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barefoot_bardTitle: Trenches
Rating: G (Suitable for all ages)
Disclaimers: The characters included herein are the property of Bernard Cornwell. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
Original pen-date: 5 February 2011
Summary: StC AU; the Chosen men in France, 1915.
Author's Note: Written for the StC Kink Meme.
"Fix bayonets, lads," Sergeant Harper was saying. "Check your pouches an' tighten your helmet straps. No sense makin' it any easier for Jerry to knock your block off, eh?" The grim-faced sergeant moved along the crowded trench, his gaze moving restlessly over every man. He never missed a thing. "Fix bayonets an' fall in on your ladders."
The men drifted closer together, their rifles with the long bayonets fixed and held carefully, so no one found themselves accidentally skewered. Nervous glances were exchanged here and there, but for the most part the waiting men were past the point of jitters. They had learned to avoid thinking of what awaited them once they reached the top of the trench.
"They're waitin' for us, aren't they?" Perkins asked, his face impossibly pale under the smears of dirt and a week's tentative growth of beard. It seemed remarkable that he could even manage a light stubble, being so young.
Harris gave him a reassuring smile. "It'll be fine, Ben."
"Aye," Harper agreed in a low voice. "A quick dash over the top then back again."
Their assurances drew a faltering grin to Perkins' face. He looked up at the slate-grey sky and said nothing more. Around him, the others made last-minute adjustments to their kit. It wouldn't be long now. All they needed was the order to go.
"Two minutes!" Mister Sharpe called, checking his watch. Overhead, the constant shelling went on. The artillery duel never seemed to stop for long. Night and day held no meaning to those mighty guns. Perkins clutched his rifle and shuddered. He had seen what those shells could do. Gaping craters gouged out of the hard ground, with torn bodies strewn about, scattered like broken toys by an invisible oversized child. He and his company had been on the line for only a few weeks but already they had seen their share of misery.
"Steady, lad," Hagman muttered next to him. The old soldier already had one hand on the ladder, his rifle gripped calmly in the other. Nothing seemed to ruffle Hagman's cool. It was a steadiness Perkins took heart from. Equally, he took heart from their officer. Mister Sharpe was a rougher sort than most lieutenants, but it was said he had earned his commission in Africa, fighting the Boers. Perkins was glad to have such an officer.
An artillery shell whistled by above them, dangerously low. It exploded with an earth-trembling boom far ahead of their trench. Several men ducked instinctively, only to quickly recover and laugh, as if they weren't truly afraid. Mister Sharpe was standing near a ladder now, his gleaming silver whistle in hand. His pistol was still tucked into its holster. It almost seemed that the lieutenant was so disdainful of the enemy that he did not even deem it necessary to have his pistol in hand when he went up the ladder.
Perkins watched the whistle with rapt interest as Mister Sharpe settled the little device between his lips. The officer's eyes were on his watch, waiting for the appointed time before signalling the advance. Those final seconds seemed years long to Perkins. He gripped his rifle and edged closer still to Hagman, who now had one foot settled upon the ladder's bottom rung. Ready. Anticipating. Unafraid. Perkins swallowed hard and hoped he could manage that same cool when it was his turn to clamber up the tall, rickety ladder. He closed his eyes.
When the whistle came, it was a relief.
Rating: G (Suitable for all ages)
Disclaimers: The characters included herein are the property of Bernard Cornwell. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
Original pen-date: 5 February 2011
Summary: StC AU; the Chosen men in France, 1915.
Author's Note: Written for the StC Kink Meme.
"Fix bayonets, lads," Sergeant Harper was saying. "Check your pouches an' tighten your helmet straps. No sense makin' it any easier for Jerry to knock your block off, eh?" The grim-faced sergeant moved along the crowded trench, his gaze moving restlessly over every man. He never missed a thing. "Fix bayonets an' fall in on your ladders."
The men drifted closer together, their rifles with the long bayonets fixed and held carefully, so no one found themselves accidentally skewered. Nervous glances were exchanged here and there, but for the most part the waiting men were past the point of jitters. They had learned to avoid thinking of what awaited them once they reached the top of the trench.
"They're waitin' for us, aren't they?" Perkins asked, his face impossibly pale under the smears of dirt and a week's tentative growth of beard. It seemed remarkable that he could even manage a light stubble, being so young.
Harris gave him a reassuring smile. "It'll be fine, Ben."
"Aye," Harper agreed in a low voice. "A quick dash over the top then back again."
Their assurances drew a faltering grin to Perkins' face. He looked up at the slate-grey sky and said nothing more. Around him, the others made last-minute adjustments to their kit. It wouldn't be long now. All they needed was the order to go.
"Two minutes!" Mister Sharpe called, checking his watch. Overhead, the constant shelling went on. The artillery duel never seemed to stop for long. Night and day held no meaning to those mighty guns. Perkins clutched his rifle and shuddered. He had seen what those shells could do. Gaping craters gouged out of the hard ground, with torn bodies strewn about, scattered like broken toys by an invisible oversized child. He and his company had been on the line for only a few weeks but already they had seen their share of misery.
"Steady, lad," Hagman muttered next to him. The old soldier already had one hand on the ladder, his rifle gripped calmly in the other. Nothing seemed to ruffle Hagman's cool. It was a steadiness Perkins took heart from. Equally, he took heart from their officer. Mister Sharpe was a rougher sort than most lieutenants, but it was said he had earned his commission in Africa, fighting the Boers. Perkins was glad to have such an officer.
An artillery shell whistled by above them, dangerously low. It exploded with an earth-trembling boom far ahead of their trench. Several men ducked instinctively, only to quickly recover and laugh, as if they weren't truly afraid. Mister Sharpe was standing near a ladder now, his gleaming silver whistle in hand. His pistol was still tucked into its holster. It almost seemed that the lieutenant was so disdainful of the enemy that he did not even deem it necessary to have his pistol in hand when he went up the ladder.
Perkins watched the whistle with rapt interest as Mister Sharpe settled the little device between his lips. The officer's eyes were on his watch, waiting for the appointed time before signalling the advance. Those final seconds seemed years long to Perkins. He gripped his rifle and edged closer still to Hagman, who now had one foot settled upon the ladder's bottom rung. Ready. Anticipating. Unafraid. Perkins swallowed hard and hoped he could manage that same cool when it was his turn to clamber up the tall, rickety ladder. He closed his eyes.
When the whistle came, it was a relief.