Into the Fray
After blowing the whistle, I immediately boost myself out of the trench. I run forward holding my rifle on its forearm as I attempt to navigate the fragmentation-mauled barbed wires. Step-by-step, one foot over the other while trying to avoid the hail of lead the flashes far beyond are letting loose. Two layer of wires shouldn't be this difficult but because parts of it were blown to smaller pieces, I could fall over slacked wires and land face first unto the ground. I absolutely don't want that happening.
Escaping the first peril, I find myself in the open. The fields of No Man's Land. The fields where no one is thought to be able to survive. Standing beyond the parapet, the distance between us and the other trench is more expansive than what I perceived in the safety of the trenches. I feel rejuvenated without the claustrophobic walls constantly barricading me in, but also somewhat miss the embrace of its protection. A bullet flies past me, so I hastily scurry into the closest ditch for cover. I slide into one and quickly leaned on the side facing the opposing front.
The ditch looks dilapidated. No doubt in my mind that a large-calibre artillery ripped the ground wide open, possibly even burying adjacent shallower holes. I see rifles poking out the ditch's embankment. They probably have been there for a while, a long while. The lowest part of the ditch is slightly filled with mud. The mud seems very thick, viscous enough to easily slide through but will definitely hold you tightly in its grasps once you fall in. The height of that "puddle" also looks suspicious, as if the water-dirt amalgamation isn't the only thing causing it to rise.
All I hear from the hole is an orchestra of battle. With the string played by the consistent sounds of ignited gunpowder. With the brass played by the never-ending, high-pitched shrieks of the whistles. With the percussion played by the distant thumps of artillery, or the rapid clacks of firearms. With the woodwind played by the flying bullets and shells dancing in the air. It had no specific composition. However, its tunes are recognisable to those who perpetually serve in this irregular battlefield. This is the music we grow accustomed to; one we hate but feel empty without.
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I steal a quick peek over the ditch to quickly find cover I can relocate to as I move up. Just as that happens, a shell lands a slight length behind my cover and explodes. It unearths the ground, creating another shell hole, and then rains soil down its vicinity. I instinctively curl myself up, pressing the top of my helmet against my head. Once the debris stops falling, I grab my rifle and train it in the direction of the opposing trench. Fortunately, I don't see anyone running towards me, rather I see people falling forwards heading towards that trench. They go down one-by-one.
Relieved, I lie down against the shell hole again, waiting for the exchange of fire to slightly cease. Time passes but bullets a large volume of bullets still whizzed above me. Nothing I can do about it. Instead of waiting for the unknown, I crawl out of the shell hole steadily, not wanting to be seen as a moving silhouette against the contrasting sky.
Nothing has changed since I last peeked in the last cover. The other potential covers were not even close to the depth of the aforementioned one. They were merely strokes of unnaturally eroded or displaced earth that don't provide enough protection to even prone in them. The vulnerability I feel outside of reassuring ditches begin to mount up. I desperately need to find one.
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I begin to approach a trench line, even though I didn't intend to do so since the lack of cover coerced me to keep moving. The trench is odd, however. It produces no sounds of an active defence, despite the far ambient battles. Failure to hear shuffling boots, clicks of bolt-action rifles, communication, or anything raises my suspicions, but also lifts some tension after slithering for a prolonged amount of time.
I arrive at their line of three-layered barbed wires but they seem to be even more destroyed than ours. I can't prone anymore since most of the wires' blades are lying on the ground, waiting to cut through unsuspecting victims.
After waiting for a moment, I kneel slowly with my rifle held below the shoulders and lift myself only to a crouch. Currently, I have scrutinised enough information to safely assume that the occupants of this trench have pulled back for whatever reason. Therewith, I tread slowly into the wires with my rifle trained.
My vigilance is unparalleled at that moment, only making glances off the corner of my eyes, occasionally shifting my overall field of view. I continue to see no hints of activity in the trenches. Once near, I promptly aimed down into the dugouts. Sweeping my sights on either flanks, I have to ascertain no one suddenly appeared from the traverses. Feeling satisfied, I then jump into the trench, still on high alert.
I secured my local sector and checked if they had left any potential supplies. Naturally of their soldiers, their retreat was orderly and thorough, leaving little to nothing behind. For that, I have to acknowledge their coordination and execution.
I'm too exhausted to proceed any further, which calls for a break. I leaned my rifle on the revetment and dropped my backpack. From it, I produced a sack of hardtack, a canteen, a tea tabloid, and a matchbox. Now, I can finally lean back and somewhat relax temporarily in a foreign trench.
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Danger. Although I've thoroughly checked my small sector, danger can and, because it can, will come sooner or later. There is only so much I can do on my lonesome, I tell myself. Under any circumstance, travelling with a partner would alleviate some stressors by distributing the combat burden I carry. It would be beneficial for everyone involved. Then again, I didn't even pay attention to possible comrades that might have crossed ways with me in No Man's Land. Alas, that falls onto luck to bestow upon me such a gift.
I've rested enough. After packing up, I continue my path in an unfamiliar territory straight to the support trenches.