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Trenches.
The night is constantly interrupted by overhead bombardment from way off artillery allowing for little if no sleep. The wiz-bang of flying pigs, the crack of Lee Enfield 303’s returning fire, the rata-tat-tat of Vickers machineguns, all these add to the harrowing sounds of night battle here on the Somme. The Battalion moved here three days ago and since then the bombardment has continued relentlessly. The trenches have become a mass of crumbled soil walls, and dead bodies are strewn everywhere. The Battalion commander had his head ripped off by a flying pig yesterday morning. I feel for the wife and two children he leaves behind back at Blighty. Battalion commanders seem to be two -a-penny round here these days. The top brass at First Army Corps will soon send over a replacement or just promote some unfortunate officer. One good thing came out of it though; I managed to lift myself the commanders Webley mark-four pistol, always comes in handy to have an extra weapon, especially when the Hun go over the top.
Sure glad I ain’t no officer!
The name’s Jones, Private Dick Jones of ‘B’ company the Hampshire Regiment and I’ve managed to keep alive so far in the madness called war. At present I’m sat in a dugout waiting for some officer to blow his whistle signalling yet another pointless charge into the Hun’s merciless guns. I know it’s coming; we’ve been sat here too long.
“Hello Jonesie what ya up to?” asks Private Tommy Sedgwick as he slaps his behind next to me.
“Just taking a little time to have a smoke, any news from the corporal as to when we getting replaced?” I ask.
“Na not heard a thing mate. Fancy a cuppa?”
I never was one to refuse a cuppa so say, “Sure why not. Hope you got some real tea though, none of that makeshift crap mind you!” Tommy Sedgwick is quick to pull out his Billy and set to warming the water on the dugouts tiny stove.
“You’re in for a treat matey, I got a parcel from home this morning, mum sent me some real tea leaves, and a packet of powered milk would ya believe!”
Real tealeaves and powered milk, you’d be surprised at what can cheer the heart over here.
“Ain’t got no sugar though!” adds Tommy as he spoons the leaves into two metal mugs.
I crack a smile, something rare for me these days and reply, “Tommy, I’m sweet enough anyway.” Tommy hands me a mug of thin watery light brown fluid and I sip at it gingerly. It’s hot but not too tasty. Ah well, at least its warm. Tommy joins me on the wooden bench and I offer him a drag on me hand rolled cigarette, he takes it and puffs on it.
“I reckon they’ll promote Captain Peters to battalion commander, the poor sod.”
“Ya reckon? He’s only been with the battalion a couple of weeks.” Tommy answers as he hands the cigarette back.
“Can’t see HQ sending someone else down here, word is we’re taking heavy casualties all over the show!”
“Peters’ is a good fellow so I’ve heard; don’t think he’ll see us wrong.”
“When it comes mate, the captain will lead us valiantly over the top without question or damn consideration for how many of us the battalion loses. In the end we’re all cannon fodder to the brass!”
It’s now Corporal Barry shoves his ugly head into our little sanctuary and orders. “On ya feet, and get on the line. We’re being ordered over the top in five.” Corporal Barry doesn’t wait, he charges on rallying the men to arms. Tommy pours the remained of his tea back into the billycan. “No point wasting any, it’ll still be here when we get back.” I hand my half drunk tea back to him and pick up my 303 rifle.
“Come on mate, king and country is callin.” I say as I pull back the dugout flap.
The time is 1.30am, all along the trench soldiers’ wait patiently. We wait for the whistle to signal the advance, and then an order sounds out.
“Fix bayonets!”
Each soldier pulls out his eighteen inch steel blade and clips it to the end of their 303.
“Stand ready!”
Tommy stands at the ready next to me and jabs my side. “See!” he points further along the line, “Told ya.” I look to where he points to see Captain Peters, whistle in hand and checking his timepiece, and I note the upgrade in rank on his epaulets.
“Poor sod, he hasn’t a clue what that promotion will cost him.” I reply.
The air above suddenly erupts in cannon fire, for once it is our howitzers rather than the Hun’s artillery. No-mans-land, the death area we have to cross is pummelled with explosions, the area lights up with yellow flashes. I look again at Captain Peters; he raises his whistle to his lips. Any second now!
A barrage of monumental explosions deafens the ears, no-mans-land lights up with crisp bursts of yellow-white luminosity from numerous uncountable explosions. Every man knows he most likely won’t return, and maybe even not live to see the dawn. Now the quiet drops, the field artillery halt their oppressive barrage; silence, a more deafening sound than the howitzers or Hun mosers. Silence, the unheard bringer of death, the lament that nobody hears, the prelude to the advance.
