Erich Hoffman
They were eating bread at the moment. Shelling wasn't often something that took soldiers off guard. However, this particular one sure did.
"Jesus! Why the in the hell are they attacking now?" whined Roger Zelig.
Hoffman answered first. "I simply do not know. Let's get down before it gets any heavier. It's too wet and cold out here anyway."
The machine gunners removed the straps on their Maxim, and hurried inside. "We're going to have quite a bit of fun in the next hour I guess," said Odell Admaro.
"Yeah guys-lots of fun," finished Hoffman. He managed a smile out of what was his mud caked face. It wasn't fun whatsoever, and he seemed to be the only man in his regiment that felt sick when mowing down helpless Tommies. Because he was the gunner, his friends could only watch with jealously as he pressured with his thumb the knob to release the bullets. Usually, they even attempted to keep track of how many men Hoffman caught. It was the most utterly bizarre turkey shoot anyone could witness. These turkeys, although smart and resourceful soldiers, would simply make a sprint towards their doom. Of course, that wouldn't happen tonight. Hoffman doubted that a single British soldier would make it halfway into No Man's Land. The mud, which was normally the most challenging obstacle, was now more or less a large, 400 meter long ocean of quicksand. Hoffman could recall the other night, when several platoons of Irish Tommies had drowned in the endless pan of brownies. How ironic, however, that they still shelled it, helping the brown monster to grow, even thicker, and nastier.
The German 16 Division, also known as the Iron Division, had long since replaced their shallow trenches with metal and concrete bunkers, along with four or five rows of barbed wire. There were over ten pillboxes on Bellevue Hill both concealed in previous shell holes and on high ground as well.
In front of Hoffman's regiment lay the Belgium Ravebeek stream which always flooded in the spring. This time, however, without any farmers, the stream converted to a rushing mud bog. The Tommies would have to utilize what was left of the raised Gravenstafel Road. During the other night's attack, the British 146th Brigade had managed to do so. However, the sun was to their rear, and assisted Hoffman with the making out of perhaps over 100 perfect silhouettes of the men. Zelig estimated somewhere around 25 men that were killed by their platoon.
Just under a couple hours ago, the Iron Division had replaced most of the tired and starved German 2nd. Hoffman and his regiment had come a week early though-to bring up fresh ammunition and supplies.
As Hoffman stooped down into the 40-foot-deep mass of concrete, he remembered all that, and how much easier it would be that night. However when Erich closed his eyes, and grieved, he found out that it would me much harder to kill an enemy that was no stronger than a mouse. . .
They were eating bread at the moment. Shelling wasn't often something that took soldiers off guard. However, this particular one sure did.
"Jesus! Why the in the hell are they attacking now?" whined Roger Zelig.
Hoffman answered first. "I simply do not know. Let's get down before it gets any heavier. It's too wet and cold out here anyway."
The machine gunners removed the straps on their Maxim, and hurried inside. "We're going to have quite a bit of fun in the next hour I guess," said Odell Admaro.
"Yeah guys-lots of fun," finished Hoffman. He managed a smile out of what was his mud caked face. It wasn't fun whatsoever, and he seemed to be the only man in his regiment that felt sick when mowing down helpless Tommies. Because he was the gunner, his friends could only watch with jealously as he pressured with his thumb the knob to release the bullets. Usually, they even attempted to keep track of how many men Hoffman caught. It was the most utterly bizarre turkey shoot anyone could witness. These turkeys, although smart and resourceful soldiers, would simply make a sprint towards their doom. Of course, that wouldn't happen tonight. Hoffman doubted that a single British soldier would make it halfway into No Man's Land. The mud, which was normally the most challenging obstacle, was now more or less a large, 400 meter long ocean of quicksand. Hoffman could recall the other night, when several platoons of Irish Tommies had drowned in the endless pan of brownies. How ironic, however, that they still shelled it, helping the brown monster to grow, even thicker, and nastier.
The German 16 Division, also known as the Iron Division, had long since replaced their shallow trenches with metal and concrete bunkers, along with four or five rows of barbed wire. There were over ten pillboxes on Bellevue Hill both concealed in previous shell holes and on high ground as well.
In front of Hoffman's regiment lay the Belgium Ravebeek stream which always flooded in the spring. This time, however, without any farmers, the stream converted to a rushing mud bog. The Tommies would have to utilize what was left of the raised Gravenstafel Road. During the other night's attack, the British 146th Brigade had managed to do so. However, the sun was to their rear, and assisted Hoffman with the making out of perhaps over 100 perfect silhouettes of the men. Zelig estimated somewhere around 25 men that were killed by their platoon.
Just under a couple hours ago, the Iron Division had replaced most of the tired and starved German 2nd. Hoffman and his regiment had come a week early though-to bring up fresh ammunition and supplies.
As Hoffman stooped down into the 40-foot-deep mass of concrete, he remembered all that, and how much easier it would be that night. However when Erich closed his eyes, and grieved, he found out that it would me much harder to kill an enemy that was no stronger than a mouse. . .