The Journal

by John R McKay

  He put his head in his hands, blanking his mind to everything, taking himself away from the mess that he felt his life had become. Only three years ago he had been happy. A good job as a draughtsman at a well-established firm, a beautiful new wife and a nice modest new house. All that was missing was children. That would now have to wait until all this was over. That would have to wait until the world changed. Three years ago he had had everything to live for and could see no reason as to why that would change. And then some member of a distant royal family had been murdered in a place he had never even heard of, starting a series of events that ultimately led to him being sat here, right now. Grayson was sure none of it had anything to do with him, yet here he sat anyway, deep under a town in northern France about to go into battle with the responsibility of so many lives in his hands. This was now becoming repetitive, he thought. He was not sure if he could handle the weight of it any longer. He was not sure he could watch again young men being slaughtered for a cause none of them were even aware of. But despite all this he still felt a little lucky. Lucky that he had only lost an eye and gained a few scars, whereas others, better men than he, had been blown to pieces before his eyes. Or shot, or buried alive. Lives cut down in their prime, their corpses left to rot on the wire of no-man’s land or buried in mass graves wherever they could be hurriedly arranged. At least his own mother and wife had not received one of those dreaded telegrams from the War Office. Not yet anyway. Maybe this action tomorrow would start the process of ending it all, one way or the other. He could only but hope. He was not sure now if he really cared anymore and this was what was beginning to worry him.

  Tomorrow morning he would again lead his men out, as part of the Third Army under General Allenby, with orders to push forward to the village of Feuchy. They were to take Observation Ridge in the first phase of the battle, north of the Arras to Cambrai road, and then advance on the village. Over seventeen hundred heavy and medium guns had been shelling the enemy all along the Third Army front for four days and nights, to soften them up and destroy the wire prior to the attack. The sound of the guns a dull thudding some metres above his head. It was like a constant headache he could not clear despite tonight’s bombardment being relatively light.

  He looked around the little corner that had been allocated to him as company headquarters. A rickety table and two wooden chairs that had obviously seen better days, an oil lamp and two field telephones. Hardly all mod cons. The bare rock walls, jutting out in places, provided some natural shelving for cups, pots and other essential soldiering hardware and paraphernalia. He sighed. How the hell, he thought, had it all come to this.

  He was disturbed from this reverie by the sound of people at the entryway. He looked up and stood before him were Sergeant Yates, Private Longworth and Privates Brown and Hill, the platoon Lewis gunners.

  Yates approached him and saluted. ‘Reporting as ordered, sir,’ said Yates loudly.

  Grayson looked at him for a number of seconds before replying, his thoughts still not quite in the present. ‘Very good, Sergeant.’ He beckoned to the others to come forward. ‘Now who wants to start?’

  A couple of hours later he had finished the preliminary report. Despite questioning at length all concerned he was still none the wiser as to what had taken place. No one, it seemed, had seen anything happen. Private Cooke had last been seen alive and talking approximately two hours before anyone realised he was dead. Private Brown had seen Longworth with him, drinking tea together. Longworth explained he had had a cup of tea with him and had left him to sleep. When he shouted over for him to move his leg from the walkway Cooke had not responded and this was when they had discovered his death. Not much to it really and no-one else could add anything to this rather unremarkable story.

  Grayson doubted Jones’ suggestion of possible foul play. He could see no reason for it. The man had made no waves and didn’t appear to have any enemies within the company. The only odd thing about him was that he had been so very private. And was that such a bad thing anyway?

  As the hour was late he decided not to forward the report until a later point as he really needed to get some sleep. The final preparations for the battle had been taken care of some hours ago and he was sure every man knew what was expected of them in the morning. He asked his valet to wake him at 0430 hours but doubted he would get much sleep, as he had too many thoughts rushing through his head.

  His dreams recently were filled with strange horrific visions. Death, war, mud, blood, limbs separated from bodies, demons. Angels with burning wings and all the nightmares of his childhood mixed up and magnified played round in his head. He believed they were a vision of Dante’s hell. He was not quite sure whether these were merely jumbled up thoughts and fears or a premonition of what was to come.

  #

  For what felt like the thousandth time in the last few minutes another explosion rocked the ground ahead of them. This time it was the engineers blowing away the end of the tunnel to finally allow them to move outside and into the battle. A ray of natural light, flecked with the shadow of snow and sleet, the first daylight he had seen for days, penetrated the air ahead of him, the nervousness of the soldiers at the front palpable, the atmosphere electric. Thousands of troops crammed shoulder to shoulder and not one person speaking, preferring their own private thoughts. In a matter of a few seconds this group of soldiers, like a sea of khaki would pour out of the tunnel exits and wash over the poor unsuspecting Germans to wreak pain and death upon them. For some of them this would be the last moments of their short lives. And the terrible thing was that they knew it.

