An Ode to the Somme Hunter Daniels
“One minute now, lads!” the lieutenant called from underneath John—
Private Edwards to the men gathered around him (His Majesty’s army had little use for first names). The detonations of German shells nearly drowned out the officer’s warning. The trenches overwhelmed his senses. The wails of the wounded and firing from the Lewis guns deafened him, the constant haze of smokey dust kept him congested, the persistent shaking of the ground thanks to those damnable new metal monstrosities numbed him, the sudden, bright flashes of the explosions blinded him, and the gas had taken away his taste.
In sixty seconds, he would be first up the ladder and over the top, and
would face down Jerry and all his wrath. He would march through the hail of lead and fire, crawl through the barbed wire barricades, and choke on noxious fumes as he had too many times before over the past two months. And it filled him with such sweet relief; it felt reminiscent of a familiar childlike fervor he had not experienced in some time. He swore it was like going home after school, that rush, running with Tom back to the waiting embrace of their mother. He found himself smiling like a madman at the thought, even as shells landed just a few meters ahead of him. He knew that today it would all be over. He would rise out of the comforting embrace of the trench’s dirt walls and simply walk. He would throw his rifle down, remove his helmet and just wait for the inevitable.
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