just the start for today. You can bet your balls that the Nazis will be here within the hour. They’ll probably have tanks, but we can’t do anything about those, so if you see any, get the hell out of their way and stay under cover. When the infantry arrive we’ll see how well they fare against our machine guns. Beating the Poles and the Belgians is one thing, trying to beat us will be different. In the meantime, dig deeper, clean your rifle, check your ammo, and when you’ve done all that, do it again and keep doing it until I say otherwise. Got it?’
‘Yes Lieutenant,’ replied a few voices.
‘What did I say?’ Joe yelled.
‘Yes Lieutenant!’ the men yelled back.
‘Righto then, get to your posts.’
Joe made his way along the trench, patting a man on the back here, having a quick word with one there. He’d been with these men long enough now to get to know them. Being an Australian had made him an item of curiosity at first, but he remembered all their names now and he was pretty sure he’d earnt their respect. Even so, he couldn’t be certain that they’d follow him when the decisive moment came. No junior officer could.
‘Commandin’ a platoon in the British Army again sir?’ said Private Billy Simpson, his Irish accent so thick Joe could barely understand him, ‘Not a bad effort for a colonial, sir.’
‘Yeah well you’d better look out Billy, I’m your commanding officer now, and I can have you broken anytime I want,’ replied Joe, grinning. He suddenly realised that he’d better report the situation to the Major, and was heading down a communications trench to the rear when an explosion blew him into the dirt. More blasts followed, the screams of descending shells audible for a few seconds in between each ear-pounding explosion.
He clung desperately to the earth as the shells smashed in and tore the ground all around him. Death was close. He was scared.
‘You’re in a trench.’ he yelled to himself. ‘They need a direct hit. They have to get a direct hit, you’re safe unless they get a direct hit, direct hit, direct hit.’
He recited the lesson to himself over and over as the deafening roar intensified and he found himself screaming the words as he cowered full-length, eyes screwed shut, hands over his ears, mouth filled with earth.
Then, just as abruptly, the shells stopped falling and a whistle was blowing shrilly to his left.
‘They’re coming, stand to, stand to, they’re coming,’ yelled a disembodied voice.
Joe struggled to his feet and ran up the trench to his position. Grabbing his rifle he peered over the parapet. Out in the flowery fields beyond the river, dark shapes were moving. They looked like huge beetles mowing a path through the fields.
Panzers.

© 2013 Will Belford

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The earth (Titan maphah..

