It was quiet...
But Jenkins, after being stuck here for a month, thought he could hear something. Not the usual crying of hopelessness, or that strange pinging noise in his head, riding up and down in tone that made him so nauseous. He didn't like to make the worst of a situation, but come on, this really, really stank.
He often daydreamed of home, in Queensland, where the land was still wild. Where you were more at risk from snakes than bullets. In his minds eye, he pictured Lauren pedalling up the street, whistling that same old tune that had come to pleasantly wake him every morning. The whistle became a buzzing monotone, but quickly became louder. Jenkins eyes snapped open. As the whistling became a shrilling screech with uncanny oscillating warbling noises. The shell sounded like some suicidal bird of prey.
The shell slammed into the side of the trench, caving it in. It was a good shot, though about fifty feet from where Jenkins lay. The shock-wave still made him feel so weak. Nothing stood in the way of the dismantling power of explosives.
Jenkins sighed. The unusual noise forgotten, he grabbed a trench shovel, headed to where the shell had landed, and began to dig.
