Midlonia
18-06-2005, 20:57
River Eva, Central Midlonia November 11th 1912
The steam locomotive hissed and clanked as it dragged the line of boxy, open wagons behind it. It blew a plume of smoke up into the freezing air as it erupted out of an arch in an old farmstead building, picking itself over the vast network of points before it, the loco and the train behind it slams and rocks heavily, much to the annoyance and loud complaining of its cargo.
Cursing, Private first class David Dribble looked somewhere down into the mass of feet for the packet of cigarettes he had just dropped. He couldn’t find them and much to his anger, he gave up. A hand loomed out of the pressed Khaki clutching an unlit cigarette, which David soon took with gratitude to the disembodied hand. Clutching it to his lips and striking a match that burned feebly in the cold November morning David glanced around at the marshalling yard now springing up around him.
It used to be a village of some sort, but it no longer bared a name, just an abbreviation now, Marshalling Yard #224. There were other trains, some carrying ammunition; some had tarpaulin covers over them with a large red cross on the roof and sides.
The smell of gangrene and the sickly taste of death hung in the air near to that particular train. Horses were slowly lining up by a farm track next to the line, they wore the same dull khaki as everyone else did in this miserably cold scene, the horses’ heads and tails swished and swatted the cold and dank air around them.
There was another smell in the air too, the unmistakable tang of cordite and rust. This had once been the frontline, but it had been forced on, the ground was still scarred by trenches and the pockmarks of the deadly artillery that still rained on the marshalling yard from time to time.
The locomotive shuddered to a grinding halt, marshals came running over, throwing out the pins to the wagon sides and yelling at the young, frightened soldiers inside to get out and form up next to the farm track. From behind the remains of a house roared and rattled the armoured busses that would ship them the rest of the way; the cavalrymen had already cantered away, heading to the front under their own power.
David glanced up at the bus that had come to a stop before him, a cheeky faced conductor grinned at him.
“Number 55 to Hell. Stopping at the front and any artillery thrown at us on the way.” He chuckled and held out his hand to help David up, which he grabbed gratefully, he had around 100 pounds on his back and would not have made it up the small step even if he tried.
He was only 14 after all but he looked quite a bit older, so it was ok.
‘Hey Davie!’ yelled his friend, who was only 16, Terry; he ran through the bodies and leapt onto the bus as though the heavy pack and rifle were not there.
‘Hey Terry, what is it with all this bloody travelling? I though the train was taking us to the front?’
‘New Regs, they can’t risk the losses and the manpower needed to maintain the track, so they use these busses which the two guys working on it can repair.’ Muttered “the sarge” an old man compared to the rest of the company, he was in his early 30’s, but he, like everyone else looked an awful lot older, such is the weariness of war. The two boys nodded and remained silent.
With a growl an officer jumped aboard the first bus and they started to pick their way unsteadily down the thin and poor farm track that had been abused for two years in some way or another.
In the distance stood a ridge and it was there that the sky danced and lit up, a stark contrast to the seemingly constant grey haze that had settled everywhere else.
Twenty minutes later the busses arrived, amidst the artillery strike that was still thundering on, the men leapt off of the busses and ran into a large underground shelter that had been carved out of the rock of the craggy ridge, they ran amidst the screams and chatter of gunfire, as well as the loud roars of artillery and mortars.
David dived into a corner with Terry and grabbed his rifle and helmet that had fallen to the floor with a hollow clatter.
“Right you lot! Prepare your weapons! You will be used to help hold this bloody line or I will shoot you myself, is that understood?” yelled a faceless officer hefting one of the new, if not entirely unreliable miniature machineguns.
“Fix Bayonets!” yelled company first sergeant Horace Willourby.
A pair of large wooden doors stood at the other end of this large hollow they were in, with a grunt of energy, two men pulled the doors open and blinding light flooded in, with a scream, the company charged into the very mouth of Hell itself.
The steam locomotive hissed and clanked as it dragged the line of boxy, open wagons behind it. It blew a plume of smoke up into the freezing air as it erupted out of an arch in an old farmstead building, picking itself over the vast network of points before it, the loco and the train behind it slams and rocks heavily, much to the annoyance and loud complaining of its cargo.
Cursing, Private first class David Dribble looked somewhere down into the mass of feet for the packet of cigarettes he had just dropped. He couldn’t find them and much to his anger, he gave up. A hand loomed out of the pressed Khaki clutching an unlit cigarette, which David soon took with gratitude to the disembodied hand. Clutching it to his lips and striking a match that burned feebly in the cold November morning David glanced around at the marshalling yard now springing up around him.
It used to be a village of some sort, but it no longer bared a name, just an abbreviation now, Marshalling Yard #224. There were other trains, some carrying ammunition; some had tarpaulin covers over them with a large red cross on the roof and sides.
The smell of gangrene and the sickly taste of death hung in the air near to that particular train. Horses were slowly lining up by a farm track next to the line, they wore the same dull khaki as everyone else did in this miserably cold scene, the horses’ heads and tails swished and swatted the cold and dank air around them.
There was another smell in the air too, the unmistakable tang of cordite and rust. This had once been the frontline, but it had been forced on, the ground was still scarred by trenches and the pockmarks of the deadly artillery that still rained on the marshalling yard from time to time.
The locomotive shuddered to a grinding halt, marshals came running over, throwing out the pins to the wagon sides and yelling at the young, frightened soldiers inside to get out and form up next to the farm track. From behind the remains of a house roared and rattled the armoured busses that would ship them the rest of the way; the cavalrymen had already cantered away, heading to the front under their own power.
David glanced up at the bus that had come to a stop before him, a cheeky faced conductor grinned at him.
“Number 55 to Hell. Stopping at the front and any artillery thrown at us on the way.” He chuckled and held out his hand to help David up, which he grabbed gratefully, he had around 100 pounds on his back and would not have made it up the small step even if he tried.
He was only 14 after all but he looked quite a bit older, so it was ok.
‘Hey Davie!’ yelled his friend, who was only 16, Terry; he ran through the bodies and leapt onto the bus as though the heavy pack and rifle were not there.
‘Hey Terry, what is it with all this bloody travelling? I though the train was taking us to the front?’
‘New Regs, they can’t risk the losses and the manpower needed to maintain the track, so they use these busses which the two guys working on it can repair.’ Muttered “the sarge” an old man compared to the rest of the company, he was in his early 30’s, but he, like everyone else looked an awful lot older, such is the weariness of war. The two boys nodded and remained silent.
With a growl an officer jumped aboard the first bus and they started to pick their way unsteadily down the thin and poor farm track that had been abused for two years in some way or another.
In the distance stood a ridge and it was there that the sky danced and lit up, a stark contrast to the seemingly constant grey haze that had settled everywhere else.
Twenty minutes later the busses arrived, amidst the artillery strike that was still thundering on, the men leapt off of the busses and ran into a large underground shelter that had been carved out of the rock of the craggy ridge, they ran amidst the screams and chatter of gunfire, as well as the loud roars of artillery and mortars.
David dived into a corner with Terry and grabbed his rifle and helmet that had fallen to the floor with a hollow clatter.
“Right you lot! Prepare your weapons! You will be used to help hold this bloody line or I will shoot you myself, is that understood?” yelled a faceless officer hefting one of the new, if not entirely unreliable miniature machineguns.
“Fix Bayonets!” yelled company first sergeant Horace Willourby.
A pair of large wooden doors stood at the other end of this large hollow they were in, with a grunt of energy, two men pulled the doors open and blinding light flooded in, with a scream, the company charged into the very mouth of Hell itself.