No Man's Land - a project

It's been a while i know. Thank you every one who has written with support.
I'm going to post up more over the next few days - hope there's a reader or two still left out there.

thanks for having a look

Endy

**
24
**


As day began to wane, so a sour mist crept up around us, clammy and foreboding. Fit for any graveyard.
Tom lay curled on the ground, the collar of my great coat turned up to partially hide his face.
His damaged eyes were closed, but I could hear him breathing.

During our excursion through no-man's-land, we'd come across an assortment of abandoned kit; including rifles, empty tins and water bottles, rotting haversacks… even a rugby jersey hung from a post. Odd, half completed scenes that sometimes included dead men and sometimes did not.
Despite that, (and rather unfortunately from where I sat shivering like a dog without my coat) I could see no likely looking scrap to use for a blanket against the coming night.

In every direction lay only banks and folds of mud, discarded wire and a small number of dead trees.
While light remained, I considered searching around in our immediate location for some shelter - or at very least, taking time to try and determine our position; but in the end I did not have the will to do either of those things - or anything at all, it seemed; only very, very carefully, lie back in the mud to watch the changing sky.

My wounds were sore and my muscles ached as if fed some wretched poison. Indeed, it hurt even to shiver… but shiver I did, as the cold snaked its way into my bones, and sunk its long fangs into the lacerations on my face, numbing them.
Until the thought of dying of exposure, seemed almost attractive.

Before my eyes a bank of clouds on the horizon swelled pomegranate-red, as the sun slipped further and further away, into the west.
How I wished I had the strength and indeed, the freedom to get up and follow its light far beyond this blasted horizon.

I imagined that death would be like walking into that vast sunset… away from this desperate place. Across bombed fields which would transform in rays of light, growing more and more to resemble the fields I grew up in - until eventually, finally, I would find my way home.




*
*


"Tom? Do you remember the night of the raid?"

"The raid? … … Aye."

His voice sounded strong to my ears.

"It ain't a thing a man would be forgettin'."

"No. No, I suppose not."

It may surprise you to know that I was still interested in making conversation with Tom as I lay there watching the sun desert us, knowing it may well be the last time I was to ever look upon that fabulous star, but there it is… even when death feels close, the quiet seems to warrant polite conversation.

It was still light, but colour was fading slowly from the land and as shadows lengthened, so the bleak vista began to take on a strange, unfamiliar aspect. I wondered if we were already dead and this was hell.

Beside me, Tom sighed…

"I 'ave ta say, Sir, I thought it were gona be an 'avoc raid…. not the sneaky type, like."

"Really?" I was intrigued.

"And you still volunteered?"

'Aye."

Havoc. He was talking about a fairly big squad of twenty-odd men with bags of bombs, hitting the German trench in a surprise attack, in the dead of night.

"I always fancied m'self as a marauder, like…. "

I could only presume he was joking.

The raiders were men willing to smash out brains and cut throats in the manner of assassins. Volunteers of course, carrying various trench weapons, (including hammers and knuckle-duster knives) creeping up on an unsuspecting enemy. Gaining ground by stealth initially, then letting loose - striking fast, with brutal force - killing or disabling as many men as possible, before blowing up the night and retreating under cover of smoke.
An unofficial and bloody venture, thought up by our lot - to demoralise and unnerve Jerry.
Not to mention, waste a terrific amount of his ammunition.

A whole enemy line has been known to open up on retreating raiders, letting them have it with everything they can lay their hands on - including howitzers - sometimes hitting their own trenches in the confusion.

Corporal Jones (known to carry a bludgeon and knife for close combat) had been among those who made it back from a particularly hectic scrape just a month after Yates joined us on the line (and while we were still discovering the new Lieutenant's fervour for rules and regulations).

Jones' close pal, Ned Richards (a regular in the army before war broke out) had also been lucky that night.

"Tom."

"Aye."

"Do you ever think about Ned Richards?"

"Ned? … Aye."

I waited for him to say more, to perhaps share some amusing reminiscence (and there were bound to be plenty) - but he was asleep again - and I was alone with my thoughts.


*
*


"Ere … it sounds like Ned Richards made it."

" I bleedin' 'ope so…. we're 'alf way through a game o' cribbage and I'm winning."

"Just 'ope 'e can run faster'n 'e can peg."

"You men there…. get yourselves under cover."

"Right'o Sir."

"Sir? Thought you might like to know Corporal Jones just got back from the forward trench. Word 'as it, Ned Richards made it too. We 'aven't seen 'ide or 'air of 'im yet, though."

"Thank you, Blake. Any word on Lieutenant Price?"

"No Sir, but I 'eard there were loses from 'is platoon."

"I see. Alright. Get yourselves away… and dig in. I've a feeling Jerry's cranking up the big guns."

"Right'o, Sir."

I watch the men as they move without any particular haste, down the support trench to their cubby-holes.
Their mud niches.
There they will soon sit alone (or in twos) listening to the shells falling, huddled with scant protection, while the less expendable, at very least, enjoy the semblance of a shelter.

I intend paying a visit to Corporal Jones, but first I get up on the fire-plate and look between the bags. There is renewed activity in our front trenches.
A flare goes up, followed by another. Someone rattles out a few rounds on a Vickers gun.
Everyone is jumpy over on the edge of no-man's-land. In a way, I wish that I were forward with them, doing something useful.
I certainly cannot rest.

An hour before, I'd been woken from a warm, overdue sleep by Gregory and Yates, their voices filling the officer's shelter, their snappy discourse relentlessly nudging me back into consciousness.
For a while I had listened to their words, hoping they would fade out again; but they only grew sharper in the heat of their debate.
In the end, I had relented, getting up and into my boots without uttering a word, before leaving them to it.

Doing so without my coat now seems rather stupid and I regret my temper, as I stand shivering, looking out from my position - over empty ground and beyond the front trench towards the distant, dark pitch of no-man's-land. The bleak void stretches extensively across the low floor of the valley. I think about the German Cavalryman and wonder if he is out there somewhere, staring towards our lines from the darkness.

A sudden, wrenching feeling of homesickness hits me.
For a second or two I don't really care what happens here. I already know we shall all of us be losers at the end of this war.

Suddenly I want a hot soak it a deep bath and a proper shave in a mirror above a sink. I want the smell of honeysuckle growing outside an open window. To hear Mother calling to you and Michael from the kitchen door.
I long for sounds of normality.

Here on the British line we've been listening to the fireworks (courtesy of Lieutenant Price) for the hour.
First on the far side of no-man's-land, then gradually drawing closer. Now the Maxim guns have fallen quiet.
Men will be out spotting - watching for the enemy of course, who might decide on a surprise raid in the inevitable tit-for-tat (rather than leaving all the fun to the artillery) - but also they'll be looking for stragglers. Raiders who (for whatever reason) have been unable to complete the journey back, and now lie out there somewhere, hoping for rescue.

Any time soon, Jerry's artillery will begin its own ruckus.
Dawn is close.


