Erich Hoffman
They tensely sat down on their bunks. The sheets were neat and tidy. Wooden pillars six inches in diameter supported 35 feet of concrete. Hoffman could point out but one true disadvantage: IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO GET OUT. Every once in a while, his group would shuffle out of the bunker into the trench, and find that the Tommies had made it to the forward dugout.
"How many Tommies do you think will come around Odell?"
"My first guess would be several hundreds. Maybe a couple thousand if they're desperate enough."
"Nevin, how many do you think?"
Strom said, "Who in the hell knows. It could be any amount Tommies. Their conscription army just keeps getting bigger. The more people we kill, the more they send over here. This whole Ypres Salient is just one giant Tommie meat grinder."
Yohan Ritter laughed. "Yeah, you're right. I wonder how long it will go on. In the Hindenburg line, I hear the French are far worse condition. Verdun's been going on for the past six months and the French have gone through some significant loses. A friend of mine back at Hamburg told me that our troops hold the majority of the forts at Verdun."
"That's all grand Yohan, but it's not like that in the Somme. People like us, the machine gunners are all that's holding that place together, and it's in the Hindenburg line too," finished Hoffman.
A massive explosion rocked the bunker. A howitzer had successfully hit the German line.
"That's not good," whispered Ademaro. Voices and shouts were coming from above. "That shell could have penetrated part of our bunker."
"Yes," said Hoffman, face slumped in his hands, crying from his grief.
"What's wrong with you Erich? You've been like this since yesterday," said Zelig.
"Yeah, sorry guys. I just hope I get home to see my brother in a couple weeks," he lied.
Hoffman's three friends, Ademaro, Zelig and Strom approached him, as if awe stricken. They honestly hadn't seen their buddy like this before.- with the exception of the other night.
Zelig put his arm over Hoffman's shoulder. "Look Erich, it's okay."
BOOM! Once again a howitzer hit nearby.
"Come on Erich," continued Zelig, "That last thing we need is a panic stricken gunner."
The fools! They simply had no idea. As soon as the shelling stopped, he was going to stand up, go outside, and begin murdering teenagers.
"You guys just do not understand. I'm sorry." He was about to say more, but the Lieutenant in charge of the infantry company Hoffman's regiment was stationed with hollered from up top that most of the shelling had stopped, and that the Tommies were coming on hot and full of strength.
Hoffman gathered up the courage he had left, and prepared his mind to defend the Father Land. At that, he leaped to his feet, and raced up the three flights of stairs to his trench.
Zelig and Strom were tasked with carrying the monstrous Maxim machine gun up, while Ademaro assisted with the ammunition. He would help by guiding the belt of brass death into the desired weapon, which devoured each and every cartridge, sneezing the bullet out through the barrel, and spitting up the empty shell casing at a rate of 600 rounds per minute.
The team attained their goal at the top of the bunker, and immediately put their gun back together. The tripod came first, and then the barrel: an 80 pound hunk of steel and plastic with a water cooling system to go with it. Strom slammed the tripod down into the earth, and Zelig hoisted, with all his available strength, the barrel up on top of the base. Strom hit the dirt and gazed through his tiny set of binoculars the first men to attempt the Ravebeek stream. As usual, the people willing to brave the mud were sitting ducks.
Strom's estimation was flawless. "Over there, 340 degrees!" Hoffman jerked the Maxim to the left and sent 43 rounds into the water. Hoffman could hardly see anything, so he almost never knew if he had killed anyone, but at the moment he didn't care. At the moment it was life or death. Understandably, Hoffman selected life. Ademaro guided the belt of ammunition into the grinding machine, as Zelig dashed off to BC for more.
At 320 degrees, Hoffman shot off another 50 rounds, and fell into a killing frenzy with which his own life was involved.
Strom halted any further firing, and examined the sights. "You aren't hitting anything! Let me take a lot at that!" Tweaking the knobs and needles, Strom managed to resolve the temporary problem, and allowed Hoffman to continue shooting.
