| General Fiction posted January 24, 2015 | Chapters: |
1 1 -1- 2... 
|
  |
SHOT AT DAWN. ~ A Day in the Life of ~
A chapter in the book "OUT OF THE BLUE"
~ SHOT AT DAWN ~ pt 4
by write hand blue
by
Write Hand Blue
Part Four
A Day in the Life...
of
~ Private Herbert F. Burton ~
7th March 1915
0800 hours.
Location = The Allied front line
Ypres, France.
We all heard and knew what was coming.
Sergeant Fowler shouted, "This one has our name on it!"
I pulled down hard on my helmet and sank to my knees. Icy trench mud soaked the thick uniform material.
~~~
I watched on a distant ridge the German guns fire at our lines.
One distant bang registered and a 155mm howitzer launched another one hundred pound contact shell.
Like a hundred wolves in unison a terrible howl, a portent of nothing good rent the skies. It faded as if all danger had been dissolved by the power of good as the shell slowed down and reached its apogee. Oh! The disappointment as that monstrous black bomb showed itself for but a fleeting instant and started its journey back to earth.
A familiar whistle turned so rapidly into a dreaded screech of detestable form. A sound that a half throttled anti-Christ thrown from a large building would make. They say you hear this sound of a banshee just before oblivion. My blood pounded in my ears as I lived out this obscene man-made nightmare. I looked down unbelieving at that black mud of despair, "Is this real, am I really he—?" my question cut off, as—.
The blast wave penetrated my face and body like a huge invisible fist and ripped the air painfully from my lungs—needles pierced my ears.—The earth shook. I was thrown against the coarse scratchy sand bags—THUD—ZIP—FIZZ—SWISH the shrapnel spread out mostly overhead. Thick brown acrid smoke from the RDX explosive enveloped me. I coughed and spluttered for a second. I tried not to breathe. I felt done...
Then came the shower of earth from the near miss, just ten yards from the front of my trench. I yelped! Large and small stones rattled off my thick pressed steel helmet and made it sound like a baked bean can. My knuckles were cut and bleeding. Then that big one.—'Whack.'—I was really out of it.
As I slowly recovered my senses I became aware that I was questioning whether I still had to endure the tribulations of mortal life. Or was I somewhere quiet with angels, where the sun always shined. I wished for the latter.
A horrid metallic taste inside my mouth interrupted my thoughts. Though much worse. This reminded me of the slight taste of a large aluminium mixing spoon when I was a small boy.
Memories flashed and the sun disappeared. This was replaced by a picture of my smiling Grandmother. She passed me her mixing bowl and spoon. The sweet mixture I scrapped from the sides and greedily licked from that large spoon. "You'll get worms if you eat too much," she warned.
I always felt, "Ugh!" when she said that.
"Why the Hell am I thinking these stupid thoughts."
Reality slowly crept over me like a new day dawning.
We should be accustomed to this they told us. I had remembered to keep my mouth open while I held onto the rim of my helmet and to cover my ears with the palms of my hands.
Nearby my friend Donald Slaughter tried not to shake—but he did. The blast had left him in a deplorable state and blood trickled from his nose and ears. Blown off his feet; he sat in no comfort. The mud was a foot deep.
"You OK Donald--Donald?"
I realised he hadn't heard me. He couldn't have, because I had been unable to even hear myself. My ears rang like bells. And a mist of grey headache danced behind my eyes. I felt silly to have spoken.
I saw the vacant look in his red eyes and followed his gaze. Just above where my head had been; imbedded in a sand bag lay a large chunk of steaming shrapnel. It had missed me by the length of a cigarette packet.
Had I not dropped to my knees the shrapnel would have gone through my heart. It was my turn to shake. I noticed that my nose dripped blood.
~~~
That morning I spent some time with Donald, who had caught more of the blast than me. I wanted to send him to a first aid station. With only bruises to show, he was afraid of being accused of lingering behind the lines. He looked like an old man to me, and just twenty years old. Being short and younger, I looked like a boy next to him.
