by M J Lee
The sergeant answered anyway. 'They are, sir.' It was a mellow accent from the midland counties of Ireland, soft, slow, like the voice of a cow who had been grazing in rich fields for a long hot summer. 'They've had their smokes and a tot of rum.' Three men behind Flaherty nodded their heads in unison, the new steel helmets falling over their eyes.
'Good.' There was nothing else David could say. He didn't know these men, couldn't even address them by their surname. He had been transferred to join the fourth battalion of the Fusiliers just two weeks ago from his own regular battalion. Apparently, they were lacking battle-hardened officers for the big push.
Over to the East, the sun was lightening the sky above the German trenches. He could see the shells landing now, throwing up plumes of earth of all shapes and sizes.
'Nothing could live through the barrage, sir. We’re going to walk right in and collect the prisoners like rounding up cattle from the fields.'
Russell looked again. A shrapnel shell exploded in the air above the German lines, throwing red sparks like a giant Catherine wheel into the air. A firework display to kill rather than amuse. 'I suppose so, Sergeant.'
He checked the watch Rose had given him in Scotland; it seemed so long ago now since he had held her in his arms. Just the two of them, the world forgotten.
'Who's the youngest man in the company, Sergeant?'
Flaherty thought for a moment. 'McCrossan, sir. Says he's 18 but I don't think he's much over 16, meself.'
David looked at the letters to Rose and his parents. ’Give him these and tell him to take them to the P.O. in Division.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Make sure he takes his time, Sergeant.'
Flaherty understood exactly what David was doing. 'I will, sir, he won't be back until well after noon.'
'What time are we going over the top, sir?' asked one of the men.
'7.35, Private…?'
'Sheehan, sir.'
'It'll come quickly enough, Private Sheehan.'
'I suppose it will,' agreed the soldier, 'and it's a lovely morning for it, sir.'
The sky was clearing rapidly. A few lazy clouds drifted over their heads uncertain whether to watch the drama unfolding beneath them or continue on in their merry way. 'At least it's not raining.'
The private held up his finger to the air. 'No chance of that, sir. It will be as blue as a daisy's arse. Begging your pardon, sir.' The private touched his curled finger to the side of his helmet.
'Sergeant, make sure the men eat before 6.30.'
'No food, sir.'
'Send a couple of men back for some hot tea at least. And make sure they have another measure of rum with the tea.'
The sergeant made the same curled finger salute to the side of his helmet. 'Yes, sir.'
'As you were, Sergeant.' David turned on his heels and returned back inside the small dugout, hearing his sergeant calling McCrossan's name loudly.
Crawford was sitting on the bunk, swigging from a flask. He offered it to Russell.
The Captain shook his head. 'Later, maybe.'
'Not long to go.'
Russell looked at his watch again. The minute hand had hardly moved. Was time getting slower? '6 a.m. now. Just 90 minutes before it starts.'
Crawford stood up, bending over to avoid hitting his head on the low roof. 'I should check my platoon, make sure they are in position.'
'Get the sergeant to check the men's feet. It will give him, and them, something to do. Have to keep them occupied.'
Crawford rubbed his nose. He had been an accountant in civilian life and always complained the trenches were bad for his sinuses. 'Will do.' He handed over the flask. 'You take it, but make sure you leave some for me. I'm going to need it later.'
Russell took the flask but had no intention of drinking any of the whisky inside. He thought about the letter he had just written to Rose and realised it didn't tell her how he felt. Or how much he missed her. Or how he loved her.
He pulled a piece of paper from his knapsack, placing its pristine whiteness on the stained wood of the orange crate.
As he did, another German shell landed nearby, rattling the dugout and splitting one of the planks holding up the ceiling. More chalk spilled onto the floor in a steady white rain.
Outside, he could hear someone screaming for a stretcher bearer in a communication trench in the rear. He thanked God none of his men had been killed or injured yet.
He had another letter to write. A longer letter this time, to the woman he loved. He wanted to tell her what he felt for her and the hope he had for their future together.
Picking up the pen, he began writing as another shell landed near his trench and more white chalk dribbled down from a gap between the boards above his head.
Chapter Fifty
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Mark coughed twice, clearing his throat. 'My darling Rose,' he began again.
'Well, the big push is on. I can't tell you where I am but I'm sure you will be reading about it in the papers soon. The men are spirited and willing and there's talk about us being in Berlin before Christmas.’
'What's the date at the top of the letter?' interrupted Jayne.
Mark stopped reading and scanned the letter, finally finding the date. 'July 1, 1916.'
'The first day of the Somme. He must have been in one of the early waves going over the top.' Then her voice lowered a register. 'The records show he was killed later that day.'
The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the mantlepiece. One of those fake French carriage clocks bought in Argos. Jayne wished the bloody thing would be quiet.
Mark began reading again.
'I'm not so confident any more. We have been pounding the enemy for a week now. They say nobody could survive the artillery, but they've said the same before and been proven wrong.
Whatever happens I intend to do my duty, Rose. No stupid heroics though; I want, I need, to come back to you and our baby. It's all that matters. I will come back to you.’
Here, Mark stopped for a moment and caught his breath. 'I love you and miss you. It is only thoughts of you that keep me going. I will come back to you my darling Rose.'
Mark let the letter drop back in the case. 'He just signed it, David.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Hawthorn Ridge, the Somme. July 1, 1916.
