Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)
Page 23
During the next few days the barrage and fighting were hectic, as if the Allies and Germans had to exhaust all their weapons. Casualties mounted and no thought of a ceasefire was discussed again. The second battle of Mons grew more fierce. The push was to the North East.
On the 9th November, the Kaiser abdicated, slipping across the border to the Netherlands. It was only then did the newly formed German Republic seek to extend a hand in the hope of finding peace. At 05.10 on the morning of the 11th November 1918 the armistice was signed and it was agreed that a total ceasefire should commence at 11am (French time).
At 09.30 Henry found himself under heavy bombardment. Machine gun fire completed the cacophony and he settled into his trench. It was the runner, braving the firing, who brought the news:
‘Ceasefire to commence at 11am.
No further movement from present position.’
Most men sat back and relaxed as much as possible but it was clear that others had grievances to air and the intensity of shelling increased. Henry looked at his dirty hand, traced the swallow and thought of Emilie. She was back at the aid station, twenty minutes away, and in that moment he made up his mind. He would go to her. Bells began to sound out from the direction of Mons, men patted each other on the back whilst many still kept their heads low. Others simply fell to pieces and wept. Picking up his weapon he followed the trench to the rear and spoke with his Senior Officer, who held the paper declaring the ceasefire.
“One hour and you’re back here.”
Strangely the officer suddenly and desperately grabbed Henry and they hugged, an outburst of sheer relief and emotion. Henry could feel the tension fall from the officer’s shoulders.
“One hour, Sir. There, a kiss and back, I promise, thank you.”
He smiled and left. The village of Ville-sur-Heine was his initial destination, from there the bridge and then the dressing station and then … Bells rang in his ears and people called out with words that he didn’t understand as they thrust flowers into his hands. Girls tried to kiss him but he only had one person on his mind, Emilie was the one he must see. His 303 was haphazardly thrown across his shoulder and only occasionally did he experience discomfort from his old wound. His greatcoat flapped at his legs like an eager dog. He had not felt so excited since his arrival in 1914. The road to the bridge seemed to stretch away for ever as he pounded the cobbled road of Ville-sur-Haine; on each side people had gathered, their homes in disarray from days of shelling. More people, more bells and more cheers. It was soon to be over. His body seemed distant, almost numb but his heart beat in tune with the bells. Tears of joy ran down his cheeks and suddenly he was at the bridge that stretched across the Canal du Centre. He knew she would be at the edge of the road by the bridge, away from the dressing station, enjoying the celebrations. Through blurred, watery eyes he spotted her. He called her name, waving one hand. He noticed the swallow tattoo, proud and blue in the light, his love token made just for her. The same hand gripped tightly the floral gifts that would soon be hers. He called her name again, his lungs bursting. She turned, a smile forming on her lips as her hand shot into the air as she recognized the sprinting soldier, his arms aloft, his face a picture of happiness.
The German sniper lay behind the bloated, stiff carcass of the horse, he was impervious to its stench. His colleague lay dead beside him, killed an hour earlier but even in the November cold the flies had found the congealed blood. Anger brewed inside him. He had received no message of surrender and only death and revenge filled his mind. The bells, however, confused him for he heard the continued sound of shelling battling the bells. He had heard rumours of a ceasefire but the sight of Lothar’s body quashed them instantly. However, in his heart of hearts he knew that this day would be the end of the atrocious war. Flies buzzed, a small black cloud, around the gaping wound in the side of the horse.
It was then that he saw the Tommy running from the village towards the bridge. People were out shouting and the noise drifted across the water like a hymn. He took aim. He watched the man raise an arm and saw a female respond in his peripheral vision but his finger was squeezing the trigger.
Henry picked up speed on seeing her and she started to move towards him. Had he not increased his pace the bullet would have passed harmlessly, a foot in front of him. As it was, it entered his left breast pocket, travelled through the corn dolly and collected a piece of straw turning it into cupid’s arrow. The bullet ricocheted from a rib and travelled through his back to lodge in the wooden stock of his rifle but the piece of corn found its true target and punctured his heart. His vision blurred, temporarily filled with the face of Emilie. He carried on for two strides before crashing to the bridge, flowers spreading like the confetti he would never see, his life-blood anointing the cobbles. He twitched as the sound of the bells diminished in his ears and only Emilie’s scream from the far side of the bridge resonated through his final thoughts. Emilie sank to her knees. The time was 10.58, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918.
The sniper looked at his dead friend and spoke softly, “Auge um Auge, Lothar.”
He would not be the last to die. One more Allied soldier was to die at 10.59, a Frenchman a few miles away. Sadly, many more were to make the final sacrifice through over- zealous, vindictive commanders pushing for selfish glory after the hour of eleven.
***
A short distance from the now non-existent bridge over the canal is the small cemetery of Neuville. Buried there are five soldiers from the first ever assault in August 1914 and four from the last morning of the war, 1918. It is a poignant reminder of the foolishness of war. Staggeringly, the war to end all wars started and ended almost at the same spot, North East of Mons.
Officially over 10,000 men were killed, wounded or went missing on November 11th 1918.
Acknowledgements
‘Bridging the Gulf’ was my first attempt at writing and I thoroughly enjoyed researching and travelling to bring reality to this piece of fiction. I have always felt concerned at the lack of Government support for our veterans, particularly those who exhibit few or no physical scars for their years of active service but who daily face difficult ongoing battles.
November 11th is an important date in my calendar but I do try to support those in need 365 days a year. If you have enjoyed these two stories, I would be grateful if and when you can, to give a moment’s thought to the many charities supporting our soldiers.
I would just like to thank my wife, Debbie, for her wonderful support.
Thanks to Helen Gray for her guidance. To Andy and Isabelle Clark and Dan O’Brien for technical support.
I must thank my many friends living in Northern Cyprus who showed me the true meaning of hospitality and friendship.
Dee Groocock – Your support has been amazing. Thank you.
May I also thank you, the readers. I do hope ‘Bridging the Gulf’ has given you food for thought.
If you would like further details of my writing then you can always find me on:
Twitter: Malcolm Hollingdrake@MHollingdrake
Website:
www.malcolmhollingdrakeauthor.co.uk
www.malcolmhollingdrakeauthor.com