by Alan Tansley
‘Just a minute, mate,’ he replied, kneeling down to change a dressing on another patient, beginning to jovially chat with him.
When the medic finally knelt at George’s side, George asked, fearing the answer, ‘What’s wrong with my right leg? I can’t feel it.’ He shuddered as he tried to get comfortable.
‘Well now, it’s like this mate: according to the form, you lost it when it dropped off,’ the medic replied, and laughed heartily.
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ gasped George. He tried to sit up, groaned out loud with pain, and then flopped back.
‘Listen to me, mate. I am not being stupid. Your leg was blown off, and I must tell you this, thank your brother for your life. Not only did he save you and three more men, he killed eight of the enemy while doing so.’
George stared up at a deep blue cloudless sky, trying to remember, but failing. All he recalled was shouting in a foreign language. ‘Just hold my head up, mate?’ he asked.
The medic knew he wanted to look, and gently cradled his head, helping George to glance down his body. ‘Believe me now?’
‘Yeah. Lower me back down,’ George said, and then sighed and closed his eyes. He heard the medic set off, and began to contemplate his future, knowing that he was useless without both legs. He realised that he should have been able to support Florence once he was home, but now he couldn’t, and bitterly regretted joining the army and leaving her. When tears formed in his eyes, he screwed them up tight, knowing that he had lost the woman he loved, along with his limb.
Henry lay relaxed until the shelling began. Because it was so close, however, the noise affected him, and instantly triggered a seizure. A medic noticed, but decided that his condition was not as serious as others and left him alone. The seizure lasted nearly twenty minutes and began to ease when the shelling subsided, leaving him as if in a deep sleep.
At the same time, Timothy was reading a medical report about Henry, feeling assured that his condition did not seem very serious
‘Are there many new casualties today?’ asked the Major, sitting in his battered old chair and smoking.
‘For a change, there are no bodies today, but I believe twenty walking wounded,’ replied Timothy, beginning to write entries in a ledger.
The Major chuckled, then said, ‘Better cheer up then, lad. Only fourteen days to go, then we have a week’s leave. It’s back home to Blighty and our ladies.’
‘Are you really sure about me returning home with you again?’ asked Timothy, and frowned, knowing why the Major wanted it.
‘Oh yes, lad. I’ve already wired Penelope and informed her you will be with me.’
‘I was hoping to return home. My parents want to see me.’
‘Well then, now you know different. Penelope has wired back, and says she will meet us on the twenty-third. She also stated that she is very much looking forward to meeting you again.’
‘Oh, is she indeed?’ said Timothy, pondering.
At the farm, everything was ticking over fine. When the new government subsidies began to kick in, Joseph and Mahala knew that for the first time ever at the end of the year, they would have more money than usual to spare. Market prices had begun to rise, and although there wasn’t a shortage of food, propaganda was rife that there could be in the near future, which obviously made people gossip. In the cities, life was booming because a great number of people were now working making munitions, but it was a very dangerous profession. There were many accidents and explosions, but worst of all, workers were totally oblivious that the chemicals they were handling gave off minute fibres, which settled inside their lungs. In later years, this would cause their health to quickly deteriorate.
Georgina was growing, and seemed to relish the fact that everyone wanted to cuddle her. Florence was still badly missing George, but she was pleasantly surprised when everyone in their village accepted her pregnancy; nobody ever mentioned that they weren’t married. Five days later, Mahala received an official envelope, delivered by a soldier on horseback. She waited to open it until after he set off, but when she was inside the house, she began to read it.
Choosing her words carefully, she informed Florence that George was on his way home, and had a serious injury.
‘What does that mean?’ gasped Florence, staring.
‘It doesn’t say, only that he will be home soon and will require looking after.’
‘Oh my good God,’ gasped Florence, and dashed into her bedroom.
