The Trench Soldier by Barry Sadler

Author:Barry Sadler [Sadler, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-04-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Casca woke from a nightmare of empty guns and ranting officers to another nightmare of bursting high explosive and screaming men.

It still wanted an hour till daylight, but the German artillery was laying down an immense bombardment, raining high explosive shells along the ridge where the Tommies were dug in, onto the now empty trenches, and reaching for the British heavy guns farther back. Shells were bursting everywhere, from the farthest ridge to the slopes and down into the gulch below the British position.

Most of these shells were going to waste, but it seemed that the Germans had plenty to spare, and those that did land anywhere near the British lines caused extensive casualties.

Captain George summoned Casca and he hurried to the tiny dugout where the boy officer was hunched over a table. The telegraph equipment was set up on an ammunition chest nearby. George unrolled a military map. He pointed to the mile or so of territory between the Vesle River and the Aisne River.

"I'm not too familiar with this map reading business. You've seen all this from the air," he said. "Can ye tell me just where we are and where they are?"

Casca quickly related everything that he had seen from the balloon, pointing out the main features on the map, and reading off their coordinates. The young man showed a ready grasp of the details.

He turned to the nearby telegrapher and dictated a message: "Suffering intensive bombardment on all quarters. Urgently request reinforcements and replenishment of ammunition."

He grinned at Casca. "I know damned well there's no reinforcements and no ammunition, neither."

He had barely finished speaking when the Morse key started sounding an incoming message. The telegrapher wrote letter by letter as he decoded the message: "No reinforcements available. Cannot supply more ammunition. Attack direct north at eight ack emma."

"Great," George grunted. "Attack? With what? Without reinforcements and without ammunition? And what for? Even if we could make a breakthrough, it would be pointless without reinforcements. It's just a bloody sacrifice. We're not going to win this war by committing suicide."

He turned and moved across the trench, his foot tangling in the telegraph wire and jerking the instrument to the floor. Very deliberately his boot came down on the receiver.

"Pity, I think I've broken it. Can ye fix it?" he asked the telegrapher.

"Yes, sir."

"More pity," George muttered almost under his breath. "Well, we've got to do something, but sure as hell, I'm not going to attack that hill again. D'ye think they'll attack again?" he asked Casca.

"I'm sure they will."

"Me too. And there's more of them every day, and less and less of us."

The bombardment dwindled and ceased. On the distant ridge, a long line of gray uniforms appeared.

George turned to the only other officer, a young second lieutenant a few years older than himself. "Here's what we're going to do, m'boy. We're going to wait here until those Jerries are within arm's reach of us before we fire a shot. I'll give the word. And every time they retreat, we'll stop firing until they come back.

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