Audiobook Demo
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
he woke to a dugout smell of wet sand bags and stale farts. He killed his toes inside his wet boots and felt the creek and sag of chicken wire. Has he turned towards the table the usual jumble paper bottles, mugs, the blackbox field telephone, a couple of revolvers, all it by a single candle stuck to the word in a pool of its own. Greece, a barely perceptible thinning of the darkness around the gas curtain, told him It must be nearly dawn. And sure enough, a few minutes later, Sanderson lifted the curtain and shouted, Stand to the bulky forms on the other. Bunk stirred, groaned, groped for revolvers. Soon they were all trying to climb out of the dugout, difficult because rain and recent near hits had turned the steps into a muddy slide. All along the trench men were crawling out of funk holes. He clumped along the duck boards to his position, smelling the green, ratty, decomposing smell, stretching the muscles of his face into a smile whenever the men looked up, then an hour of standing stiff and shivering rewatching dawn grow. He had first trench watch. He groped a mug of chlorine tasting tea and then started walking along to the outermost position on their left, the smell of bacon frying in the third fire bay, he found sordid, and towers crouched over a small fire made out of shredded sandbags and candle ends. Coaxing the flames. He stopped to chat for a few minutes on towers, blinking under the green mushroom helmet. Looked up in, offered him tea. A quiet day, he thought, walking on, not like the last few days, when the bombardment had gone on for 70 hours and they'd stood to five times expecting a German counter attack. Damage from that bombardment was everywhere. Crumbling parapets, flooded, saps, dugouts with gag mouths. He'd gone perhaps three fire bays along when he heard the whoop off a shell and spinning round saw the scroll of dusty brown smoke already drifting away. He thought it had gone clear over, but then he heard a cry on DH, feeling sick in his stomach ran back. Logan was there already. It must have bean Logan's cry. He heard for nothing in that devastation could have had a voice. A conical black hole, still smoking had been driven into the side of the trench off the kettle, the frying pan, the carefully tended fire. There was no sign and not much of sordid and towers, either, or not much that was recognisable.