Five hundred miles away, after eating a hearty lunch, George felt his bowels moving and he instantly shouted for an orderly. Smiling when finding out his problem, the orderly glanced around and shouted to a deckhand for help. Eventually, he managed to sit George astride two planks of wood with a bucket underneath, especially made for the purpose, and he managed to relieve himself. Fifteen minutes later, George didn’t respond to the orderly’s shout. He was staring at one leg and then at the half of the other. ‘I said, here mate,’ shouted the orderly, handing George a piece of old newspaper.
George wiped himself with tears in his eyes, then threw it overboard, grimacing with pain. He held his thigh, cursing his luck. The orderly approached, and noticing his face, asked, ‘Everything alright, mate?’
George slowly looked up, and staring at him through his tears, moaned, ‘No, I’m minus a fucking leg, aren’t I?’
Looking a lot better for his rest, warm food and drink, Henry was checked over before being bundled off back to defend the same hill. Arriving there three hours later, he instantly asked the trench guard where the rest of his platoon was. With a relieved look on his face, the guard replied, ‘Ask him, he’s the boss,’ and nodded towards the Lieutenant when he approached them.
Henry turned, waited for the Lieutenant to arrive and then asked, ‘Where are my men?’
The Lieutenant seemed to be running out of patience. ‘How should I know,’ he snapped. ‘I have more than this hill to save. Just stick to your orders, soldier.’
Henry accompanied him up the trench, and was surprised that the shelling was quiet. He watched the Lieutenant inspect the men in their cut-outs, having a brief word with each one, and he stayed at his post while a confident-seeming Lieutenant continued back down the line toward the trench guard. In regimental fashion, he informed him some food would be brought to them shortly, then suddenly snapped, ‘And keep an eye on that young Cotton, he’s getting far too argumentative.’
‘Yes sir,’ he replied, and listened to the silence, standing to attention. Having already taken the initiative to provide food, the trench guard patiently waited, eyeing him while the Lieutenant gingerly progressed down the lane.
Henry lay in his little dugout with his rifle loaded, looking ready for action. He knew that the shelling would soon begin, but his mind began to drift towards hallucination. He dreamed of his childhood and chopping down trees, then suddenly shook his head, trying to clear it, when it all turned into gibberish.
As if he knew what was going to happen, Henry quickly turned and lay on his back, but as he was looking upward, he could not comprehend the dangers that lay ahead. Suddenly the heavy shelling began, and as the noise vibrated in the thick, heavy atmosphere, he instantly lost consciousness. Henry began to shake violently, as if having a seizure. The soldier in the next dugout saw him, but was under fire himself, so not in a position to help.
Thirty minutes later, when the shelling subsided, the soldier crawled up to Henry, keeping his head low. Henry was now lying as if asleep. Shaking him, the soldier asked, ‘Come on, mate, are you alright?’
Suddenly Henry’s eyes opened wide and began to roll around, as if he didn’t understand. ‘What? What? Bloody hell where am I?’ he burst out, trying to stand up.
The soldier grabbed hold of him and hanging on tight, gasped, ‘For Christ sake, keep your head down.’
Henry came to his senses, flopped on his back, and now understanding what was happening, he began to relax, gasping, ‘Oh shit.’
‘You want to wa
tch it, mate. If any of the officers see you like that instead of fighting, they’ll have you arrested. Two of our lads have been shot for cowardice,’ and after a quick look around, he quietly added, ‘One of them was only fifteen.’
‘I just can’t help it; it’s the noise. Well, the vibration from it. It makes me dizzy and I lose myself,’ replied Henry, and blinked to focus.
‘Everyone alright?’ asked the Lieutenant, crawling towards them.
‘Yes sir, just chatting.’
‘Right then, at seven p.m., we go up the hill. I’ve informed the others, so you have two hours to prepare. Any questions?’
‘What if there’s shelling at that time, sir?’ asked the soldier, and grimaced.
‘According to my calculations, they break for their tea about then, so anything else?’
‘No, only can we have an early tea? I don’t like running on a full stomach,’ said Henry, sarcastically.
