The Heavy Barrage
A Short Story of the First World War
The early morning skies were ominous, with thick gray clouds presiding over the French countryside near the Avre River.
The rain had picked up some, further reducing visibility and adding to Sergeant Davis’ dismay while looking through his wooden periscope.
“Hard to make anything out,” he said, shaking his head and stepping off the fire step.
Davis was a man in his mid-thirties, considered an old lion amongst many. The sergeant was on the front lines, hunkered down with hundreds of other men spread across the trench.
Nearly all of Britain’s 14th Light Division consisted of seasoned soldiers who had seen many hard days fighting. They were anticipating more action from ‘Fritz’ (Fritz being the pejorative term many of them used for the Germans) and held no preconceived notions that this day would be any easier than the one before.
At least, that was what Sergeant Davis thought upon hearing the news from Captain Cortland earlier that morning. More guns had been summoned to the forefront, with many Vickers Machine Guns carefully propped up along the front lines. Some gun crews were also situated in nearby embankments just beyond the trench.
Also consisting of the defensive network were the Ordnance QF 18-pounders. These eighty-four-millimeter guns had an effective long-range, providing some support. They were stretched out nearest to the direction of the Avre River.
Direct support, however, came from beyond the reserve trenches where the BL 8-inch Howitzers were being positioned. The pulverizing artillery brought forth a cruel but magnificent symphony of high-explosive ordnance that decimated fixed enemy positions and advancing forces.
Throughout the war, they proved extraordinarily useful in breaking up large-scale assaults and, on many occasions, kept Davis and his men alive under heavy fire.
It was no surprise to the sergeant when Captain Cortland asked Davis about them.
“Have you communicated with artillery about their status?”
The pale-looking officer with piercing blue eyes asked, inquiring about the Howitzers.
Lifting his helmet, Davis answered succinctly.
“Yes, sir, they’re moving the remaining guns into place. They should be set within half an hour.”
“Within half an hour?” he said, repeating what Davis told him. Captain Cortland was caught off guard by the delay. His sour expression said as much. Bloody artillery should be ready at a moment’s notice, he thought.
“Can’t those men move any faster?” the captain asked.
“A couple of the Holts are giving them trouble. Pulling the Howitzers into place with those tractors is taking longer than expected,” Davis answered. “Muddy ground and uneven terrain are making it more of a challenge.”
“They said as much?” Cortland raised his eyebrows at Davis.
Davis could tell the captain was on edge but didn’t hold it against him.
“They didn’t say much else.”
Looking down at his watch, the captain took notice of the time.
“Right,” the captain conceded, somewhat resigned to the delay.
“Have the men ready at their positions.”
“Sir,” the sergeant affirmed.
“Sergeant,” the captain caught Davis as he turned about and started moving down the trench. “Best to make sure everyone has their gas masks on hand, too.”
The captain wanted them to be well-prepared. Knowing what the morning’s intelligence reports had cited, he believed it was in everyone’s best interest to expect the worst. Yet, it still wasn’t easy for Sergeant Davis to hear.
Davis nodded before the near-deafening noise of artillery rumbled through the sky, and the shouting from one of the privates broke the relative quietness of the morning.
“Sir, incoming!”
Simultaneously looking up, Cortland and Davis saw a series of rounds streak overhead, trails of an orange glow brightening the skies. The ordnance landed, but not where they were expecting.
“They’re targeting the artillery!” the captain observed.
Chaos ensued, and it would not soon dissipate. More shells hit — this time a few hundred yards short of the front line. Sergeant Davis instinctively rushed back over to the fire step of the trench to get a better look at what was happening.
Thick plumes of smoke started creeping out from the exploded ordnance.
“Masks! Get the masks on right now!” Sergeant Davis shouted at the top of his lungs before putting one over his face.
The men closest to him hurriedly mimicked the sergeant’s action, while others further down the line were a bit slower. Captain Cortland fumbled about, desperately trying to cover up before the gas swamped their trench.
