The Tarnished Gentleman is a new book I'm working on. Based on World War 1, it deals with a man that falls in love with his buddy's love interest, falling in love with her after his friend reads her letters to him. It has nice twist on the end. Let me know what you think. This is just a first chapter, I'm sure there are a few mistakes and typo's, as it hasn't been edited yet, but give me an imput on it, I'd be curious for people's opinions.
The Tarnished Gentleman.
Jonathan Tredwell stares at his muddied boots, sunk half way to the laces in muck. His scarred rifle butt rests beside it, almost a matching color except for the newly notched scar from shrapnel that bounced from it earlier. The mud seems to leap up like small hands groping, as the cold rain begins to fall again, instantly blending with the filth that never dries. Unable to tell if it was tears or water running down his cheeks, as he has lost his will care anymore whether he finds cover from the rain or seeks shelter. Regardless where you tried to hide a shell could find you at will, in or out of the rain. Too many times he had seen friends crawl into a hole dug into a dirt wall, serving as a barracks, only to be buried alive in wet dirt and muddied timbers, their muffled screams fading as men helplessly dug trying to save their friends.
Un-apologizing, a set of mud caked boots tramped by, sloshing more filth on him as dead eyed soldiers stomped by, staring unseeing ahead as they wordlessly walked. Slightly he glanced up then down, as the wet men walked by almost fading instantly in the hazy mist as small putrid streams poured more water into the trenches.
BOOM!!
Another 150mm shell explodes, not too close he thinks, but enough to bring a quick shudder. The Germans sending a small notice Jonathan thinks, just letting us know they’re still here, as a French shell answers back, almost like an echo in a canyon returning. Looking up thoughtfully at the dirt wall, the chattering of a machine gun sputters, ringing harshly as if traveling with the departing shell fire. He shakes uncontrollably. Not from the battle fire, but the cold that seems to cut to the bone.
No more does the blast and gunfire send him for cover, he’s over that. It’s this blasted cold weather and icy rain. No man can build a defense against that, it’s the only enemy out here that couldn’t be killed. It was the ultimate winner. It had no friends he glumly thinks, as another shell bursts, this time causing him to grasp his helmet and duck, it was too close he grimaces, turning up cautiously at the black smoke left behind now turning brown. Mud hits the ground as it falls from the eruption, warm and steamy as it drops beside him with a slapping sound.
Guiltily he knows he must have screamed that time, as several men turn their heads upwards staring at him as if he was a nuisance, disturbing their peace. He turns down to the piece of metal, smoking in the wet ground that fell looking for a body to ravish in the dark trench. Half smiling, Jonathan reaches down picking it up and turning it in his hands, slightly warm as he imagined it slicing into his body with a vengeance. Maybe it would have been better, he thinks, to lay down and never wake up, to be out of this Hell and some place peaceful. The thought of being wounded or amputated was his biggest fear. I’d rather be dead then flailing on a hospital bed somewhere, watching a doctor saw through a leg or an arm, his biggest nightmare. Many nights he woke up, grabbing his body fearing he was a casualty, only to smile sickly as he laid back in the tight cot, hearing the distant thumps and thuds, followed by continuous rackets of machine gun fire, as if warning someone to stay away.
Then the restless sleep again, seeing the faces of his enemy grimacing as he drove a bayonet into the sneering looks, his hands bloody from dealing death to unknown men. Men that had families, and children. Men that ran farms and businesses, talking politics and about their grandchildren. How they were doing in school, and upcoming birthdays. Men like him now dead. Falling in a heated scream as thousands poured into trenches like ants, slashing and stabbing wildly, shoulder to shoulder, so close they had to lean on each other just to do their duty.
The he would wake up. Sweaty and panting, scared as he stared around, as another man would be staring back at him, wiping his face harshly, as if he had peered into the same dream he just awoke from sharing his nightmare.
“Ten minutes lads!” A motivated voice chirped.
Groans emitted as the clanging of canteens and bayonets sliced from their sheaths, the staggered clicking of blades locking onto barrels. As if told to leave, the rain faded to a drizzle. Like a guest the sun began to appear, dropping rays of light into the wet stenched ditch as frightened men leaned against the wall. Some stared up as if cursing the heavens, others laughed turning up a flask of anything that could be muled in with alcohol, to dim the senses and perform their grisly duty. Some just wandered aimlessly, dragging the butts of their weapons as they stared down, dreading the whistle that would send thousands of bodies charging and screaming over the wall, their feet digging at the wet ground for traction before charging the field of no man’s land as men fell before them.
