No Man's Land - a project

**
20
**




March 1915
France



It has been altogether, three weeks and two days since I wrote my last entry to you here.

But, as you know nothing of the existence of this journal, the impatience has been all mine.


The last few passages written … the beginning of what happened out in no-man's-land and my experiences in London… including the re-telling of the battle of Langemark and the woman in the Hotel Restaurant…

I believe those things contributed greatly to my decision not to board that train and travel home to see you.

Writing about them has been like inching passed a milestone on some particularly perilous stretch of steep journey - when the burden carried has just begun to feel like an impossible weight.

But the explosion that landed me in a military hospital for sixteen days is only half the story. Since writing about it, I have returned here again and again… in an effort to recall the events that followed - the incredibly strange journey back, through no-man's-land.

Once or twice, I had thought I was doing just that… writing about old Tom and me - but on returning later, to read through the untidy drafts, I've felt (every time) only dissatisfaction … and a new, indescribable shame, at the inadequacy of my writing.

I am in no position to deny the truth of having failed, as I read through the latest effort and discard it and start over again.
Every page cast aside in despondency has ended its existence as mush, dissolved into the filth of the latrines.

Often, I have simply sat staring at the blank pages.

I write everything out rough first these days and I am reduced to writing on the backs of letters - until Mother can send through more paper.

Since my last entry, the explosion has remained with me, like an irregular echo; and I am eager to write about Tom to some conclusion.
I feel that I can't move on until I do.

My frustration in this matter has been constant - especially as I am still on light-duties and actually (for once) have some spare hours in which to write.
It is typical that at the present time, I am unable… and to be honest, I have to ask myself, how could anyone write about war and come close to the reality?

My only tools are words… shapes formed out of ink, each letter drawn in a single stroke; symbols … marks made with a pen… how can they possibly tell anyone how it really feels to lie in a crater knowing you are the target of an enemy's mortars?

It is true that all my efforts to move on have proved a failure … and the harder I try, the greater the whole thing resists the telling.

Of course, there is a reason for this… the same reason I want to write it out and get it straight in my own mind …

You see I lied.

I lied to Father when I wrote to him from the hospital and I lied to Gregory and anyone else that asked questions.
I lied about the journey back across the mud.
I lied when I wrote out my report and I even lied to Captain Kensford.
That's the real reason I didn't want to come home to see you. I knew I would not be able to look at you without revealing the dishonour of that lie.

Only Corporal Harris and Private Milcher know the truth of how things really ended that day. Only they know of my shame - for they were there, they witnessed it.

For some reason (perhaps loyalty to the platoon) they have never challenged my word - but you see, I hide from the truth as I hide away from you.
I hide behind my men, behind this war… and I hide here, in this journal.

I tell myself that I will write about that day when I am ready… perhaps it will be an inadequate account, lacking the skills of a true writer - but that's all right.
I'm not a writer… I'm a soldier.

And meanwhile there are plenty of other issues to occupy my mind.

Hey, Endy!

Back on the job!

No need to rush now, ya hear? (Unless this suits!)

Still reading and enthralled. No rush; I can wait.

thanks, Olga and Tai Chi

Hi Endy,

How do you do?

***

Absolutely love the pictures on the previous page... really powerful!!!

Hi Naima - thanks for posting. I'm glad you found the photographs interesting
- the one of the children playing 'trench warfare' was taken in Hyde Park, London, during the war -
I'll post links to the best WWI sites I've found later.

For now, here's the next entry

**
21
**


The enemy are quiet. They sit in their hollow winter, smoking their damp tobacco, like us. We know they are probably already planning a spring offensive - but for now, we all play the waiting game.

The broken fields, where once a farmer grew food for a hungry family, lie bare and bone-white under morning frost.
In the distance, remote trees claw at the sky, twisted in death.
Low mist hangs thick and web-like along the line.
At night it is so cold that moisture freezes, leaving duckboards slick with ice.


*
*


Gregory and I have been ordered to rest our men at the 'Ritz' for most of the coming week. Our platoons have been issued new gasmasks. There is no leave for anyone and we can only guess what the brass has in store for us.
Captain Kensford has rather left us to it here, while he deals with a part of the sector cut off by floods. We've heard reports that he's got Yates up to his waist in mud out there - but perhaps that is simply wishful thinking on our part.


*
*


There is a sense of something odd hovering just out of reach … like a stranger who watches from a distance, but whose shadowy figure makes everyone nervous.
Some change is coming, something more than just spring, which is several weeks away, but drawing closer.

I heard a bird the other day.
A sparrow, I think.
I looked, but didn't catch a glimpse of any such creature… all I saw was the early March sun, hung low in the sky, its watery light glinting off barbed wire defences.

But the birdcall was so real, like a message or recollection of home and for a moment I was taken back to you. To the fields we grew up in, gold and ripe with life.

Standing there in the trench, I found myself looking around at all the utter greyness of destruction, as if seeing this outrageous existence for the very first time.
For a moment it seemed that I had been in a dream and the sound of the sparrow's call woke me…

Sometimes I'm not sure what is real anymore.


*
*


It is hard to believe for example, that as I write this, one of Gregory's men is currently suffering the humiliation of 'Field Punishment Number One' - better known by the troops as 'crucifixion'.

Everyday the man is taken out and shackled in irons to a gun wheel for two hours (ankles and wrists) in an X position. During this, he is within range of the enemy's big guns.

The punishment is to run for the maximum duration - twelve weeks.

His crime?

- Discovered drunk at dawn Stand-to, after a night of celebrating (with Gregory's approval) the safe birth of a first child.

Yates smelt the spirits on Private Davis and without so much as a question, reported him to Major Tollet (going over Captain Kensford's head).
The cruel bastard.

Davis has suffered two weeks of punishment and survived one major bombardment - but what the experience is doing to his mind, I cannot tell you…. and no one can predict… but you don't have to be a genius to know it isn't going to help him, or anyone else down here on the ground.

Gregory is absolutely furious and has written letters home in protest. (His Father's a senior judge, or something equally as impressive).
He said he isn't holding his breath, however.

Davis is being punished as an example to the men - but they hardly speak of him (in our hearing). They don't want to give the impression of being intimidated by the Majors actions.
When I have overheard the odd debate within the platoon, I've felt disquieted by their bitingly angry tones.

I'm not sure Yates knew of the trouble he was creating when he reported Davis, but still…
I've seen the men follow him with their eyes and I wonder if he is at all aware of their depth of feeling on this matter.