We missed breakfast today, because the cook was killed by the blast from another shell. Not a mark could be found on his body. Just one of those things. It took some time to clear up all the porridge that had been blown everywhere. We didn't give a dam about the mess, just didn't want to attract the already fat rats.
Most of us couldn't bring ourselves to eat the second lot they brought us. All except fatty Arnold of course; who eats everything.
We cursed that shell...
~~~
Lunch was cold bully beef, soggy cabbage and half cooked whole potatoes. We had to rush down this wonderful meal, because our Commanding Officer Major S Hawkins, decided to put in an appearance.
He stood looking immaculate. Wearing a monocle and with his riding stick under his arm he addressed us. I got the impression that he was miffed at having to get his mirror bright boots muddied.
"I'm imp-p-pressed with you lot. England has high expectations of the rank and file.--Sniff.--We know that we c-can depend on you to keep the Boche at bay. Not long now,—WHAT!—Just another few days and we will have you lot back behind the lines for a little R and R. You know hot s-showers and the like—WHAT EYH? (posh stuck up voice) Any Questions?" Without waiting for a reply he slapped his thigh with his leather gloves in a fashionable manner and turned to leave.
With little time to think, I just piped up.
"Why do we have to eat this pig swill,—Sir?"
As I motioned with my hand to the plates of half eaten food strewed about the rough wooden benches. I knew that I had said the wrong thing. All had gone strangely quiet. Even the gunfire had stopped. I was more aware of that, than what this clown had to say.
He turned to me and I felt doomed.
"WWWHAT--DDDO you mean?—This is far better than the food the Germans gget to eat."—Sniff—Sniff.
"Bollocks!" I half muttered under my breath so only he could hear.
The Major looked at me in flustered bewilderment. With a shake of his head, he turned to Sergeant Fowler and said in a low voice.
"Who is that—tttrouble maker?"
That is Private Burton Sir. But don't worry, he's marked his card now and I will deal with him.
"Make sure you ddddo, and most severely. We can't have this: next they will want sssilver ssservice. Dear!—Oh dear!"
With that he marched off because he knew that to leave me where I was, would be a bigger punishment than he could give. For the moment at least.
I knew I had gone too far and that I was in 'for it'. I do tend to speak without thought sometimes. With what we had been through, at that moment I was past caring.
"I'm watching you now laddie."
The Sergeant looked, caught my eye and just nodded. A feeling or something, sent a shiver down my spine—that look.
Sure enough, I was given an extra long watch of guard duty from 2000—0600 hours. He warned me. If I fell asleep I would be court-marshalled. I laughed out loud. I stood in that rain and welcomed it into my face. It trickled down my neck then my back and finally down my legs into my boots.
Despite the fact that I did nothing wrong, he accused me of smoking on duty. And ordered me to perform twenty push-ups on the mud floor. This left me filthy as well as uncomfortable for the rest of the night. He warned me that I had to be ready with immaculate kit for inspection at 0800 hours.
When the time came I knew what was in store for me. The Sergeant didn't disappoint and I ended up on jankers peeling potatoes. I hadn't had any sleep yet and wasn't sure how much of this I could stand. And I still had the shakes from that near miss from yesterday. I was worried where all this might end...
≈♦≈
by
Write Hand Blue
Part Four
A Day in the Life...
of
~ Private Herbert F. Burton ~
7th March 1915
0800 hours.
Location = The Allied front line
Ypres, France.
We all heard and knew what was coming.
Sergeant Fowler shouted, "This one has our name on it!"
I pulled down hard on my helmet and sank to my knees. Icy trench mud soaked the thick uniform material.
~~~
I watched on a distant ridge the German guns fire at our lines.
One distant bang registered and a 155mm howitzer launched another one hundred pound contact shell.
Like a hundred wolves in unison a terrible howl, a portent of nothing good rent the skies. It faded as if all danger had been dissolved by the power of good as the shell slowed down and reached its apogee. Oh! The disappointment as that monstrous black bomb showed itself for but a fleeting instant and started its journey back to earth.