*
*


Inside the NCO shelter, men have gathered around the seated Corporal Jones, whose giant frame casts a looming shadow on the clay wall behind him.

"Thought I'd bloody 'ad it this time…"

Jones is faintly trembling all through his body, but the clear eyes staring out through blacking, blood and splatters of mud, are calm enough.
His sheepskin waistcoat is foul; but it isn't his blood.
Apart from a few cuts across the forehead, he looks to be unscathed.

"Good to see you back in one piece, Corporal."

"Hello, Sir."

"As you are, Jones… As you were, all of you."

"Officer's shelter not bloody flooded again is it, Sir?"

"No Corporal, thankfully. There's a meeting going on and I thought I'd get out of the way. How did it go with your lot?"

Jones looks at me with tired eyes.

"We gave 'em what for tonight… good'n'proper… but we lost five from Lieutenant Price's platoon … bloody shame. Krauts caught 'em just before the slip out… "

"Damn. "

"Matthew Singer was one of 'em. I saw him get it."

(There is plenty of reaction to this news - all of it miserable. Private Singer had been a popular 'runner' and always had a smart word for the NCOs).

"And Lieutenant Price?"

"No more'n a scratch, Sir… 'e's gone over ta see the rest of 'is lot."

We both look up as a shell whistles in out of the night…
The wide shelter, with its low ceiling (weighed by tons of earth) feels distinctly tomb-like.
A musky cave.
I try hard not to imagine the initial shock of a direct hit.
Sometimes it can seem that a man is already in his coffin here - just waiting for the actual burial.
There aren't many men who don't tense at the first shriek of a bombardment - even when it is expected.
Jones is one of them. Despite his recent brush with death, he is remarkably calm.

"….'allo… someone's got 'is gander up."

The explosion is distant, but immediately followed by another, closer by. Several men reach for their helmets. Jones isn't one of them. He seems in fact, oblivious.

"I just 'eared Ol' Charlie's up on another charge, Sir," he says, pulling an indignant face, looking up at me and frowning. "For losing a piece of kit during the last advance, so they tell me."

"Yes. Seems so."

"Lieutenant Yates is a bit keen, in'e?"

Jones takes the bottle of beer held out to him by Ben Harris and tips it to his lips. No one speaks in the time it takes him to drink the ale down and belch loudly.

" Rumour says 'e 'as a dislike for Charlie… maybe even some'ing worse 'an that."

"Really? Sounds like gossip more than rumour. Anyway, I'm sure Lieutenant Gregory and Captain Kensford can handle it between them, Jones. "

He doesn't reply. He only stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. We both know Old Charlie (one of Gregory's platoon) will be charged anyway. Even if it is proved that Yates has made a mistake.

We listen to the bombardment warming up along the front line. The hollow, business-like, boom of the big guns makes men standing about in the damp, airless shelter shuffle their feet.

"I 'eared something else, an' all…." Jones says.

An angry tremble in his voice makes me forget about the cold and the lack of air and even the bombs pounding closer.

"Another rumour, Sir… that Lieutenant Yates snores like a pig."

(This brings with it a few uneasy titters from the men gathered around).

"Just wondered if it were true, Sir."

Jones's eyes remain fixed on mine and hardly waver when someone throws him a piece of rag, which he grabs out of the air and wipes around his face and across the back of his neck, before using on his hands and tossing aside.

Sergeant Norris looks at me, nervously.
It isn't often that Jones lets slip his anger outside of a German trench.

"So, is it true, like?"

"Jones…" Norris whispers, taking a step forward.

"That's alright, Sergeant."

"In fact," Jones continues, "I 'eard 'e snores like a stinking pig… Sir."

This time no one laughs.

Jones is fired up by his suicidal run back through our lines. His core is still out there dodging bullets and braining men. He is gripped by a rage born out of a strong desire to survive - possibly the most deadly kind of rage there is… battle can do that to any one of us at any time. It can make a man a stranger to himself.
If I've learned nothing else about us as men here in this filthy hell, I've learned that much.

We regard each other, both frowning bitterly.
After a short while Jones looks away and sighs, shaking his head, ashamed of speaking out, no doubt.

I take a deep breath.

"Jones, we all feel bad about Charlie, but you getting yourself put on a charge isn't going to improve things, for him or you… "

"Aye," someone says behind me.

" … and thinking about it, Jones, I'd say Lieutenant Yates snores as loud as Lieutenant Gregory. Which is half as loud as you, if rumour is anything to be believed."

(This gets quite a laugh - it being true).

"That's why they didn't want 'im in the artillery, Sir… can't 'ave 'im kipping anywhere near live shells and such, eh Jonesy?" Harris smirks.

"What…? Ere..." Jones looks only half amused.

"And I would hardly call Mr Yates lazy," I continue, "Right now he seems exceedingly busy to me. Anyway, I'll not hear another word said against him in the trench. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"There's official procedure if you have any grievance, Jones. Right then, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a wall to sit against… it's good to see you're still with us, Corporal."

"Thank you, Sir…"

Leaving Jones to it, I move to the back of the shelter.

"Ere y'are, Sir."

It is Sergeant Finch, looking tired and old, as he moves a few folded bits of clothing from the end of a pallet in the corner.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

I sit back, trying not to notice the one or two odd looks being cast my way.
No doubt there are men here asking themselves what an officer might be doing in their non-commissioned midst, barely awake and only half dressed. Especially when they themselves would jump at the chance to see the bombardment out over in the officer's shelter.

Most give me a nod by way of welcome. All look by varying degrees, haggard - as I've no doubt I do myself.

I listen to shells falling further up the line. Around me the men listen too.

"Sounds like Lieutenant Price's lot are copping that. Poor sods."

"Rather them than me."

"You always was an honest man, Stan."

Someone enters the shelter and I feel a cool rush of air cross in front of me.

It is Miltcher, edging into the room, grinning. "Glad to see you back, Corporal Jones."

"Had money riding on it did you, lad?"

(This got quite a laugh from the men, but Milcher looked mortified).

"Just wondered how it went, Corp."

"Well… I'll tell you…"

"Shut that bloody flap, Milcher and 'ere, since when did you 'ave a stripe?"

"Ahhhh, let the lad stay."

"He like's a night-time story, does young Milcher."

"Shut up 'n let Jones tell it, f' Christ sake."

"Go on Jones… "

" … Lady luck was on our side tonight, lads… I don't mind saying…"

"What happened, Jonesy?"

"Well, it were when we were 'eading back …"

He stops and looks up, "Oy oy…"

Men who are standing, instinctively duck as the scream of a falling shell drops towards us, landing close enough to bump the ground beneath the boards and bring a pattering of earth down from over our heads.

"Jeeesus."

"Not in ours… sounds like it fell in supply," someone says.

"A big'n, then."

"You must o' got 'em mad, Jonesy."

"They're mad alright… "

"What d'you do? Piss in their boots?