1st Platoon is taking it the hardest of course, Davis having been a popular fellow amongst them for the past year - but my lot seem very much affected.
I have noticed one or other glancing up at the ridge beyond the trees, with a thoughtful or sometimes pained expression on his face.

They scowl at Yates (and sometimes me), snap at the NCOs and generally behave with less respect for the hierarchy - be it shrewdly.



In an effort to distract then and keep them busy, we have them mending kit, cleaning and checking weapons, getting medical checks - and of course, washing and darning clothing.
Gregory calls it 'spring clean- up' - the men see it differently.

"A pain in the focking arse, that's what it is…" O'Brian said just yesterday, as he slapped a pair of dripping socks over a line.

I sent him off savaging and he came back with a black eye - a run in with the French apparently… but he seemed less restless, so I didn't ask too many questions.


*
*


I try to keep my platoon (well fed) busy and sidetracked, but they curse and grumble anyway.
Those who volunteered in 1914 had been told (to a man) that they would be home for Christmas… of course, the talk now is all about the spring offensives that we are sure will come.

I heard Sergeant Finch say something this morning as I was passing by.
He was sitting with Lydon and Milcher, who had been cleaning their rifles under his watchful eye, but now sat motionless, intent on his next word.

"Wha'ever the 'ooray 'enrys 'ave in store for us …. it can't be as bad as ever it were at Wipers."

"That's Ypres, to an educated brain." Corporal Harris said.

Finch ignored him and continued to roll his cigarette carefully.
Then he looked up and saw me.

"At Wipers, we entered 'ells gates, didn't we, Sir?"

"Don't you believe it," Pickard called out, "It could 'appen again anywhere… and worse than 'ell, no doubt. If there's one thing you can rely on 'ere… it's the soddin' brass messing things up for us poor bloody infantry…"

This was followed by a chorus of agreement, like a low rumble, from the other men close by.

"N'that'll be enough of that…" Sergeant Norris growled over the top of them.

"What d'you think, Sir?"

It was Lydon, twisting around to look up at me.

I was immediately taken back to boarding school… turning around to look up at Mr Rothburn, who always stood slightly behind the boy he was addressing…

Look at me when I speak to you, boy.

… and who sometimes pulled a boy up by his hair and marched him out into the corridor thus.

Lydon was waiting.
For some reason that I couldn't (and still can not) understand, I felt a stab of anger.

"What do I think?" I said.

I glanced around at their faces, "I think that whatever they have in store for us - we'd better be prepared. "

"Yes, Sir"

"Sir."

As I was walking away, I had the overwhelming urge to turn around and say something more to them - something to put them at their ease and let them know I still cared what happened to each of them - even Pickard - despite the fact that I couldn't joke with them anymore.
But of course, I didn't.


*
*





I remember at school, when I was nine years old, singing 'Onward Christian Soldiers' and marching around with my pals. Learning about the 'greatness' of Nelson, Wellington and the Empire. I grew up believing that a man in a uniform is a different breed of man - a better, braver breed.
I was wrong.

Despite our rebellious parents, we were still raised with a false impression of what war is. In a society where people want heroes… even fake ones, over and above the horrible actuality of war - children grow up believing in a myth.

If it is hidden from you - it's hard to see the truth - until it is upon you.

There are men here with integrity and men without.
There are men who enjoy the act of killing another human and there are men who find killing sickening.
Some are cold about it - others (like myself) are disturbed by it.
But no man here is any different to Father or Michael or the postmaster in Truro.

All three would become killers easily enough if they thought that those they loved were under threat.

For King and Country? For the Empire?

These men I watch every day are not dying here for the glory of another man's dreams - or to protect a rich, imperialistic man's assets … they are dying to protect their friends… the pals they have trained and fought and lived alongside… those that have been through hell with them and been there for them.

Love is a powerful weapon to use against any man.


*
*





I knew a man who volunteered for the front when his neighbours (two of them) sent him white feathers.
He was only twenty years old (same age as me at that time) and he looked younger… but two boys from families living in his street in Bromley had been killed in the first few days of war… and the community wanted to send someone to avenge them.

I read about the white feathers when I censored his letters home to his sister Anne, with whom he'd been open about his feelings.

"Kill a few of the Hun for me, lad," a woman had shouted out to him as he marched off in his new uniform - the same woman who had called him "coward" and turned away from him in the street just a few weeks before.

He came out to France a month after our Battalion returned from Ypres, and was assigned to my platoon. (One of many replacements needed). To be honest, just like Lydon, he reminded me of Michael.

His name was Harold Ash and he'd only been with us a month, before most of his face was blown away when a surprise enemy salvo reduced our stretch of the trench to a deep river of smashed timber.

As Ash lay there on the floor of the trench, looking with a stunned eye up at the sky, I saw that both his arms were lying detached from his body, slung amid the blasted debris.
I slowly knelt down beside him and his one eye rolled across to fix on me.

"Sorry, Sir," he said. Then he died.

It was a good, healthy eye. Green and unscratched, with a certain look of intensity and lonely sadness in it.

When I reached inside his bloody tunic and slipped the last-letter-home from his pocket, I saw two small white feathers float away to be trampled into the mud, as men gathered around us.
No one else ever mentioned the feathers, and sometimes I have my doubts that they were ever there… but I know that I saw them.

That surreal, dreamlike experience of another man's death has grown into a type of seeming normality around me.
War is much worse than I'd imagined it was going to be; and at the same time, there are things regarding it that men can become addicted to - things wholly new and shocking to the senses.

I confess, there is something fascinating in finding oneself suddenly shifted to an unfamiliar and bizarre landscape, which harbours an entirely strange and stripped impression of what you once thought 'reality' was.


*
*


Since receiving my injuries, I have changed.
Every day I sense this in me and it scares me.
This war is changing me. I feel it, and I am powerless to stop it.


*
*


This morning, as I stood shaving outside our dugout, I studied for the first time the scars that twist at the skin down one side of my face.

I don't think I'm a vain man - but neither am I comfortable with what I think of as a deformity. Where as the razor runs smooth along the left side of my jaw - on the right, scar-tissue, hard and pink and itching like a bastard, makes shaving (what bristles grow there) an ordeal. My right eye and the right corner of my mouth turn downwards almost imperceptibly, but enough to make me feel that my face is no longer my own.

In clear daylight and for the briefest moment, like a ghost or a passing, reflected cloud… I saw Harold Ash's half-face staring back at me from the mirror.

