Black Ceremonies Read Online Free PDF

Sally-Ann. Would he ever see her again? he wondered.
    He took out his cigarette case, and lit a woodbine, then returned the case to the same pocket as the photograph – over his heart. Prendergast had never smoked before the war. But he had taken up the habit after hearing how Tommy Morsan had escaped death, when a bullet meant for his heart, had struck the cigarette case that he carried.
    Around him, his fellow soldiers were going through similar rituals, checking weapons and equipment, and saying prayers. The bombardment of enemy lines had been going on for some time. It would not be long before the signal would come and they would attack.
    The signal eventually came, too soon for some, not soon enough for others, and over the top, they went. Charging the enemy. Charging Death himself.
    A charge across a patch of muddy, rutted ground. Ground pocked with great craters, shell holes filled with scummy water. A desolate waste ground where nothing now grew, except the number of corpses. A quagmire of death.
    A charge into tangles of barbed wire, and machine guns spitting bullets. Except it could not really be called a charge, the weight of the equipment the men carried, and the treacherousness of the mud, meant that they moved little faster than a walking pace.
    Into No-Man’s-Land, the zone of death. Soldiers scythed down by the hail of enemy bullets. Shells exploding, hurling men hither and thither. Prendergast was unsure whether the shells were theirs, or those of the enemy. It no longer mattered to the dead men.
    “Please God, don’t let me die for nothing,” Prendergast prayed, certain that his death was certain.
    Prendergast repeated the mantra as he progressed towards the enemy.
    An orange cloud was drifting towards the advancing troops. “Gas!” Prendergast shouted, struggling to put on his gas mask. Before he had, the force of a nearby explosion threw him to the ground. He remained unmoving, and the battle raged on.
     
     
    In the distance the guns rumbled, explosions flashed, lighting the grey sky. But that was far off, the battle had moved on.
    Private Prendergast realised he was still alive. He wiped his face with his sleeve, did not notice the blood. Instead, he looked around him, and was sick, adding the meagre contents of his stomach to the detritus of human waste that surrounded him. Bodies, and parts of bodies lay everywhere.
    He recognised the mangled remains of friends and comrades. There was Private Bobby Owens, or at least his upper half, the rest of the young soldier had been blown to kingdom come. Prendergast giggled, at least the lad would not be complaining about trench foot anymore. Others were beyond recognition.
    He heard a groan – someone else was alive. Friend or foe? he wondered. Unsteady on his feet, Prendergast rose.
    “What the bleedin’ hell …?” he muttered.
    He could have sworn he saw a severed arm move, its grasping hand pulling it along.
    He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and laughed nervously.
    The arm moved again, the hand clawing the mud, dragging the limb behind it.
    Prendergast licked his parched lips. His Enfield rifle was near at hand, he wondered whether that was what the limb was aiming to reach. Prendergast crouched down and grabbed his weapon. He pounced, bayoneting the arm. The hand jerked, clawing, convulsing spasmodically, then was still.
    There was more groaning now. Prendergast pulled the blade free, and backed away, almost falling over another body. The soldier moaned. Prendergast recognised a comrade – Dennis Trotter.
    “Thank God, you’re alive!”
    Trotter groaned; his hand reached for Prendergast.
    Prendergast bent over the wounded man, shrugging off his army pack. He would not be able to carry that and Trotter back to their own lines.
    “Are you hurt badly?” he asked.
    Trotter’s blood-soaked jacket answered that question. Prendergast opened the jacket, reeled back, retching again. There was no way Trotter could still be alive with that gaping