Pillbox

Williams shrunk himself as small as possible behind the ridgeline.  He knew it was pointless just as he was certain he was about to die.  The men below him were all looking up expectantly; they were mostly hidden behind a dry stone wall.  His stomach was a cold knot of fear and his legs were weak and trembling.  Swallowing was impossible; he looked around at the view from his position, breathing deeply and hoping beyond hope that death would not be painful.

Grasping the grenade tightly in his left hand he hurled himself over the ridge and ran falteringly up the slope towards the machine gun emplacement.  It was a good hundred metres away, he realised he had to get within twenty metres to throw the grenade with any hope at all of hitting the slit from which the barrel of the gun was pointing out.

The breath was tearing out of him in ragged gasps as he reached the halfway point counting the steps he was taking.  The gun had not moved; he had a rash despairing hope that perhaps there was nobody manning it.

He saw the puff of smoke and then felt a blow in the chest as if somebody had hit him very hard.  His breath caught in his throat, he sank to his knees suddenly feeling very weak and watched as the grenade slipped out of his numb fingers.  Pain spread like a warm glow at first and then became incandescent and searing.  The grass came up to meet him just as the sounds of battle faded along with the pain.  He never heard the grenade explode.

“Hughes?  You’re next.”  The Sergeant was dispassionate as he sighted the gun position through his binoculars.

His eyes widening in fear, Hughes went cold all over and willed his body to move.  He wondered if Williams, like himself, knew he was about to die or if he believed he would be able to make it to the slit and throw the grenade inside.

“We’ll give you covering fire to keep their heads down when you get to the ridge.”  Sergeant Thomas told him.  “Go!”

Hughes had noticed that the covering fire had done little to keep Williams safe and thought it was probably just a psychological ploy to make him feel better about being killed.  He dropped off all his kit, just keeping a side-arm and a couple of grenades, and leapt up onto the wall.

Immediately he felt his head explode.  All the colours of the rainbow appeared and swirled around, he was utterly disorientated and sank into the blackness of death before he could know what had happened to him.

“Edwards?  Go!”

Edwards felt his bladder fill and was certain that he was going to wet himself as he stripped off his kit to get a better speed in the run up the hill.  He kept the grenades in his belt and took off the holster for his pistol, sticking the weapon into the back of his trousers.

At the top of the hill, inside the pillbox, were two men.  One was very young and held on tightly to the stock of the machine gun.  The other was a little older and supported the belt of ammunition ready to feed it into the firing mechanism.

The younger of the two, Number One, had just arrived from the training camp.  This was his first taste of action.  He was nervous in case he found he was unable to kill another human.  Shooting at targets on the range was suddenly a very different proposition to this cold reality of killing a flesh and blood man.

Number One watched the first man appear at the ridge.  Number Two quietly murmured to wait until he was about fifty or sixty metres away to make sure of a clean shot.

After quite a pause, during which Number One realised that the man was terrified, he appeared over the ridge and started to zigzag towards them.  Bullets were pinging, clattering and whining off the pillbox.  These fellows shooting at them were not trained snipers so he knew that the chances of a bullet coming into the shelter were very small but still….

The grenade carrier was now only sixty metres away.  Number One was sighted on him now that the zigzags were almost non-existent but could not pull the trigger until Number Two whispered ‘Fire.’

He fired.  Two thumps in the shoulder told him that the gun had gone off and the man on the slope crumpling up told him that he had hit him.  He was unsure whether the hit was fatal or not but at least the grenade was no longer a danger to them in the concrete box.

Then the grenade went off.  Even at that range they could feel the pressure wave from the explosion like a fist punching them all over.  The man was definitely dead now.

Number One felt sick.  He had killed and knew that he would have to kill again.  After a few minutes he pulled himself together and looked out on the view below once more.  He sighted down the slope and let a short burst go hoping it would stop them sending any more people up.

From his position he could just see the top of the wall behind which they were hiding from him.  A man suddenly appeared on top of the wall and, equally suddenly, dropped to his knees on top of the wall and fell backwards out of sight.  At first Number One could not comprehend what had happened.  Then the realisation came that it had taken a second or two for his bullets to get to the wall and he had killed his second victim.