Peep…Peep…Peep! The officer’s whistles sound out along the line and in unison we go over the top. By the time I clear the rampart there are several troops in front of me, Tommy Sedgwick is still by my side as we pick our way through the barbed wire strewn muddy ground. Now the Hun’s mighty artillery opens fire cutting into no-mans-land with a vengeance. The ground erupts violently; muddy soil and body parts are tossed into the air. Shell after shell pulverises the landscape creating fresh concaves in an already savaged scarred region. The noise is all encompassing as our howitzers angrily return fire. Three soldier in front of Tommy and I walk into a direct shell hit, their burning bodies are ripped to shreds and scattered across the scarred tormented earth. The abhorring stench of burnt flesh mixed with the acrid taste of gunpowder assaults the senses.
Onward Tommy and I march; rifles held ready, bayonets shining with every flash of explosion. Clouds of soil are thrown skyward with every shell detonation. Our slow advance takes us in every direction as we avoid shell holes, gooseberry traps, and the dead. Suddenly a shell drops a few feet from us, the ground roars up, I am blown sideways into a large shell hole, a searing pain shoots up my left leg, but not before I see Tommy Sedgwick get torn in half. The pain is killing, my breath is short, and fear now has a firm grip on my senses. The shrill noises of battle fade from my hearing; my eyes are heavy and close as I black out. My eyes are slow to recover, and just how long I’ve been unconscious escape me at present. My leg hurts like hell, it’s ripped apart from knee to hip, the flesh is blackened and cauterised that luckily stems the flow of blood, though I feel as if I’ve lost plenty already. Once my vision recovers I see that it is daylight. It mist be morning because a low murky mist has formed across no-mans-land as is usual in the morning time.
All shelling has stopped, the only sound is that of painful moans from wounded soldiers somewhere out hidden in the mist, that and the spasmodic rata-tat-tat of machinegun bursts. I crawl myself round onto my stomach and drag myself up to the top of the shell crater to chance a butchers at my whereabouts in relation to getting back to my own lines. I slowly raise my head above the top and am forced to quickly retreat as a scatter of bullets churn up the ground in front of me.
Damn me for being a bloody idiot! Guess me best chance is to wait for night time.
Time passes slowly when you are alone in a dangerous location, I find myself constantly looking at the pocket watch my father gave me when I set out on this heroic adventure, the minutes seem to last hours.
Stop it Dickie boy, or you’ll be drivin’ ya’self nuts before the days out!
Resigned to a long boring arduous wait, I lay back and tug my tobacco pouch from my breast pocket. With one hand, a trait I learnt at the tender age of fourteen, I roll myself a smoke. The first inhale almost chokes me as it assaults my lungs, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying one of the small comforts I have left in this miserably war.
“Wonder if the push was
a success?” I ask myself then immediately think.
Steady Dickie ole boy, first sign of madness is talkin’ to ya’self!
As I lay there puffing on me cigarette, looking up at the bright blue sky, and trying to take my mind off the pain in my leg, I suddenly hear crawling noise to my right. Quickly I grab my 303 rifle and cock the bolt shoving a round up the chute. I lay low and ready. The scuffling noise moves closer. Friend or foe? Either way they’d better make themselves know or get their bleeding head blown off.
“Dickie…Dickie, is that you?” sounds a familiar voice from the low mist
I hesitate a few seconds, wary to call out, but then answer. “Who’s askin’?”
“It’s me…Jackie Trinder.”
“Over here, keep ya head low.” I call back.
Now I’ve known Jack Trinder a few years now, we both volunteered on the same day, and had become buddies during boot camp. I’d last seen Jack, or Jackie as he’s known to his mates, a couple of weeks ago when his company were transferred to a respite station at the rear. Wonder what the hell he’s doing here? Still holding my 303 at the ready I wait for Jackie to come over the brow of my hole. The first thing I see is a Battle Bowler then Jackie’s face pops into view and he slides himself into my crater.
“Watch ya mate, what you doing in these parts?” I ask as I put my 303 aside.
Jackie offers a smile from his mud caked face, “Oh you know, bloody brass called us back up for the push. Got friggin’ entangled in the gooseberry and spent the night untangling myself.”
“Here.” I say offering him my cigarette.
Jackie takes a long drag and exhales. “That looks nasty!” he says referring to my wounded leg.
“Nasty yeah and friggin’ painful too!”
Jackie finishes the cigarette and throws the butt over the top of the crater. “I never did say thanks for getting me back to our lines at that last push. If you hadn’t been there I’d have gone to meet me maker that day.”
“Wasn’t nothing, couldn’t leave a buddy behind now could I. Besides, you’d have done the same.”
“Well I’m here now, and come nightfall we’ll get back, you’ll see.” Jackie says.
“Tommy Sedgwick caught one this morning!”
“I know.” Jackie replies.
Jackie manages to tie a tourniquet round the top of my leg and has a field dressing in his pocket that he uses to dress my wound. The rest of the day I drift in and out of consciousness, every time I wake there’s Jackie watching over me like some bleeding guardian angel. Just before nightfall I regain consciousness for the umpteenth time and suddenly inquire, “How did ya know I was here?” it hadn’t struck me to ask before now.
“Never mind that now; it’s time we got moving.”
Darkness falls over no-mans-land, its pitch black making it hard to see. Jackie and I now speak in whispers so’s not to attract fire from the Hun, or our own side for that matter. Jackie crawls over the top and drags me behind him.