  But they were going to do it anyway and Grayson could not, even after seeing it a number of times, ever get used to watching it happen. He asked himself why and then realised he was one of them also. He too would go uncomplaining into the fray to stare death once more in the face. To take the lives of people just like him, just as scared as he was. The only difference was that they came from another land and spoke another language, but essentially they were the same.

  He turned to his right and saw Lieutenant Jones. Jones looked his usual nervous self but he also looked focused, his whistle and revolver ready. He suddenly felt a paternal responsibility for the boy and truly hoped he would get through this safely.

  Grayson became aware of someone staring at him. He glanced over at Longworth and caught his eye. Longworth grinned at him that gap toothed grin he hated and Grayson recoiled slightly. Longworth saw this and laughed. Grayson inwardly reprimanded himself for allowing this reaction but he had more pressing issues to deal with than the insubordination of that particular idiot. Longworth was probably the only person he knew here who would enjoy what was about to come and for that reason Grayson would not be too upset if he had to write a letter of condolence to the man’s wife after all this. If indeed he had one.

  Grayson could hear whistles being blown up and down the tunnels as the thousands of troops pushed and clamoured to escape the claustrophobia they had been made to endure for the past four days.

  Putting thoughts of Longworth aside he drew his service revolver and placing his own whistle to his lips he blew hard, releasing the frustration he had been holding in, forcing the adrenalin to course through his body to give him the courage and energy he needed to lead these men out.

  As he looked towards the spot of daylight ahead he could not help thinking of the stories he had heard of the dying, whom, it was claimed, could see a light getting ever nearer as death approached. And so, with a pistol in his hand and a whistle in his mouth he set off towards that light, followed by the men of his company, to meet that death head on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Arras, 12 April 1917 - Mid-morning

  Grayson stood outside the newly established Battalion Headquarters, cigarette in hand, taking a break from his duties. Ahead of him lay the battlefield, overshadowed by a dull grey sky that threatened more rain. The battle had raged for the previous three days with the odd respite during the night but now
once more it was in full swing. Above the noise of the big guns he could hear the sound of small arms and the shouts and screams of the troops engaging with the enemy as they attempted to force their way forward. He could also hear the distinct clanking sound of the strange looking ‘tanks’ that he had first seen during the action at Flers-Courcelettes on the Somme the previous September, as they ponderously made their way to the forward positions.

  He reflected on the previous few days’ events. Company losses had been quite significant despite the meticulous planning. Although he himself had survived relatively unscathed, receiving only a small shrapnel wound to his left cheek which had resulted in a two inch scar that was currently covered by a field dressing, most of the other officers had either been killed or seriously wounded. Young Lieutenant Jones had taken a German bullet to the head within the first thirty minutes of battle and had died instantly. Lieutenant Cooper of number two platoon had also been killed and Lieutenant Watson of number one platoon had taken hits to both legs whilst leading his men on a charge to take out a machine gun that was pinning the company down. Grayson was unsure where Watson was right now. He had seen him being stretchered away the previous evening and doubted he would ever see him again. All this had led to the merger of numbers one and two platoons and a battlefield commission for Sergeant Yates, which Colonel Henry had endorsed that morning.

  Grayson smoked his cigarette and despite the sounds of the battlefield raging in front of him he was able to ignore it for a few moments. This was the first time in a long while that he actually felt alone and relaxed, content in his own company. The main part of the battle for him, he hoped, was pretty much over and the soldiers under his command had performed their duties very well. They had reached their first objectives in relative quick time, regardless of the losses to the company, advancing further than they thought was possible. They had been held up by German machine guns at fortified island redoubts on Battery Valley but after some heavy fighting they had managed to move forward. They had been relieved by reserve troops the previous evening after three hard days in the field, the terrible weather that was strange for April, adding to the suffering of his men. Snow, sleet and freezing temperatures had all added to the hardship and they were now having a well-deserved rest behind the lines, awaiting further orders. No doubt they would be back in action very shortly, he sighed to himself.

  What had been very impressive were the advances by the Canadians of the First Army, to the left of the line, who had taken and were currently holding the ridge at Vimy, despite German counter-attacks to try and dislodge them. He could still hear heavy fighting taking place from that direction.

  The overall plan had more or less worked. The efforts of the engineers and tunnel diggers in providing shelter for the hidden army, giving them the element of surprise on Monday morning, had taken the Germans completely off guard. The weather had been awful, but Grayson was thankful of the fresh air that being outside had provided.

  He heard movement behind him and turned. He was joined by Colonel Henry.

  ‘So what do you think, James?’ asked Henry.

  Unsure of whether he was talking about the battle, the losses or the weather, Grayson replied, ‘I can never get used to it, sir.’

  ‘And neither should you, young man,’ replied Henry. ‘This whole thing is one sorry mess. It isn’t normal. It’s not how men are supposed to behave but we have no choice.’

  Grayson did not reply. He took another drag of his cigarette and looked ahead, towards the German lines which were getting further away as the allied troops advanced. The sound of battle a constant background noise to his life which he thought would never leave him for as long as he lived.

