I’M WAR STRUCK

There he stood, head bowed low so as to keep it hid from the German gunners a hundred metres away. This British soldier has now spent eight months in these bloody trenches with a battle front that was neither going forward nor backward. It was wet underfoot and everything was damp. The smell of mouldy sox, pee-soaked underwear and rotting leather combined to make it almost unbreathable in his isolated little foxhole. He had been alone now for three days waiting for someone, to relieve him. His rations were almost out and he began to wonder whether anyone besidse himself was still alive out there.

He fell silent and clung closer to the wall of his hole. Had he heard something? The enemy? Was he about to die?

Everyone around him was either just laying silent or were dead. The only thing he could see behind him was several parts of someone’s body scattered from the direct hit from a mortar. It had been his predecessor. He had died while defending this part of the line and the soldier thought that maybe that was his future as well. Every man who had occupied this trench had been killed and their heads struck various gazes from around the parapet.

That sound. A rustling, creeping, crawling sound came from behind him and he felt a little relieved. From over his head a voice called.

‘Oi! Mate. Anyone f*cken there?’

The soldier harshly whispered for he had not spoken in days. ‘Friend or foe?‘

‘Friend, a f*ckin friend - ya f*cken dork’’ came the reply.

‘What’s the password? ‘He queried.

‘Your mother’s a slut’, said the voice, uttering the secret words for that week. He didn’t always appreciate the sense of humour of his Australian Commander when setting passwords.

‘Advance friend and be recognised’ said the relieved soldier in the trench ‘am I glad to hear a live voice for once’.

With that a khaki clad body, uniform fresh as a daisy fell into the pit. ‘Shit!’ it exclaimed ‘f*cken mud all over me f*cken gear’.

‘Welcome to my humble trench’ said the British soldier ‘I take it that you are an Australian’.

‘You’re f*ckin right you f*cken Pom’ said the Aussie.

To the relief of the Brit at having been relieved by anyone, even an Aussie he asked the inevitable question.

‘Have you come here to die?’ he asked.

‘No’ came the reply ‘ I got here f*cken yesterdie’.

Boom Boom