Additional volleys from German positions thundered through, pounding the front lines. Innumerable pieces of shrapnel flung in every direction, some of which came into the trench, slashing one private’s throat. The man fell dead to the ground while others watched helplessly as it happened.
Sergeant Davis saw it as well through foggy-covered eyelids. He lamented, but not just for that private’s sake. Davis suspected there would be many more like him before the day ended.
In the distance, they could faintly hear the sporadic fire from their artillery answer back, but at nowhere near the same rate as the German guns. Captain Cortland believed their artillery had been badly bruised by the heavy barrage. My God in heaven, he thought, clutching his revolver ever so tightly.
Minutes later, the gas began creeping into the British trenches. Everyone collectively took in whatever deep breaths they could through their masks. Each of them mimicked persons who were diving underwater.
Ordnance continued to rip through the ground, kicking up dirt that splashed right into the ditches. Davis leaped away from the fire step and came alongside his soldiers in the lower part of the earthworks for better cover. From the corner of his eye, Sergeant Davis could make out some of his men crouching down.
“Keep your courage, lads,” Davis said, though he was not sure anyone within earshot could hear him.
Corporal Hastings, one of his squad mates, nudged him on the shoulder. He was a stoic fellow who was not easily rattled by fire. The corporal held out a single cigarette for Davis. It was his way of showing respect for the sergeant’s exhortation.
Davis looked at the cigarette and then glanced up at Hastings. He nodded without saying a word, taking the smoke and putting it in his pocket. Hastings turned his attention forward — his face vanishing through the mist of the gas like some ominous phantom.
The shelling continued for a good while before tapering off. Davis could hear a few men coughing through their masks. No doubt some of those lads had not correctly fastened their face coverings. They would be subject to the consequences.
Captain Cortland stepped toward the periscope to see if he could make anything out but was promptly shot in the shoulder as he approached the fire step.
Again, all hell started breaking loose as many of the Vickers erupted, laying down fire across no man’s land. The men in the trenches stepped forward and stepped up, presenting their rifles above the trench, and began firing.
Sergeant Davis could see the silhouettes of troops coming forth from the fog, running wildly at them. The indignation of his majesty’s soldiers took hold of the men, who unrepentantly cut down many of the enemies. Gunners and riflemen alike did their part in stockpiling the dead.
The Germans were crashing before their lines like waves against a seawall. Sergeant Davis saw one running straight toward him. He had no time to take careful aim at the enemy, as he hadn’t noticed him until the last moment. Davis popped off three rounds. Two of them missed, but the third struck the side of the man’s hip. It was enough to bring him down.
Davis breathed a deep sigh of relief, knowing he had to reload his weapon. Slamming a fresh cartridge into the base of his rifle, Davis again trained it towards no man’s land. This time, he fired more precisely, taking out two men with four rounds.
Looking to either side of him, the men still held their positions. Davis then noticed Captain Cortland returning to his feet, firing some shots from his pistol. Though badly injured, he was still directing his men. Davis took pride in seeing every man still capable of fighting, especially his commanding officer, pull his weight.
“Sergeant! Sergeant! Vickers jammed up,” Davis could hear one of the muffled voices of private Sharpe calling out to him.
Sergeant Davis quickly turned his attention to the young lad.
The sarge had a knack for handling weapons that other people didn’t. Naturally, when his mates were at a total loss, they hoped he could figure it out quicker than any of them. This was one of those occasions.
“What is it?!” the sarge yelled before being interrupted by additional rounds that landed directly into the trench.
Men screamed as the blasts knocked nearly everyone to the ground. Davis was slow in getting up, as were some of the others. The explosion was so jarring that his equilibrium was utterly thrown into disarray. He used his rifle as support to get back up to his feet.
Davis turned his head and saw to the left of him a portion of the trench had entirely collapsed, with a partition of muddy earth and unquenchable fire now left in its wake. Many of his men and their commanding officers were on the other side.