Number Two put his hand comfortingly on Number One’s shoulder when he saw the tears flooding down his face.

“I can’t do this,”  he said, “Why can’t they just give up and surrender?  Why do they have to die so pointlessly?”

Number Two just shook his head not knowing what to say for the best.

Dimly, through the tears, Number One saw yet another man make his way over the wall.  He disappeared for a moment and then his face peered over the ridgeline.

Another long pause.  They knew he was preparing himself for death and wondered at the stupidity of it.

The man came over the ridge fast, going at an angle and then ducking and rolling the other way.  At once there was the familiar pinging and whining of bullets ricocheting off the concrete.

Number One heard a slapping sound instantly followed by a wet smack.  The ammunition belt was pulled down and the gun pointed upwards.  He turned in alarm and there was Number Two lying on the floor with blood pouring from his throat.  The body was twitching and his hands were clawing at his neck as if he was trying to draw breath.

Paralysed with fear, Number One was transfixed on the scene on the floor, only coming out of his trance when he heard a metallic clunk and saw a grenade bounce across in front of him.  He was aware of someone screaming and then every inch of his body seared with agony as the skin was ripped off and his penis and testicles were shredded into a fine paste.  He looked down at his chest and there was nothing but blood and bones sticking through shredded muscle.  Blood was spurting in great gouts from somewhere but he was beyond forming any coherent thought other than a futile plea to somebody that he did not want to die.  His brain could take no more and shut down, mercifully plunging him into death.

Edwards had leapt over the ridge and run faster than he had ever run before.  All the time he expected to feel bullets burning into his flesh but nothing came.  When he was within seventy metres of the pillbox he could see that the barrel of the gun was pointing upwards.  He kept on running at an angle but was fascinated by the motionless machine gun barrel.  His plan was to throw the grenade from about twenty metres distance but the gun never moved so he kept running and running.  He was still running so fast and yet he felt he was taking an age to reach the slit in the concrete that filled his vision.  Gasping for breath he ran right up to the pillbox and lobbed the grenade in  -  immediately forgetting whether he had pulled the pin or not.  Edwards watched the grenade go through the slit into the pillbox, he saw the horror on the face of the young boy and felt the thump as the grenade exploded sending shrapnel everywhere.  He slumped down at the slit of the pillbox and wondered why he felt so thirsty.  Somehow he was covered in blood and thought that it must be from the men inside the concrete box.  He never associated it with the cut in his neck where the grenade splinter had gouged a lump of his muscle away taking a half centimetre section of jugular vein with it.  He had a desire to urinate and let it flow.  The warmth spread down his trousers and mixed with the blood pouring out of him.  He was inexplicably tired, his neck was stinging.  He reasoned that it had been a long run and that the anticlimax of such fear was getting to him.  Picking what looked like a comfortable spot, he lay down on the grass and slipped gently into eternal dreamless sleep.

Behind the wall, Sergeant Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.  Edwards had done it.  He didn’t know how he had achieved it but the fact was that the men in the rest of the platoon were now safer than they were a short while ago.

Cpl Parry reported that he thought Edwards might be dead.  He believed there was a lot of blood around the body lying down in the grass  -  as far as he could see through his field glasses.

Sgt Thomas wondered when it would all end.  So many young men had died in this interminable conflict; he had sent so many to their deaths on suicidal missions.

The radio buzzed.  Griffiths passed the handset to the Sergeant.

“62 Delta receiving.  Pass your message.  Over.”

“62 Delta, 62 Alpha.  Stand down, stand down.  The war ended an hour ago but we have problems with the radios.  Tell your men to unload their weapons and await further instructions.  Repeat back.  Over.”

Sergeant Thomas repeated the message to show that he had understood it and gave the handset back.

Leaning back against the wall he slid out his service revolver.  Cocking it, he placed the muzzle comfortably under his chin.  And squeezed the trigger.