A familiar whistle turned so rapidly into a dreaded screech of detestable form. A sound that a half throttled anti-Christ thrown from a large building would make. They say you hear this sound of a banshee just before oblivion. My blood pounded in my ears as I lived out this obscene man-made nightmare. I looked down unbelieving at that black mud of despair, "Is this real, am I really he—?" my question cut off, as—.
The blast wave penetrated my face and body like a huge invisible fist and ripped the air painfully from my lungs—needles pierced my ears.—The earth shook. I was thrown against the coarse scratchy sand bags—THUD—ZIP—FIZZ—SWISH the shrapnel spread out mostly overhead. Thick brown acrid smoke from the RDX explosive enveloped me. I coughed and spluttered for a second. I tried not to breathe. I felt done...
Then came the shower of earth from the near miss, just ten yards from the front of my trench. I yelped! Large and small stones rattled off my thick pressed steel helmet and made it sound like a baked bean can. My knuckles were cut and bleeding. Then that big one.—'Whack.'—I was really out of it.
As I slowly recovered my senses I became aware that I was questioning whether I still had to endure the tribulations of mortal life. Or was I somewhere quiet with angels, where the sun always shined. I wished for the latter.
A horrid metallic taste inside my mouth interrupted my thoughts. Though much worse. This reminded me of the slight taste of a large aluminium mixing spoon when I was a small boy.
Memories flashed and the sun disappeared. This was replaced by a picture of my smiling Grandmother. She passed me her mixing bowl and spoon. The sweet mixture I scrapped from the sides and greedily licked from that large spoon. "You'll get worms if you eat too much," she warned.
I always felt, "Ugh!" when she said that.
"Why the Hell am I thinking these stupid thoughts."
Reality slowly crept over me like a new day dawning.
We should be accustomed to this they told us. I had remembered to keep my mouth open while I held onto the rim of my helmet and to cover my ears with the palms of my hands.
Nearby my friend Donald Slaughter tried not to shake—but he did. The blast had left him in a deplorable state and blood trickled from his nose and ears. Blown off his feet; he sat in no comfort. The mud was a foot deep.
"You OK Donald--Donald?"
I realised he hadn't heard me. He couldn't have, because I had been unable to even hear myself. My ears rang like bells. And a mist of grey headache danced behind my eyes. I felt silly to have spoken.
I saw the vacant look in his red eyes and followed his gaze. Just above where my head had been; imbedded in a sand bag lay a large chunk of steaming shrapnel. It had missed me by the length of a cigarette packet.
Had I not dropped to my knees the shrapnel would have gone through my heart. It was my turn to shake. I noticed that my nose dripped blood.
~~~
That morning I spent some time with Donald, who had caught more of the blast than me. I wanted to send him to a first aid station. With only bruises to show, he was afraid of being accused of lingering behind the lines. He looked like an old man to me, and just twenty years old. Being short and younger, I looked like a boy next to him.
We missed breakfast today, because the cook was killed by the blast from another shell. Not a mark could be found on his body. Just one of those things. It took some time to clear up all the porridge that had been blown everywhere. We didn't give a dam about the mess, just didn't want to attract the already fat rats.
Most of us couldn't bring ourselves to eat the second lot they brought us. All except fatty Arnold of course; who eats everything.
We cursed that shell...
~~~
Lunch was cold bully beef, soggy cabbage and half cooked whole potatoes. We had to rush down this wonderful meal, because our Commanding Officer Major S Hawkins, decided to put in an appearance.
He stood looking immaculate. Wearing a monocle and with his riding stick under his arm he addressed us. I got the impression that he was miffed at having to get his mirror bright boots muddied.
