by NightsDawne
[Begging the forgiveness of the Gods of History, here is where we get into mingling with factual events. Verdun and The Somme were real and horrific battles that cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of young men for very little gain in terms of change in the battle lines, and were the scenes for outstanding acts of valor and heroism. These two battles epitomized the trauma of trench warfare, and while this is a fictional account, I decided to honor the real life heroes by including some of them in the story. For the factual accounts of men like Captain Eric Norman Franklin Bell, killed in battle July 1st, 1916 and posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, I recommend you go to the excellent site World War I, the Great War, at http://www.rockingham.k12.va.us/EMS/WWI/WWI.html.]
Chapter 2: Men, Gods of Destruction
The Somme, France, June 1916
Life was the pits. Literally. The young soldier had lived in them for months in Verdun and the only place where one stood at least half a chance of surviving, he had learned all too well, was crawling like a half-drowned rat through a muddy trench filled with disease, infection, and the remnants of thousands of men suffering in ways no human should be made to endure. He'd stopped being able to smell the blood, excrement, and decay. It was all that filled the air he'd breathed since he joined the fight. He'd gotten to the point where it no longer bothered him to steal the tattered uniform from a dead man's corpse to pad his feet in hopes of staving off frostbite, then pile the body on top of the crumbling sandbags on the edge of the trench to create a wall high enough to stand and shoot from. Between these moments of relative safety were the true nightmares, the rushes across the field of battle into the teeth of the enemy, all sense of the epic proportions of the war obscured in muzzle fire and smoke that dampened vision and left only the whistle and roar of artillery and the screams of dying men to guide the young warrior. He sometimes wondered if it would have been this bad to loose the God of Destruction on the world rather than let the Germans make their merciless march across Europe. Now he'd been transferred in an order from Sir Douglas Haig himself, called from the daily bloodbath to another spot on the Western Front, another line of muddy trenches, another spot in Hell. He was expected to make a difference.
He slipped through the flap of the command tent and removed his helmet, his face bearing an aged look that could only be earned through the kind of torture that was existance at Verdun. The orderly paused as if he saw in the young man's eyes a damnation inflicted not by God, but by his fellow man. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Second Lieutenant Halley Brancket, British Army, 23rd Division. I've been reassigned to the 36th Division and was told to report here." Halley dropped his blood-spattered papers on the cheap wood desk that served as office furniture.
The orderly scanned the documents briefly. "Just a moment, sir." He stood and quickly made his way through the partition to the quarters of the commander. Halley kept his mind from drifting into thoughts of the recent horrors at Verdun by counting. It wasn't much of an exercise, but his mind was as exhausted as his body and spirit and it was enough.
The partition opened after only a few minutes and the orderly waved to Halley. "This way, sir." Halley walked forward, unable to care about his appearance or the impression it would make on his superiors. The orderly seemed a bit at a loss, as if he had thought he'd seen the worst of battle fatigue only to have Halley set a new standard. "Can I get you some coffee, sir?"
"Black." Halley managed a bit of a dry smile. It was a joke in a place where coffee itself was a luxury and milk and sugar were only dreams of a past that seemed irretrievable. The orderly merely nodded and hurried to get a mess cup. Halley shrugged off the failure of his humor and looked to the man behind the cheap wood desk that was only distinguished from it's counterpart in the front area of the tent by a few square inches of size. "Reporting as ordered, sir." He managed to remember to salute properly, at least.
The commander studied the young soldier with a mixture of shock and awe. "So you're Brancket?"
"Yes, sir, so I've been told since birth."
The commander stood, a tall man, the very image of a British officer. Stern, powerful, meticulous even in miserable surroundings. "I've heard amazing things about you, Lieutenant. Heard that you can save lives by calling on powers, heard that you can even attack with these same powers. Some say you're an angel. Others say you're a demon."
"No, sir, I'm a British soldier." Halley wondered if he was going to be called on to be the Army's travelling freak. In less desperate times, using his powers would likely have earned him a stay in a mental hospital or a prison lest the general public be panicked by something they couldn't understand. In the greatest of wars that had ever been witnessed, however, he was treated as a secret weapon and hailed as a hero. He couldn't see how he filled either role, for men continued to die and the lines refused to budge no matter how much blood was spilled. His abilities only slowed the attrition rate, they weren't enough to turn the tides of Hell itself.
The commander chuckled. "Good answer, lad. I'm Sir Henry Rawlinson. I requested you because here is where we'll break the German lines. It's a do or die operation here, Brancket."
"They all are, sir. Place me in the line and I'll do my best." Halley took the cup of coffee presented by the orderly and drank it down. It tasted worse than things he'd turned down living on the streets of London as a child, but his tastebuds had been dulled much the way his sense of smell had and it would keep him awake.
"Good job then, lad. You'll report to the 9th Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers under Captain Bell. Think you can handle being wrapped up with the Micks?"
Halley shrugged. "If they can handle a London Rat, sir, I've no complaints."
Rawlinson laughed. "You've spirit enough to handle the Ulster Division. Alright then, Brancket, off with you, then."
Halley saluted again and made a crisp turn to walk out, letting his stride slip back to a tired pace once he was out of the command office. The coffee was enough to keep him meagerly sharp but it did nothing to ease the heaviness of his feet as he coursed his way into the warrior ranks once more, winding around the network of trenches to the woods where his new division lay in wait of the upcoming offensive. He smiled a bit as the accent changed from thick throated Welsh to crisp British and finally to the quick and sharp tones of Irish, closer to the lyrical quality of the cockney he was used to. The uniforms the men wore were newer than those he'd been more recently accustomed to seeing, but none-the-less a rag-tag offering resulting from shortages for the new recruits drummed up to keep the ranks filled as the experienced soldiers were killed or maimed. Only half a year into their military careers, most of the men of the 36th were still able to drum up enthusiasm and an effort to show their spirit. He tried not to look at faces, not wanting to remember them so alive if he later came across them gray and cold. With a few quiet queries he was able to locate his new officer and approached Captain Bell as he peered over a map in fierce concentration.