"Sorry, Sir…."

I turned abruptly to see Lydon standing in front of me. He saluted, nearly knocking the loose helmet from his head.

"Message from Captain Kensford, Sir….asking would you pay him a visit after breakfast…"

"Very well. Thank you, Lydon… "

He started to salute again, but changed his mind and grabbed his chinstrap with both hands instead.

I suddenly remembered seeing him do that the day we went over-the-top with Major Tollet's pistol aimed at our arses.
Lydon had surprised even me, by surviving that day.

As it turned out - he was to surprise me again.

"Sir?"

"Yes, what is it, Lydon?"

"We're glad to have you back on the line, Sir."

When I didn't respond he stepped back and saluted formally. This time his helmet remained where it was.

"Sir"

I watched him turn abruptly and lope off - looking more like Michael than ever, his adolescent gait almost comical in such an old, traditional setting.

But I didn't feel much like laughing.

Hey, Endy!

(I'm going to go back & reread a few pages, at least, before I read these latest entries. Good to see you're back on the job! )

Many thanks Olga - and everyone who has written.
Not much more to go now - last couple of posts
Maybe 3 : )

thanks for reading

E

**
22
**


"Where are you going?"

I hear your child voice, faintly, like the last whispering leaf blown from a winter tree.

Low clouds stretch smooth as linen sheets overhead, but there is no sun to be seen.

I can hear the hollow crump of bursting shells somewhere far off, across bleak fields.

The air smells of war… that utterly sobering stench of human foulness.

*
*

I am surrounded by mud. It stretches out in every direction, draining at my strength in an insatiable way that begins to play games with my mind.
The mud seems like a living, thinking enemy and I feel its weight in hopelessness. In its hungry bowels the earth is cold… so cold and putrid with corpses that I choke on its flagrant vulgarity.

My hands slide through sludge and slime, while around my ankles, the deep quagmire clings like a desperate, jealous friend - arms stretching from the underworld.

The mud is ubiquitous, scratching roughly beneath the collar and drying tight to the skin. It finds its way into the eyes and presses under the fingernails.
It has brought death to many who've succumbed to its tide of exhaustion. Men who have survived battles, only to drown in its filthy heart a hundred yards from their lines.

I hate it in a way I don't have the words for. What good would words be? The mud has no ears.

*
*

I'm forced to stop for a moment when my legs begin to tremble uncontrollably, threatening to drop me to my knees…. but I do not allow myself to rest for long … it would be too easy to sink down into the bog and end this nightmare… or to find myself crawling along the bottom of the trench without the energy to stand… to fade from daylight into darkness with the mud pouring into my gasping mouth.

As I move on, I look around at the utter greyness of my world. The misery of my surroundings.
There is something strange about the day… something that bothers me beyond all the mud.

I look down and see my Webley in my hand - a toy that kills… but I don't know why I'm here or what my present objective is.

Ahead I see a rudimentary fire bay and head towards it.

*
*

"Where are you going?"

I look behind me - startled by your voice.

*
*

As I enter the fire-bay, the passage narrows, forcing me to edge sideways around the awkward corner. The walls of the trench press in, bulging with rocks that grab at my coat.
The floor sinks lower, deepening the mud almost to my knees. There is a strong smell of death here.

I begin to feel the first stirrings of panic.

*
*

I look ahead and see a stationary figure. A soldier standing… as if exhausted, further up the trench.
I cannot see the man's face, but I find myself calling out Tom's name.

I have to fight against the thick morass as I slowly inch my way, but my relief at finding Tom momentarily eases my aching legs and I wade forward.

"Tom… Tom, thank God…"

But, like the German Cavalry man in my dreams, the figure does not respond… remaining motionless in front of me.

His arms rest against the walls of the trench either side of him and his head is bowed - the rim of his helmet circling his head - for a moment I see the crucifixion of Jesus… a picture I'd coloured in at school and taken home to Father - who had been furious.

"Obsessed with bloody torture," I distinctly remember him saying…

I feel myself falter… to pause several feet away, suddenly enveloped inside a wave of fear.

There is something horrifying and darkly sinister about the encounter. I sense it in every living part of me.



Being unable to see the man's face, his expression…

The world falls suddenly still, as silent and unfathomable as any grave - yet I can hear my own scared heart thumping, almost angrily and I am filled with paralysing dread

"Tom?"

The mud sucks at my legs.

"Tom? Tom, is that you?"

I wish I could see his eyes.

"Tom!"

But even as I shout out I realise too late, that I don't want him to look up at me after all.
I don't want to see his face…
Not ever.

I raise the pistol, as if to ward him off.

The shadow of the bomb falls towards us.

*
*

In pitch darkness I sit swallowing a scream. I can smell the clay walls surrounding me, like the walls of an ancient dug grave.
Somewhere outside, where the moon lights the trench, I hear a man hammering wood with a mallet.
My heart has survived the shock of waking and begins to recover gradually.

I wait for the terror inside me to abate - as it always does. I've learnt to give it time.

*
*

0200 hrs

I was up and back in uniform, busy writing a letter to Michael, when I heard the sound of familiar voices drifting towards me through the night.

"Yes… well have a word with him, will you, Sergeant?"

"Right away, Sir."

I looked up in time to see Lieutenant Gregory lower his head to step down into the officer's shelter, bundled in his greatcoat, his face pink with cold.

I caught a glimpse of the cloudless black sky behind him, before the blanket fell closed and a surge of freezing air arrived, flickering the candle on the table in front of me
and providing a moment's welcome relief from the stale and rather odorous air in the dugout.

Gregory glanced at me once… then stood silent, a figure of tiredness, his mouth turned grimly down, as he slowly began pulling the brown leather gloves from his hands.

"Looks cold out there." I offered.

"Very."

He appeared to be deep in thought, so I packed away my writing box and got up to pour some tea from the waiting pot.

"Your man Appleton has a fever… I told him to g…get some sleep and report to you an hour before Stand-To. "

Without acknowledging he had heard me, Gregory took off his cap and dropped his gloves into it, before flinging it across the dugout with a nonchalant air (that might well have hoodwinked some - especially as it landed precisely on the pillow of his makeshift bed with the gloves still tucked neatly inside) but left me in no doubt that he was furious.

I considered asking him how it had gone… and if he had resolved anything - but I was distracted by his unusual behaviour, which seemed so out of character as to be disturbing.