Ha! Nah, it were on the way back… some Jerry sent a canon shell right over our 'eads… a f*cking beauty it were… a Bob Crompton special - sweeper's long ball… timed it perfect… blew a bleedin' great 'ole in our defences….just before we got to 'em … clean through we went, without a scratch… said a quick thank you an' all… bullets chasing our arses the 'ole bloody way."

"Cor, someone weren't 'alf swearing, I bet."

"I saw Bob Crompton play once. He's a Right Back."

"What… right back in the changin' rooms?"

'Ah, shut ya trap."

Jones is passed a lit woodbine, which he takes with a nod of thanks and immediately draws on, before trapping in one side of his mouth with a sullen proficiency.
Smiling, his cigarette clamped between his teeth, he looks up. For a moment he appears as any normal twenty-three year old back home in the pub, smiling at his pals.

"Nearly copped me ticket west, boys… but some Kraut must love me, eh?"

"Well it can't be 'cos he got a close look at your face."

It is Ned Richards, looking twice as mud-splattered as Jones, his teeth exposed behind a wide grin, a fresh white bandage wrapped tight around his brow.

"What kept you, Ned?" Someone calls out.

"Couldn't run for laughing, that's what… busy watching Jonesy here doing the knees-up.'

"Ahhh."

"You dodged a few this time, you fast bugger. Oh, hello Sir…. officer's shelter flooded again, is it?"


*
*


They may have had a lucky run through our defences but it looked like Ned Richards had tangled with some wire on the German side.
Those that make it back from such a raid are always marked by cuts of varying degree - from crawling through two rival fortifications of barbed (and sometimes razor) wire; whether or not they can actually dodge bullets.

Volunteers always welcome.

Lying there under that evening sky, I could not imagine a single reason why Tom would want to take part in such a venture. Muscle and might were needed, and good speed across open ground - not an excellence in batman skills.

"Why would you want to do that, Tom?"

"I dunno… maybe I wanted ta be brave… you know, Sir… do something brave."

"And jumping the sandbags isn't brave? I saw you do some courageous things at Ypres… "

"My three pals all died at Ypres."

"Yes… Yes, I remember."

I also remembered being holed up in a shallow trench about eight miles from our main lines, waiting for reinforcements in wintry weather.

During the night a lad lying out in a Belgian field alone in the dark started calling for a padre. We listened to him knowing that the enemy were watching and waiting for one of us to go out there.

Captain Kensford sent a runner back to try and locate Father Newton, who we knew to be in the general area.

As dawn approached on the horizon, men in the trench grew agitated. No one arrived.
Gradually, the young soldier with the Lancashire accent stopped shouting and began screaming.

Old Tom came and found me.

"Permission to go out there, Sir."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tom."

"I'd like to have your permission, Sir."

"Tom… "

"I knew you'd see it the same way, Sir."

He stood up and saluted me.

"Thank you, Sir. "


*
*


I don't know why I let him go.

Perhaps because I knew he didn't feel he had a choice.

I watched him from the sandbags… as did many others.
We watched the soles of his boots as he crawled away into the dimness.

"What is it with 'im…?" someone asked.

" …Spends 'alf 'is bleedin' time outside the soddin' trenches."

"No talking."

Soon Tom was only a dark shape, blurred and unformed.
Then he disappeared altogether.
We waited.

Eventually, the screaming stopped.


*
*


I lay listening to rats scurry closer with the shadows. Beside me, Tom stirred.

"I 'eared Captain Kensford was going ta offer the raid to you, Sir…. and I thought you'd say yes … I wanted to go along… make sure you didn't get yourself taken prisoner by the bloody Krauts."

For a long time he didn't speak again, then he said…

"I've lost a lot of pals in this, you know, Sir. Seen some good men… maybe truly rare men, come and then go…"

"Tom…"

"Go to their deaths in the mud. Like sleepwalkers into a storm."

"Tom….?"

"Look at that."

I looked up. Blood streaks had begun to seep across a tattered sky.
The sun was falling down again.

**
25
**


I turn in the gloom and look down at Ben Harris, his face blacked, his fair hair covered by a soft trench cap.
He is crouched below with the others, waiting - his eyes gleaming at me.

After giving him a quick nod, I move out, keeping low, well hidden beneath the skyline by a dark mass of squat, grey hills.
I lead the way, not because I wish to be gallant - but because the officer leads any night raid, by tradition - so I have little choice.

It is an excellent night for a raid.
The moon is slim, but bright - equipping us with good short-range visibility.
The land is lit sporadically by filtered moonlight, as clouds pass swiftly overhead, forever changing the outlook.
Shadows slip across the ground forming ripples of light and dark that will hide the movements of men.
On top of that, and even better, a low, thickening mist will soon make visibility zero over distance.

I am nervous, damn nervous, just as I suspected I would be; but I am also determined to do my duty well - aiming to return with my squad intact.
If we seize a prisoner, or papers or both (the object of our mission)… I will consider us fortunate indeed (not least because Richards and Harris are the only two men here with any true experience of raiding).

We won't shirk from doing our duty if we get the remotest opportunity, but for me, the lives of these men comes first. An officer would soon find himself without volunteers if he were to treat his squad otherwise.

"It's not an attack raid, old boy - stealth is required…. anyway, I'm offering you first refusal - I can always take it to Lieutenant Yates - and you needn't worry - I wouldn't dream of telling him he was second choice."

"How big a raiding party is it to be, Sir?"

"Five, including the officer… a quiet penetration of their trench. It will take some cunning, some nerve, too. Think you're up to it?"

When it was put to me like that, I could hardly refuse and besides - I knew both Old Tom and Milcher were volunteering - and I was damned if they were going without me.

"Did Major Tollet mention me specifically, Sir?"

"Well he put forward your name… perhaps you should take it, Lieutenant. Show him what you're made of."


*
*


In single file we make our way north through a thinned forest of ash and oak. Grey ghost trees step towards us out of the mist, looming tall in the darkness.
We weave through their cover in strict silence - taking care to watch where we step. No German trip wires or automatic alarms are expected here… but a man has been known to stick his foot in an animal trap while stalking close to enemy lines at night.

I stop beside a beech tree and crouch for a moment, to check my compass. A bat flies over our heads and I look back down the squad. Harris; Old Tom; Milcher; Ned Richards.
Their eyes stare at me from their blacked faces.

Ahead the stillness waits for us and we creep into its silence like thieves, stopping often to listen and observe.

We are dark shadows lurking behind the trees.


*
*


It is a little after one o'clock when we arrive at our rendezvous and meet up with a couple of Royal Engineers. Passwords are exchanged in whispers and without more ado, a Corporal with a badly cut face leads us quickly to one of the secret and well-hidden tunnels and paths that burrow and twist their way through the widest stretches of our wire defences.

"This one I tunnelled out myself… it'll take you right through to a dip we put in two nights ago, Sir. It's just a hundred yards short of the Three Sisters."

He is talking about the three oak trees still standing together in the middle of no-man's-land, here where the distance between enemy lines is narrow enough that the trees can be seen from both sides in clear daylight.

