the slaughter on the somme

This short story is based off of the true event of the battle of the Somme during WW, most information is inaccurate.

The artillery had been firing for days now. Hundreds upon hundreds of shells packed with explosives and shrapnel bombarded either side, shredding soldiers to pieces. Any sleep caught by the shell-shocked, worn soldiers was either riddled with fitful starts and nightmares or cut short by an enemy attack. The days were monotonous and terrifying at the same time. The endless repeat of drills and hard labour punctuated by small bombardments and the firing of guns. The conditions of the trenches weren’t anything to be desired either; mud and water seemed to be a permanent resident, along withy the rat and flea borne diseases that plagued (and killed) many.

Fletcher crouched in the shelter of the side wall, clenching his gun in a white-knuckled grip. Him and all the other soldiers were given orders, that once the fire of artillery stopped, they were to crawl up the sides of the poorly-dug trenches and advance onto the German trenches, where the artillery fire would’ve decimated the enemy forces. The ‘plan’, as it was, was to kill any German troops in the opposite trenches with the heavy gunfire, allowing the foot soldiers to most casually stroll forward and invade the trench without fear of being plucked off their feet by a German bullet like a pheasant in hunting season. Beside him, Jim crouched, in a similarly tense and alert as all the others. He and Fletcher had shared many good times growing up, progressing through life together. Through the infant years, through high school, and eventually, through the signing-up and training for the British military. They had each others back as far back as fletcher could remember, coming up with excuses for each others lateness at school or for missed assignments. They had been through thick and thin together, with either ones saving each others skin more often than either would care to admit. And now, crouching side by side, as the last of the booming of shells ceased, fletcher swore he would make it through the war and shoot any German in the face who dared to lay even a finger on him or his fellow soldiers.

One after another, they scrambled their way up the trench walls, past the sharp, glinting barbed wire and set foot on the rough, uneven ground of no-mans land. Unlike before, if any soldier dared to put anymore that the top of his head above the top of the trench, there was no boom of guns, no clicking of magazines sliding into holders, no bullets flying through the air. No sound except the panting of hundreds of brave British men carefully picking their way though the rubble and mud. Just 200 meters away from the German trenches, a shot was fired. Knowing that no soldiers would fire as they were ordered to walk forward and kill enemy survivors, which would only occur once the soldiers reached the trench. Which none of them had. Fletcher felt a rising panic catch him by the throat, making his mouth dry as the realisation dawned on him. Maybe it was just one German? One lucky survivor that somehow managed to avoid the bombardment of death that had rained down on them only minutes before? But one by one, advancing men started to fall as more and more gun barrels appeared over the edge of the trenches. Some men gave in, turning and running. But everyone knew the fate that fell upon deserters and ‘cowards’. It wasn’t pleasant. but then, something arguably worse started to rip its way through the ranks, something fast, deadly and utterly terrifying. Machine gun fire. It seemed that the Germans somehow had almost wholly survived the previous onslaught in some sort of shelter of bunker, fletcher did not know. But what he did know was that he couldn’t see Jim. Casting his gave around, crouched as low as he was, he could not see his friend.

Deciding to push on, he creeped his way forward. Step after step he took, trying not to draw attention, until he fell. Something caught on is foot as he stretched it out to take a step and he faceplanted into the ground. Twisting around, he was confronted with a face. A familiar face, but one smeared in blood and dirt, with wide, blank eyes staring sightlessly into his own. Jim.

Half screaming- half choking, fletcher scrambled to his feet, shoving the now lifeless corpse of his once dead friend aside. He stood there, shaking. Before he realised his fatal mistake. Bullets shredded into his back, punching in deep and causing irreversible damage, he arched his back, spasming. His gun went off. Once. Twice. His fingers pulling uncontrollably against the trigger of his gun, firing into the air until it clicked empty, falling from nerveless fingers. His body hit the ground. More blood already pooling on the floor than there was inside him. His vision narrowed, the pain overwhelming his senses as the world faded, darkness closing in. his thoughts faded along with his blood as he went to join the thousands of other souls rising from the bodies.