Second World War 15.Storm of War by Stuart Minor

Author:Stuart Minor [Stuart Minor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight.

The batteries fired like straining pistons beyond the wood, the air rumbling above the trees as the shells tore across the afternoon sky.

Jack wriggled his naked toes as he sat on an ammunition box in front of Lieutenant Robinson; the officer probing his foot with a pencil.

‘Alright, put your boots back on.’

Jack pulled on his socks, before stepping into his boots.

‘I’ve got a bunion the size of a hand grenade,’ Reg said, as he sat down in front of the officer, the mud spilling from the side of the trench as a stray shell fell in front of the parapet.

The gathered men cursed the gunners, their faces tense as the barrage thundered overhead.

‘There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with your feet,’ Robinson said, with a heavy lisp.

‘I think the M.O. ought to have a look at ‘em.’

Robinson shook his head.

‘Keep your feet dry and change your socks every day,’ the lieutenant said, before dismissing the lance corporal.

‘Nice try,’ Jack said, as he helped Reg to balance whilst he pulled on his boots.

‘I should have shot my bloody big toe off,’ the lance corporal replied, with a grin.

Jack removed a cigarette from a tin and struck a damp match, the smoke curling in the cold air as he made his way to the end of the trench.

‘I wonder how it is going?’ Reg asked, as Jack passed him the half smoked cigarette, before looking out over the parapet.

‘Hard to say,’ Jack replied, as he stared through the splintered trees to where the shells were bursting in the distance.

‘What are yow gawping at? Shift your arses, we’ll be moving up soon.’

‘When are we going in?’ Jack asked, as he climbed a crude ladder that had been made from green timber.

‘When they tell us,’ Fred replied.

Jack climbed from the trench, his eyes staring across the wood that they had called home for the past weeks.

Since they had arrived on that first night the forest had been transformed. The trees had been stripped of their branches, whilst the earth was crisscrossed with trenches and weapons pits.

Jack glanced to where the road cut through the centre of the wood; the track strewn with rusting wrecks that had been bulldozed to the verges.

A line of Churchills was moving slowly through the sludge, whilst files of tired soldiers filtered through the trees, the men leaning wearily against their straps as they headed to where the shells were bursting in the distance.

‘Have the Kapok bridges turned up yet?’ Fred asked, as they passed a carrier where Sergeant Major Shorthouse was stood with several men, the soldiers hastily opening boxes of small arms ammunition.

‘Over there,’ Shorthouse said, before pointing to where three trucks were parked beneath the trees.

Jack watched as a group of men struggled to drag a long section of bridge from the back of one of the trucks.

‘It doesn’t look like much, does it?’ Fred said, as he watched the men lower the bridge to the ground.

Jack nodded in agreement, his eyes looking at the narrow bridge that was made from wooden slats that had been lashed to a series of canvas bags.

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