Up and down our line - and also in the German trenches, rumour has it, men are taking bets on how long the trees stay standing and which will be first, second and last to fall under an exploding shell.

In a strange way, the oaks have become an important part of life here. After every bombing of no-man's-land (and it can be a daily occurrence) someone takes a look through the glasses and expresses great amazement that the Three Sisters are still standing…
But it is obvious to many (although never spoken of directly) that both sides are purposefully refraining from targeting the trees.

How long it will last, no one knows, but while it does, it feels in some outlandish way that we are united in our ability and joint decision not to destroy something innocent.

"The trees."

Yes, Sir… to the trees. Good Luck, Sir."

"Thank you Corporal."

"Good luck Tommy. Bring us back a couple o' pound of Kraut sausages, will yer?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"No more talking."


*
*


We burrow through the wood and wire barricade, crouched, or crawling with difficulty, stopping often to negotiate our way, which isn't always obvious.
Under the strict rule of silence, we each bite back curses when the spiteful barbs catch in our clothing and exposed flesh.
Eventually we reach a dead end where a small piece of rag tied to the wire ahead, marks our way forward.
I use the wire-clippers, breaking through the last three or four feet into no-man's-land.
It is difficult, painstaking work and knowing that a German sentry could be watching us from an observation post (despite the Corporal's assurances that we will not be seen exiting the wire if we do so at the his marker) makes us all edgy.
One by one we crawl from cover into the short, newly engineered dip and pause to look out at the vast night.

Smashed tree stumps stand half buried in the mist and faintly beyond, the three sisters… wide of girth and thick limbed, greet us in the dark.

But our eyes are drawn to the dreadful gathering of dead around us. The rotting corpses and abandoned kit that lay scattered about close by.





Most are German, of course. Gunned down at the wire. They lie with their legs folded under them, or flat on their fronts in the muck; or rest curled around their knees.
Some are new to death; their surprised, purple faces cracked and bloated.
Others are already skeletons with gaping jaws and empty eye sockets.

Moonlight plays on several different scenes in obscene fashion. Lingering on faces distorted by explosion. Highlighting the severed limbs and heads.
The smell is vile and we can only stare about, horrified.

"G…God….G….God."

It is Milcher. Staring at a body blown head first into a bank of mud and buried to the hips - boot heels sticking in the air.

"G…God."

Ben Harris grips him hard by the shoulder and presses his mouth to Miltcher's ear. He whispers something that makes the private close his eyes tight, then lower his head.


*
*


It will be good to leave this mass of lifeless flesh and bone behind, but for now I lie pressed close to the earth, eyes scanning over the lip of our shallow ditch, resting my chin in the mud and watching for signs of the enemy.

When I look over the men, I see that Milcher is still eyeing the dead nervously. He carries Jones' bludgeon for good luck, and grips the handle tightly with both hands.
I glance at Tom, who appears to be grinning with excitement…. or trepidation. In the dimness I can't tell which.
After checking my compass and taking a last look at my watch, I slip by Harris and edge ahead, crawling slowly.

We circumvent the three sisters. We work our way between the bomb craters, drifting with the clouds.
We slide on our bellies through the shadows.
Nightmare killers on the prowl.


*
*

We are advancing like cautious lizards up a slight incline when the moon suddenly leaps free of cloud cover to cast its bright, reflecting light on us.
I pause and show the others the underside of my hand. Everyone hugs the ground.
Looking back, I see four pairs of eyes, hovering inches from the mud, staring up at me.
Now I begin to feel the fear. It creeps into me, slowly…. like a drug.

I know what we have to do, Ben Harris and I.
We've been over it a dozen times and we've agreed it is the best plan we have. Distract and disarm.
I indicate that he move up and join me, which he does smoothly.

Back in the dugout talking to Gregory about it, the plan had seemed reasonable, wise even… but suddenly, there in the dark, it seems impossible, suicidal, a ridiculous idea.

However, I am starting to learn about fear - how it can convince a man of anything - even that blue is red - if he is afraid enough to want to believe it.

I turn back and focus. We are far from the German's main line here. I have to keep telling myself that. Whatever happens in the next hour, for now, we have surprise on our side and it is important we keep hold of that advantage.
I take a few deep breaths. For some reason I think of Father… at home right now, asleep in the big four-poster bed on which I was born.
I wait for clouds to veil the moon.

When I can, I inch forward.
Gradually.
Keeping very low as I stare out.
Slowly I raise my head… a little… then a little more…

Lines form shapes in the void.

I look ahead and see a vague, dark hump, well camouflaged and right where we'd been told it would be.

Got it, and added to the manuscript. Up to 100 pages now. Average book lengths these days run around 120,000-150,000 words, so by that measure you've got close to 1/3 of the book completed. Of course, there isn't any rule that says you can't have a classic that is much shorter than most. The Old Man and the Sea , Of Mice and Men, etc. You're still overusing the ellipsis, but what the heck.

As the relationship between Lt. James and Old Tom grows, it increases the tension and suspense over what happened out there that later eats away at the Lt.s soul. The resolution to that question has to be good after the build up, and may well be the climax that finishes the book.

Keep up the good work.

Thanks Asherman -

I may not post any replies now until this is over - but it doesn't mean i'm not listening! Just want to write it all out now. (however the hell i'm going to do that)
Thanks for all your help - everyone

Friday ~ 1545 hrs


Tomorrow I will lead a night raid out into no-man's land and then on into the German trenches.

I am afraid.

Not of death or even of the process of dying - but of something more profound and troubling to me.
A truth I can share with none here.

There are so many things to keep secret.


Friday ~ 1800 hrs


We know what our objective is.

Around midnight Saturday, we intend leaving our trenches and crossing the barren divide, entering the enemy's secondary slips via a small German out-post, hardly more than a wood and iron shack buried low in the mud of no-man's-land.

The post is a singly manned affair and the Germans can reach their nest via a rough slip, cut no more than the width of a man's shoulders and dug several feet deep.

Well camouflaged at the post end, this dark ditch trails North-north-east, to join with a German outer slip - leading straight to their main trenches.

The post is manned continuously and its purpose is two fold. German 'night crawlers' sent out to spy on British lines and collect information about our defences, gun positions etc, can use the slip to get close to our lines without having to traverse across no-man's-land.

And it's not just a matter of good cover.
The sheer similitude of the landscape, spreading out in all directions, rather like an ocean, makes it easy to get lost out there, even when navigating with the aid of a compass and the stars.

Of course, the post is an ideal place to begin any low-key assault on our lines and as we've been assured the structure is penetrable from the observation end, it is a secret gateway to safety and a great advantage to any retreating German raider.

Most importantly to them, it provides a means of reporting quickly any large-scale movement made by the British that could threaten their front line. (The ditch providing excellent cover for a man running back to raise the alarm bell. Which he'd no doubt do as soon as he reached their outer slips).

The post's only real defence lies in how cunningly well hidden and camouflaged it is - but still, Brigade have known about it for several weeks.
Rather than shelling the location, it has been carefully ignored, allowing the enemy to get comfortable with the idea that we know nothing at all of its existence.
So we have one very good advantage.