The last of the dive-bombers was only a speck in the sky above them, but they could already hear the beginnings of the awful scream that heralded its attack. Huddling under the overhang of the trench, Lieutenant Joe Dean clawed at the soil and tried to burrow in like a mole.
The banshee wail rose rapidly as the bomber hurtled out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. When the ear-splitting shriek had reached an unbearable pitch, the plane released its 500-pound bomb and hauled itself sluggishly out of the dive, airbrakes fully extended. The bomb continued straight down and plunged into the trench a score of yards from Joe’s position. The blast made the earth shake and a shower of dirt rained down upon the soldiers cowering in terror in their holes.
‘Christ,’ muttered Joe to himself, ‘thank God that was the last, one more of those and we’d have been finished.’
He crept up to the edge of the trench and surveyed the scene: to the south, the bomb had blown a crater thirty feet wide right across the trench. The breeze was blowing the smoke from the explosion slowly west, across a field of red poppies punctuated by dark craters. To the east, across the river Dyle, he could make out the Stuka winging its way back to Germany above the treetops.
A fly settled to drink from Joe’s sweaty cheek and buzzed as he swatted at it. His ears were ringing from the pressure of the detonation, but apart from that it was strangely quiet; no orders were being yelled out, nothing.
‘Sergeant Harris, report please. Anyone hurt?’ called Joe, taking off his helmet and shaking out the dirt.
A man with three stripes on his sleeve came scrambling along the trench ‘One killed, eight wounded, two seriously Lieutenant,’ replied Sergeant Harris breathlessly in a thick Glaswegian brogue.
‘Who bought it?’ asked Joe.
‘It was The Pollock,’ interjected Corporal Smythe, ‘I mean, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir. Direct hit: not much left of ‘im. It was definitely ’im though, I found a left ’and with a ring on it. You remember that shiny weddin’ band ’e was always showin’ off? At least ’is fiancé won’t have to put up with ’im for the rest of ‘er life now.’
‘Stone the crows Smithy,’ replied Joe, ‘the bloke might have been a bit of a silvertail, but bloody hell mate, he’s just been killed.’
‘Shall I put the corporal on a charge sir?’ asked Sergeant Harris.
‘Bugger that,’ replied Joe with the relief of the man who hasn’t been hit, ‘put him on burial detail. What’d you call him Smythe? “The Pollock”, what is that?’
‘It’s a sort of fish sir,’ replied Corporal Smythe.
‘A fish eh?’ replied Joe, ‘well he certainly had bad luck, if it was raining soup he’d have only had a fork.’
‘Aye well, ’e was a right fool,’ replied Smythe, ‘anyway, this means that you’re in command of the platoon sir.’
‘True enough. Harris, can you get the wounded stretchered along the commo trench to HQ for me? And by the way corporal, you almost copped it yourself, have a look at your tin hat.’
Corporal Smythe pulled off his soup-plate and gaped at the scar that a piece of shrapnel had scored across the side of the helmet.
‘I never even felt it,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope the one that gets you is that painless then, eh?’ said Joe.
Joe directed his voice along the trench.
‘Platoon, muster on me. Quickly now.’ Two dozen forms detached them-selves from the sides of the trench and scurried towards him.
‘Okay you blokes, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard was hit by that bomb, which means that I’m in command. There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant, and why? Because he didn’t dig his trench deep enough. Think about that for a few seconds: I don’t want to be scraping any of you off my boots after the next attack, so have a lash at it and dig deep.’
‘I’m no expert, but I’ll bet ten pounds that little entrée from Herr Goering’s flying poofters is just the start for today. You can bet your balls that the Nazis will be here within the hour. They’ll probably have tanks, but we can’t do anything about those, so if you see any, get the hell out of their way and stay under cover. When the infantry arrive we’ll see how well they fare against our machine guns. Beating the Poles and the Belgians is one thing, trying to beat us will be different. In the meantime, dig deeper, clean your rifle, check your ammo, and when you’ve done all that, do it again and keep doing it until I say otherwise. Got it?’
‘Yes Lieutenant,’ replied a few voices.
‘What did I say?’ Joe yelled.
‘Yes Lieutenant!’ the men yelled back.
‘Righto then, get to your posts.’
Joe made his way along the trench, patting a man on the back here, having a quick word with one there. He’d been with these men long enough now to get to know them. Being an Australian had made him an item of curiosity at first, but he remembered all their names now and he was pretty sure he’d earnt their respect. Even so, he couldn’t be certain that they’d follow him when the decisive moment came. No junior officer could.
‘Commandin’ a platoon in the British Army again sir?’ said Private Billy Simpson, his Irish accent so thick Joe could barely understand him, ‘Not a bad effort for a colonial, sir.’
‘Yeah well you’d better look out Billy, I’m your commanding officer now, and I can have you broken anytime I want,’ replied Joe, grinning. He suddenly realised that he’d better report the situation to the Major, and was heading down a communications trench to the rear when an explosion blew him into the dirt. More blasts followed, the screams of descending shells audible for a few seconds in between each ear-pounding explosion.
He clung desperately to the earth as the shells smashed in and tore the ground all around him. Death was close. He was scared.
‘You’re in a trench.’ he yelled to himself. ‘They need a direct hit. They have to get a direct hit, you’re safe unless they get a direct hit, direct hit, direct hit.’
He recited the lesson to himself over and over as the deafening roar intensified and he found himself screaming the words as he cowered full-length, eyes screwed shut, hands