Even under the most trying of circumstances, Gregory has always proven a calm and sensible officer - no matter how miserable or bloody things have got.
Despite being only twenty-three himself, he is considered a voice of good reason within the Company… and so, watching him undo his coat with angry, precise movements, yanking on the belt like a child close to temper, was something of a surprise.

"Brandy?" I asked him.

"God, yes."

He heaved off his coat and sent it flying after his cap - but it didn't quite reach his bed, landing in a heavy heap on the floor instead. (This was something I'd never seen him do before - nor had ever expected to see).
He didn't give the coat a second glance, but for an instant, I saw a body, curled and dead… then it was just a coat again.

"How b… bad was it?" I asked him; not at all sure I wanted to know.

"To tell you the truth, old boy… it was possibly the most dreadful thing I've seen since this damn campaign began."

He glanced at me once more, a look that could be mistaken for accusation, but wasn't. It was rage.

A tall, narrow-faced individual, Gregory loosened the collar of his tunic, before pulling back his chair and sitting down opposite me.
The brandy bottle and half a wrapped fruitcake (from his sister) stood on the small table between us.
I waited, but he didn't speak, nor move even… but only sat back with his hands on his knees, staring at nothing.

I think you and Michael would like Ross Gregory.
Maybe one day I'll bring him home to Cornwall to meet you.
He's what's known as a popular officer.
Most have high regard for him (I suspect even Yates, begrudgingly).
The men in his platoon, and much of the Company, trust him, as I do - even with knowledge of this journal, which he has known about since Ypres and has promised to destroy in the event of my death (and his survival, of course).

When he spoke, I could hear the tiredness, like dry ash in his voice…

"Kensford tried to get the sentence reduced to four weeks, but you know Tollet, he isn't having any of it… "

"Of course."

"By Christ… they say he goes up there regularly on the pretence of checking Davis is getting his proper punishment… but the artillery lads have him sized up as a man who rather enjoys seeing another tortured… if you know what I mean?"

I passed him a shot of brandy…

"Here."

"Thanks old boy,…. Cheers."

He raised his glass at me but didn't drink from it. His mind was somewhere else.

"I mean he has him pinned up there like a bloody starfish… and they say he's been seen more than once, poking at Davis's midriff with his damn riding-crop and having a jolly good laugh about it with the staff…"

"I can believe it…"

"The man's an utter f*cking disgrace."

He swallowed half his brandy in a gulp, his eyes glittering at me.
I felt a stab of apprehension… was Gregory at breaking point? Had I been so wrapped up in my own problems that I hadn't seen this coming? I hoped that no one else had heard what he'd just called Major Tollet… no one who might pass it on, anyway.

"You know, I asked Captain Kensford if it's regulation - chaining a man up in range of Jerry's big guns like that…
….Can't even cover his face to protect his eyes during a bombardment? … Can you imagine?"

"No."

" He told me that he'd checked the rules himself….
(Gregory leaned in towards me and I didn't much care for the look in his eyes) … and it transpires that the procedure hasn't actually been standardised - (he fell back in his chair again) so in fact, no rule is being broken by the Major."

"Because there are no rules."

"Quite."

It seemed incredible to me that such a thing could be true - that White Hall swags would fail to cater for the likes of Major Tollet - who obviously had several brain cells unaccounted for.

Gregory drank his tea straight down and set aside the mug.

"Right now, along with trench-fever and worries back home, the man's a worse threat to our troop numbers than the bloody Germans."

I wanted to smile.

"Is there anymore of that, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"There s… certainly is, Lieutenant. "

I poured him a hefty measure.

"The stammering…. I've noticed that in other officers."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well it's not getting any worse. So. What about Davis?"

Gregory took a mouthful of the brandy and savoured it before swallowing. He gave me a sharp look.

"Do you really want to hear it?"

"Yes. Of c…course. If you want to tell me."

He laughed abruptly, making me jump a bit in my chair.

"My God, it will sound like nothing - after what you went through with old Tom."

"You don't know what happened w…with Tom."

"True. Do you want to tell me?"

"No. Not at all."

"I didn't think so."

"For God's sake Gregory… how is Davis?"

"Well… better than Tollet would like, I think. "

"Did you get to speak to him?"

"Yes…. shall we have another?"

He pushed his empty glass towards me and I splashed brandy into it, but not my own. All was quiet - but I would be covering the line until dawn and despite our current location, I considered it prudent to keep my wits about me.

We sat in silence, listening to the rats. Outside a man laughed softly - almost a chuckle - then Sergeant Norris piped up…

"Well don't just stand there like a lemon 'anging off a tree, Barnes…. go and see to it…."

"Yes, Sarge….. right'o ….. right'o ….. blimey ……….. what's got his goat?"

Gregory and I smiled briefly at each other, but there was not much joy in it.

We listened to the voices fading away.

*
*

"I wanted to apologise to the man… "

"For his punishment?"

"Well yes, there's that of course, but you see… it was my fault he got noticed by Yates in the first place."

"I don't understand."

"Oh I know Davis shouldn't have gone on celebrating into the wee hours - but I cannot blame the man. His wife miscarried their first child, you know…. he's been suffering…. judging by his letters…. close to making a run for the coast."

I watched Gregory take a silver cigarette case from his tunic pocket and open it to extract two remarkably white cigarettes. He passed one to me and we lit them from the candle.

"I knew he was still inebriated - I smelt it on him."

He puffed on his cigarette for a moment to get it burning.

"…. I realised too late… I should have written him down as sick that morning… it just didn't occur to me."

He tapped his ash onto the floor and I noticed that his hand was shaking.

"Going up there to see for myself…. to apologise… it sounds like I simply wished to alleviate my own guilt but really, I thought it the least I could do. I thought he must despise me … for not protecting him…"

We both heard Sergeant Norris again, moving off up the line, commenting crisply to a man on his way.
He sounded lively.

"But ….it wasn't like that at all… " Gregory said, as if to himself.

I sat back in my chair.

"How was it?"

He thought about it while I smoked the rest of my cigarette and waited for him.

"Some artillery boys pointed me in the right direction… and they weren't happy about it, any of it… I could tell.
I don't think I'd really believed it myself, until I saw him as I continued along the ridge… but… there he was… shackled to an artillery gun… nothing more than a human target… X marks the spot, ha! … Utterly barbaric."

I tried to see it through Gregory's eyes. Walking towards one of my own men, Milcher perhaps…

Gregory scratched at the top of his head and puffed on his cigarette, glancing at me occasionally.

