Going Over - Part One

[barefoot_bard]

Title: Going Over
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 18 November 2011
Summary: A young man faces the reality of war. The Somme, 30th June/1st July 1916.
Author's Note: There are bound to be historical errors in here. I apologise for them now. This story is also going to come in at least two parts.



The day’s artillery bombardment had only just begun, but it seemed already to have dragged on for hours. That constant mind-rattling thunder was beginning to wear on his nerves. It had been going on for days now with scarcely a pause. It was an unending barrage of shells screaming overhead toward the enemy. At least, William Barton thought, they were not falling short. Things were bad enough in this miserable place without the added worry of badly-aimed artillery fire from their own side. Or worse, well-aimed artillery fire from the enemy. There had been some instances of that over the past couple of weeks. The caved-in part of Number 5 Bay, just down from where he was standing, was just one mark of that.

He glanced up at the nearly-cloudless sky and found it difficult to believe that an otherwise decent day could bear witness to such unhappiness and noise. Even now, it seemed impossible that only a year ago, he had been newly-arrived in Liverpool, with nothing to his name but a small valise packed with clothes. The choice to enlist had cost him virtually everything and not for the first time, he was wondering if this was worth the price. Then he felt himself grin. There wasn’t much sense in brooding about his former life. That was well behind him. Funny, he thought, how easy it was sometimes to distract himself from the dreary reality of trench life. Distractions were rare enough and he had learned to treasure them in whatever form they came.

“What’s got you smirkin’ then?”

Barton dropped his gaze from the heavens with an internal sigh. “Just thinkin’ those artillery boys might end up doin’ the job for us.”

“That’d be nice!” Johnny Noon snorted, holding out a tin mug that Barton accepted long enough to take a quick swig from before handing it back. “I’ve not known that lot to be any use. Except to make a bloody lot of noise.”

"It ain't so bad when there's noise," Ted McCarthy pointed out. "It's when they stops that you gotta pay mind to yer front."

He had a point, and the boys nearest him shook their heads. Whenever the artillery fire ceased, they all knew something was likely to happen. Something that usually involved leaving the safety of their trenches, anyway. Doing so in daylight was an activity they had all quickly learned to be quietly leery of. Fortunately, daytime forays into that stretch of land between lines were few. Barton fingered the bolt of his rifle but quickly stilled, realising the unconscious action smacked of nervousness. It wasn't to say he wasn't nervous, of course, but putting such emotion on display was never wise.

"It'll be another day of lettin' the gunners waste shells, though, won't it?" Noon went on idly, casting a dismissive glance at the sky. He had settled down onto an ammunition crate and was fishing a cigarette out of a dented metal case. "Gis a light, Teddy, mate."

McCarthy produced a lighter from a pocket and handed it over. "Any day we ain't gotta shift over the top's a good'n by me. Learned to like the quiet days, I have."

"Oh aye, that's right, innit? You been here before. First we've heard of that!"

The others chuckled. It was no great secret that McCarthy had the advantage of experience, having previously served with the West Kents before volunteering for transfer. He'd joined them two months ago, after a brief stay at a hospital on the coast. Before that he had been in action at Mons and Neuve Chapelle, the latter place being where he had been wounded. None of them could understand his reasons, nor could they tease out a satisfactory explanation from him. He brushed off all queries with a glib, "King an' country, you boys," and steadfastly refused to elaborate further.

"No call for bein' jealous," McCarthy returned lightly, taking his lighter back. "Anyways, I'm happy to let the gunners go on with this racket till Christmas."

"Till they run out of shells. Then we'll have to go over the top and see if there's anything left of the Germans." Barton put in.

Noon rolled his eyes. "That's so. It'll be a stroll across to Jerry's trenches, won't it? Just for a bit of exercise."

An artillery shell whistled by close overhead, rather lower than usual, and several men ducked instinctively. There were hesitant chuckles when the shell landed well away from their trench, shaking the ground with its detonation. Barton chose not to respond to Noon's jibe and instead shifted so he could peer cautiously over the edge of the trench. With the artillery bombardment persisting, there was little chance of attracting a German sniper's notice. Or at least he hoped there was.