"I'm imp-p-pressed with you lot. England has high expectations of the rank and file.--Sniff.--We know that we c-can depend on you to keep the Boche at bay. Not long now,—WHAT!—Just another few days and we will have you lot back behind the lines for a little R and R. You know hot s-showers and the like—WHAT EYH? (posh stuck up voice) Any Questions?" Without waiting for a reply he slapped his thigh with his leather gloves in a fashionable manner and turned to leave.
With little time to think, I just piped up.
"Why do we have to eat this pig swill,—Sir?"
As I motioned with my hand to the plates of half eaten food strewed about the rough wooden benches. I knew that I had said the wrong thing. All had gone strangely quiet. Even the gunfire had stopped. I was more aware of that, than what this clown had to say.
He turned to me and I felt doomed.
"WWWHAT--DDDO you mean?—This is far better than the food the Germans gget to eat."—Sniff—Sniff.
"Bollocks!" I half muttered under my breath so only he could hear.
The Major looked at me in flustered bewilderment. With a shake of his head, he turned to Sergeant Fowler and said in a low voice.
"Who is that—tttrouble maker?"
That is Private Burton Sir. But don't worry, he's marked his card now and I will deal with him.
"Make sure you ddddo, and most severely. We can't have this: next they will want sssilver ssservice. Dear!—Oh dear!"
With that he marched off because he knew that to leave me where I was, would be a bigger punishment than he could give. For the moment at least.
I knew I had gone too far and that I was in 'for it'. I do tend to speak without thought sometimes. With what we had been through, at that moment I was past caring.
"I'm watching you now laddie."
The Sergeant looked, caught my eye and just nodded. A feeling or something, sent a shiver down my spine—that look.
Sure enough, I was given an extra long watch of guard duty from 2000—0600 hours. He warned me. If I fell asleep I would be court-marshalled. I laughed out loud. I stood in that rain and welcomed it into my face. It trickled down my neck then my back and finally down my legs into my boots.
Despite the fact that I did nothing wrong, he accused me of smoking on duty. And ordered me to perform twenty push-ups on the mud floor. This left me filthy as well as uncomfortable for the rest of the night. He warned me that I had to be ready with immaculate kit for inspection at 0800 hours.
When the time came I knew what was in store for me. The Sergeant didn't disappoint and I ended up on jankers peeling potatoes. I hadn't had any sleep yet and wasn't sure how much of this I could stand. And I still had the shakes from that near miss from yesterday. I was worried where all this might end...
≈♦≈
Write Hand Blue
Part Four
A Day in the Life...
of
~ Private Herbert F. Burton ~
7th March 1915
0800 hours.
Location = The Allied front line
Ypres, France.
We all heard and knew what was coming.
Sergeant Fowler shouted, "This one has our name on it!"
I pulled down hard on my helmet and sank to my knees. Icy trench mud soaked the thick uniform material.
~~~
I watched on a distant ridge the German guns fire at our lines.
One distant bang registered and a 155mm howitzer launched another one hundred pound contact shell.
Like a hundred wolves in unison a terrible howl, a portent of nothing good rent the skies. It faded as if all danger had been dissolved by the power of good as the shell slowed down and reached its apogee. Oh! The disappointment as that monstrous black bomb showed itself for but a fleeting instant and started its journey back to earth.
A familiar whistle turned so rapidly into a dreaded screech of detestable form. A sound that a half throttled anti-Christ thrown from a large building would make. They say you hear this sound of a banshee just before oblivion. My blood pounded in my ears as I lived out this obscene man-made nightmare. I looked down unbelieving at that black mud of despair, "Is this real, am I really he—?" my question cut off, as—.
The blast wave penetrated my face and body like a huge invisible fist and ripped the air painfully from my lungs—needles pierced my ears.—The earth shook. I was thrown against the coarse scratchy sand bags—THUD—ZIP—FIZZ—SWISH the shrapnel spread out mostly overhead. Thick brown acrid smoke from the RDX explosive enveloped me. I coughed and spluttered for a second. I tried not to breathe. I felt done...