No one is expecting us.


Friday ~ 2300 hrs


It is an Englishman's prerogative to talk about the weather and who could stop us? Here, there are things that can be mentioned and things that cannot.
Men writing home always bewail the mud, which itself finds its way (physically) into their letters. War touches each of us and fills our lives every day with its horror, but there are worse things. Dark secrets that I shall never, however old I may live, speak to you or anyone at home about.

Only here in this journal, never to be read by any other - can I disclose the reason why I am so afraid of tomorrow.

Can I even say it here?

Though I know what I write in these pages is private, I'm having great difficulty putting the words to paper, just as though I do not want to see them written down myself.

I hide from the reality.

I circle the truth, a cowardly dog that knows where the meat is, and needs it to survive, but feels afraid to go there.

Perhaps because he knows the meat must first be killed.


Saturday ~ 0300 hrs


Intense nausea. Stomach cramps.

It's the fear. It worms through me, eating at my guts.
I go over and over the plan. Sleep eludes me.

The candle burns its warm light, flickering. I can hear Yates distantly, snapping out orders to Sergeant Norris as if he were on the front line and we were all about to come under a major attack.

Norris answers him in a flat monotone.
All is peaceful once more. Yates has found no guard asleep at his post, and although we are not in the front trench (for which a guilty party could legally be executed on the spot) it is still a relief.
Yates is the last person I want to see before this raid is over.

Do you remember the time I fought with that boy from the village? Remember what he said about Mother? How I charged across the yard at him yelling like a Scotsman?

Well, that's exactly what Yates makes me feel like doing.
He makes me feel like it might be worth the disgrace, just to see his eyes widen in surprise and hear his voice cut off mid sentence as I rugby tackle him to the ground.

The awful thing is that I know I am quite capable of coldly (with a detached rage) smashing my fists into his callous face. To abruptly end his pomposity in the violence of such an attack is something I have daydreamed of doing recently.
What does that say about me?

The other day I bumped into him outside Company HQ.
It's normally Gregory who brings out the worst in the man, but Yates seemed eager to waylay me with no good intention.

"Ah, Lieutenant James. Major Tollet tells me you're leading the night raid. Your first time I hear… rather a responsibility, I'm sure."

"Yes it is."

"Got a jolly good plan set up, have you? Got the men for it? I heard Gregory felt it should be him going along in your place. He was concerned, apparently."

(This was news to me)

"Major Tollet wouldn't hear of it, of course… He said it's a chance for you to prove yourself."

"Really?"

"Personally, I think you'll do us proud. They say the men who find this sort of thing easiest are the down-to-earth chaps… and I suppose you don't get much more down-to-earth than a man brought up on the farm, what?… Used to slaughter and all that. No offence of course…. to yourself."

"Of course. Look, Yates… I really must hurry along. Guard inspection."

"Right. Well I hope it all goes well. Leave a few Krauts behind for me, old thing… but do bring us back a slippery German whore if you can catch one, won't you?"

It was certainly the most he has said to me since the day I first showed him around the officer's shelter.
As I left him I took a glance back at his face and saw something there - an unpleasantness. He had shaken my confidence by telling me of Gregory's concerns.
And he knew it.


Saturday ~ 0450 hrs


Fear overwhelms me.

My God, I am afraid.

But what of, if not death? If not the agony of dying?

This night feels endless, but still, the minutes tick by.
Gregory moans in his sleep. He twists and turns inside his dream.

Soon it will be dawn and I am to be on duty for Stand-To, but I have given up trying to sleep. Dark thought haunt me.

This Godless earth, this cold humanity that constantly vies with itself; ordinary men manipulated into helping their 'betters' gain God-like powers, one race over another - tonight it all feels like a crass joke.

I know what I am afraid of. If I am to get through this raid I have to shut that knowledge out for good, right here, right now. I must simply write it into these pages and close the cover.
The problem is - none of this is simple.

It is a terrible thing I fear; worse than death or any dying; worse perhaps than living crippled or burned. Worse than utter failure even, returning empty handed or losing Old Tom and Milcher and the others to the German guns.

I can imagine you asking, 'What could be worse?"

The death of any in the squad would be a blow to me - and one I've no doubt I would blame myself for, but I am more afraid of losing myself. Not to death or injury - but to brutality.

I know that if I am to lead these men professionally through the raid, I will have to become a different man - different to the brother you know and love.

I may have to kill a man, or many men. I may have to bury my compassion. To coldly make decisions which go against my inner beliefs - against nature itself.

I have considered declaring myself a conscientious objector - but at this late hour it would no doubt be seen as cowardice and anyway, how could I walk away and leave Gregory, Old Tom, Milcher, Norris and others to their fate? The truth is that I simply cannot.


Saturday ~ 1650 hrs


Old Tom has practically forced me to eat - bread and jam, with a cup of tea - the lot I lost soon enough, I'm ashamed to say.

I must write here no more today. Let this be my final entry if my life is to end tonight. When I've closed the cover and wrapped the journal and set it back in its hiding place, I shall have to leave the brother you know here with it.

First, I will tell you the secret and hope that the telling is enough that I can go on from here calmly.

I have already taken men's lives. But in the heat of battle, when the odds are even - that is one thing. Using stealth to deliver death is quite another.
We have been encouraged to believe that the Germans are less than human, that when we kill, God will forgive us, because we kill in his name. But when you hold a fellow in your arms and push a dagger in up under his ribs, when you look into his face and burst his heart… you see your own face there mirrored in his eyes and you know the truth… you discover that you are killing yourself, your own.

I am no pacifist. I will always fight in defence of those I love.
But is this war here really necessary to protect Britain?

They say it will be a war to end all war - but after a war, isn't there always a victim, empowered by the need to avenge? How can any war end war? It cannot - it can only lay the foundations of hatred in the hearts of those it touches. The son who loses his father; the boy who sees his brother come home mutilated; the man who watches his pals die one by one and swears revenge in his heart.

Wars can only extend war; and here we plant the seeds of future wars. I do not doubt it.


*
*


We go in fast - there is no other way of doing it.

The German, sitting alone in his freezing shelter with a vast stretch of empty, narrow slip behind him, yawns widely and for one long, dark moment, his eyes are closed.
When he opens them again it is to see me forcing my way in below the netting, my pistol in my hand.

He is only young, but he practically has a heart attack.

I watch him fall back, eyes wide, mouth hung open.
He makes a strange sound, a terrified intake of breath.

"Ahhggg."

We are only a few feet from each other and I smell the sudden sharp odour of urine as I lie in the gap, pointing my gun at his head.
There is dimmest light, which filters through from above and by it I can see how his mouth hangs slack with fear.

" Hände auf! Nicht schreien." I warn him, knowing little German, yet hopefully enough to communicate my intentions.

He sits with his hands raised in front of his body, like a man trying to hold back an evil spirit.

I concentrate my aim.

