Murder At Zero Hour

by Paul Westwood

  Chapter 11

  The Past

  Anyone who talks of going bravely into battle has either never been in one or is a damned bloody fool. Feeling sick to my stomach, I stood there at the bottom of the parapet, ready to jump off with my company. As I got my men to line up, my mouth felt dry. I could barely croak out the orders. In a daze, I wondered if I would have the spit to blow the whistle hanging around my neck. The men to the sides of me didn't look any better either. Even Owens was pale as he nervously checked his rifle. We were all looking grim, though a few made some half-hearted jokes that quickly died on their lips. The shelling was growing to an enormous pitch, making the ground tremble, and the air shriek with shrapnel.

  A commissary officer dropped off our rum jar. I quickly dispensed it to my men. They drank it gladly and watched greedily while I finished the last splash left on the bottom. The rum hit me all the way down to my legs. I began to feel a bit better about our chances. I threw down the jar and give them all a wink. “Keep steady boys,” I said. “No time to get cold feet.”

  Captain Bryant was going down the line to give us words of encouragement. I really wished he would shut his mouth, since he was suffering from dug-out disease and wouldn’t be joining in the attack. The men hated the brass that wouldn't lead from the front. I daresay no one was making an exception for him.

  “Look sharp men, and be brave,” Bryant shouted as he came to my platoon. Someone said something in the back, and a few chuckles could be heard. He ignored them and went on, “This is a momentous day in history. A day you can tell your grandchildren about. This is a day where we turned the tide of war and made the Germans retreat in shame. You will remember this day for the rest of your life.”

  “If we live that long,” someone in my company muttered.

  Bryant ignored this, cleared his throat and continued, “You have been given the tools to succeed. You must trust the orders of your superior officers. Now Godspeed and long live the King.”

  Even though I didn’t mean it, I said, “Thank you, sir.”

  The soldiers didn’t say a word but just stared blankly at the fool captain. He shuffled his feet nervously, and decided he had enough. He went on his way to visit Lyons's company further down the line. From my spot, I could see my friend shake his head as Bryant started walking towards them. He certainly had no love for the captain.

  The other regiments that had been brought up to join the attack were hunkered down in the communication trenches behind us. In the air there was a heavy reek of sweat, shit and urine as soldiers relieved themselves wherever possible. Bad nerves makes for bad bowels. My boys continually checked their rifles over and over, while I kept cracking open my Webley to make sure the bullets were still in place. The situation was ever so dreamlike. I felt if someone poked me hard enough, I would have woken up back in my bed in Chicago.

  I checked my watch and just at that moment, the shelling lifted. Behind me, Bryant blew his whistle. I put mine up to my lips and gave out a weak tweet that sounded strangely distant to my ears. We clambered up the ladders and began our steady walk across No Man’s Land. The staff had told us that resistance was going to be light, so there was no reason to disperse the troops in safe order.

  Owens was next to me. He was shouting, “March in good order, lads.”

  My other sergeant, Dobson, was staying behind the body of troops, making sure no one would run for it.

  I looked to each side and saw my boys were doing well, marching almost like a parade formation. Only the shell holes disrupted our straight marching lines. Well, it didn’t last long. We only made it to the middle of No Man's Land when the Hun opened up with their machineguns. In the haze of the morning, I could see the little lines of tracers coming from just to the right of us. Bullets began to snap in the air. My men were falling. I could hear them shout and scream in panic.

  We could go no further without taking more casualties, so I motioned for my remaining men to drop to the ground and find cover in the shell holes. I jumped into a nearby hole with Owens quickly following behind. Our artillery fire had started up again, but it just continued to roll past the enemy lines. I wished I could have sent a runner back to direct their fire back on the German machinegun positions, but there was no way I could send anyone back in time to make any difference. It was useless anyways – a messenger would have been chopped down by the murderous fire coming our way.

  “Give me my rifle,” I shouted to my sergeant. He was carrying my Lee-Enfield along with his own. He threw it over. We both crawled up the sides of the muddy hole to find that cursed machine gunner. We found the bastard holed up in a mound of sandbags, tapping his machinegun back-and-forth with hellish results. With the bullets flying over my men, they had nowhere to go. I grew angry and began firing at that gunner. We managed to fire off a few rounds each before the bullets began tearing up the ground before us. The sergeant and I had drawn his fire. Now he kept a steady stream of fire coming our way.

  I waved my arms to two privates to the right of us, and they noticed my motions to move forward. They crawled on their bellies and found a good place to start shooting at the machine gunner. His attention was now drawn to them. I managed to get a good shot in on his gun loop. The machinegun fell silent. I jumped up and began charging towards the enemy line.

  A foolish action, I know, but I was angry – angry at this idiot plan and angry at the senseless slaughter. Why did my men have to die? They were good soldiers and I was going to do everything I could to save them from any further suffering. It was a good hundred yards to the Boche lines. I had to dodge through shell holes, torn up barb wire, and mud. I glanced behind me and only saw Owens plodding behind me as quick as he could go. The rest of my company was dead or lying doggo.

  Another gunner must have taken the place of the dead German since that machinegun I had quieted opened up again. The ground next to me was chewed up with bullets. I felt a strong arm push me to the right. It must have been Owens. I tripped and fell forward. On the right side of my head, there was an explosion of red pain. My whole world went dark.