My short story

Ok I said I would put my short story up here as soon as I finished it. A couple of warnings though- This piece of work is not to be reproduced with out the direct consent of the author. It does get a bit gory in parts so, just to say I warned you. Here you guys go:

Eternal Glory

Patrick walked to the line to his dugout in the trench. He was scared of what he just saw. Three men that came up with him to the front yesterday, one was Timothy Fitzgibbons his friend he had made during training, have just gotten there faces caved in, by snipers in no man’s land. He was talking to Fitzgibbons, about why they had just joined up with the 13th London Irish regiment. He was eager to join up and see the Huns get punished for what they did to poor little Belgium. Patrick just wanted to escape the lonely life of living on the street.
            Patrick had just asked him if he had a cigarette, when Timothy looked above the parapet when the bullet entered his eye just below the helmet. It had caused a hole the size of a fist to come out the back of his head. The gore was more then Patrick could have handled. The bully beef he had for lunch was all sprayed out on to his boots and the floor.
            “You stupid fuck!” said Sgt. Green. “You goddamn fresh fish don’t know anything. If you just listened to your mommas about this whole dirty Sunday picnic you wouldn’t be fucking dead!”
            Patrick didn’t know what to say or do so he just stared at his puke on the ground. The other men, who have spent months in the trenches, were picking through Timothy’s gear and personal items. After he had sat down he saw a pack of muddy cigarettes next to his feet. He took one out and lit it with a match from a care package that a minstrel group had sent to the soldiers. The cigarette was a little wet but produced little smoke. The smoke that had exited his lungs was a midnight blue. He didn’t smoke it long; the shelling had started up again.
            The shelling was the worst sound he had heard in his entire life. The sound was like a high pitch then a huge rumble with a loud pop. The shells rained down with reckless abandon. It sounded like the entire German army was aiming just for him. He had heard stories from the other veterans. One was how a squad was in a dugout huddling and waiting for the shelling to be over when a lucky hit, made the entire dugout cave in and explode. He shuddered at that thought actually coming to life.
            That thought didn’t last long. He heard faint train whistles being blown. The other men who been here a while, suddenly grabbed there rifles and got to the parapets.
            “Get on the line Private!” screamed Sgt. Green.
            “Sgt. what’s happening?”  exclaimed Patrick
            “The Boche are paying us a social call” said Sgt. Green rather sarcastically. “What the fuck do you think is happening? jerry is making an assault on our stretch of trench. No do what I said before and get on the parapet, private!”
            Patrick thought that Sgt. Green had it in for him. He didn’t             think of it long because rifles start to crack away. Patrick had never heard the sound of a rifle before joining the army. He had heard pistols going off in pubs before, that is when he had enough money to buy a schooner of ale. The pistols would make a short pop sound, this was different. The rifles made a sharp crack as they exited the rifle.
            He had just gotten on the parapet when the machine gun started chattering away. It spewed lead death down field, eviscerating men charging the line. These were deadly violent weapons. He had heard stories that mad his stomach queasy, stories of men literally getting chewed to pieces by the hot lead.
            He put in a fresh clip. Pushed the bolt forward and paused. He saw the Huns coming straight at him, but he couldn’t come to terms killing another man. He thought what would happen to his soul when he actually did die? He was sure he would spend the rest of eternity in hot fiercely depths of hell.
            He had just heard a bullet whiz by his head to realize that he wasn’t ready to meet his maker just yet. He took aim and said a silent prayer for forgiveness on what he was about to do. The recoil of the rifle was still sore from when he fired it from training. He saw the man tumble down from impact of the bullet. He worked the bolt to put in a new round and fired again at another soldier. He missed that time but kept firing until he was empty. He put in a new clip but only fired 3 more rounds when the Huns were getting to the wire entanglements. Thank god that was out. The Huns were tangled up and it turned out to be like shooting fish in a barrel.
            Although there wasn’t enough time to shoot them all, a second wave had followed their comrades. All of a sudden he heard a shout down the line that the Huns were inside the trench. Fear had crossed through his body like lighting. He thought “What am I going to do?” He saw some of the men grab what ever they could. A lot of them picked up short field spades.
He saw the first Hun jump in and attack a corporal. The corporal had one of those spades in his hand, and when the Hun was about to throw a punch he hefted that spade right into the mans area where the collar bone and the neck meet. He fell like a sack of potatoes. The same thing was happening all along the line. A man dropped what look like a short billy club with spikes on it. It had already been used by the previous owner for it had pieces of brain matter and hair in between the spikes. He didn't have a choice but to pick it up, when the next German fell into his trench. Before the man could realize what hit him, Patrick swung the club at the mans head. The mans helmet flew off instantly with a giant dent into it. The man had fallen over but was in the process of getting up. Patrick didn't want that to happen. With a deep and dark rage that had never pulsed through his blood before took over his body. He yelled like a fury bent on raining death were ever he willed. He swung the club with all his might. It had entered his temple and proceeded to enter the mans head. After the man's left leg quit twitching, reality had came back to him.
He stopped and looked at the man he had just killed. He heard a distant whistle being blown. After the whistle, he heard out loud “The bloody jerries are turning high tail and running back”. Men where cheering and hurrahing all around him. Not Patrick. Patrick couldn't help but stare at the gory mess that he had caused. And for the second time today he had vomited.
After about 35 minutes of cleaning up the dead bodies and repairing the trench a little bit, Lieutenant Straubing came up out of nowhere and had a roll-call. He answered his name with little enthusiasm. He was grateful to be alive, but couldn't help thinking of the men he had shot and above all the man he had butchered with the club. A man whispered next to him “It gets easier boy. You never forget your first time, but believe me, it gets easier”. Patrick wished he could believe what the man said. All he could think was the mans deathly blank stair. It haunted him. It would haunt him until the day he died .
At the end of roll call Lieutenant Straubing said, “Good job men we turned them back. And for the replacements that made it through, welcome to the Somme.”