For a while, nothing else happens. The German watches and waits tense, assessing me as I rest half inside his shelter - wondering where the hell Ben Harris is.
By now the Corporal should have dropped down into the slip and come up behind the man. He should be here, disarming and making him our prisoner.

Instead, we are alone.

Already the surprise is fading away and I can see by the look of vacancy taking hold of the German's expression that he is no longer with me - but thinking hard - thinking for his life.

He knows that if I fire the Webley it's over and there will be no silent raid - probably. The shot, even out here, could be easily heard from the main slips and acted upon. I would loose both my captive and the element of surprise.

I see him glance at his rifle.

" Stellen Sie… eh…. Ihre Hände auf!" I say urgently, holding very still.

He watches me with shocked and somehow resentful eyes.

"Easy."

Death is close. I can feel it, like a real presence. We regard each other with great solemnity. We are both holding off panic and it would be far too easy to kill this man out of fear. To take his life, just to end the unbearable tension. To kill him while I can, while I still have the advantage.

Again he eyes his rifle.

"Don't do it." I warn him.

But he reaches for his gun.

caution >>> This scene (the first half, particularly) is bloody - I've kept it short, but just feel I ought to say. Respectfully, Endy

*****************************************************************************





*
*


Blood.

I crouch, trying to get my breath.
I can smell it - the visceral, pungent odour of the slaughterhouse; richly metallic.

The dead man lies face down between Ben Harris and myself, his hands folded peacefully beneath him. He is just a dark shape now, but for a moment, I see his eyes again, locked with mine, a second before he died.

He had hardly struggled when the blade opened his throat, and I saw his eyes turn up in his head just before his body collapsed; but his heart had gone on beating, pumping life straight out through the wound, in its desperate attempt to get blood to his brain.

Now he lies still.

Harris and I stare at each other in the dim light, blood spreading in a puddle around our feet.
I had been waiting for him to press the hilt of his knife into the soldier's back and order him to raise his hands, even as the German rifle was swinging around on me.
Even as I looked deep into it's cold eye.

I shudder, feeling warm blood begin to cool on my face.

"Good God, Harris…"

"He would have killed you, Sir"

"I know… "

"F*cking barbed-wire, put in up top…"

He is clearly shaken. He still holds the bloody knife in his fist.

"I had to, Sir. He would have killed you."

"I know, Corporal. God, what a f*cking start. Give the signal, will you?"

"Yes Sir."

I have to force myself to reach down and turn the dead body over. I try not to look at the yawning wound and pale face, as I search through clothing that is still warm to the touch, but cooling quickly.

Harris has edged around to the sill and is working his way up, underneath the netting.
When Old Tom and the others see his sign, they'll know we are alive and the way is clear - but that we have to go on.
They shall meet us in the slip, as agreed.

I find a wallet. Inside is a name.
There are the usual documents; a photograph of a very pretty young woman; two letters and a German bus ticket. Then another picture - of three small boys standing in a garden together. Along side this, tucked down deep in a corner, I find an old, brown acorn, still in its cap.
I hold it on the palm of my hand and stare at it for a moment.

A bizarre sound, a strange sigh, erupts suddenly from the dead man's throat.
That's all I can take, all I can stomach. I need to get out. Fast. My boot slides in the gore as I step over the body.

Outside I lean back against the wall of the slip and take several deep breaths, staring up at the sky. The moon races dark clouds.
I watch its patterns carefully - a far grander mystery - until eventually the nausea passes. Then I turn my head and look up that narrow slip.
Mist obscures everything, pouring down from above, seeking lower ground.

I wonder if I have the guts to lead the way into its deathly silence.

Then Milcher's boot swings by my ear and I stand back.

No advice. Just watching it happen.

*
*


He cut an odd figure, Ned Richards - with his crane-like legs, utterly straight back and long knitted scarf, wrapped several times around his throat and chin.
The peak of his cap rode the bridge of his nose, but he could see from under it well enough because his chin was always raised, in what could sometimes be mistaken for a haughty fashion.
He carried his rifle slung and wore a short-bayonet at the hip - something I'd been told he was pretty 'nifty' with.

It was obvious that he'd received a good education from somewhere - it could be heard in the precise (if working class) way he spoke - always smiling.
He'd been part of the regular army before 1914 and was one of Gregory's platoon, but regularly raided with different officers within the Company, volunteering willingly enough to show newcomers the ropes.

Often mistaken for an NCO, he'd turned down a Corporal's stripe more than once in favour of remaining a blithe tommy, but he none-the-less mixed with the non-coms as if he was one of them - and they in turn seemed to welcome him warmly enough.

I have to say, I felt a bit of a fraud in his company. He was a soldier. A real soldier. Not a farmer's son in a military uniform. Not a rugby-playing student with less than two years experience (including training) to fall back on- but a warrior.
Stepping past Corporal Harris, he took a quick look inside the German shelter and we all heard him whistle softly.

"Nasty," he said, reappearing.

He was right. It certainly didn't seem a very auspicious start to our raid.

"Barbed wire," Harris said, before swearing and spitting.

He still seemed shaken by what had happened - by what he had been forced to do. It hadn't escaped my notice that the right sleeve of his tunic was dark with blood to the elbow and the palms of his hands were badly torn.

"Check your weapons," he said, grimly.

We stood together in the moonlit slip - nervous, but not without a certain amount of bravado - like a team of athletes waiting to begin the next phase of an Olympian event.

I checked my Webley for the second time and looked at my watch, amazed to find that less than ten minutes had passed since Harris and I first moved on the post.

"No shots 'ave been fired," Richards reminded everyone, whispering in the half-light, "So we're alright."

"Aye, they dunno we're 'ere, not yet," Old Tom said, happily.
He looked around at everyone, eyebrows raised. "The deeper we go, the bigger the fish we catch, right?"

"Well, sorry Tom, old chap, but I forgot to pack the f*cking harpoon." Richards said, trying to hold back a droll smile - and failing.

"Aye, well… we could use your bloody tongue for bait, Ned."

Milcher sniggered. His eyes met mine… in fact, they hardly left me - as if he was worried I might disappear into the mist and vanish for good at any moment.
I watched him turn the bludgeon in his hands and wondered if he knew I was as afraid as he was.

I suddenly wanted to get on with it. To get in there, find our fish and get out again.
I took a step forward, looking up the slip - into that shrouded gutter of mud. All was quiet on the German lines. Between here and there, who knew what would transpire?
I felt the others watching me, silently waiting - and so I give the first order.

"No more talking."


*
*


I led the way, down that narrow split, towards the enemy.
We were in their domain, their lair.
German tools and hands had sculpted the walls we brushed against. This was their existence. We were in the fringes of their warren.
We crept, pressed close to the sides of the slip, stopping regularly to listen and glance reassuringly at each other.
Mist continued to roll in and eventually formed a damp fog around us.

I made myself keep going. Step by step.
In my chest my heart hammered wildly.
In my head, your voice sounded so scared.

"Where are you going!?"


