Random Book of Oneshots

Tea Break

Definitions:

Duckboard - wooden boards like the floor on trenches

Communication trenches - move troops forward to the front line

Dugout - protective holes in the sides of trenches

Parapet – sandbags on the top of the trenches

Rucksack – backpack

Mustard gas – left blisters in the lungs and throat if inhales in large quantities and leave blisters on the soldiers with masks as it soaked into their woollen clothes

Bromide gas – a form of tear gas

Phosgene gas – left irritation in the eyes and respiratory track. Causes build-up of fluid in the lungs leading to death

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Whistles. Dull whistles. Abrupt cracks ring out from when the shells were first shot like firecrackers on New Year's Eve. It's what struck fear in all the men, whether they were new to the front line or had been stuck down here for weeks. You could always tell the fresh blood from the veterans, their eyes wide with a mixture of fascination, fear and diffident, gripping tightly to their newly assigned riffle and rucksack. Whereas the experienced men simply lit a ciggy at heavy fire and barely batted an eye at the dropping shells, a nonchalant expression donning their faces. But they were affected, just take a glance at their eyes. They know that when you hear that whistle, you only have seconds to find cover before either an explosion of dirt and bodies cover you, or you cover others.

"Take cover!" A stentorian bellow escapes the captain's lips reverberating through the trenches before organized chaos arises, and bodies are scrambling, trying to find a place safe enough to hide and avoid the destruction.

"Shit. Fucking bastards." Muttering to myself, I hastily gulp the last of my tea before haphazardly shoving the now empty tin cup into my rucksack which is hanging on the trench wall, my knife dug into the dirt and acting as a hook for the bag to rest on. An explosion goes off to my right and dirt sprays up like the sprinklers in summer, up and over in no-mans-land with smoke soon rising from what would be a newly formed crater. I have to be quicker. Pulling the knife out of the dirt wall, the rucksack falls to the ground with a small thud onto the duckboard bellow, I'll get it later. Dropping the slightly rust ridden knife into my jacket pocket, I look around and listen, pushing the sound of men screaming and their boots thumping to the back of my mind. Deafening booms ripple through the air. The shells are getting closer.

Feet smack against the duckboard as I run down the trench trying to spot a clear space to hide. A dugout is a few feet away and in no time, I bob down and slither into it. Squeezing in between three other men, I recognized one of them immediately. It's Charles, Charlie for short. He was a rather short fella, a little on the pudgy side and the tight overcoat did nothing to hide that, but he was a good bloke, always trying to make the best of every bad moment, like the time he threw a rat up in the air to see if the snipers were still eyeing us. Its guts were blown everywhere, but the bloody ripper of a smile on his face made us all crack up laughing a second later, that and the intestine hanging off his ear. However, compared to now, you'd think they were two different men. The smiles and laughter quieted down to glazed eyes and pursed lips waiting for this dark hour to pass.

We scarcely have time to do anything in the morning anymore, not even our annual morning cuppa tea before we hear the whistles and bangs begin. They always attacked in the morning; you would think that the damn Germans would at least have the consideration to let us properly wake up while out here in this hell hole. But I suppose there isn't any good sportsmanship out on this playing field.

Peaking my head out of the dugout opening, I notice men pressed up against the trench walls, loose helmets strapped to their heads and rifles digging into their sides as they try to make themselves as small as possible. Others were stooped low, backs flushed to the curves of the trench, gas masks hanging loosely by their necks, hands itching, ready for the moment to pull it on and over their heads just like they've trained for. A deafening boom ripples through the trench, dirt falling off the walls and onto the men sitting and waiting. Another bang, closer this time. A molten hot chunk of shrapnel comes hurling into the trench scaring a poor bugger senseless. Nearly shit himself I reckon. Another shell goes flying over the trench, landing on the other side spraying mud, dirt and metal on the opposite side of the trench.

Further down, you can hear the echo of a bomb as another shell is dropped, meetings its mark. Cries of pain fill the air when it hits a trench. My stomach sinks just thinking about the carnage followed by those blasted shells. Whether the men's bodies had blown over the trench too far for us to reach, or if there's still survivors with missing limbs and quickly losing blood. Maybe the trench walls are spattered with blood, soaking into the sandbags and dirt walls, a leg in one corner, an arm hanging over the parapet. Makes me nauseous just thinking about cleaning it up. Makes me feel even worse knowing someone's going to have to send a letter back home to each of the boys that didn't make it.

Everywhere I look I see boys of all ages; they stick out like a sore thumb. Their clothes hang and are bunched at the shoulders, elbows bony and knees trembling. A scintilla of pain pierces my heart for a moment as realization settles on my brain. Most of these boys won't come back home. Their empty promise of making it home in time for tea will be filled with tears from their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters.

Wiping a tear from my cheek, I slap the other to pull me out of my insignificant crisis. There are larger problems at hand. A cloud of grey smoke seeps out from one of the communication trenches a few feet down the line. A fair amount of the newcomers go to strap on their masks before one of the veterans taps them on the shoulder and shakes his head. We understand them, we were all doing the same thing in our first days on the front line. When the smoke settles on the ground and rolls like fog it's easy to mistake it as a new gas the Germans had come up with. The addition of phosgene and mustard gas was making everyone nervous as rumours of it being used at the western front spread like wildfire. These gases were appalling, one leaving blisters in the lungs of so many young me, another being a complete killer as it drowns men by their own bodily fluids, filling up their lungs. To think that would be the way you go, from on toss of a grenade and a release of gas. Gone. Forgotten. But alas, the risk a soldier takes.

By now the shells have come to a halt, either they run out of ammunition, or they're done for the morning, but the young boys along the trenches are still growing more and more skittish as time goes on, not fully understanding the shells had stopped dropping, that their bodies will no longer leave behind craters big enough to swim in. The new soldiers frozen and disbelieving faces reveals the anarchy that runs amuck in their minds during times like this, they lack the resilience the vets have built up over time. They have yet to be fully exposed to the jarring actions of war, and will continue to face the challenges that this stupid war brings to the table.

But for now, I believe it's time for a tea break.