" What happened up there … I wouldn't expect the likes of Tollet to understand - many wouldn't…. not even Father… that was the worse part you see…. He saw me coming."

He knocked back the rest of his drink and pushed his glass towards me.
I filled it and he swallowed half the measure before setting the glass back down gently.

"I'll never forget it. Never. Do you understand?"

He stared straight at me.

"However long I live I know I'll be returning to that ghastly moment over and over again. I'll be thinking about it on my f*cking deathbed - if I ever get to die in bed."

"What happened?"

He gave a small, disturbing laugh.

"I'll tell you what happened… "

*
*

"I'm walking towards him and…. I don't know if he forgets where he is for a moment, or what it is… but… but he looks right at me and starts struggling, pulling against the shackles…

… You see, at first I don't understand… what it is he's trying to do… For a few seconds I think he is trying hopelessly, to break free… but then it hits me… Oh yes, it hits me, alright. I realise he is trying to snap his heels together… to…to bring his hand down … and of course, he can't do it, being chained up like a… like an animal… and he looks surprised… that's the hardest thing to take… how surprised he looks for a moment, how confused…. "

*
*

I watched Gregory reach up to shade his eyes with his hand, clearly mortified by the threat of tears.

(At this point in our conversation, I began to feel sick.
I wanted him to stop… I didn't want to think anymore about any of it - but he was lost and not even looking at me).

"I went up there to apologise for my own mistake and for the way he is being treated and what happens?"

He laughed again, a self-mocking, parody of a laugh.

"He tries to f*cking salute me… Me. "

I watched Gregory suck at his glass, then crush the end of his cigarette hard against the table leg and drop it. His face was a bland viciousness.

"Watching him trying to salute me …. it was….it was the most terrible thing I've seen in all this f*cking hell I tell you. Worse than bloated corpses, worse than skulls lined up like medieval trophies, worse than Arthur Timms, even."

(Blown to pieces at Ypres, while trying to rescue his Sergeant from a deep mud hole).

"Don't you worry about me, Sir, he said … my God, James, what are we running here?"

"You're right … Tollet wouldn't get it."

"They do this to a good man for being nothing more than human… while the uncouth, fat F*CKER…. in the Major's uniform, gets to have a free stiffy."

Two seconds passed… three…four… and then I felt my ribs contract and we both turned away from each other, to double over… as laughter, audacious and unstoppable, as pure as fresh water, burst from us with all the inexorable force of human nature.
Like boys, we clung to the table's edge and laughed aloud, with uncontested hilarity.

For me, it had nothing whatsoever to do with what was happening to Davis, or even Tollet's part in it all… it was purely Gregory, calling the Major an 'uncouth, fat F*CKER' that did it.

I had never heard anything so childishly hilarious or dangerously shocking in my life.
The term so suited Major Tollet that it felt wildly liberating to hear it said aloud.

"Uncouth, fat F*CKER …" I whispered, barely able to get the words out, I was grinning so much.

Gregory leaned in…

"Major Fat F*CKER…." he said, and threw himself backwards, tears spurting from his eyes.

My God, how we laughed…

"Major Fat F*CKER," he said again…

(At this point we were almost on he floor).

"Is everything alright here, Sirs?"

It was Sergeant Norris, his head poking in at us through the blanket, but of course, this just made us laugh all the more - to the point where we were unable to answer him at all and after watching us for a few seconds, he went off shaking his head and muttering to himself.

I began to think that I would never be able to stop laughing… that I would simply go on and on until they dragged me away to a psychiatric hospital or shot me dead like a mad dog.
So it took me a while to realise that I had in fact stopped, and that somehow, without me comprehending it, I had begun to cry - quiet tears, but even so, as you know, it isn't the done thing.

Done or not, I was unable to stop it happening - or to get it under control once it had started. I pressed my hands over my face and tried to hold it back, to block its route…. but Tom's name still forced its way out.

*
*

I'm very glad it was Gregory alone who witnessed my sudden break down (although I'm fairly positive that it would not have happened at all, had it been otherwise).
He gradually fell silent and then got up and started making fresh tea.

I tried to shut Tom out and listen only to the familiar sounds inside the shelter … but my dream from earlier kept returning and it took me a while to climb out of that deep hole, where Tom remains, like an unlearnt lesson in my head.

Still, by the time Gregory was passing me a hot mug and sitting down again, I was back in control.

"Sorry about that." I said, uncomfortably, "Davis… I don't know why… but he reminded me …"

"It's alright you don't have to explain anything, old boy… although I have to say… I too feel guilty about Tom."

"You?"

"Yes… I was on duty, remember?"

"You were ill."

"Yes… I should have had you woken earlier… to cover my watch. I wasn't there when Tom went out. I should have been... "

"And I sh…should have headed back with him str…straight away…"

"I disagree, but that isn't important… you went out there to get him… that's what matters. After that - you did your best."

"Yes, well… my best wasn't good enough, was it?"

He raised his glass at me…

"Join the club, old boy …. and welcome to war!"

*
*

We sat quietly after that and drank our tea.
That's how I'll always remember Gregory I think… sitting there in that hole in the ground, buried together inside a filthy war… sharing a pot of Indian tea in the comfort of mutual silence.

*
*

I know now that the time has come to write about Tom - my conversation with Gregory has somehow given me the courage… but still, I am afraid.

Endy, I am enjoying your writing so much. Perhaps "enjoying" isn't the most appropriate word, but I hope you know what I mean. You are very, very good.

Read it days ago...but still can't get over this line:



This last one really was super-amazing!

Sincere thanks to all who have been reading this - i know it's massive.

Tai Chi - your post meant a lot to me because Gregory's story (about one of his men trying to salute him while undergoing Field Punishment No 1) - is based on a true incident i read of and which i was determined to approach with sincerity (baring in mind the very emotional account of events written down by the original Lieutenant).
It was very encouraging hearing from you after i posted.

And Naima - thank you for your post.

I'm honoured that anyone would take the time to read this - and many thanks to anyone who has.

I won't say anymore now until it's over - hope it doesn't get too 'heavy' later on for anyone, but i have to write it out as it is.

I'll be posting very soon

Peace
Endy

**
23
**


Sheep Sorrel has turned crimson in the meadows. The forest trees have been seduced by autumn, their drifting leaves tinged copper, bronze, gold and rust red.
We pick up every different coloured leaf we can find to take home to Mother.
Down through the twisting forest path, laughing.

