Wipers

He decided that at first light at the start of the attack he would stick close to Sergeant Bicknell, he had to try and survive, for the first day at least.

"So, how’s it been Shears? You’re first week?" asked Maxwell.

"Well, I haven’t slept much, it’s quite uncomfortable trying to sleep in these damn trenches," replied Shears, eager to have a conversation.

"Oh you get used to it after a couple of years," Fuller began, "The shells, the gas, the stench of dead bodies, the rats, they all become part of life," he trailed off.

Maxwell sniggered. Shears began to get the impression that he was in the middle of some sort of initiation, and being mocked by the two more experienced soldiers. He also noticed that they spoke with plummier accents than a normal private, like that of a commissioned officer.

"Looking forward to daylight, Shears?" Maxwell continued, in that mocking tone again.

"Well, I’m sort of excited but scared as well if you know what I mean," Shears replied, ignoring the contempt.

Again there were sniggers.

"Oh yes we felt like that first time as well, didn’t we Max?" said Fuller, shaking his head.

Maxwell nodded. "The excitement bit soon wears off old man, and you’re just left feeling like an empty shell of a human being, all personality removed." He explained chillingly.

Shears wasn’t quite sure what they meant but didn’t really like the sound of it.

"We used to be flyers you know," stated Fuller, now staring coldly at Shears.

"What in the Royal Flying Corps?" Shears asked. "Those chaps are my heroes, I thought you two sounded like Officers", he stammered excitedly.

Maxwell shook his head.

"All a load of bull I’m afraid Shears," he said purposefully. "Life expectancy of two months and more aggravation than you can imagine."

"We were Officers," Fuller chipped in. "I was a Captain and Max here was a Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corps," he paused for a moment staring at the night sky, a far away look overcame his face, as though he were still up in the air flying an aircraft.

Shears shuffled uneasily, and thought he should say something to break Fullers trance like gaze.

"What did you fly?" Shears finally blurted out.

"Nieuports, old man, bloody good machines as well, even though the French made them," Maxwell chipped in. "Have you ever seen what the Vickers gun does to a man?" he finished in a rather cold tone.

Shears shook his head. He thought about the high calibre Vickers gun mounted on the aircraft. Before he had only thought of it as a weapon to be used on other aircraft. The thought of those high calibre rounds being fired at soldiers was horrifying. In basic training he had thought the only way of dying out here was at the hands of a German bullet, but there were so many other ways to die he had never even contemplated. Bullets, aircraft, grenades, shells, gas, drowning in mud, disease, the list was endless, it seemed that staying alive was going to be very difficult indeed. Shears checked his wrist watch 1.55am, the battle drew closer.

"It was in July 1916, over the Somme," began Fuller, in a dream like voice, "we had thrown enough shells over German positions to destroy a whole country, the silly bastards in command thought that our boys could just walk up to the German lines and there wouldn’t be any of them left."

"Oh how wrong they were," Maxwell chipped in.

Fuller sniffed and shook himself as though he was trying to pull himself together.