*
*


We entered a neater slip, which appeared deserted. There were no signs of the enemy - nothing but the mud.
All was quiet. The moon remained bright as clouds dispersed - but still, a ground mist clung stubborn.

A few minutes later we came to the first row of sandbags. We slowed.
We could barely see more than six feet ahead and so we edged forward with great caution, our weapons at the ready.

We had advanced maybe twenty feet before a German soldier, in cloth cap and trench coat, standing looking out across the bags, glanced at us indifferently and showed us his profile again, before turning back to gape.

In sudden panic, he raised his rifle and brought it around, but Richards took it straight from his hands and used the butt end to knock him senseless to the ground.
The three blows it took sounded shockingly loud to our ears and we crouched there over him for a moment, waiting.
Nothing happened.

I looked down at the German's face and saw his eyes were open. One of them bloomed bright red. The spiked helmet he should have been wearing rested on the fire-plate.
He was dead or dying.

Then suddenly, further along the trench, there was movement. A sheet of leather rose like a flap of mud and a man stepped up out of an underground shelter.
We all froze.

If he looked our way, there was a chance he might not see us crouched against the trench wall at this distance… but he would hardly fail to notice Fritz wasn't at his post.

He turned away from us…. but only to wait there outside the shelter, looking further along the trench.
Puzzlingly, he wore no hat or coat and I could see no weapon - but I knew he was an officer. I could tell just by the way he moved. By the way he stood there with his hands on his hips.
We have enough like him on our side to be certain.

It occurred to me that we could take him, right here and now. He was unarmed and alone and we could be half way back across no-man's-land before he would even really register what had happened.

But then, as if he'd heard my thought… or felt a warning in his guts, he suddenly pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his trousers.

Milcher flinched beside me.

I looked at the guard fallen against the wall of the trench.
He lay with one arm twisted behind him. Dead.
Very carefully, I took his helmet from its resting place.

The officer remained where he was, showing us his back. We watched as if hypnotized and when he abruptly barked out a name, we all flinched like nervous cats…

"Muller? Muller! …… Ahhg…."

He walked down the trench away from us a few paces.

"Muller?" He growled.

"Cricky." I heard Old Tom whisper.

"Idiotjunge… ……Muller!"

We all heard someone call back. If it was Muller, he sounded nervous and none of us could blame him.

I used my hand to tell the others to keep low, then I stood up very slowly, pulling the helmet on over my wool cap.
Stepping up on the fire-plate, I leant against the trench wall, the others huddled around my feet.

"Muller!…… Ahhg…"

For a moment I watched the officer stomping back towards us, then I turned my head and looked out into the dark.
I don't know if he glanced at me or not, but he went back inside the shelter, letting the flap drop behind him.

"That's our quarry," I said, stepping down, hardly able to believe our luck.

Then we heard someone (Muller?) coming, and I found myself with the others, moving up fast to meet him.


*
*


A soldier came running straight up the trench towards us out of the fog. He had his rifle slung and was doing up his trousers as he ran - obviously preoccupied by what he was going to say to explain his absence.
He was only a youth and didn't know what had hit him when Milcher's bludgeon swung up out of the pitch and caught him hard between the eyes.
He dropped like a stone.

There was time for me to see Milcher's horrified face as he looked around at the rest of us, Did I do that? - before I entered the narrow shelter, dropping down with my pistol at the ready, Ben Harris close behind me and Old Tom bringing up the rear.

The German officer, a Lieutenant in fact, stood alone in the middle of the candle-lit shelter with a large brandy glass in his hand, sniffing at the content.
When he looked up and saw us, he started shouting in red-faced, Major Tollet fashion (we didn't need to understand his German to understand that), - but he gradually faltered and when I put out my arm and showed him the Webley up close, his mouth clammed shut and his lips pressed tight together.

Old Tom took the glass from his hand. "Ta very much, I'm sure."

"Hände auf!" I said, indicating with my pistol.

The German did as I ordered, smiling in such a way that left me in no doubt he would like to kill me immediately - preferably with his two bare hands.

I took off the German helmet and placed it on top of some papers beside a brandy bottle on the table.

" Nicht schreien"

"I speak English perfectly well… a lot better than your German," he said coldly, his grey eyes searching over my tunic, before fixing on my face.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?"

"Well, you will do nicely for starters," I said (perhaps a touch smugly).

His eyes swivelled to the right and he looked immediately very dangerous.

"Do you really intend making trouble, Sir?" I asked him.

He looked me over, then grinned coldly into my face.
I found myself grinning back.
We were like dogs baring our teeth at each other.
My eyes did not leave his.

"Tom, have a look around, would you?"

"Sir."

But before he could move, the enemy did.


*
*


The first move was made by a totally unexpected figure in vest and braces. The man stepped out from a cubby-hole at the back of the shelter and fired his pistol directly at my head.
At such close range he could hardly fail to miss - and he didn't; but I was lucky (not that it felt like it at the time). The bullet scraped my skull, knocking my head back and punching into the wooden beam above me.

I fired the Webley in surprise more than response and watched the man's bearded chin jerk up, as he was driven hard off his heels to fall thumping back into the wall.

The two close reports in that underground space were momentarily deafening and seemed to propel the German Lieutenant into action. He grappled with Harris, one hand curled tight around the Englishman's wrist, holding the knife at bay…. his other hand feeling for his own pistol, which hung from a post in its holster.

At that moment, the man on the floor started screaming, bloody hands gripped at his stomach, his white vest turning bright crimson in the yellow light.

I couldn't do anything at all about any of it. I could only sit down. It was either that - or pass right out, which I wasn't going to let happen.
The pain was immediate and intense, leaving me seeing thick black spots. There was a sharp whine in my head and blood poured from my scalp.

The shelter was suddenly alive with activity. Tom grabbed up the brandy bottle and cracked the struggling German officer over the head with its thick base.
I watched this as if behind a flawed pane of glass, seeing the Lieutenant go down and Harris kick him, hard, in the shoulder.

Events rolled disjointed around me, like a drunken dream.
I could hear the man I'd shot screaming shrilly, in a burning, senseless agony.
Ned Richards had materialized and now stood over him, his rifle aimed at the man's chest.

"Shut up," Richards said and fired.

The shelter hung heavy with smoke and silence.
I tried to stand up, but my legs would not support me.

"Game's up," Richards said to Milcher, who had appeared in the doorway with a rifle ready in his hands.

Milcher took a look around the dug-out, "Shhhit."

"You're our look out now, Milch… defensive position,"
Harris said, "Richards… go with 'im."

"Right, Corp."

I watched Richards pluck the pistol from the dead man's hand and stick it in his own pocket.
Then Old Tom was pulling me up onto my feet. "Blimey Sir, you must 'ave nine lives."

Harris was going through the German's personal effects and papers scattered on the desk… grabbing up likely looking documents and stuffing them inside his tunic.

