Days of downpours dampened determination across the Somme. On the 1^st of July, however, it would be more than rain trickling between the crevices and filling the craters caused by intense artillery fire. Under the beaming sun, the British and French were to rise from their trenches and mop up what their shells hadn’t cleared.

Cigarette smoke plumed out from cheerful faces. The advance was dawning. A suppressed excitement was apparent from glinting eyes. Lee Enfield rifles in hand and helmets donned, our push would be powerful. Two days of heavy rains had postponed the assault, but that only gave the artillery more time to strike the enemy down.

That morning, another round of bombardment struck, terrific in its intensity. As if our odds weren’t great enough.

Another swig of my water bottle to occupy my hands, mouth, tongue, and throat. Hardship, injury, and death were mere suggestions; our spirit roared high. I gained a smile as I took in my peers. The shells and explosions that casted a light mist over the enemy trenches also clouded just how green we were.

Most of us, myself included, had never gone over the top before. Waiting made us feverish, but knowledge that we would fare well never allowed the anticipation to turn into doubt. We were the British Expeditionary Force, and we would carry our might from trench to trench. 

One reservation remained, however. Barbed wire still stretched itself before the enemy trenches. Whispers reported that gaps were few and far between. Aircraft reconnaissance reassured us that our artillery had split the wire and blasted it to smithereens. But quick glances with our binoculars proved otherwise. 

Not that it would much matter; there was scarcely a soul left on the other side to fight back. Strings of wire weren’t to be an obstacle. 

Serene and cheerful, our lieutenant walked into our trench as everyone made way for him. Without saying a word, he clambered up the scaling ladder, rifle firmly strapped to his person. Mud fell from his boots as he climbed. Exposed and facing us all, he took a long drag of his cigarette. His grave eyes rolled over each of us as though he were reading, from left to right. 

“Advance.”

Limbs moved automatically. We took one step after another toward the ladders. Soon it was my turn. I didn’t mind the mud as I heaved myself up.

No Man’s Land spread out for me as I fully extended myself. I made sure to recall the plan. Line up and walk forward, slowly and collected, as if a football were in front of us. My heartbeat betrayed my firm face as I looked at our target so far away. Our path was littered with holes and craters and mud. My every appendage was exposed by the sun.

The lieutenant was already walking, soldiers in tow. With each step, my stomach sank. My lungs demanded more air, but my mouth was a steel trap. 

I was waiting for it.

And it quickly came.

Intense machine gun fire lit up their trench as the ground in front of us was torn apart. Bodies fell, cries snapped. Dozens of bullets hit something every second; I had no choice but to drop to the floor, my chest already bursting with effort.

“Down!”

Deafening, the din of gunfire was its own bombardment. Hardship, injury, and death were all that managed to peirce through the dominating roar. No longer ideas to be entertained, but stark company. I curled into a tight ball, expecting to be blown to pieces or shot.

Dust and dirt veiled my vision. Groans and cries were my sole indicator of direction.

Plucking the courage to crawl forward, I found the ground falling from beneath my heaving torso. Tumbling into a crater, shock and terror paralyzed me. Was I shot? Was I dead?

Intense thirst rendered my throat. I lifted my water bottle, to find a bullet had drained it.

It was a ghastly failure already.

Bullets made looking up impossible. Sounds of pain and suffering signaled from every direction. 

Shallow breaths pummeled in and out as I plastered myself to the floor, hoping the mud would hide me, consume me. There was no way out of the coffin that confined me. Memories of home haunted, flashes of faces. Death’s icicle hands plunged into my spine and flushed my body cold. I thought I would surely die.

As I condemned myself, soldiers charged over and around the crater that shielded me. I pushed myself up to see them surge ahead. Their fire and spirit was infectious. With terror at my heels and bravery by the neck, I was dragged from the open grave. I struck the floor with my numb legs.

A yell of fury, fueled by panic and desperation, kickstarted my legs into running. Getting closer, the barbed wire gleamed as it funneled soldiers into tight gaps. As though sheep to the slaughter.

A German shell tossed me to the ground; its heat punching out the fire that raged in my core. Beaten, I propped myself against a log caked in mud and blood. Bodies littered around me, some twitching, some staring. Some breathing.

   Horror was my lens as I witnessed ranks of green walking forth, hampered by crawling wounded, open craters, spanning wire, and rattling machine guns.

They said all we had to do was walk forth and kill anyone still standing. They said we’d be fine. No need to worry.

Readying my gun, I tried to steady my aim as I targeted the muzzle flash of a machine gun. An impossible shot. I had in my hands something capable of destroying anything I wanted it to. Yet it was useless in my grasp as I loosened shot after shot into mud and dirt.

I dropped the futile task. I would have to get closer. As I hauled my carcass up, the same scene met me.

Soldiers struggled forth, before getting smacked down by relentless streams of bullets. Parched, I could taste the awful paste my mouth was pitifully producing. Metal laced the air and my tongue.

  Breathing fastened. Hands tightened.

I charged once more, the pent fear cracking like lightning in my legs. Thunderous claps sounded from each bullet let off by a machine gun, storming our bodies in hail and drenching the ground like rain. Each step pounded my mind, clouding me from my other senses.

Before I knew it, I was on the floor again. Each step that carried me closer to those guns the more I could feel phantom wounds spilling my blood. A slight peek up, and as far as my eyes could see, soldiers still saddled onwards, slowly. Agonisingly.

Clockwork machinations, most walked as bullets ran through them. Not even explosions spurred them into dashing. Further ahead, those who tried to cut the wire ended up tangled in it in bloody messes, like discarded playthings. 

Hopeless, I lay there. My only options were to line up or swim through waves of barbed wire which would render me to ribbons.

I was a soldier. I had to make a choice.

The instant I rose to make my next push, a bullet tore through my chest, shattering my vision and dropping me to my knees. Blinded, I could do nothing as my rifle fell with me.

All I did see as I slumped to the floor, were ranks and ranks of red.

It was a ghastly failure indeed.

On that fateful day, over 57,000 British and French soldiers would fall through with their footsteps as machinegun fire riddled the walking lines. Some German trenches were overrun, only to be retaken. What was supposed to be the first and final push ended up being merely the start of five months of intense warfare. 

Ranks of Green, turned to Red is an installment in my currently WIP Campaigns of Sacrifice: Somme series. It’s the second short story that covers the first time the soldiers went over the top during the Battle of the Somme in 1916.

I shared it to Reddit when looking for beta readers, so here is the post-beta-reader-critique edition. When I revisit the series, I may tweak it some more, but I’m pretty happy with it.