Then came the shower of earth from the near miss, just ten yards from the front of my trench. I yelped! Large and small stones rattled off my thick pressed steel helmet and made it sound like a baked bean can. My knuckles were cut and bleeding. Then that big one.—'Whack.'—I was really out of it.
As I slowly recovered my senses I became aware that I was questioning whether I still had to endure the tribulations of mortal life. Or was I somewhere quiet with angels, where the sun always shined. I wished for the latter.
A horrid metallic taste inside my mouth interrupted my thoughts. Though much worse. This reminded me of the slight taste of a large aluminium mixing spoon when I was a small boy.
Memories flashed and the sun disappeared. This was replaced by a picture of my smiling Grandmother. She passed me her mixing bowl and spoon. The sweet mixture I scrapped from the sides and greedily licked from that large spoon. "You'll get worms if you eat too much," she warned.
I always felt, "Ugh!" when she said that.
"Why the Hell am I thinking these stupid thoughts."
Reality slowly crept over me like a new day dawning.
We should be accustomed to this they told us. I had remembered to keep my mouth open while I held onto the rim of my helmet and to cover my ears with the palms of my hands.
Nearby my friend Donald Slaughter tried not to shake—but he did. The blast had left him in a deplorable state and blood trickled from his nose and ears. Blown off his feet; he sat in no comfort. The mud was a foot deep.
"You OK Donald--Donald?"
I realised he hadn't heard me. He couldn't have, because I had been unable to even hear myself. My ears rang like bells. And a mist of grey headache danced behind my eyes. I felt silly to have spoken.
I saw the vacant look in his red eyes and followed his gaze. Just above where my head had been; imbedded in a sand bag lay a large chunk of steaming shrapnel. It had missed me by the length of a cigarette packet.
Had I not dropped to my knees the shrapnel would have gone through my heart. It was my turn to shake. I noticed that my nose dripped blood.
~~~
That morning I spent some time with Donald, who had caught more of the blast than me. I wanted to send him to a first aid station. With only bruises to show, he was afraid of being accused of lingering behind the lines. He looked like an old man to me, and just twenty years old. Being short and younger, I looked like a boy next to him.
We missed breakfast today, because the cook was killed by the blast from another shell. Not a mark could be found on his body. Just one of those things. It took some time to clear up all the porridge that had been blown everywhere. We didn't give a dam about the mess, just didn't want to attract the already fat rats.
Most of us couldn't bring ourselves to eat the second lot they brought us. All except fatty Arnold of course; who eats everything.
We cursed that shell...
~~~
Lunch was cold bully beef, soggy cabbage and half cooked whole potatoes. We had to rush down this wonderful meal, because our Commanding Officer Major S Hawkins, decided to put in an appearance.
He stood looking immaculate. Wearing a monocle and with his riding stick under his arm he addressed us. I got the impression that he was miffed at having to get his mirror bright boots muddied.
"I'm imp-p-pressed with you lot. England has high expectations of the rank and file.--Sniff.--We know that we c-can depend on you to keep the Boche at bay. Not long now,—WHAT!—Just another few days and we will have you lot back behind the lines for a little R and R. You know hot s-showers and the like—WHAT EYH? (posh stuck up voice) Any Questions?" Without waiting for a reply he slapped his thigh with his leather gloves in a fashionable manner and turned to leave.
With little time to think, I just piped up.
"Why do we have to eat this pig swill,—Sir?"
As I motioned with my hand to the plates of half eaten food strewed about the rough wooden benches. I knew that I had said the wrong thing. All had gone strangely quiet. Even the gunfire had stopped. I was more aware of that, than what this clown had to say.
He turned to me and I felt doomed.
"WWWHAT--DDDO you mean?—This is far better than the food the Germans gget to eat."—Sniff—Sniff.
"Bollocks!" I half muttered under my breath so only he could hear.
The Major looked at me in flustered bewilderment. With a shake of his head, he turned to Sergeant Fowler and said in a low voice.
"Who is that—tttrouble maker?"
