It is 6:30am, and I am ready. Standing almost shoulder to shoulder in a
shallow trench, I focus on the task ahead. In an hour, my commanding officer will blow
his whistle, the signal to start. At that moment, I and the rest of my brigade
will pull ourselves out of the shallow, narrow trench where we now crouch on the firesteps,
not daring to raise our heads more than necessary, lest we make ourselves a target. We are about to cross no man’s land, no
protection but the artillery at our backs and the rifles in our hands. But we must do this: to win the battle, to
crush the Germans on the other side, to help bring a swift end to this war that has taken
over the world. We must - I must - for I am a British soldier
in the trenches of the Great War. Just 24 hours ago, it was breakfast and bombardments. The artillery had been launching a barrage
against Jerry for days, day and night, from their lines behind the reserve trench - BOOM
BOOM BOOM BOOM. Meanwhile, we had our daily allotment of stale
bread and cold, questionable meat brought over from the cooking station - with some
cold tea from our individual bottles to wash it all down. The bottles used to be for petrol, and you
can taste it every time. Brick-hard biscuits washed down by fuel - that’s
the meal of a soldier. After breakfast, hygiene. As much as we’re able at least. Away from the front, we had communal baths
in old breweries and the like. Not so out here, but we do what we can. We line up for foot inspection; the medic
comes ‘round, checking to make sure the mud and damp haven’t given us trench foot. Nasty, that - if untreated, your foot decays
on your body. People have had to amputate, even died from
it. The inspections help - so do the duck platforms
we’ve put over the muddy ground beneath us - they keep a barrier between us and a
slow, painful existence. After the inspection, we change into fresh
socks and boots...while we have them. We’re in the support trench - the second
trench, just behind the front lines of the fire trench and just in front of the reserve
trench, the best place to rest, get a bit of shut-eye. We won't get to the laundry lines until we’re
cycled back out. Some of the guys also shave - the officers
think the Army needs to keep up appearances, no matter what. I don’t have to. I know I’m 19 and all, but I’ve still
got my baby face. Lots of the soldiers here do; some, I could
swear, are even younger than I am, they look 14 or 15! It’s also time to inspect and clean our
weapons. Simple, really: rifle, bayonet, and the new
Mills bombs - hand grenades. I also count my spade, the one I use when
we need to extend the trenches or make new ones. In close fighting, we’ll need everything
we can get our hands on. And of course, we make sure to keep the trench
itself free of useless debris, litter. And the rats. For some people, it’s a game to play during
our downtime, but to me, getting rid of the rats is as much a part of our cleaning duties
as...well, as shaving is to some of the others! And there’s plenty of the buggers around,
chewing on our rations, spreading lice. At least the battle’s not begun yet - they
rats really come out after some fighting, when the stench of the dead wafts through
the air, scavenging on our comrades’ flesh, carrying the blood and decay back to us as
they scamper into our dugouts. When there’s no Jerry to fight, I fight
the rats. A live rat spreads disease, and there’s
enough of that to go around as it is. Dinner comes early in the afternoon - Maconochie’s
meat stew, straight from the tin - sliced turnips, carrots, and boneless meat. Needs heating up to be edible; cold, it’s
a mankiller. Yesterday, I wrote a letter home to my mum
and sisters, letting them know of the cuisine here - mum has an in with the grocer, so I’m
hoping, maybe, she’ll get the not-so-subtle hint. Tell him he’s doing his part for the war? I try not to tell them much about what’s
happening here. For one thing, the letters are checked anyway,
to make sure we aren’t giving away any details of our plans or movements or supplies...anything
that Jerry can use against us if they intercept it. For another...well, I mean, they worry enough,
don’t they? How do I even begin to tell them that our
corps was suddenly called away from the front lines back in May for exercises, that it was
clear from our training that we were preparing for a large attack against the Germans? No, I tell them simply that I miss them, miss
her cooking, and I try to sound excited that I’m finally seeing France for the first
time, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly...ideal. Letter-writing. It helps with the post-dinner boredom. Napping, too, in the dugouts we’ve made
in the walls. Tonight, though, we’ve a gallon-bottle of
rum - seems like each dugout has their own, enough for the whole group and then some. It’s an official ration, given to us daily
in the trenches - I’ve seen people take it medicinally, I’ve seen it granted as
a reward. Tonight, it’s double the usual amount per
soldier; clearly, some Dutch courage before we go over the top. Perhaps tonight, it’s better to abstain,
just keep to my usual tot and no more. For some of the others, it’s a party atmosphere
- a few of them get roaring drunk. I hope we won’t need them. At night, they tell us to put out our cigarettes,
they’re our last ones for the night. And move up. We’re going to the fire trench...the front
line. We gather ourselves, donning our big overcoats
and our haversacks, filled with rations and supplies. Up the communication trench we go; it’s
narrow, especially with our packs. Another communication trench, parallel to
ours, is being used by the men we’re relieving so they can reach the reserve trench; another,
further down, is being used by the men who are taking our spot. A constant rotation, so no one becomes too
bogged down, too exhausted. The officers have us ready ourselves for the
dawn attack - an offensive. To relieve the French at Verdun, we’re going
to put a hurt on the German army here, by the Somme River. The five days of bombardment was just to set
the scene; Now it’s our turn to climb up into no man’s land, expose ourselves to
their guns and grenades, make it past their barbed wire and into their trench, taking
over the first line through sheer brutal force. For close on two hours, the Howitzers pound
the German lines as we line up, practically shoulder to shoulder, crouching out of sight
even as we stand on the firestep. By 6:30, we are in position. The bombardment stops, and the air, thick
with the concussive force of artillery fire, is now eerily quiet. Now we wait for the signal. An explosion further down the line - then
another. Nothing to worry about, all part of the plan
- Royal Engineers established a network of tunnels right underneath Jerry’s foot at
the frontlines...with mines underneath. 19 of them, all detonating one after the other,
giving us a chance on the surface while the enemy’s discombobulated! Now it’s our turn. July 1st, 1916. 7:30am. Not a man hesitates as the officer blows his
whistle. We rise as one and charge into no man’s
land, bullets flying.
