The Trench Foreign Legion.

In the Trenches.

Bang! BANG! Bang!.....Bang! Young Tommy Aitkin instinctively pulled his neck further into his greatcoat as lead whistled overhead. He'd been recruited at the last minute to take part in this the final round of the battle for supremacy after replacing an injured compatriot. It was his first time in foreign fields and the incessant rain didn't make his trench any more comfortable. His balaclava did help keep him warm and somewhat dry but his feet were cold and wet.

He instinctively ducked again as more shots were loosed in his direction, the strong smell of gun smoke drifted into his nostrils and merely caused his senses to heighten the awareness of just how important his task was at this momentous hour. Even from where he was in a sheltered position he could hear the spent cartridge case being expelled and fall with clattering to the ground.

He remembered how his father: killed in the last great war, who'd always drilled into him that nerve counted above anything at a time like this and Tommy had no intention of letting the side down. He'd been recruited back in his home town of Newcastle, and travelled with the other lads on a short flight from a remote Lincolnshire airfield. It'd been a close thing as they'd been forced to fly low to avoid the atrocious weather.

Command orders were to be heard barked down the line again: Bang! bang! Bang! More shots flew low overhead. He looked at his watch - the services watch that his father had willed to him - and then at his loader. He checked the firing mechanism on his equipment for the umpteenth time, wiping away what moisture and mud he could. It would soon be their turn with the guns.

BANG!....bang!...............Bang! The firing was getting more deliberate and with increasing accuracy. Up above his position in the trench and a little bit to the rear he could see his senior gesturing for him to ready himself as it would soon be their turn to enter into the fray. His reflexes tuned to a high pitch he felt a small cool bead of sweat trickle down from his brow and run along the side of his nose to form into a drop that - for a moment or two - hesitated to fall, and then did.

He glanced back to his observer again as more guns were brought up to the fore and Tommy got the "five" "five" finger signal. Ten seconds. Tommy's fingers closed on the launch handle. Nine seconds. He pricked up his ears. Eight seconds. Tension mounted, it was all Tommy could do to stop himself launching now. Seven seconds........... Six.......... Five.......... Four.......... Three. He raised his head glanced again towards his rear to see the men raising their guns to their shoulders...."Ready?"

Two seconds. "I'm ready!" exclaimed Tommy,through gritted teeth.

One second.............................. "Pull!!" came the barked order, and Tommy pulled. The skeet left its launcher and arced into the sky followed almost immediately by; Bang!... BANG!.... Bang!... the lead shot from the guns went tearing over his head to shatter the clay pot to smithereens.... "Pull!!"

This French round of the European Clay Pigeon Competition was just about in the bag.

Copyright: Anthony W. Allsop 2008