"Captain Bell? Lieutenant Brancket. I've been assigned to you."
Bell looked up in sharp surprise, blue eyes scanning Halley. "Are you sure you're in the right place? This is the Ulster Division."
Halley nodded. "I'm aware of that, sir. You don't sound overly Irish yourself."
Bell grinned. "You've found me out, eh? Born in Ulster, though I was raised in Liverpool. Proud to fight under my country's name, though. Trained with trench mortar bombs, I hope?"
Halley shook his head. "Not particularly. I've thrown a few grenades. I'm infantry. Been fighting in Verdune."
"Verdune, I see." Bell's voice took on a bit of awe. "Understand it's worse there than here. Well, it's not that much different than a grenade, just larger and sends out lots of shrapnel."
Halley exhaled slowly. "I've been on the receiving team enough to know the effects."
"Right." Bell pursed his lips a bit. "Well, you'll be on the giving end now. Come along then, I guess I'll have to train you on the job to be some use at least." He crouched next to a long tube of steel cradled on two legs and a base. "This is the Stokes. Unlike the fixed mortars, this one can move. Not that there's been much call for mobility, but that's the point of it."
Halley crouched next to the captain and studied the weapon. "I'm supposed to learn how to use this?"
"Well, I'll grant you won't have much time for drills. Are you sure you're supposed to be here?"
Halley shrugged. "They have their reasons. I'll do my best."
Bell accepted that with a grim nod. "Personally, I don't think they give us much credit to begin with, being Irish. Any mathematics in your education? Engineering? Architecture?" He sighed as Halley shook his head. "Right then, well, we'll sally on anyhow. Aiming is a careful calculation of explosive charge and lining up this white line here on your target. The more charge, the farther the bomb will go, simple enough?" He paused, considering the impossibility of training someone in the use of the Stokes in the middle of a battlefield. "Tell you what. You stick to covering me and helping carry the blasted thing, I'll worry about setting the charges."
Halley sighed with relief. "Works for me. I'm pretty sure I can handle that much."
"Right then." Bell clapped Halley on the shoulder. "We'll just stick to setting it up then. Breaks down into three bits. Barrel, base, and bipod. Clamp here, here, and here." He gave Halley a quick demonstration of the disassembly and assembly process. "Do you have it?"
"Well enough, I suppose." Halley rubbed the side of his face, struggling to stay awake.
"You're done in, lad," commented Bell. "Go get some sleep. The Germans will still be here in the morning, blast them to hell."
Halley stood, too weary for even a stretch. "That's the general plan, I believe. Good night, Captain."
A week had passed since he'd joined up with the Ulsters. It seemed a vacation compared to Verdun. There was fighting, to be sure, but nothing like the intensity he'd grown accustomed to and his unit had enjoyed relative peace sheltered by the trees of Theipval Wood. They'd mostly been involved in the non-stop shelling meant to soften the German lines for their assault. Today they'd be called on to leave their shelter and do their bit against the German lines, five hundred yards uphill and exposed, another four hundred to their objective at the Schwaben Redoubt. It seemed inevitable that Halley awoke to dawn's drizzle, not enough water to refresh, just enough to raise the smell of filth and mildew from his uniform. He dragged himself to his feet to get his share of a hearty breakfast of biscuits and coffee.
"Hey, London!" Halley nodded to the new greeting that had become his hail and held out his mess for his portion, then found a spot to slide down next to the young Irishman who'd called to him. The private couldn't be older than sixteen, yet another of those who'd lied about their age to savor the romance of war, but Halley couldn't judge him for it. In spite of his own haggard appearance, he was under the age of recruitment himself, only fifteen when he'd presented a false birth certificate to fight the German threat, now barely seventeen. Any ideas of the romance of war had been beaten out of him months ago, however, and now he simply fought to make it to eighteen. He envied Private Farlane the youth he still was able to wear. Farlane swirled his coffee, looking less cheerful than usual. "How can you eat? We're to go into it today, you know."
"Food is food and it's not boiled rat." Halley swallowed some coffee to soften the biscuit he was chewing. "This is your first major battle?"
Farlane nodded. "Going to fetch a German helmet for my kid brother." Halley merely offered a nod and continued with his meal. Farlane watched him curiously for a moment. "Can't be like Verdun, London. We'll be taking it to them this time, and there can't be much left after all the shelling. The Huns're all dead or hiding or run off like cowards by now."
"Don't get overconfident." Halley swallowed the last of his biscuit and stowed his mess with a toss. "You don't keep your eyes open, you'll fetch only a bullet for your trophy." He stood, leaving the private to a sober silence, and made his way over to Bell.
The captain glanced up at Halley with a short nod. "Ready for it, lad?"
"Would it matter? I'll be there whether I am or not."
"I suppose that's the case," agreed Bell. "Full equipment, we'll be following the infantry, regimental."
"What?" Halley leaned against the side of the trench, studying the yards of No Man's Land that stretched with little cover to the German trenches. "What are they thinking? We'll be out in the open and loaded down, sitting ducks."
"That's the orders, lad, that's what we'll do. We'll use what cover we can, but we'll keep the rank and file. Don't worry, the Germans haven't shown much at all since the shelling." Bell clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Chin up, mustn't let the lads get upset. You're an officer."
Halley swallowed, then dropped his head against his hand to rub his eyes. "Right. Regimental, full equipment. We'll need the morale." As if in answer, the skies opened above them and the real downpour began.