"Get down, idiot," snapped Noon as he reached out to grab hold of the back of Barton's tunic. "D'you wanna end up like Joe Andrews did, last week?"

"Officer comin'," McCarthy muttered suddenly and they straightened up in time to see Captain Fenwick come striding around the slight bend in the trench. Quite how McCarthy had known the thin-faced captain was approaching couldn't be said, but the lads were, as ever, glad of his instincts.

"Mornin', sir," Noon greeted, saluting.

Fenwick acknowledged the salute with a distracted wave of his hand and did not seem to have heard Noon's greeting. "Kit inspection today," he said abruptly. "For the whole battalion. One o'clock sharp, lads. Carry on."

Kit inspection for the whole battalion? The lads exchanged baffled glances as Fenwick strode briskly away, but speculation about the news was held until the captain was safely out of earshot. It was especially odd because Fenwick was usually a calm and careful sort. Even the ritual of morning stand-tos and hate-fire did not ruffle the captain's feathers. This, then, had to be something unusual and most likely serious.

"Maybe we're bein' sent back," Barton suggested hopefully.

"Sent back? We've only been here six days."

"Six days too long, you ask me," Henry Jones grumbled, his first words since wandering over to join the group half an hour ago.

"We didn't," Noon retorted and flicked the spent butt of his cigarette up so it spiralled out of sight over the top of the trench.

"Don't be stupid. We're goin' forward, is what it is," said McCarthy. "Kit inspection for the whole battalion means they want to be sure every lad's got his bits an' bobs in order, 'fore we're all sent off into that mess out there."

"Forward?"

"Aye. Forward. Ain't you paid attention to anythin' since we got up here?"

He had, yet at the same time, he hadn't. It was hard to keep any thoughts in his head for long, with the constant mind-numbing artillery fire going on. Even those thoughts meant to distract him from his surroundings failed to stay long in his head. Barton shrugged and didn't reply. The blank expression on his face was answer enough for McCarthy, however. The Irishman made a noise that sounded suspiciously like irritation and looked away.

"It's been a week since that lot started up firin'," he said. "The major said it was only gonna last 'bout that long, then we're goin' forward to put Jerry back on his heels. That's the grand plan, anyways. I thought you was smart, Billy-kins."

"Oh leave it," Noon cut in cheerfully, not giving Barton the chance to retort. "Our William's a university man, y'know. He's dead clever an' all. Dunno why he ain't an officer."

"Probably 'cause he ain't smart enough. Bein' a university man don't mean he's got a brain worth usin'. Books learnin' ain't a patch on what's 'tween a workin' lad's ears."

"You mean nothin', eh?" Harry Jones smirked. "Leastaways in your case."

"Here now - "

"What's this, a pack of squawkin' hens or a group of soldiers? Cut along, you sods, and sort out your kit!"

The sudden appearance of Sergeant Donovan was enough to scatter the boys, with Barton casting an irritated glance in McCarthy's direction as he went. Leave it to that damned Irishman to make such a pointed reference to Barton's social standing. A bracing grin and a back slap from Noon served to distract him from this thought and he realised the dented metal case was being held out to him.

"Thanks," he said, taking a cigarette from the case.

Noon grinned around the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. "Don't pay any sorta mind to McCarthy. He never got to university his own self, he didn't, so he's all sorts of jealous 'bout lads who did. C'mon then. I reckon you got a lighter stowed somewhere in your kit, eh?"

How typical of Noon. Not that Barton objected to the diversion, or to the company. He tucked his cigarette behind his ear and, slinging his rifle, headed off around the corner toward the bay his section called home. It was, perhaps, fortunate that Captain Fenwick had told them about the inspection now. The work of cleaning his clothes and equipment would help keep his mind occupied on something other than what might be coming tomorrow.

~

The adjutant's approach was preceded by his regular chant of "Post! Post! If you have any letters, give them here. The post's going out. C'mon lads. Letters? Here, thank you, Williams. Post!"

