Over The Top
– “Sergeant Wilkes!” you whisper in alarm, “look…over there!”
You point out a number of small, empty cans, which have been attached to the wire. Should anyone attempt to cut through, the cans would rattle and warn the unweary Germans of any foul play. You shudder to think at what might have happened next.
The sergeant motions to have the cans cut down. It is dangerous and painful business as the cans have been tied in the middle of the barbed wire. Making your way through the tangle of steel shards, you manage to cut down four of the cans while half a dozen more have been removed by the Sergeant and George. Having then cut a path through the wire, the three of you crawl towards the edge of the German trench where you pause behind the parapet.
You listen intently for any noise or sign of life coming from inside the trench. Sergeant Wilkes peers slowly over the parapet, looks left and right, then quietly lowers himself into the enemy trench. He motions for the two of you to follow.
Madness, you think to yourself. Sheer madness! The three of you against the whole German army. At this point, you figure, it’ll either be a bullet in the gut or an extended stay in a German prisoner-of-war camp. Surely, this can’t be worth two weeks rest.
The three of you tread quietly along the German trench, guns pointing in every direction. Suddenly, you hear the unmistakable sound of German voices coming from one of the dugouts. From what you can make out, the conversation inside is jovial, yet subdued.
Sergeant Wilkes stands at the entrance of the dugout and motions for the two of you to follow him inside. You take a deep breath, clutch your rifle with both hands and follow the others.
– “Hands up, fritz!” orders Sergeant Wilkes to a bewildered group of rough-looking and half-dazed Germans. Slowly, the enemy soldiers raise their arms and get to their feet. You count at least a dozen of them. This is the first time that you have seen the enemy up close and you are curious to find that they look as tired and as miserable as yourself. The dugout is strewn with backpacks, helmets and an odd assortment of rifles and boxes. There are also numerous family photographs attached to bed-posts, as well as a bunch of papers strewn on top of a small wooden table.
– “What do we do now?,” mutters George uneasily.