The land is wet after heavy rain and steams like a jungle in the broken, dancing sunlight. It is quiet here, away from the fields and lanes, deep in the valley, where the smell of mulch rises from the earth like a prehistoric mist.

We three tread gently - golden ferns leading us on through the silent trees. This is an ancient land of Kings and of battles fought in dark ages.

*
*

Michael carries his new bow and arrow - and I of course, a sword. Both made for us by Father, who presented them with some ceremony at the beginning of summer… ours to keep on condition that we never use them on each other.

So far, we've kept our promises.

You are our scout and carry Father's old compass.
You press your finger to your lips and crouch on the path where we join you.

"What is it?" I whisper.

"Soldiers…. coming this way."

You point through the trees, leaning in towards Michael.

"Romans…. there. See them?"

As if he really can see a Legion of metal clad killers marching towards us, Michael's face turns pale. He puts one hand on my shoulder and squeezes it.

"What shall we do?" You ask.

The forest stands quiet around us. The trees hang frozen.
Even the squirrel is still, clinging motionless to the trunk of a beech tree.
I am leader…the Pendragon… and you both look at me for an answer.

"Well, we shall have to go around…"

I move and you both follow.
We disappear like wraiths through the beech trees and into a dense ash grove, treading softly.

If the Romans catch us they will make us their slaves, put us in chains and ship us off to Rome - where we'll spend the rest of our wretched lives serving wine to our masters.
We creep like outlaws in our own country, searching the shadows for any sign of the invaders.

Michael suddenly sneezes - loud enough to lift a woodpigeon from the top of a tree. I hear you giggle.

"Shhhh…"

We move stealthily on, but then he points with his bow and shouts, "Look…look… oh…"

He glances at me and I see his is face is bright with excitement.
He has discovered the biggest, grandest, untouched bush of blackberries any of us have ever seen.
The fruits stand out, black and juicy, washed by rain, plump and ready.

Michael's bow falls to the ground.

"To hell with the Romans…." I mutter, as we all run forward.

*
*

An hour later, with purple stains that have dried like blood to our skin, we leave the ash grove and head deeper down into the valley…

Here tall oak trees have dropped their yellow, wavy leaves to create the illusion of a golden carpet and we walk under their shadows, watching for squirrels.

Michael has been singing 'The Grand Old Duke Of York', but his voice suddenly falters to a whisper. He looks at me with wide eyes, then grins and turns off the path, disappearing into the bracken.

"Michael, wait!"

We can hear it. The monster. Snaking its giant way between the trees and moss-covered boulders, its power relentless as it splits the forest in two - An oversized brown worm, as mad as any dragon.

"Come on!" You yell, excitedly…

There is always a race to be the first to see something… such as the farm on a returning journey - or an island out at sea, or the Cathedral at Truro on our walk from the train-station.
Now Michael races ahead and we both follow, cutting between clumps of nettles and dead wood swamped by ivy. Creamy fungus climbs the lower trunks of trees here, where the air is moist and thick with hungry midges.

As we draw closer to its side, the killer begins to roar its fury at us.

"There!" Michael shouts, "I see it…I see it!"

*
*

The river runs swollen by many days of heavy rain.
Debris is washed along in its wake, foaming and rotten.
We stand together for a moment, taking in the noise and depth of the river.

Here several twisted, ancient willow trees crouch at the water's edge, like thirsty witches.
Michael gathers stones that fit nicely into his hands, while you stand looking up river, shading your eyes from the sky.
A gust of wind catches at your hair and whips it across your face. I watch you tuck it back behind your ear - which is red with cold, despite the sun.

You look across at me and smile.
You are like a woodland spirit.

Then a shout rings out.

"Pendragon!"

I turn to see Michael standing up on the bough of a fallen tree trunk, throwing stones into the rush and laughing.

"Get down!" You shout, just before he slips.

As if your intuition has grabbed him, he tumbles, falling like a diving bird - I watch him hit the water with his head and disappear.

Your scream is molten… it passes right through me to stun the trees.

"Mi…chael!"

*
*

"Tom!"

I crawl then slide deeper down the wall of mud.
The German corpse, which once lay curled discreetly at the bottom of the crater, has been blown to pieces and is now scattered across a wide area.
One boot stands upright, a shard of bone poking skyward from the charred folds of leather, like a gruesome joke.

Jerry's head, minus its helmet, lies at least ten feet away, face down in the mud. But no body lies behind it.

It takes me several minutes to make my way to Tom, who looks to be whole. He lies on his back, staring grimly up at the sky and I think for a moment that he is dead - but then he speaks…

"Sir? Is that you?" His voice is faint, a weak whisper.

"Yes, it's me Tom… "

I kneel beside him and brush earth from his face.

"You look to be in one piece… how do you feel?"

"I'm fine, Sir…. no pain, like…. but I can't move me legs…"

I realise that he cannot see me, either. His eyes are damaged, possibly burned.

I can smell him now… excrement I suppose and scorched flesh… I feel my stomach clench, hard against my ribs.

"We ain't go'na make it…are we, Sir?"

"Don't say that Tom."

"We ain't gona make it."

*
*

I drop my wooden sword and waste no time with buttons, but grab the bottom of my coat and pull it off over my head.
Then, as I face the river, I hesitate.
It's only for a moment, but it holds me fast. I stumble forward and stop, my eyes drawn to the rushing greyness of the water.

Gradually I become aware of you… standing several feet from me… and we look at one another.
You with your hands bunched at your open mouth, eyes wide, so very wide… you try to say something but it comes out only as a whimper.

"Go and get Father." I say, and when you do not respond I shout, "Go on!"

Then we turn away from each other.

*
*

The current takes me and swallows me into its cold gullet. I am sucked down like a stick of wood, unable to fight against the force of the river.
The cold hits me hard, like the time I fell of the back of a hay cart and winded myself.

The physical world swirls like a dream threatening to overwhelm me. Under water I see strange colours I've never seen before, and hear voices… water-spirits or angels or the dead - I don't know which… but they worry me; more it seems than the tight squeezing in my chest.

I tumble uselessly, at the river's mercy.
Soon I don't feel the cold anymore, or even the rocks that bruise me and scrape the skin from my flailing hands.
Soon the thundering in my ears turns to calm murmurings of reassurance and I lie back in the soft numbness of its lie.

Only when Michael's panicked fist catches me a hard blow to the temple, do I even remember him.

For a brief, terrifying moment I see his face… eyes and mouth wide with fear, bubbles trailing towards the light.

