The Trenches by Jim Eldridge

man lost in thought. Mud rained down on him and he just crouched there. More explosions were heard. The mud wall I was pressing into shook and I thought it was going to fall on me.
    â€œI’d advise you to get into the wall, sir!” shouted a sergeant major at the Brigadier.
    The Brigadier shook his head. “Can’t ruin these boots, Sarn’t Major.” He shouted to make himself heard above the explosions. “If I’d known the Hun was going to do this I’d have worn my second-best pair.”
    There were more explosions and then the sound of whistling, and then shrapnel was flying across the top of the trench, broken sheets of metal, their edges sharp as knives. They sank into the mud above us. How none of us were killed, I don’t know. A few pieces of shrapnel fell into the trench, hissing when the hot metal met the cold water, but luckily none of them hit us.
    As soon as there was a break in the German bombardment, the Brigadier’s aide-de-camp ushered him away, along the trench to somewhere a little safer to continue his inspection.
    I heard later that further along the trench some men had been hit by shrapnel during the attack and been killed. One man had put his head above the top of the trench and a piece of shrapnel had taken his head clean off, helmet and all.
    A few days after the Brigadier’s visit word filtered down the line that another big assault was planned.
    â€œ Not again!” groaned Charlie. “Every time we do a Big Attack it ends up the same. We get 500 yards forward, then we come back, and things go on the same until the next Big Attack.”
    â€œThey say this one’s going to be different,” said Terry. “Everything’s being thrown at the Hun at the same time. Our boys, the Aussies, the Canadians, the French. Everybody going at once. They reckon we’re going to take Passchendaele Ridge.”
    â€œI can’t see the point,” Charlie shrugged. “With all this shelling that’s gone on, I bet there’s nothing left of it. It’ll just be another big hole in the ground.”
    â€œYeah,” chuckled Wally, “but it’ll be our hole in the ground, not the Germans’. Ain’t that what this war’s about?”
    We had confirmation of what Terry had heard the next day. We had a new sergeant, Sergeant Peters, and he assembled us in the mud outside our dugout.
    â€œRight, men,” he told us. “We’re going to make a big advance and push the Hun right back to Germany where he belongs. It’s going to be done with everything we’ve got: tanks, planes and men. The infantry are going over the top, but they’ll be lost without us Engineers. Without us laying cable lines right under their noses, they won’t know where they are or what’s happening. They have to be able to keep in touch with Command at all times, is that clear?”
    â€œYes, Sarge,” we responded.
    â€œ Right. For this offensive, you’re being attached to specific units. Your job is to keep them in communication, whatever happens. Morgan. Stevens.”
    â€œYes, sir!” Charlie and I said the same time.
    â€œYou’re with 74th Brigade. Crow. Parks. You’re with the 1st Battalion of the Hertfordshires.” And so on down the list, as Sergeant Peters attached us to fighting units.
    A sinking feeling came into my stomach. This was it. After all our time in the reserve trenches, now we were being pushed forward for this major assault. We were going over the top. This should have been my moment of glory, the one I’d dreamed about when I was back in Carlisle, but now, with all I’d seen of this war, so many dead and just stalemate after stalemate, it didn’t seem so glorious after all.
    0500 hours on 12 October found me and Charlie, each loaded down with rolls of cable and our tools, crouched in the darkness in a trench along with the men from the 74th Brigade of