The Lieutenant pulled a face of impatience and turned away. As soon as he left, messages, questions, and answers were regularly passed along the line. According to most, everyone was dreading that evening, and really no one was in the mood or even fit enough, after weeks sitting in the trench, to run up the hill.
Uncannily, there wasn’t much shelling while they ate, but there was still the sporadic enemy rifle fire overhead. Now and again, Henry stared when his left arm occasionally twitched for no reason. When he was about to eat his last piece of bread, his arm suddenly jumped upward and threw it away. He took hold of his arm and stared at it, not knowing why it had done that, and he quickly turned when the Lieutenant approached, asking if everything was alright.
‘Err, yes.’
‘Very good. So, as I have informed the other five men that are going with you, I shall be here giving orders and directions. Is that understood?’
‘Err, yes.’
‘Munitions will be brought to you in thirty minutes. So load up, prepare and let’s get rid of those buggers up there,’ said the Lieutenant. He couldn’t understand why there was no argument from Henry, as in the short time he had known him, the Lieutenant had never found him at a loss for words He pondered Henry’s unusual amenability as he crawled down the line, trying to boost the men as he passed them, and not realising that they had little respect for him. Henry watched him return down the line, and knew that they had no chance. He sighed, ‘Better make peace with my maker, so if you are listening, dad, you and mum have given me some great years. I only wish we could have said goodbye properly. God above give me strength, because this is sheer bloody murder.’
When it was time for the assault, the Lieutenant crouched down behind the six men involved. He stared at his watch while taking his pistol out of his holster, then looked around, before shouting, ‘Right men, three minutes to go.’
Henry, like the rest, lay on his belly in his cut-out with rifle pointing upwards, ready.
The Lieutenant raised his hand in the air. ‘Ready chaps, over you go,’ he shouted, and then suddenly looked up, hearing that horrible whining sound. The heavens erupted with heavy bombardment.
When a shell exploded near Henry, showering him with burned soil, instantly he began to shake violently, and face-down, slid back into his cut-out. The Lieutenant noticed, and with his head down, crawled up to him shouting, ‘Get up, soldier, and do as you are ordered… now!’
Henry was oblivious. The seizure took hold of him, and he shook violently as he sat awkwardly, biting his tongue so that he began bleeding at the mouth. With no time to waste, the Lieutenant eventually gave up trying to rouse him, began to retreat down the line. Halfway down, he entered an empty cut out, picked up a periscope, glanced through it and stared, seeing five of his men, only yards away, lying face down in the mud.
His heart sank, knowing that the eighth attempt at an assault on the hill was another failure. He crawled haphazardly down towards the trench guard, splattered with clods of soil from cannon explosions on the way, and when he reached the end, he stood upright, dusted himself down, and snapped, ‘Go and arrest that Cotton, and march him to my headquarters now.’
‘Yes sir.’
Thirty minutes later, the shelling had subsided. The guard approached Henry, checking each man on the way, and found him lying peacefully, as if asleep. He shook him, saying ‘Come on, mate, wake up!’ The guard had some idea what was wrong with him, having a family member in the same predicament.
Henry, with bloodied foam around his mouth, began to wake from a deep sleep. He suddenly stared up at the guard. ‘What, err, what’s going on?’
‘Listen, mate, you are in deep shit now. As soon as you were going over the top, the shelling started, and sent you into a fit. Sorry to say, the others didn’t make it; a shell got three in one go. But the Lieutenant is not impressed at all, and he ordered me to arrest you.’
Staring at him, confused, Henry asked, ‘Why? What have I done wrong?’
‘Sorry, lad, but the army says you must do as you are told, or pay the consequences. What’s made it worse is that our Lieutenant is bad news; he never seems to get anything right, so he’s going to take it out on you. So when you are ready, lad.’ Henry was feeling very weak, still shaking as he just about managed to kneel up. He struggled to his feet, trying to use his rifle to aid himself, but the soldier took it, saying, ‘I’ve to relieve you of this.’