My brother is drowning.

*
*

I cannot save him. I cannot save myself.

Although I struggle to find some extra strength with which to fight for us both, I am exhausted. Finished.
We are locked together, drowning together.
I can feel my mind beginning to give in… soon my body will follow, succumbing to the stronger force of nature.
There is a maddening desire to open my mouth, take in death and let it fill me…
It seems the easiest release. Why fight, when no hope remains?

Then some immense anger fills me… pours into me almost against my will. I don't know where this fury comes from, but it hits me hard, stunning me into sharp realisation… We are going to die…
All at once, I am raging… against mortality and the very idea of defeat. I curse and rant like a paralysed lunatic, outraged by my own weakness.
My arm is curled around Tom's chest as I struggle to pull him along on his back through the thick, scheming mud… but it feels like a useless endeavour, for I can barely drag myself.

I have to dig my heels in to get him up and over a bank of earth and deadwood.

"Come on!" I practically shout.

"Come on…."

I will myself to move.
Inch by miserable inch, I heave Tom after me.
If he lives or dies… that's out of my hands now. I can do nothing for him, but keep going - Through the freezing, filthy bogs; through the stinking ditches concealing secret, retched death; through the dark landscape, with its barren, hopeless tracks of confused chaos.
I hang onto him and I keep going. That's all I can do.
I will not leave him. Tom is worth more to me than that….

*
*

"I 'eard about your leave getting cancelled, Sir. I'm sorry to 'ear that."

I watch him for a moment, as he continues sorting through piles of clothing. After a while I have to ask him.

"Tom, where do you come by all this information?"

"Ah, that'd be saying, wouldn't it, Sir? The only thing I can 'onestly tell you, is that I don't 'ear it off the Germans."

"Well, I'm jolly glad to hear that, Tom. That's all right then, isn't it? You don't hear it off the Germans… That makes me feel much better."

He is used to my sarcasm and ignores it politely, with slightly raised eyebrows. In the silence that follows he continues folding clothing carefully, before he mutters…

"I also 'eard there's to be a raid."

"What?"

"ahhm."

"What did you say?"

"A night raid is what I 'eard."

For crying out loud, Tom…. "

"Sorry, Sir. I just wanted to say - that I'd like to be in it - if you should get the chance to put me name up, like."

"Why on earth would you volunteer? What if your wife got to hear of you doing such a thing? - What would your 'ilda say then?"

(Tom has a habit of muttering, "I don't know what my 'ilda would say…" at any given time and it feels quite good to throw it back at him - although I'm embarrassed for having emphasised his bad English).

"It's what she'd do that worries me, Sir … but still, I want to go."

He stops what he is doing and stares at me. I realise that he has never asked anything of me before.

"Very well, Tom. If I'm involved, I'll do my best to see to it that your name is put forward… but I think Captain Kensford will give this one to Lieutenant Gregory."

"I wouldn't bank on it, Sir."

"What?"

I feel a nervous tension in my gut as I watch him turn away. I've never led a night raid before… and have only accompanied Gregory twice (once while still a sub-Lieutenant).
I believe that Captain Kensford has made up his mind I'm simply not cut out for it… and I have been dreading him passing me over for Yates - which would be a silent rebuke. Horrifyingly shameful… (and wouldn't Yates make the most of it).

"Excuse me Sir."

I turn to see Jones in the doorway.

"Yes, Jones, what is it?"

"Cap' Kensford's asking for you, Sir."

"Oh… er… very well, thank you."

"Sir."

I watch Jones leave, then turn back to see Tom staring pointedly at me, his brow raised.

For some reason I find myself close to laughing….

"He probably wants to know about those missing rolls of corrugated iron." I suggest.

"I wouldn't bank on it." Tom says again, handing me my cap - and as I'm walking out he adds, matter-of-factly…

"Don't forget to put me name up, will you Sir?"

*
*

A glint of daylight. A glimpse of sky.

Trees rush towards me, then the light hits my eyes and I open my mouth.

For a scary moment, nothing happens.

Then my tongue is flooded with lapping river water and I spit, gasp and cough… soon I'm gulping in oxygen and gradually I can breathe again.

Terrifying noises thunder through the air around me.
I reach out and grab a sturdy tree root that arches from the riverbank.
The current swings my feet around and points them down stream.
I grit my teeth firmly together, but unless my arm is ripped from its socket I'm going nowhere.
Nothing will tear my hand away from its anchor. Nothing.
My fingers are iron.

I lie on my back with my right arm curled tight around Michael's chest, holding him firmly up out of the water.
He is alive and struggling… the top of his head thumps me a hard blow to the chin, delivering an explosive pain.

Somewhere above me, I hear you shout my name.

*
*

I stop crawling and listen, my face a few inches from the mud.
My right hand is hooked around Tom's belt and my left arm tucked under me, struggling to hold me up. I lie there very still, listening… but I don't bother looking around for you…
Instead, I get my legs moving again, scraping forward another half a foot.

"Where are you going?"

I see you looking back at me from under your hat, as we sit by the café window watching the rain and waiting for our tea. I've just told you that I am volunteering for the infantry and I can see an odd mixture of fear, pride and contempt in your eyes, that makes me wish, just for a moment, that I could be suddenly twelve again, and you but ten… and that we were back in the warm meadow, lying in the long grass with Michael. Watching the changing shapes of the clouds above us and sharing the secrets of what we saw there.
Laughing together as the world rolled overhead.

*
*

With only one hand free, I have to crawl flat to the ground. Tom lies alongside my legs, his helmet protecting his head and my coat his back - but his feet drag lifeless behind him, leaving jagged, scar-like trails in the mud that fill instantly with brown liquid and are soon swallowed.

I gasp and whine and swear.
If the Germans are anywhere near our position they'll hear me plainly, but I'm only vaguely aware that I'm doing it. Loss of blood, concussion, shock perhaps… all undermine my body, my strength… but worse is the slow draining of my fortitude. It seeps out of me almost gleefully.

We make slow time, as our shadows shorten towards noon, shorten and then start growing again. I look at my compass and realise in some muzzy confusion that we've been off course for approximately the last hour.

I don't take it well - the realisation. (It's no vast distance at the pace we are going, but a great loss of time and effort).
I'm mostly angry because I know that too many mistakes like this could mean the difference between life and death. We have wandered too far northeast and we're lucky not to have met with a German patrol.

Just after that I fall asleep against a bank of mud.

