The low, heavy rumble of artillery woke the woman just after midnight. She stirred in her foxhole, and without casting off her blanket, rolled over. Her weapon was beside her, beneath the cloth, but it was no use to bring it to bear. Peeking her head over the rim of the foxhole, she listened as intently as her tired mind could. In the darkness, like distant storm clouds, there were faint golden flashes as enemy batteries fired.

Rounds incoming.

Some of the newer recruits, guys from Tallahassee barely out of high school, huddled in a shell crater ten yards to her left. One began to curse under his breath as another held his rifle at the ready, helmet strapped on tightly. The woman smiled at their naivete; either the shells would go wide and they’d be safe, or they were already dead.

The former was true. After a few tense moments, the high-explosive shells passed overhead with a sharp whistle. Probably 155s, the woman thought. Not the biggest cannon, but still pretty nasty. After a second or two, a series of sharp crack-whumps split the night air and she felt the earth shake, just a bit. Tiny pebbles and loose dirt shifted themselves in her foxhole. The rounds had gone hopelessly off course, at least a hundred feet wide, but she knew there could be more coming. Enemy observers wouldn’t be able to correct rounds on target in this darkness, though, so no sense in worrying about it. 

The woman shifted her pack underneath her head, rolled back over,  and closed her eyes. At least it wasn’t raining, she thought with a faint smile.