I leant against Old Tom and looked across at the dead man who lay on his back with his knees bent up, his hands rested across his belly, his mouth twisted open. That third gunshot seemed still to echo around us and I could hear Richard's voice every time … 'shut-up', b-boom…. 'shut-up', b-boom…

"Get the prisoner up." I said, wincing against the pain. "Get him on his feet."

The Lieutenant was unconscious and I watched Harris dig his thumb mercilessly into the man's sternum until the German started trying to push his hand away.

"On your feet, you bastard," Harris said.

"You won't get very far," came the weak reply.

One side of our prisoner's face was puffed up already, his eye swollen and bloody where the bottle had caught him.
His other eye bore into mine, full of hate.

"You'll be blown to pieces in no-man's-land, gentleman."

Harris tapped him gently on top of the head with the man's own gun, taken from its holster. "That's enough of that, sauerkraut. You speak again, I'll drag you back 'ead first across no-man's-land with your hands tied behind ya -back. Wan 'a try it?."

"Not really."

I saw the way he looked then, across at his fallen comrade.
The smell of excrement rising from the dead man was horrific and somehow cruel.

"Merciless dogs."

He spat on the ground. Our eyes met. We could suddenly hear the distant ringing of what sounded like a fire bell.

"Corporal Harris, you're to search this prisoner then head back with him."

"Sir?"

"You'll take Milcher with you."

"But Sir…"

"If the Lieutenant here gives you any trouble, you have my permission to shoot him dead. Now get going Corporal."

"Yes Sir."


*
*


Outside, Milcher was pressed to the side of the slip, down on one knee, rifle at the ready.

"Sir! Richards is up ahead, Sir. Watching from the fire-bay."

"Very good."

I waited for Harris and his prisoner then told Tom to take Milcher's place.

"Milcher, you're with me," Harris said.

At that moment, Richards came running back down the slip.

"Two spotters, Sir… rifles only… I think they're still trying to locate us."

"Right, get going Corporal."

"Permission to stay, Sir."

It was Milcher and I ignored him. "Other side of the slip, Richards… the cubby-hole there."

"Right'o, Sir."

"Don't waste anymore time, Corporal… we'll be right on your heels."

"Very good, Sir… Milcher, f*cking move."


*
*


"Quiet."

We stare up the trench into fog.
I see two figures… soldiers with rifles pointed… running towards us.
Any time now, they will see the youth's body lying against the slip wall, see that no guard is at his post.

We are pressed to the mud, our guns ready.
They slow to a halt, perhaps just sensing us there in the shadows with them.

"Muller?"

They start towards us again, slowly now, hesitantly.
One is short, dark, a woollen scarf wrapped around his face, like an Arab. The other appears old, his grey moustaches clearly visible in the dim light.

He is closest to us. Suddenly he stops, shuffles his feet apart, lifting his rifle to his shoulder.
Without hesitation, I shoot him in the chest. He drops his weapon, stumbling, clutching at the wound, twisting around and straight onto his knees.

His comrade watches him with a stunned expression and I see him hesitate, before turning and running back along the trench, shouting urgently.
Richards' bullet catches him in the back, knocking him off his feet and sending him face first to the ground. His rifle flies from his hands to clatter along the duckboards.

I take a breath.

Then the old man suddenly moves. An arm stretching out, a sliding foot, he manages to crawl away a few feet, before attempting to stand. On one knee he rests poised for a moment, before falling to the duckboards, dead.

The trench settles. We look at the two bodies, lying there in the thinning mist. I watch steam rise from a cooling head.

"Let's go…. "


*
*


We run, the three of us - you, Michael and me. We are late home by an hour and it is not the first time this week.
We cut down through the top field, racing between the rows of beetroots, brushing past the red-veined leaves. You are ahead of me and over the stile before Michael, but you turn and wait for him.
On the other side, we pause for a moment, looking down onto the house. The yard is empty. Father is not yet home.
We are all breathing hard.

"Come on, there's still time," I say, grabbing Michael's hand, but I glance back to see you standing there unmoving, looking down at the ground.

I go back. I look down. I see blood. Spots in the grass. When we look at each other I see blood running from your nose. You smear it with your hand. Stare at your palm. I look at your bloody face and suddenly I am very scared.


*
*


The first explosion blew all three of us into the trench wall and brought a shower of earth down on our backs. We fought our way out from under its weight and kept going, crawling into that narrow slip, swearing, cursing, shouting encouragement at one another.
Back on our feet, we ran in single file, shells hitting the ground above us on both sides. By the time we reached the German post, I was moving in a strange stupor, aware of everything around me, but somehow cut off from it, as if the air had curdled thick, like liquid. The pain in my head had grown to mammoth size, but somehow I could ignore it.

The first German we had killed that night still lay in his own blood, waiting… but we barely glanced at him. I was second out the gap after Richards and as I dragged myself through into no-mans-land, he reached down and gave me a much needed heave up out of there.

"Good luck, Sir," he said, clearly smiling. Then he reached down and grabbed Old Tom's hand.


*
*


We are running - Ned Richards, Old Tom and me.
We are running like athletes.
A naked moon lights up the ground around us, but that's just unfortunate. We have no choice but to run. We are three men fleeing from death.
The shells dropping in on us miss their target, the massive, terrifying explosions only serving to drive us on.

Richards is ahead when the maxim opens fire behind us.
A bullet catches him in the shoulder and spins him around, but somehow he keeps his feet, so that the next takes him in the chest, knocking him down on his back in the mud.

I reach him first and fling myself to the ground as rounds cut through the air close by. Ned looks right at me. There is blood trickling from his nose. He tries to speak, but can't. Tom grabs my arm and pulls. He is shouting at me, but I'm not interested. The maxim has ceased for a moment, hopefully jammed. Ned's eyes slowly leave mine and look up at the moon. I know he's dying, but he's not dead.

"Sir!" Tom screams in my ear.

A flare goes up and hangs like the head of a serpent above us before exploding into brightness.

Again Ned tries to speak. I reach inside his tunic but can find no last letter home. The army is his home. He has no other.

Tom grabs me by the collar and shouts into my face, "Lieutenant …. 'e's finished. Leave 'im."

"Oh, God."

I watch Ned bravely attempting to deal with the final fear and panic of death as it approaches.

Again Tom reaches for me and bright red spots burst from his hand… he yells and pulls back his fist. A bullet has chipped away half a finger. More pierce the ground close by.

Suddenly I'm on my feet and running. Running towards the British line. Bullets thud into the ground behind, but then the gun falls silent again and in its pause I take one look back to see Ned lying there in silence, growing dimmer.
Ahead of us the three sisters stand watching. They blur and jump around as I run towards them.

I hear Ned's voice one last time.

"Shut-up," he says, then… b-boom.

I wake up. It is dawn. All is peaceful. I turn my head and look out across no-man's-land and there I see it… the winking reflection of a rising sun, flashing back at me off barbed wire defences to the west - our own lines.
It is Tom and I once again.
One last time.

I'm sorry it has taken so long to write this final part - and thanks once again to everyone who helped me do this. I'll post it soon (after a stiff drink):wink:

Peace
Endy