“You sure this is the right direction?” I mumble.
“Trust me.”
We crawl our way this way and that avoiding numerous ripped apart bodies and tangle-wire. Just how Jackie knows we are moving towards our own lines and not the Hun’s I have no idea, but I put my trust in my friend and follow as close as I can. Every now and then we halt and lay still as a flare lights up the sky, and hope to god we aren’t spotted. At one of these stoppages I feel something under my hand, it’s wet and clammy. When the overhead fare bursts I take a look and see my hand is sitting inside the gaping neck of a fallen soldier. Quickly I extract it, wipe the bloody mess on my uniform and crawl on once the flare dies out. All of a sudden a machinegun fires strafing the ground behind us.
Shit we’ve been seen!
A burst of bullets rips up the ground so close to my boots causing dirt to cascade over me. I lay stock still with Jackie’s boots close to my face. When all falls quiet we begin moving again. After a couple of hard going yards I suddenly become entangled in gooseberry, it has wrapped round my wounded leg and halts me in my tracks. Looking back, Jackie sees my predicament; he turns round and returns.
“Not far to go now!” he says in a muted voice, “Soon have ya back in your cosy dugout matey.”
Another hail of enemy bullets shatters the soil, running up the side of us, just missing us. Somehow Jackie manages to free my entangled leg and drags me on. No-mans-land is infested with dead British Tommies; the Hun must have cut down at least three quarters of the regiment during the push and it is obvious we hadn’t gained ground; the advance had been yet another costly failure. I now crawl across a dead soldier who lies on his front, I notice he wares an officer’s uniform so turn him over, it’s newly promoted Battalion Commander Peters, his chests is riddled with bullet holes.
“A few yards to go and we’ll have ya back safe and sound.” Jackie says.
I look forward and can see the trench tops of our lines. It is now the Hun decides to mount a counter assault. No-mans-land erupts in angry explosions and machinegun fire. The wiz-bang of flying pigs flies overhead, forcing me to cover my ears. Our trench guns return fire, I feel my eyes becoming heavy, too heavy to keep open. Not now! But it’s too late; I fall into unconsciousness once again. Next thing I know I’m staring up at the drab wooden ceiling of a dugout, no not a dugout it’s too clean and tidy, it’s the trench infirmary. Looking to my left and right I see other wounded all lying or sitting awaiting treatment. I feel something on my leg, and when I glance down I see an orderly putting a fresh dressing on and binding it tightly.
“Hey, how long I been here?” I ask.
The orderly doesn’t look at me but replies, “Only a couple of minutes, why?”
“Where’s Jackie, I mean Private Jack Trinder?”
“Sorry mate don’t know anyone by that name.”
“The guy who brought me here.”
“Couldn’t say. We found you outside, nobody was with you.”
The regiment doctor comes by, takes a gander at my leg and says, “Strap him up, give him some Quinine and get him back on the line.” The orderly salutes and continues to dress my wound.
“What, not even a couple of days convalescence?” I say when the doc is out of earshot.
“You heard the major, you’re fit for duty.”
A few minutes later I find myself outside the field infirmary; troops are running up and down, probably preparing for yet another big push. Corporal Toomes of Jackie’s company is running up the trench so I call him to a halt and ask. “Have you see Private Jack Trinder, Corporal?”
“Why?” he demands.
“Coz I’d like to thank him for dragging me back to our lines this morning.”
The corporal looks at me all queer like, shrugs and says. “You must be mistaken soldier; Private Trinder caught a six pounder four days ago!” He then disappears down the trench. Obviously this news comes as somewhat of a surprise. Don’t be so bleedin daft! I just saw Jackie! Friggin corporal must be losing his damn marbles! Using my 303 as a makeshift crutch I hobble as best I can towards the last known position of my own company. Something, I can’t figure what, makes me turn round and back and look up at the top of the trench wall. Standing there is something I can’t quite believe, or my eyes are playing tricks. Jackie Trinder is stood atop the trench wall for all to see, but he isn’t all there, not mental like, but physical. Jackie’s body is see-through, ghost-like. I stare at him, not believing my own eyes, but I can’t deny what I was seeing. As I watch, Jackie smiles and flips me a two-fingered salute touching the brim of his Battle Bowler. He’s then joined by the apparition of Tommy Sedgwick, who offers me a wave. I wave back; some soldier taps me on the shoulder and asks.
“Who you waving to mate?”
I look at him then back to Jackie and Tommy who now turn and walk back out into no-mans-land; their forms seem to fade as they walk away.
“Nothing.” I answer the soldier and hobble down the duck-board.
From o
ut of nowhere I hear Jackie’s voice, almost whisper like. “Thanks for saving me mate; I just had to return the favour.”
I continue to hobble my way back to my company with a smile, knowing that I could never in a million years explain or prove how I made it safely back to the lines with the help of a friend who died four days before.
Catacomb Tales Page 6