They tensely sat down on their bunks. The sheets were neat and tidy. Wooden pillars six inches in diameter supported 35 feet of concrete. Hoffman could point out but one true disadvantage: IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO GET OUT. Every once in a while, his group would shuffle out of the bunker into the trench, and find that the Tommies had made it to the forward dugout.
"How many Tommies do you think will come around Odell?"
"My first guess would be several hundreds. Maybe a couple thousand if they're desperate enough."
"Nevin, how many do you think?"
Strom said, "Who in the hell knows. It could be any amount Tommies. Their conscription army just keeps getting bigger. The more people we kill, the more they send over here. This whole Ypres Salient is just one giant Tommie meat grinder."
Yohan Ritter laughed. "Yeah, you're right. I wonder how long it will go on. In the Hindenburg line, I hear the French are far worse condition. Verdun's been going on for the past six months and the French have gone through some significant loses. A friend of mine back at Hamburg told me that our troops hold the majority of the forts at Verdun."
"That's all grand Yohan, but it's not like that in the Somme. People like us, the machine gunners are all that's holding that place together, and it's in the Hindenburg line too," finished Hoffman.
A massive explosion rocked the bunker. A howitzer had successfully hit the German line.
"That's not good," whispered Ademaro. Voices and shouts were coming from above. "That shell could have penetrated part of our bunker."
"Yes," said Hoffman, face slumped in his hands, crying from his grief.
"What's wrong with you Erich? You've been like this since yesterday," said Zelig.
"Yeah, sorry guys. I just hope I get home to see my brother in a couple weeks," he lied.
Hoffman's three friends, Ademaro, Zelig and Strom approached him, as if awe stricken. They honestly hadn't seen their buddy like this before.- with the exception of the other night.
Zelig put his arm over Hoffman's shoulder. "Look Erich, it's okay."
BOOM! Once again a howitzer hit nearby.
"Come on Erich," continued Zelig, "That last thing we need is a panic stricken gunner."
The fools! They simply had no idea. As soon as the shelling stopped, he was going to stand up, go outside, and begin murdering teenagers.
"You guys just do not understand. I'm sorry." He was about to say more, but the Lieutenant in charge of the infantry company Hoffman's regiment was stationed with hollered from up top that most of the shelling had stopped, and that the Tommies were coming on hot and full of strength.
Hoffman gathered up the courage he had left, and prepared his mind to defend the Father Land. At that, he leaped to his feet, and raced up the three flights of stairs to his trench.
Zelig and Strom were tasked with carrying the monstrous Maxim machine gun up, while Ademaro assisted with the ammunition. He would help by guiding the belt of brass death into the desired weapon, which devoured each and every cartridge, sneezing the bullet out through the barrel, and spitting up the empty shell casing at a rate of 600 rounds per minute.
The team attained their goal at the top of the bunker, and immediately put their gun back together. The tripod came first, and then the barrel: an 80 pound hunk of steel and plastic with a water cooling system to go with it. Strom slammed the tripod down into the earth, and Zelig hoisted, with all his available strength, the barrel up on top of the base. Strom hit the dirt and gazed through his tiny set of binoculars the first men to attempt the Ravebeek stream. As usual, the people willing to brave the mud were sitting ducks.
Strom's estimation was flawless. "Over there, 340 degrees!" Hoffman jerked the Maxim to the left and sent 43 rounds into the water. Hoffman could hardly see anything, so he almost never knew if he had killed anyone, but at the moment he didn't care. At the moment it was life or death. Understandably, Hoffman selected life. Ademaro guided the belt of ammunition into the grinding machine, as Zelig dashed off to BC for more.
At 320 degrees, Hoffman shot off another 50 rounds, and fell into a killing frenzy with which his own life was involved.
Strom halted any further firing, and examined the sights. "You aren't hitting anything! Let me take a lot at that!" Tweaking the knobs and needles, Strom managed to resolve the temporary problem, and allowed Hoffman to continue shooting.