Barton did not glance up from where he was crouched on the duckboards, held up primarily by his rifle. He had not sent any letters since his arrival to England, nor had he received any. There was no one with whom to correspond. He'd written a few letters, of course, but had burned all but one. That one single remnant was more of an essay, he supposed, than a letter, and stayed tucked inside his tunic. Maybe, if he survived this, he would send it. Or maybe not. It was more likely he would burn it like he'd done all the others.

Or he could give the letter to the adjutant, who had paused in the next bay, and ask that it not be sent unless he was killed. Mister Lowe was a decent enough fellow. Certainly he'd agree. There was little reason for him not to, anyway. Barton touched the left side of his tunic and felt the light crinkle of paper beneath the wool serge. As he thought about it, however, he realised that the idea of the letter actually being sent to its intended recipient was an occurrence he feared. Some of things in the letter would be hard to be borne.

The steady tread of boots on the duckboards and the continuing chant came closer and Barton glanced up briefly. Mister Lowe had grown a moustache since he'd last been amongst them, or at least he was trying to. The sparse bit of dark hair on the adjutant's upper lip seemed completely at odds with the round oval of his face and his open, boyish features. But that was probably his attempt to appear more grown than he likely was. Not that Barton was in any position to truly judge. He was barely nineteen himself, after all.

"Post! Got any letters, Barton?"

He shook his head, only making it halfway to his feet before Mister Lowe waved him down again. "No sir."

"Ah well. Maybe next time, eh? Post, you lads. Give your letters here. Post!"

How typical of the adjutant. Barton watched the young officer as Mister Lowe made his way along toward the next bay, taking only a couple letters from the boys before he was out of sight around the bend. Shrugging, Barton dropped his gaze back to the bolt of his rifle, trying not to think about the opportunity he'd just passed up. There wouldn't be another before tomorrow and it was impossible to know if he'd be alive the day after.

With a sigh, he let himself sink down onto his outspread greatcoat, tucking his rifle against him. None of them knew what was coming tomorrow. Not for sure, anyway. During the kit inspection, Major Smith had told them what was expected of them the next morning, but that information had only spawned more questions in Barton's mind. He couldn't help it. He had been encouraged to think and to question things all his life. It was part of the reason he was here now, really. Funny how his father's insistence on having a son who could think for himself had resulted in that son being cast out of the family for doing just that.

It was only one thing that made him uncomfortably unique amongst his comrades. All of the boys had been labourers, and most were friends who'd joined up together. He was an outsider in their midst. At times, he felt to be an unwelcome outsider at that. Barton closed his eyes and wrapped the trailing edge of his greatcoat about himself. It was best to close his mind to such thoughts and instead try to snatch a little sleep. He was down for sentry-go that night. Hopefully slumber would help erase some of the unease from his mind as well. It would be nice.

The tramp of boots nearby made the duckboards vibrate and the idiot passing by trod carelessly on Barton's rifle butt, which served to knock the weapon partially out of his loose grip. His drooping eyelids opened sharply at the unexpected jar of movement and he cursed quietly at the heavy-footed idiot who'd disturbed his fledgling sleep. Was it not obvious there was a man carefully stretched out here trying to rest? Grimacing, Barton drew his rifle closer to his body and closed his eyes again. It would be much easier to sleep if the lads were allowed to have their own dug-outs, like the officers.

This pattern of dozing and being unintentionally awakened went on for the remainder of the afternoon, until Barton, in resignation, roused himself. At best, he'd gotten an hour of unbroken sleep. It wasn't enough by any means, but it would have to do. Night was coming down anyway and he would be called for sentry-go after sundown. He yawned as he rolled up his greatcoat so it could be stuffed into his pack, then slung the canvas pack onto his back. What he needed right then was some tea and preferably some hot tea at that. The cold brew in his canteen would not suffice.

It was not until he began his search for Johnny Noon and his tea kettle that he realised the trenches were beginning, rather quickly, to fill up with men. Heavily-laden men at that. This was it, wasn't it? Tomorrow really was the day. Barton stared at the apparently endless lines of men coming into the trench. Where had all these lads come from? Certainly they could not all fit into the front line trenches here. There wasn't enough room!