That is Private Burton Sir. But don't worry, he's marked his card now and I will deal with him.
"Make sure you ddddo, and most severely. We can't have this: next they will want sssilver ssservice. Dear!—Oh dear!"
With that he marched off because he knew that to leave me where I was, would be a bigger punishment than he could give. For the moment at least.
I knew I had gone too far and that I was in 'for it'. I do tend to speak without thought sometimes. With what we had been through, at that moment I was past caring.
"I'm watching you now laddie."
The Sergeant looked, caught my eye and just nodded. A feeling or something, sent a shiver down my spine—that look.
Sure enough, I was given an extra long watch of guard duty from 2000—0600 hours. He warned me. If I fell asleep I would be court-marshalled. I laughed out loud. I stood in that rain and welcomed it into my face. It trickled down my neck then my back and finally down my legs into my boots.
Despite the fact that I did nothing wrong, he accused me of smoking on duty. And ordered me to perform twenty push-ups on the mud floor. This left me filthy as well as uncomfortable for the rest of the night. He warned me that I had to be ready with immaculate kit for inspection at 0800 hours.
When the time came I knew what was in store for me. The Sergeant didn't disappoint and I ended up on jankers peeling potatoes. I hadn't had any sleep yet and wasn't sure how much of this I could stand. And I still had the shakes from that near miss from yesterday. I was worried where all this might end...
≈♦≈
 Recognized |
On the 21st July 1915. Seventeen year old Private Herbert Francis Burden, of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was executed for desertion.
The 'Shot At Dawn' statue is a likeness of Herbert.
This fictional account has been written under the name 'Burton' in memory of Private Herbert Francis Burden and is not meant to be interpreted as his personal actions. Only a scenario that may or may not be near the truth.
To execute any soldier for this sort of crime is in my opinion reprehensible, even in war time. But a boy of seventeen is beyond understanding.
Perhaps he was sensitive and not suited to battle, or perhaps he was like the one in the story and didn't give a shit. Because of his size he would have been bullied by upper ranks. And perhaps made an easy example to the rest of the rank and file. Or perhaps the reverse is true and he got under their skins.
It may seem that I have singled out officers for criticism in my story, but they bear the responsibility for those detached, incompetent, maladroit and I suspect murderously spiteful executions.
No officers were executed during WW1. If they suffered from shell shock it was described as something like neuralgia and sent home. This was blatantly different to the treatment of the rank and file on the front line, were this disease didn't exist (it wasn't allowed).
I know that officers had a proportionally high attrition rate. But there was a huge difference in the way the two classes were regarded and treated.
This writing could be regarded as a memorial to all men who lost their lives during WW1.
Once again I humbly thank you for reading my work.
:) Mel.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. The 'Shot At Dawn' statue is a likeness of Herbert.
This fictional account has been written under the name 'Burton' in memory of Private Herbert Francis Burden and is not meant to be interpreted as his personal actions. Only a scenario that may or may not be near the truth.
To execute any soldier for this sort of crime is in my opinion reprehensible, even in war time. But a boy of seventeen is beyond understanding.
Perhaps he was sensitive and not suited to battle, or perhaps he was like the one in the story and didn't give a shit. Because of his size he would have been bullied by upper ranks. And perhaps made an easy example to the rest of the rank and file. Or perhaps the reverse is true and he got under their skins.
It may seem that I have singled out officers for criticism in my story, but they bear the responsibility for those detached, incompetent, maladroit and I suspect murderously spiteful executions.
No officers were executed during WW1. If they suffered from shell shock it was described as something like neuralgia and sent home. This was blatantly different to the treatment of the rank and file on the front line, were this disease didn't exist (it wasn't allowed).
I know that officers had a proportionally high attrition rate. But there was a huge difference in the way the two classes were regarded and treated.
This writing could be regarded as a memorial to all men who lost their lives during WW1.
Once again I humbly thank you for reading my work.
:) Mel.
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. write hand blue All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
write hand blue has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