*
*

"Get away from the bank." I scream at you.

Even if you were running home for father right this moment, I know he wouldn't get here in time. Michael is shivering and pale in the water, but still… somehow it terrifies me to see you still there, up on the bank by the trees, staring down at us.
For a moment in my mind I visualise you also tumbling forward - to fall headfirst into the river.

"Stay back." I yell.

My mind jumps around like a bird trapped under a chair. I force myself to think calmly, to at least give my brains a chance to think of some way.....

*
*

Do you remember that time I got caught out in the field with Mr Pembroke's bull?
I learned that day that sometimes it can be fear that kills you and that even if you are afraid, sometimes you have no choice but to pretend that you are not.

I lay there in that freezing water and I saw myself lifting Michael up out of the river and placing him safely on the ledge of dry roots hanging over us, where he would lie shaded by the oak tree above.

I saw myself doing it easily…

*
*

Very carefully I change my grip and keeping Michael tucked close with my elbow, I begin to gather as much of his coat into my fist as I can. When I feel ready, I look above me at the ledge. I know i can do it. I grit my teeth and start to raise him in that direction.
But to my horror, I can barely lift him three inches from my chest.

I hear you shouting something desperate as I lie there and try again, hanging on, the river dragging at us, pulling on us. It's no good. Michael, at eight years old and dressed in his winter coat is simply too heavy for me to lift with one arm.
Various panicky and nonsensical ideas run through my mind, screaming;
but eventually I realise the truth…

I don't know what to do.

*
*

When I wake, it is to pain. I am still bleeding from my side, but it is my face that bothers me. There is a small, bloody stump where my ear used to be. I am having trouble seeing out my right eye and when I touch that side of my face, it feels like my fingertips must be glowing match-heads, the pain burns so intensely.

I crawl stiffly away from Tom and relieve my bladder, urinating into the mud. As I do so, I look up and see that I have crawled to the edge of a road… a straight, Roman-like road that once cut between summer trees, but is now just another part of no-mans-land, swamped by this total devastation.



We should turn off into the fields and head west, but the road looks so inviting. I wonder if it leads to a city far away, where people go about their daily lives uninterested in what is happening out here in this man-made hell.

I stare down that road of destruction for quite some time; then I shuffle slowly back to Tom, grab him by the belt and continue our journey west, crawling along with him in tow.

As day turns towards evening, I know we should be near our lines, but I recognise nothing. There have been no roads or even paths for some time.
I lie on the top of a rise, studying the murky, stunted landscape. Gradually I realise that I am alone. I look all around, and all around again, but Tom isn't there.

"Tom?"

My own voice scares me in the emptiness.

"Tom!"

*
*

You have stopped shouting and running about and now stand high above us, up on the rocky bank, under a hazel tree. The forest above and all around you is a blurred fire of colour, magnificent, despite our predicament.

"What... shall... I... do?" You shout, hands cupped to your mouth, knees slightly bent.

I do not answer.... I'm afraid that if i open my mouth I will be inviting the river to pour into me. There is nothing you can do to help us.

I look beyond the top of Michael's head, beyond his feet, which sway and bob around in the great torrent.
Further down stream there is a patch of stony earth on our side of the bank, creating a small beach, just before the river turns away.
Debris has caught and piled itself on that tiny shore and in the middle of it stands a single tree, like a beacon.

*
*

Tom lies in the mud more than twelve yards back down the slope. I have no recollection of having left him there. None at all.

He lays stretched out on the ground and as I approach him, cursing myself for leaving him alone, I feel certain he is dead… but when my hand presses on his shoulder he speaks.

"Sir? Why come back?" He sounds genuinely sorry that I have.

I don't answer him. The answer's obvious, isn't it? And besides, I am horrified to think that I might easily have left him.
I need to make sure it doesn't happen again. For this reason, I tie us together by our belts. Then I start crawling again, hauling Tom with me.



*
*

I have stopped swearing long ago and can only whine and whimper like a dog as I continue on. My feet scrape through mud, my fingers dig into cold, yielding darkness. Obstacles rise from the earth as if to challenge us.
By dusk, I've had enough. We fall into a wide pit and get tangled up 'good 'n' proper' in a nest of barbed wire.

"Leave me here." Tom sighs…

"Don't be stupid, man." I gasp, "Who'll pinch me a bicycle when I need one?"

He doesn't answer… only lies there watching me as I begin trying to free us - an ordeal as it turns out. I haven't given up swearing after all.

Wire barbs catch like fishhooks in the back of my hands and I curse this cruel bloody invention.
Who would be so uncouth as to create such a thing to replace the ancient hedgerow and stonewall? Who would sell such a thing to warring nations?

Too many men have died caught in the wire here in France.



By the time I have managed to free us both, I am too weak to continue our journey and so I pull Tom up to some higher ground and lie down beside him, gasping for air.
Sweat runs stinging.

When I can, I sit up and undo a few muddy buttons to wipe my face carefully on the inside of my tunic before I check the field dressing bandaged clumsily against my side. The best I can say for it, is that it's still there and for now, it will do.
Although I am sure they feel far worse than they actually are, the wounds covering the right side of my face bother me more.
In a chilling way, they horrify me. I leave them alone and try to forget about them. But it isn't easy.

How long have we been floundering around out here like semi-dead men? A night and a day - or is it two?
A crow flies overhead, seemingly in a hurry to leave this miserable landscape behind. I check my compass and wish that I'd brought water.

It seems like many nights ago Jones lit that candle to wake me and tell me that Tom had left the trenches. Perhaps any moment now he will light it again and I shall wake up from this nightmare.

(A compelling story, Endymion.)

Endy,

I've just discovered this today. What a masterful story. Is there any way I could download the whole story so that it could be read more comfortably than on the computer screen. Do you have a publisher yet? A pdf file would be great. I suppose that I could copy the various postings over into Word, but if you have a pdf that would make things easier.

I've read up to the post where the German cavalryman appears. BTW, love the photo illustrations you've chosen to accompany the text.

What can I say, such impressive writing it captures the immediacy of trench warfare and its impact on the individual. Great attention to detail, and though "sketchy" to me the characters live, are interesting and I find myself hoping that they will survive a world where survival was dubious at best. Ah, Michael where has the lad wandered that his brother can not follow? I'm afraid that I may be up late tonight reading this thing of yours. Wow, only 6 1/2 pages to catch up on. Well, I better get cracking.

OK, I'm caught up to date now. Now, I await the next installment. What a great story.