"Billy-kins!"

The hail came from Ted McCarthy, who had apparently forgotten his earlier irritation with Barton. Turning, Barton looked through the shifting crowd of soldiers to see McCarthy lifting a hand to beckon him toward the next bay. He returned the partial wave to indicate he'd seen, then started forward, elbowing his way through the press of new arrivals until he was safely past them. These new boys kept coming from the communications trenches, spreading out into the front line trenches like a human flood. It seemed like there were whole battalions coming up from the rear - which of course was the reality.

McCarthy offered him a humourless smile when he was close enough and said, "What'd I tell you? We're going forward tomorrow. After all these fellows, anyway. C'mon. Noon's got the kettle boiled."

This was welcome news to Barton. He followed McCarthy toward the shallow scrape in the trench wall where Noon was kneeling protectively over his dixie, a freshly-filled tin mug in one hand. On seeing Barton's approach, he grinned and offered the mug up. Even before taking the mug, Barton could smell the tea inside the tin. It was a strong brew. Excellent.

"Enjoy it while you can, mate. Me an' Teddy here are goin' over tonight. Usual raidin' foolishness to keep Jerry guessin'. No more tea till tomorrow!"

The tea was scalding hot but Barton sipped some anyway. A night time raid. He wasn't surprised, but the news made him uneasy. The boys were going on a raid but he was staying behind to stand sentry. Somehow, it didn't seem fair. Probably because it wasn't. He glanced at McCarthy and realised the Irishman had disappeared. Now where had he gone to?

"Don't mind him," said Noon. "What've you heard 'bout what's comin' down tomorrow? Sure you was seen talkin' to Mister Lowe earlier."

"I didn't. He just asked if I had any letters. I told him no and off he went."

Noon winked knowingly. "That was all?"

"It's Mister Lowe. He's the adjutant, sure, but when has he given anything away to the likes of us?"

"True, true. Still. He didn't say owt?"

Barton rolled his eyes and took another swallow of piping hot tea. "Whyn't you go ask him yourself, then?"

This only drew a chuckle from Noon, who was passing a filled mug to Harry Jones. It occurred to Barton then that Noon had simply been stringing him along a bit, and the realisation made him shake his head. Trust Noon to find a way to needle him about something harmless. At least he wasn't the only target of it within the company. Just, he thought wryly, the more frequent one.

"Shift along, boys. No hangin' about here. There's more lads coming in and they need to stand somewhere." Sergeant Donovan had appeared, as he always did, with a crisp note in his voice as he led off with orders rather than conversation.

"Sure, Sergeant." Noon picked up his dixie and stuffed it unceremoniously into his haversack. He grinned at Barton and, with Jones, moved further down the bay, ahead of the steady flow of soldiers coming in from the rear. They were going to be forced well out of their own sector of trenches before long, Barton thought in wonderment. He held on to his mug, somehow, despite being jostled by men trying to get past him.

"Here, I got to find Teddy. We'll be goin' out soon. Don't you shoot at us while we're gone, will you?"

Barton managed a smirk. "Not worth the lead, either of you. Who else is goin' with you?"

"Georgie Gower an' Corporal Meadows. It'll be a fair little stroll in the park." The grin on Noon's face seemed only slightly forced. He clapped Barton on the shoulder and added, "Don't worry, we'll leave somethin' for you to do tomorrow. There goes Teddy. Time to go, innit?"

With that, he was gone, forging his way through the chattering crowd of men and out of sight. Barton watched for a moment before stepping up to the fire-step, his mug of tea still in hand. He peered warily over the top of the trench but saw nothing except growing darkness. Having to venture out there for any reason took some courage and while he'd gone on raids before, he'd never relished it. It might be unworthy of him but he was glad to be spared that job tonight. Standing sentry for hours was vastly preferable. With a sigh, he drained the contents of his mug in a single long swallow and tucked the mug into his haversack.

It was going to be a long night.