Post by franklinmarsh on Oct 30, 2009 21:54:56 GMT
The mournful notes of the harmonica drifted on the air. All of the lads thought of back home. Wives, girlfriends, parents, grandparents. Decorating the tree, putting out the presents, cooking the meal…
Sergeant Croker spat out his roll-up, and looked out across No-Man’s Land. Mist drifted across the small strip of mud , bordered by barbed wire. It was quiet
Croker squinted. He thought he could see movement. What were they up to? Not an attack? Not tonight?
He unshouldered his Lee-Enfield, and aimed it between two sandbags, out across the partially obscured terrain, towards the enemy.
“Trouble, Sarge?” a voice breathed in his ear. Corporal Gibbs.
“Movement, “ whispered Croker.
The mouth organ had fallen silent, and the sergeant was aware of an increasing tension within the trench. He heard small sounds; helmets being placed on heads, rifles cocked, bodies moving forward to look out of their stronghold.
Croker’s finger tightened on the trigger. It took an incredible effort to control it as an item flew out of the mist and landed in the mud in front of them. The sergeant was frozen. He became aware of exhalations of relief around him.
“If it’s a bomb, it’s a dud!”
“I thought is was a ‘ead!”
“Don’t move, lads,” he whispered.
A flare rocketed up from their opposite numbers, exploding an unearthly whiteness across the sky, harshly exposing the wasteland before them.
“It’s a football,” gasped Mathers, the young private with the harmonica. “Sir? Do you think they want ….a game?”
“Keep still,” said Gibbs, quietly, but with an undertone of menace.
Croker increased the pressure on the trigger of his rifle as the figures began to appear from within the mist. He could hear laughter, words drunkenly spoken in a foreign language. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
The flare, fizzing and burning brightly under its little parachute, hit the ground. The light now came from beneath the figures standing in front of the trench, giving them an unnatural appearance.
Croker brushed away the sweat and frowned. He couldn’t quite make out the faces under the helmets. Were these men mad? He should open fire, and order Gibbs and the lads to do the same, but something about these….things made him hold back. They seemed unarmed. They had just upped and walked over from the other trench….or had they? He’d only seen them emerge from the mist.
His hands on the rifle began to tremble.
One of the mysterious figures threw something into their trench. The soldiers drew back.
“What is it?” Croker practically screamed. Mathers gingerly prodded the package with his rifle.
“Well?” grunted Gibbs.
“It’s….it’s….sweets, Sir.”
The young man sounded almost embarrassed.
“What?” ejaculated the sergeant.
“Sweets.”
“What sort?”
“Don’t know, Sir. They’re not marked. Just little things wrapped up like….sweets.”
“Don’t touch ‘em!” barked Gibbs. “Might be poisoned.”
The figures in front of Croker almost seemed to float within the mist. One would eddy toward him. He’d re-aim his rifle, the figure would drift back and another would edge forward. He couldn’t keep tabs on them all simultaneously, and, as a group, they all seemed to be nearer to him.
“Corp,” he said, “ shoot one of ‘em.”
“Sir?”
Gibbs sounded hesitant.
“Shoot one. Now.”
“Sir.”
The corporal hefted his rifle and took aim. The creatures backed away, but not too far. The report from the rifle was curiously muffled. Croker watched one of things jerk back. It screamed. Hideously. In the shadows under the wraith’s helmet, Croker could see a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. It wasn’t human. And it remained standing.
The other things had circled anxiously after the shot and flinched at the sound of their comrade’s pain. Emboldened by his refusal to fall, they all spread their arms, like Death Angel wings, and advanced upon the trench.
“Rapid fire!” bellowed Croker. “Mark your targets!”
The small band of soldiers didn’t move. The sergeant looked round in despair.
“Come on, lads! I said….”
He felt the cold hand of Death upon him and turned to confront the thing that seized his tunic. The mouth opened obscenely and unnaturally wide, stinking stringy saliva dripped from the fangs.
He forced his head to the side, to see his paralysed troops being overwhelmed by the gliding creatures, sighing more than screaming as the things covered them.
Croker didn’t feel any pain, more a weakening, as if his life essence were being drained. He looked back across the mist-shrouded No-Man’s Land, and saw more of the creatures descending into the enemy’s positions. The enemy? They had a common enemy. He must inform….