He could hear loud machine gunshots go off, indicating that some were still alive. There was, however, no way to get over to them. Corporal Hastings grabbed the sergeant by the shoulder and pulled him over in the other direction.
Davis was rattled, not knowing who was tugging at him at first.
“Sir, we gotta pull back from here!” Hastings yelled.
“What?!” the sergeant responded, not believing what Hastings was saying.
“Sir, we gotta pull back before Fritz completely levels this section!”
Hastings grabbed at his sergeant and another man, Private William Jupp, a young blonde-headed, blue-eyed scrapper assisted, knowing they also had precious little time before every one of them was killed.
“There’s men still on the other side. We can’t just leave ’em there!” Sergeant Davis protested.
He could no longer control his movements, trying to break free from the two. A mob of panicking English troops swarmed into the section, leading them away from the front lines.
It was like trying to swim against a riptide for Davis. The more he struggled, the further away he wound up.
More rounds hit. Davis could barely see anything before him as the encompassing debris and fog from the gas settled into the trench. All he could do was move with the violent tide.
“Hastings, Hastings, with me!” he shouted, not realizing he was right beside him.
“Yeah, Sarge, I’m on you!” he answered.
“Get to the dugout for our mortars! We need something to give ’em time and break up the assault.” Davis shouted in an attempt to provide those trapped up front with relief. “We’re turning back around once this bottleneck clears out!” the sarge ordered, still wondering if he’d even heard him amid the shouts, screams, gunfire, and explosions around them.
“Yeah!” Hastings screamed as loud as he could back to him.
Men continued spilling through the long corridors of the trench, having to work from memory to get a handle on their direction. The gas had worked so thoroughly that it was almost impossible to see ahead of them.
Gunfire erupted from a machine gun, wildly spraying within the narrow enclosure of the trench. Davis hastily crouched down despite the risk of being trampled to death. Most of the others did likewise, with a few exceptions. Private Billy Jupp froze as more rounds rattled off. He screamed at the top of his lungs, but no one could hear anything but the gunfire.
Multiple bullets struck his body, tearing Billy to pieces. He collapsed right on top of Davis. Others also could be heard getting riddled with bullets. Davis, desperately moving to one side, took hold of his rifle and aimed it, not seeing anything save for a flash from the muzzle through thick, gray smoke.
The brief flashes of light through the condensed mixture of smoke and gas were the only thing that gave Davis any sense of direction after peeking his head from among the litany of prone soldiers.
Once more, an instance of cascading gunfire riddled a few more helpless men’s bodies. As quickly as it erupted, it was soon switched off by two well-placed shots from Hastings.
“Got ‘im!” he shouted through his mask.
Davis was relieved. Standing back up, he nodded appreciatively at Hastings before signaling forward. Some men followed, while others were stopped by fear of what else was before them.
Davis squeezed through the frozen horde of terrified men, with Hastings closely following behind him.
As they approached, they saw the dead body Hastings had dropped moments before. ‘Fritz’ lay slumped down over a Vickers he co-opted earlier from some poor bastard he had gotten the drop on.
“They’re ahead of us,” Davis said, unsettled by the thought.
He supposed the earlier bombardment from German artillery made a doorway for some of them to slip through. Davis took a deep breath while clutching his weapon.
“We’ve gotta get some firepower and bring it to the front. Mortars, we’ll need mortars!” Davis repeated.
Hastings nodded as if he understood perfectly. Turning his attention to the unobstructed corner, Davis was met with another enemy combatant who had no weapon save for his hands.
“What are we doing?!” the man frantically screamed through his mask in German, expecting Davis to understand him. Immediately grabbing Davis’ rifle, he tried desperately to wrench it away from him. The whites of his knuckles swelled as Davis ferociously held on, denying Fritz the opportunity to take his weapon.
“Was machen wir im land? Keiner von uns sollte hier sein. Keiner!” he yelled, coughing and deliriously shouting what they were doing in this country and that neither should be there. Neither one. Davis saw first-hand the increasingly erratic behavior of the soldier, likening him to a wild animal.
