The pocket watch in Jimmy’s hand no longer shines like it had two years ago when he had first gotten it. It was beat up now, coated in dirt and dust, a tiny crack at the edge of the glass. Despite this, the hands inside still worked good as new as long as he remembers to wind it.
He watches the hands tick closer and closer to 7:30.
They had been playing Poker just the night before, joking around, trying to lighten the mood. The Kid still wasn’t great, didn’t have it in him to lie most of the time and whenever he tried, you could see right through it. Jimmy always won anyways, filling up their dugout with smoke from his newly-won cigarettes.
Rick never seemed to want to play, always turning down the insistent invitations from the Kid and George. Jimmy couldn’t care less whether the old man played or not, but he was never opposed to winning a few more smokes. Despite his constant muttering and praying, Smitty had given Jimmy a run for his money—well, a run for his smokes—last night. “What, all that prayin’ finally payin’ off?” Jimmy wasn’t particularly religious himself, though he’d gone to church on Sunday’s with his Mam, he could just never wrap his head around some big man in the sky, controlling everything like a puppeteer with people on strings.
Smitty had just glared at him over the tops of his cards. “I call.” Jimmy felt no reason to raise so the match had ended, leaving Jimmy with a few more smokes in his cigarette case.
In the dugout that night, the Kid just couldn’t seem to shut up. “Y’know, war’s like Poker.” His voice was shaky, still squeaking and cracking as all young boys’ voices do. The Kid said he was 19, freshly out of school, but they all knew better, he was likely barely 17—maybe even younger—with a fiery passion to serve his country and to come home to girls chasing him down the street, admiring his medals.
“We got a waxing poet over ‘ere, Jimmy,” George muttered from his bunk nearby. Jimmy hummed, feeling too tired to bother answering the two of them.
“Shut it! The lot ‘a ya,” Rick grumbled, voice deep with sleep. The dugout fell quiet, only the heavy breathing of sleeping men and the occasional creek of a cot as someone shifted breaking the silence. They all knew what was happening in the morning, they all knew they should get sleep, they all knew this might be the last time they ever slept in a bed.
Now as he stood here, leaning against the sandbags next to George, beat up pocket watch in hand, Jimmy watched as his men—his friends—waited. The Kid was staring off into nothing, eyes unfocused but wide. The helmet on his head was tipped to the side, slightly too big and constantly slipping over his eyes whenever he moved.
Rick was sitting to the right of the Kid, rifle propped up against his side. He clutched a photograph in his hands. Jimmy had peeked at it a few weeks ago when Rick had set it down on his bunk to relieve himself outside. It was a picture of a kind looking woman—seemingly as old as Rick—and four pretty girls, all younger than Jimmy himself. As Rick clutched it in his hands, Jimmy saw how the edges were far more weathered than they had been just a few weeks ago, ripped and yellowed with how many times Rick had held it.
One of the only sounds that could be heard was Smitty’s quiet praying. He was kneeling on the other side of Rick, a rosary wrapped around his wrists. “…He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation…”
The shoulder pressed into Jimmy’s shifted as George fidgeted. The only other sound was that of George’s whistling. A simple tune, one all the men knew well as they sang it constantly. “God Save the King” was the only song George seemed to want to sing anymore—or whistle, in this case—despite Jimmy knowing he knew many others by heart.
George fidgeted with the strap of his rifle as he paused to take a breath before starting the song over again for the umpteenth time.
Jimmy was not impervious to the blanket of anxiety that covered the trenches for miles. Despite how many times he had done this, it never got any easier, being this close to death. He could almost feel it, cold hands reaching out to him, the hands of his fallen friends, the hands of relatives long gone. It was a strange feeling, always was.
The hands of Jimmy’s pocket watch tick ever closer. 7:24.
Smitty begins another Psalm, one Jimmy doesn’t recognize.
The Kid turns his head to stare off in the other direction.
Rick swipes his thumb across the photograph.
George starts up his whistling at the beginning again.
Closer now. 7:28.
The men around them wait with bated breath. It’s almost comparable to the feeling of the start of a Football match, if only the ball were a pocket watch and the players on the field were men waiting in the trenches.
The watch ticks on. 7:29.
Rick tucks the photograph into the inside of his helmet.
Smitty slips the rosary into his breast pocket.
The Kid looks at Jimmy, eyes finally focusing.
They all stand up, nearly in unison if it weren’t for the Kid having to adjust his helmet again.
Jimmy looks at his pocket watch and begins to count down. “Ten.”
He looks at his men, his boys. “Nine.”
They all lift their guns. “Eight.”
All the men down the trench step towards the ladders. “Seven.”
Jimmy’s voice blends with the men counting down. “Six.”
The Kid looks into his eyes and it takes more than Jimmy would like to admit to hold back tears. “Five.”
Rick breaths in a sharp breath and Jimmy looks up at him. “Four.”
Smitty clutches his rifle, knuckles going white with the force. “Three.”
George bonks his helmet against Jimmy’s and turns away from him to face the wall. “Two.”
Jimmy finally turns, hand on the ladder in front of him. “One.”
Whistles blow all down the trenches. Jimmy wishes he had one of his own but all he has is his voice.
“Come on boys! Over the top!”