Darkness descended.
END
Sergeant Croker spat out his roll-up, and looked out across No-Man’s Land. Mist drifted across the small strip of mud , bordered by barbed wire. It was quiet
Croker squinted. He thought he could see movement. What were they up to? Not an attack? Not tonight?
He unshouldered his Lee-Enfield, and aimed it between two sandbags, out across the partially obscured terrain, towards the enemy.
“Trouble, Sarge?” a voice breathed in his ear. Corporal Gibbs.
“Movement, “ whispered Croker.
The mouth organ had fallen silent, and the sergeant was aware of an increasing tension within the trench. He heard small sounds; helmets being placed on heads, rifles cocked, bodies moving forward to look out of their stronghold.
Croker’s finger tightened on the trigger. It took an incredible effort to control it as an item flew out of the mist and landed in the mud in front of them. The sergeant was frozen. He became aware of exhalations of relief around him.
“If it’s a bomb, it’s a dud!”
“I thought is was a ‘ead!”
“Don’t move, lads,” he whispered.
A flare rocketed up from their opposite numbers, exploding an unearthly whiteness across the sky, harshly exposing the wasteland before them.
“It’s a football,” gasped Mathers, the young private with the harmonica. “Sir? Do you think they want ….a game?”
“Keep still,” said Gibbs, quietly, but with an undertone of menace.
Croker increased the pressure on the trigger of his rifle as the figures began to appear from within the mist. He could hear laughter, words drunkenly spoken in a foreign language. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
The flare, fizzing and burning brightly under its little parachute, hit the ground. The light now came from beneath the figures standing in front of the trench, giving them an unnatural appearance.
Croker brushed away the sweat and frowned. He couldn’t quite make out the faces under the helmets. Were these men mad? He should open fire, and order Gibbs and the lads to do the same, but something about these….things made him hold back. They seemed unarmed. They had just upped and walked over from the other trench….or had they? He’d only seen them emerge from the mist.
His hands on the rifle began to tremble.
One of the mysterious figures threw something into their trench. The soldiers drew back.
“What is it?” Croker practically screamed. Mathers gingerly prodded the package with his rifle.
“Well?” grunted Gibbs.
“It’s….it’s….sweets, Sir.”
The young man sounded almost embarrassed.
“What?” ejaculated the sergeant.
“Sweets.”
“What sort?”
“Don’t know, Sir. They’re not marked. Just little things wrapped up like….sweets.”
“Don’t touch ‘em!” barked Gibbs. “Might be poisoned.”
The figures in front of Croker almost seemed to float within the mist. One would eddy toward him. He’d re-aim his rifle, the figure would drift back and another would edge forward. He couldn’t keep tabs on them all simultaneously, and, as a group, they all seemed to be nearer to him.
“Corp,” he said, “ shoot one of ‘em.”
“Sir?”
Gibbs sounded hesitant.
“Shoot one. Now.”
“Sir.”
The corporal hefted his rifle and took aim. The creatures backed away, but not too far. The report from the rifle was curiously muffled. Croker watched one of things jerk back. It screamed. Hideously. In the shadows under the wraith’s helmet, Croker could see a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. It wasn’t human. And it remained standing.
The other things had circled anxiously after the shot and flinched at the sound of their comrade’s pain. Emboldened by his refusal to fall, they all spread their arms, like Death Angel wings, and advanced upon the trench.
“Rapid fire!” bellowed Croker. “Mark your targets!”
The small band of soldiers didn’t move. The sergeant looked round in despair.
“Come on, lads! I said….”
He felt the cold hand of Death upon him and turned to confront the thing that seized his tunic. The mouth opened obscenely and unnaturally wide, stinking stringy saliva dripped from the fangs.
He forced his head to the side, to see his paralysed troops being overwhelmed by the gliding creatures, sighing more than screaming as the things covered them.
Croker didn’t feel any pain, more a weakening, as if his life essence were being drained. He looked back across the mist-shrouded No-Man’s Land, and saw more of the creatures descending into the enemy’s positions. The enemy? They had a common enemy. He must inform….
Darkness descended.
END