Wresting his rifle away from the German’s grip, Davis managed to retain his weapon, though he could not hold back the rage from nearly having it stripped away. Knowing there was no other recourse for the German soldier but flight, he looked to rush past Davis.
Summoning personal reserves, Davis could ill afford to let the man pass. Swinging the butt of his rifle, he cracked the back of the German’s skull, unleashing a deluge of blood that stained both him and Hastings.
The pace of Davis’ breathing increased. The sounds of enemy fire drew closer, and the fog from the gas persisted.
“Sir, we gotta keep moving!” Hastings urged, patting Davis on the back of his shoulder.
“On me!” Sergeant Davis yelled, snapping out of it and heading toward the dugout around the corner less than a few hundred feet down to his right.
His back slid against the corner of the wooden wall, with some other men arbitrarily following.
None of them could see a foot in front of them. There was no telling if any other portions of the trench were compromised with lurking enemies waiting to cut them down.
The sweat was rolling into the whites of Davis’ eyes, temporarily impairing his field of vision. “Damn it!” Davis cussed, starting to panic. He took hold of himself before anyone could notice his growing anxiety.
The fog temporarily parted whenever Davis and a few soldiers still behind him would go through. However, as one man would start to press forward, each would be summarily enveloped by the dense and persisting gas clouds, losing sight of the man before him. They were like wandering spirits traveling along the path of a perpetually muddled labyrinth.
Davis moistened his chapped lips with the edge of his tongue but found himself unable to swallow. His mouth was parched, and his throat thirsting. Davis would give anything to get a few good swigs from his canteen but knew taking off his mask would likely cost him his life. Every step taken would be a harsh reminder to him as the small metal tin would slap against the side of his hip.
Despite the groanings of his flesh, he could ill afford to remain so distracted as more pressing business was at hand. Davis believed they were closing in on the dugout. At least it was only a matter of time before they got there.
More rounds from afar sounded off, whistling through the air and closing in on the trench. Davis heard himself yell but wondered if anyone could hear him.
“Incoming!” he screamed, shouting to the heavens. The projectile felt like it had landed right on top of them.
Davis’ head was tethered to the ground as he struggled to get back to his feet. He felt a hand come across his shoulders.
“Store house is gone, sir. We gotta get to the reserves…” Corporal Hastings urged.
Davis could only make out some of what he said as the ringing in his ears persisted. He nodded at Hastings like some stumbling drunkard struggling to get back up.
The rest of the men had taken shrapnel or been buried under rubble. There was nothing either one of them could do for their comrades. Taking a look at some of the bodies that lay partially submerged in the dirt was a sobering reminder for Davis that compelled him to press forward.
The fog from the smoke and gas was lifting the further Davis and Hastings traveled. Hastings was the first to notice the sign that pointed them in the right direction. Davis nodded as both men rushed toward a lengthy open corridor that led them beyond the trench and into the reserve area.
The situation was chaotic, with men running to and fro, some dodging enemy fire, others collecting the dead or wounded, while a select few stood fast. Those manning their positions primarily consisted of men grouped near the few howitzers left operable.
Davis set his sights on a particular field piece that was aimed closest to the direction of where his men were fighting for their lives. He rushed over as fast as he could while Corporal Hastings followed.
“Sir! Sir!” he repeatedly screamed through his mask at the lieutenant, begging to get the man’s attention.
Lieutenant Lowell, at first, couldn’t hear him, with all the rounds continuing to pop off. Davis then brazenly grabbed at the lieutenant, startling him.
He was met with a ferocious, wild-eyed glare from a red-faced officer who’d seen one too many meals.
“What the bloody hell?!”
Before Davis could respond, he was dressed down by the lieutenant.
“Well out with it! And take off that damn mask!” he ordered while holding a damp handkerchief against his nose and mouth.
Realizing the gas had dissipated, Davis obliged him, as did Hastings.
“Sir, I need you to adjust fire. I’ve got men trapped up at the front lines, sir!”