  ‘You should be proud of yourself and your men,’ continued Henry after a short while. ‘They have done a bloody fine job. Hopefully this action will be the start of the end of all this.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Grayson. ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Unfortunately we are going to need you back in it I’m afraid, James,’ said Henry. ‘New orders. You are to assist in taking the Chemical Works tomorrow morning so you need to organise and move your lads up the line.’

  Grayson looked at Henry and sighed. ‘What’s left of them sir,’ he said. ‘We are nowhere near company strength anymore.’

  ‘I know son. Do your best.’

  They stood in silence for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘Oh by the way,’ said Henry, ‘that business with the poor fellow who died the other evening. The night before the battle. What was his name again?’

  ‘Cooke sir, John Cooke.’

  ‘That’s right. Cooke,’ said Henry, ‘What’s happened to the body?’

  ‘I presume it’s still in the medical station where it was put the other night, sir,’ replied Grayson. The truth was Grayson had almost forgotten about it, the events of the battle and another large loss of men under his command had occupied his thoughts over the last few days.

  ‘OK. Have you had a report from the medics as to what they think has happened to him?’

  ‘No sir, I believe they have been a bit busy down there.’

  ‘OK, OK, better to have it brought up and put in one of the graves that they are digging over there.’ Colonel Henry paused. ‘It may be better for his family to believe he died in battle, charging towards the enemy for King and country and all that. Prevents any unnecessary paperwork too, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe that’s best sir, yes,’ said Grayson. The truth of it was that Grayson had not spoken to or sent any directions to the medics. In fact the preliminary report he had written days ago was still in his pocket. As far as he knew two of the three very weak witnesses were dead now anyway and he could not see how the affair could be progressed. Maybe it was best for all concerned.

  ‘Good man. Have it done. And write to his widow will you, along with the others. Better for her to believe her husband died a hero than to think he died curled up in a ball or whatever, seventy feet under a French town that she has probably never heard of.’

  ‘Yes sir, I will see to it.’ After all, it would make that particular letter easier to write. He had so many to pen and would make a start on them as soon as he got a few spare minutes.

  ‘Good man. Good man.’ Henry turned away. ‘Now let’s get back to winning this bloody war so we can all go home.’

  Grayson was alone again. He finished his cigarette and threw the end into a puddle in front of him. Maybe Henry was right and the Cooke affair was better dealt with in this way. It would certainly be easier for himself that was for sure. Just another simple letter, the same lines regurgitated from the hundreds he had written over the last two years. What difference would it make anyway? he thought. Just one more dead soldier among the hundreds being buried in makeshift mass graves all around him.

  However, it did nag at him that it wasn’t quite right but he had neither the time nor the inclination to conduct an investigation into a single death, with virtually no witnesses, amongst the carnage of what was taking place before his eyes. It could have been passed to the Military Police to deal with if indeed it was considered to be suspicious, but Grayson knew that they too would probably have dismissed it. And after all, there was no proof, only the opinion of a one year medical student who himself was now dead.

  He would have Cooke’s effects brought to him and would forward them on to the man’s wife, with the standard letter of how proud he was to have served with him and that the man had done his duty for his country and his king. The usual bullshit, he thought, the same old usual shite.

  Grayson turned away. Better to get on with things, he thought. He now had so much to do, so much to organise. He had not expected to be thrown back into the battle so soon.

  The rain that had threatened all morning started to fall and he looked up to the sky, letting the cold April water run down his face. It was only after a few moments that he realised it wasn’t only rainwater on his cheeks but tears. Tears he had been holding ba
ck for months. Tears for all the young men who had died under his command and tears for those who were still yet to fall. Tears for the happiness lost amongst the mud and death of this living hell and tears for the realisation that he had now become the man he had never wanted to be.

  He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face, knowing that for as long as he lived these would be his final tears. He made a vow to himself that he would never weep again.

  I found myself in a field alone.

  Digging.

  I was aware it was early morning as the sun was low in the sky behind me and dew was fresh upon the grass all around. It felt cold but the ground was surprisingly soft and the spade easily displaced the soil and clay.

  I didn’t know why I was digging, just that it was extremely important that I finished what I was doing, and quickly.

  I could hear a train in the distance, approaching. The sound of the locomotive getting progressively louder, but still too far away to cause me any concern. I did not know why I should be concerned but concerned I felt nevertheless. Occasionally the distant shrill of its whistle could be heard adding to the sound of my spade hitting the clay.

  I carried on.

  Digging.

  Digging.

  For no reason I could work out.

  I could feel eyes on my back. I dared not turn around. Someone was standing behind me, watching me. Making sure I did not stop. They did not need to speak. I knew that I couldn’t stop. I had to finish the job.

  Eventually I summoned up enough courage to turn, the sound of my own heartbeat now thundering in my ears, in perfect time with the oncoming train.