Usually, when anyone passed their cut-outs, comments were made by the occupants, but Henry noticed that the rest of the men had their backs to him, and didn’t turn around as he went by. When he reached the end of the trench, Henry stopped and stretched, but when he turned back to face the guard, he realised that he was pointing his rifle at him. ‘Right mate, you lead the way,’ said the soldier and pointed the direction.
‘That serious, is it?’ asked Henry, and frowned as they set off.
Chapter 20
The platoon Lieutenant was sitting inside his tent, writing, and looked around when he heard voices. ‘Attention!’ shouted the trench guard, and when Henry saluted, he said, ‘Private Cotton, sir, as you requested.’
‘Very good. Now, I have advised my superior about your conduct, Cotton, and you are in very serious trouble for dereliction of duty, including failing to obey an order.’ The Lieutenant began to read through his notes, then looking up, added, ‘You are still under arrest, so from here you will be returned to base camp then dealt with by the duty Major.’
Henry began to swoon, ending up leaning on his guard. He was seriously ill with epilepsy, but those not used to dealing with the illness tended to shy away from it and didn’t understand the condition. Hearing the Lieutenant’s words meant nothing, as all he could hear was mumbling. He felt someone take hold of his arm, and he turned and recognised the guard accompanying him as he set off in the direction of the base camp.
They ambled down the lane, and as they approached the old house, Henry became aware of his surroundings and state of being, asking, ‘Where are we going, mate?’
‘You never heard him, did you?’ asked the guard, having experience of the fits and its conditions because of his relation. ‘You are under arrest for neglect of duty, and let me say this, mate, you are in it good and proper. If you want to do a runner, I will look the other way. Otherwise, it’s a date with the executioner.’
‘What? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I know that; in fact you’ve have killed more of the enemy than me. It’s just that our superiors are only educated in warfare, well, some of them that is, but unfortunately not in our welfare.’
They continued towards the base camp, and as the noise from the shelling grew more and more distant, a great weight seemed to lift off the top of Henry’s head. Inside his head was in turmoil, however; he tried to understand what was happening and what lay ahead as they strolled along, but could not.
As usual, Timothy was auditing the records according to his usual high standards, feeling rather pleased about his recent promotion. The Major held a letter, and sighed, saying, ‘This is bloo
dy wrong, you know. They are sending three men down for a brief interview, so their statements can be put on record before we execute them for desertion of duty.’
‘That is your department. I have enough to do making this lot balance. Anyway, while you are here, sign this,’ said Timothy, and passed him a form, smiling.
When they reached the base camp, Henry was asked to sit on a wooden barricade, then handcuffed to it. ‘I’ll bring you some grub soon,’ said the guard, before walking off.
Henry crouched down and rested his head back. He could hear shouting, and then he started as another soldier, cursing away at his guards, was manhandled and chained with him. ‘Bastards!’ he shouted when they walked off. Seething with anger, he turned to Henry, and suddenly calmed down. ‘How d’ye do?’ he asked.
‘So what have you done wrong?’ asked Henry, and studied his face, thinking that he knew him from somewhere
‘Wrong? Nothing, mate, I just got fucking caught, that’s what. Another twenty yards and I’d have been on that fucking boat, but the bastard I bought it from didn’t leave any oars in it. Anyway, they caught up and arrested me.’
‘Oh, is that all? So where were you going?’ asked Henry innocently.
‘Are you from this fucking planet mate or what? I was going back home to England, of course. Don’t tell me you don’t want to get out of this bleeding awful land?’
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ replied Henry. He guessed that the deserter’s accent was from Yorkshire, and asked, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Bradford, and afore you say anything, yes, it is a shit-hole, but it’s home to me. We lived in a back-to-back terrace one-up and one-down, and life was rosy until the army came knocking on our fucking door. Promises, promises, they are all a set of liars.’
‘That rings a bell, because we were promised the world as well,’ said Henry, and suddenly ducked when a soldier fell on him. He rolled the newcomer off, and moaned ‘Sodding hell,’ as he sat up.