“And I’ve got them trapped back here,” Lowell dismissively answered. “Yours just have the greater misfortune.”
Both Davis and Hastings were equally stunned by the callous remark.
“Sir!” Sergeant Davis protested.
Lowell met Davis’ eyes with hardened indifference and gripped him by the shoulder, urging him to look at what he saw.
“Look there, Sergeant,” Lowell said, pointing and speaking loud enough into his ear so he could hear and understand.
“The ammo stockpiles are scattered. Many of our guns have been hit by enemy fire. My orders are to gather what remains of our shells and shoot the guns targeting Villers-Bretonneux, not break up front line assaults.”
“Sir!” Davis started to say before being cut off.
“That’s what your men are for!” Lowell incredulously snapped, utterly dismissing what Davis had to say. “At least were,” he self-corrected.
Davis was seething at the lieutenant’s unwillingness to offer any meaningful assistance. He had reached his tipping point.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled, no longer able to keep his composure.
One of Lowell’s men took Davis’ back, nearly wrestling him down to his knees. Hastings summarily responded once it happened, putting his hands towards Lowell’s subordinate. Sergeant Eastmund was nearby, immediately taking notice of the scrap, and quickly rushed over from his artillery station.
“Sir?” the middle-aged Englishman inquired of his lieutenant, patting him on the shoulder.
“Sergeant, draw your weapon and escort these bastards to the stocks!”
“My men! My men are still there! They’re trapped!” Davis protested, exhaustingly shaking his head at them.
“Sir, what’s he going on about?” Eastmund uttered, with an undertone of sympathy in his voice.
“What the hell are you waiting on?! That’s an order, Sergeant Eastmund!” Lowell yelled just as more incoming fire landed.
The impact shook the ground beneath every man’s feet. Another series of accurate rounds drew closer, causing fiery explosions and sending everyone to the dirt. Davis was screaming at the top of his lungs, half-expecting them to burst. Glancing toward Corporal Hastings, Davis saw him curling up, hands over his head and shaking.
Despite his better judgment, Davis couldn’t help but try to get back up to his feet. As he stood up, he could also see Lowell out of the corner of his eye. The lieutenant was bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth. Lowell stared bewildered as if he had no longer realized he was on a battlefield.
Davis’ feet carried him closer to Lowell, who stood between him and the Howitzer. Looking up and seeing another projectile fall, Davis instinctively jumped to the ground, somehow managing to take Lowell with him.
A thunderous, earsplitting sound erupted, sending dirt and shrapnel everywhere. After a few more moments, with his face completely covered with dirt and soot, Davis got up, clutching the side of his arm that had been hit.
Though wounded, he was undeterred, having the gun in his sights. “For my boys,” Davis said, stretching his arm towards the artillery.
Taking a few steps more, he tripped over ordnance. Realizing what he fell over, Davis tried pulling it towards the Howitzer, but it wouldn’t budge. The round weighed more than 40kgs, and lifting it wasn’t an option.
Tears were beginning to well up in Davis’ eyes, venting pure frustration as they ran down his face. He was determined to get the ammo over to the Howitzer despite the ever-weakening condition, even if it meant rolling it there.
Kneeling and pushing the projectile forward, he could hear the screams and shouts of other wounded men. They drew silent when additional enemy fire reigned down upon them. Every few seconds, there was another barrage. The explosions were non-stop.
“C’mon already!” he screamed in a desperate, self-motivating attempt.
Clenching his teeth, he determined to lift the projectile with whatever remaining strength he could muster. Firmly gripping it with both hands, he pulled it towards the Howitzer, less than twenty yards away.
Eastmund could see in the short distance. Other men were taking cover as he should have been, but what he saw compelled him to lay that option aside. Running as hard as he could towards Davis, he saw what looked like a man hauling a boulder uphill.
“C’mon lad, I got it!”
Davis, at first, didn’t even notice Sergeant Eastmund. Eastmund didn’t say another word; Davis spoke for both of them.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” Eastmund saw Davis mumbling under his breath. “Our Father who art in heaven,” Davis again repeated.