But they would go, Jonathan thinks idly, like they always do. Most came back unscathed, dragging the bodies of their friends wounded or dead. The sight of a limp body as it tumbled into the ditch to lay in the mud unmoving was an everyday picture here, as was on the other side also he grimly knew. Nothing accomplished and nothing gained.
“Drink Johnny old boy?” A burly soldier held a dirty flask, slightly silver.
“Thanks Sarge,” he nodded, upturning the vial. The hardness of home made liquor mixed with apples hit hard, cutting a notch it felt.
“Scared?” He asked.
“Yea...yea I am,” Jonathan replied, looking up at the edge.
“Yes,” he turned a drink,” Well, we’re all scared. I haven’t met anyone yet that wasn’t.”
“What about the Creed?” Jonathan cut a glance at a huge man, laughing loudly as he pretended to be jabbing his bayonet at an unseen figure.
The Sargent stared, shaking his head. “The Creed’s crazy, that’s all. Oddly though he’s been through numerous runs, and never receives a scratch.”
The creed salutes, drawing a laugh from his friends waving his hands jokingly.
“That’s probably why he has a crowd following him over the top. Bloody ruthless maniac.”
“You think he’s scared?” Jonathan stares.
“Yes...Yes I think so. I bet you get him off to the side, he’d probably tell you so,” Sargent Preely observes stonily.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Jonathan shakily speaks, wiping an eye. Sergeant Preely watches the shaking young man searching for words. “You know, go over.”
“How long here?”
“Three months maybe, maybe more. I can’t remember.”
Sergeant Preely turns up the flask, handing it again. “Well, just remember. Stay low and move fast. Never stop.”
“I’ll try Sarge,” handing the near empty flask back.
“Good luck,” he nods, leaving with a pat.
“Three minutes men!”
Shakily Jonathan stands, feeling a light headed push from the drink. Nervously he pulls the shiny bayonet up, glaring at it spitefully as it seems to have no friends, just a useless sharpened knife, going to where it’s owner directed it. He pauses for a moment as it shows his reflection. Hollow eyed and dirty, not the handsome posture of a man he was before he came here. Frightened of the sight he gives it a shove, hearing a light click as it locks in place.
He glances around as the throngs of men began to gather, stuffed harsh together as they stood close to the ladders, cutting looks of fear and anxiety as they wiped the residue of rain from their faces.
BOOM!
A shell explodes, causing shoulders to haunch as hands grabbed helmets, the white teeth clenched as men stared up. A tinging noise as tiny metal fragments dropped on filthy helmets sounded like gravel tossed in the pit. The distant coughing of a machine gun cranked like a missing engine as several more shells shook the ground, a light vibration under his feet.
“Remember! We have to take the hill from the bloody Germans today gentlemen!” An unseen voice yelled from the crowds of brown uniforms bunched together.
“In one minute covering fire! Fix bayonets!” More clangs as men adjusted their blades. As if on que, the sky turned into a thunder storm of black clouds as a heavy barrage of shells began to explode all around. The sun turned dark from the smoke of homeless artillery shells that cracked and spit above them, followed by loud concussions like heavy boots stomping in an arena. Shaking with fear Jonathan held his bayonet tightly to his face closing his eyes shut. Tears of the frightened began to moan as men cursed the falling debris.
His nightmare turned real as the whistle blew, seeming to turn the world into slow motion. Men angrily roared like madmen as quickly they climbed the ladder, slinging mud on the heated faces below as they scrambled to climb.
“No God No!” Jonathan screamed being heard by no one as he was roughly shoved from behind. In a fast moment he was on the ladder, being pushed up and over the trench wall by the hundreds behind him.
Willing himself to death, he roared loudly like a bear as he charged, fearfully watching the massive red tracer bullets flying past him as he ran, the ground erupting tons of dirt as he went forward, his bayonet pointed. His eyes wide, his heart died inside as he watched his comrades fall crumpled to the ground.
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