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Posted 7 Years Ago

The last of the dive-bombers was only a speck in the sky above them, but they could already hear the beginnings of the awful scream that heralded its attack. Huddling under the overhang of the trench, Lieutenant Joe Dean clawed at the soil and tried to burrow in like a mole.
The banshee wail rose rapidly as the bomber hurtled out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. When the ear-splitting shriek had reached an unbearable pitch, the plane released its 500-pound bomb and hauled itself sluggishly out of the dive, airbrakes fully extended. The bomb continued straight down and plunged into the trench a score of yards from Joe’s position. The blast made the earth shake and a shower of dirt rained down upon the soldiers cowering in terror in their holes.
‘Christ,’ muttered Joe to himself, ‘thank God that was the last, one more of those and we’d have been finished.’ 
He crept up to the edge of the trench and surveyed the scene: to the south, the bomb had blown a crater thirty feet wide right across the trench. The breeze was blowing the smoke from the explosion slowly west, across a field of red poppies punctuated by dark craters. To the east, across the river Dyle, he could make out the Stuka winging its way back to Germany above the treetops. 
A fly settled to drink from Joe’s sweaty cheek and buzzed as he swatted at it. His ears were ringing from the pressure of the detonation, but apart from that it was strangely quiet; no orders were being yelled out, nothing.
‘Sergeant Harris, report please. Anyone hurt?’ called Joe, taking off his helmet and shaking out the dirt.
A man with three stripes on his sleeve came scrambling along the trench ‘One killed, eight wounded, two seriously Lieutenant,’ replied Sergeant Harris breathlessly in a thick Glaswegian brogue. 
‘Who bought it?’ asked Joe.
‘It was The Pollock,’ interjected Corporal Smythe, ‘I mean, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir. Direct hit: not much left of ‘im. It was definitely ’im though, I found a left ’and with a ring on it. You remember that shiny weddin’ band ’e was always showin’ off? At least ’is fiancé won’t have to put up with ’im for the rest of ‘er life now.’
‘Stone the crows Smithy,’ replied Joe, ‘the bloke might have been a bit of a silvertail, but bloody hell mate, he’s just been killed.’
‘Shall I put the corporal on a charge sir?’ asked Sergeant Harris.
‘Bugger that,’ replied Joe with the relief of the man who hasn’t been hit, ‘put him on burial detail. What’d you call him Smythe? “The Pollock”, what is that?’
‘It’s a sort of fish sir,’ replied Corporal Smythe.
‘A fish eh?’ replied Joe, ‘well he certainly had bad luck, if it was raining soup he’d have only had a fork.’ 
‘Aye well, ’e was a right fool,’ replied Smythe, ‘anyway, this means that you’re in command of the platoon sir.’
‘True enough. Harris, can you get the wounded stretchered along the commo trench to HQ for me? And by the way corporal, you almost copped it yourself, have a look at your tin hat.’
Corporal Smythe pulled off his soup-plate and gaped at the scar that a piece of shrapnel had scored across the side of the helmet.
‘I never even felt it,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope the one that gets you is that painless then, eh?’ said Joe. 
Joe directed his voice along the trench.
‘Platoon, muster on me. Quickly now.’ Two dozen forms detached them-selves from the sides of the trench and scurried towards him. 
‘Okay you blokes, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard was hit by that bomb, which means that I’m in command. There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant, and why? Because he didn’t dig his trench deep enough. Think about that for a few seconds: I don’t want to be scraping any of you off my boots after the next attack, so have a lash at it and dig deep.’
‘I’m no expert, but I’ll bet ten pounds that little entrée from Herr Goering’s flying poofters is just the start for today. You can bet your balls that the Nazis will be here within the hour. They’ll probably have tanks, but we can’t do anything about those, so if you see any, get the hell out of their way and stay under cover. When the infantry arrive we’ll see how well they fare against our machine guns. Beating the Poles and the Belgians is one thing, trying to beat us will be different. In the meantime, dig deeper, clean your rifle, check your ammo, and when you’ve done all that, do it again and keep doing it until I say otherwise. Got it?’
‘Yes Lieutenant,’ replied a few voices.
‘What did I say?’ Joe yelled.
‘Yes Lieutenant!’ the men yelled back.
‘Righto then, get to your posts.’
Joe made his way along the trench, patting a man on the back here, having a quick word with one there. He’d been with these men long enough now to get to know them. Being an Australian had made him an item of curiosity at first, but he remembered all their names now and he was pretty sure he’d earnt their respect. Even so, he couldn’t be certain that they’d follow him when the decisive moment came. No junior officer could. 
‘Commandin’ a platoon in the British Army again sir?’ said Private Billy Simpson, his Irish accent so thick Joe could barely understand him, ‘Not a bad effort for a colonial, sir.’
‘Yeah well you’d better look out Billy, I’m your commanding officer now, and I can have you broken anytime I want,’ replied Joe, grinning. He suddenly realised that he’d better report the situation to the Major, and was heading down a communications trench to the rear when an explosion blew him into the dirt. More blasts followed, the screams of descending shells audible for a few seconds in between each ear-pounding explosion.
He clung desperately to the earth as the shells smashed in and tore the ground all around him. Death was close. He was scared.
‘You’re in a trench.’ he yelled to himself. ‘They need a direct hit. They have to get a direct hit, you’re safe unless they get a direct hit, direct hit, direct hit.’ 
He recited the lesson to himself over and over as the deafening roar intensified and he found himself screaming the words as he cowered full-length, eyes screwed shut, hands

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Rating /100

Kayja Symphious

I'm liking this story. The dialogue feels real, and the dark humor is a must in such situations.

Just a few things: is it 'im...or 'em?

Also, you can space out your paragraphs by putting the cursor before the first word of the paragraph, and hitting [enter]

You might also consider using a Times font... if it's not already. (makes it easier to read) and making is a size 12 ( both can be done by selecting all... then selecting the font and size)

Overall, this was a good read.