Hallowed be thy name, Eastmund thought as both men found their way to the Howitzer. Two other artillery crew noticed the pair and approached Sergeant Eastmund when he waved them over.
“My boys. Adjust your shots towards the front lines,” Davis stated before passing out.
Eastmund knew it was guesswork but ordered the other crew members to help load the projectile and adjust their range of fire.
Regaining consciousness, Davis could see from the ground up Sergeant Eastmund hurriedly speaking with others gathering around. He could no longer make out what Eastmund was saying but understood that they were looking for additional rounds scattered nearby. Though in tremendous pain, a sense of relief swept over him that felt almost euphoric.
“For my boys,” Davis said once more, cracking a slight smile before closing his eyes.
Corporal Hastings noticed Davis propped up against the sandbags, looking out in the distance, with a cigarette at one corner of his mouth. He struggled to keep it alight as the wind prevented him.
Many hours had passed since the battle. The only sounds that could now be heard were the chatter of exhausted men, and the groaning of dying ones carried off on stretchers.
Davis could see in the short distance, Sergeant Eastmund directing the bearers to collect those bodies by the artillery.
Tipping his helmet appreciatively at Eastmund, Davis winced, reminded of the bandaged wound that diverted his attention. Bits of shrapnel had torn through his right arm, though the medic that tended to him earlier gave him a good prognosis, seeing as the wound hadn’t severed the brachial artery.
“You’ll have to get that rewrapped,” Corporal Hastings mentioned, glancing down before squatting next to Davis and offering a light.
Davis nodded appreciatively.
“Looks like it,” he answered, inhaling an extended plume of smoke.
Leaning back against the sandbags, Corporal Hastings put aside his rifle and folded his arms, resting them on his knees.
“Fritz gave us a go this morning,” Hastings admitted.
“Yeah, they did,” Davis agreed. “Imagine it might take a while,” he said, not wanting to finish the thought.
“What’s that, sir?”
“To find out how many we lost as a result,” Davis clarified.
This time, it was Hastings who nodded.
“Ran into Sharpe about a half hour ago.”
Davis’ ears perked up immediately upon hearing that name.
“Our Sharpe?”
Hastings let it settle in momentarily before affirming it.
“Yeah, sir. Our Sharpe.”
Davis couldn’t help but crack a smile. He sensed the water welling up in his tear ducts but refused to let loose in front of Hastings.
“Glad he made it,” relieved and not knowing what else to say.
“Some of the other lads are around too,” Hastings continued. “At least that’s what Sharpe told me.”
“Reassuring to know we’re not fighting the rest of this bloody war without them.”
Corporal Hastings chuckled at the remark just as Sergeant Davis’ attention started to shift, focusing on a body lying atop a stretcher with a blanket draped over it. The stretcher bearers had just come through the reserves from the front line trenches.
“Sharpe told me it was something else. Didn’t think he was going to make it at first. Said he could see the bombs all around them. Some from Fritz and some from ours hitting.
“He’d wager none of them would’ve made it if it had gone a while longer,” Hastings said, concluding the secondhand message.
“God knows,” Davis replied.
“Still, so many of us dropping like flies on both sides. You can’t help but wonder who’s gonna be left to fight this war,” Hastings commented. “Sarge?” Hastings called, noticing Davis getting up and sauntering to the stretcher.
Davis was drawn to it, his instincts already letting him know who was underneath. The arm had dropped to one side and was hanging off. The stretcher bearers paused out of courtesy for Sergeant Davis. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and tucked the arm back under the blanket before letting them pass.
A thought similar to Hastings had just occurred to him that he couldn’t help but ponder while watching the men carry the dead away.
How many more before it’s all said and done? Davis questioned.
The day’s fighting was hard enough, and fewer would be left to fight harder. Seeing what everyone had just been through, his heart ached, knowing that so many already had fought like lions while so many more now slept as babes.