The artillery fire from the 9.2s and the 18-pounders surged into a hurricane of noise, drowning out the sound of the German batteries. David Russell looked through the viewfinder up the gradual slope to the German lines on the ridge.
He could see the outline of the forward trench cut into the chalk. Plumes of dirt and dust were thrown into the air as the shells struck home. All above the trench, shrapnel exploded at 15 metres throwing down its red hot lumps of metal on the defenders below.
'Poor buggers,' muttered Sergeant Flaherty beside him. 'I wouldn't put my worst enemy tru' dat.'
'He is your worst enemy, Sergeant, and he would do the same to you given half the chance.'
'I suppose he would, sir, but I wouldn't give him half a chance.'
Captain Russell frowned. 'Issue another tot of rum to the men at 7 a.m. and give them all the cigarettes we have left.'
'Yes, sir. They'll think it's Christmas.'
'And those are the illuminations are they?' He pointed to the noise and clamour across at the German trenches. A white star shell fired from the German trenches, rose and flared in the sky above their heads.
'At least someone is still alive.'
Russell stepped down from the firing step and was immediately jostled by a tall thin man carrying a large wooden box on the end of three legs. From instinct, Russell checked out the badges on the shoulder of the man's uniform, but there weren't any.
'Terribly sorry, old chap. Need to set up over there.' The man pointed to an exposed position on a firing step.
'Are you sure? Jerry's guns are pretty accurate.'
He patted the box. 'Have to give her a clear
line of sight when the big bang happens.'
Russell frowned again, not understanding what the man was talking about.
'It's a camera, Captain. We're going to film the big bang and your chaps as they advance on the German lines. You are going to be famous. Oh, it's Malins by the way.' He put the legs of the box down into the mud and slime at the bottom of the trench and stuck out his hand.
Russell shook it. 'You're going to film us?'
'That's the idea. Have to get the big show on film.'
One of Malins' assistants brushed past them. 'If we don't get it set up soon, sir, we'll be too late.'
Malins checked his watch. 'Right you are, Corporal. It's set to go off at 7.20. Over there, we're told.'
'What's set to go off?'
'You mean you don't know?'
'Don't know what?'
'The big bang.'
Russell shook his head.
'Sometimes this army astounds me.' Malins pointed over to the left. 'The sappers have planted a couple of tons of explosive over there on Hawthorn Ridge.' He checked his watch again. 'In 38 minutes, they're going to let it off. Should be quite a show. Make Guy Fawkes look like a boy with a banger. Anyway, I need to go and set up.' He leant in and whispered in Russell's ear. 'Good luck, and keep your head down.'
With a wave, he followed his men down to the front of the reserve trench and around a bend, vanishing from sight.
Above the captain's head, a plane flew towards the German lines, wiggling its wings as if drunk with the joy of flight. The sky around it was a lovely eggshell blue with just traces of fine cloud drifting across it on the wind.
A perfect day.
His mind raced back to another perfect day just six weeks ago, lying on his back in the freshly mown grass, staring up at another perfect sky. But this time, Rose had been by his side, her body warm against his. He remembered picking up her hand and kissing the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. So smooth, so fragile, with just a faint line of blue showing though the pale whiteness.
'Sir.' It was Sergeant Flaherty again. 'The men have been given their rum and cigarettes.'
'Thank you, Sergeant. Tell them to keep their heads down. We are going over the top in the second wave at 7.35.'
'Yes, sir.' Flaherty saluted theatrically and returned to the men, telling them to squat down on the firing steps and keep their heads down. A few were smoking, others staring into mid-air, a few more chatting unconcernedly as if they were waiting for a country bus which hadn't arrived yet.
David Russell lifted the blanket at the entrance to the cramped dugout. Crawford was already there, lying on the bunk smoking and writing in his diary.
He sat down in front of the orange crate, the piece of paper, no longer white, stared back at him. The heading was still at the top of the page, My darling Rose, but the rest was blank. What was he going to say? He could tell her the truth and say how scared he was and how he might die in the next hour, but he knew he wouldn't. What could she do? And how would she feel reading such a letter?
Instead, he pushed the noise of the artillery from his mind, and concentrated on her face. The smile that touched the corner of her lips, as if she knew something he could only guess at. The way her blonde hair curled down over one eye, to be pushed back casually by her long, slender fingers. The softness of her nipple against the whiteness of her breast.
He pulled the paper towards him and began to tell her how much he loved her, and how he longed to touch her swelling belly.
It was everything he wanted to say when he was with her but never could.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Mark reached forward into the case. 'This is the final letter to Rose.' He opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of army notepaper, coughing once to clear his throat. ‘It’s also dated July 1, 1916. He must have written it after the previous one before he went over the top.’ He coughed once more and began reading.
‘My Darling Rose,
In my last letter, I didn’t tell you how much I love you. It’s not easy for me to express my feelings. In my family and at school, we were taught to keep them inside, never show them. The British stiff upper lip and all that.
But I don’t care any more.
If I am to die in this desperate war, I want you to know how much I love you. To me, you are life itself; pure, honest, sweet life. And the life growing in you will imbibe your purity as only babies can.
I can’t imagine living without you, my Rose. You make me happy and joyous just by my being near you, inhaling the same air as you breathe. One night, I lay awake watching you as you slept. Your face so peaceful, your mouth so red, your skin so soft. And, in that moment, I knew I had found the woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my years.
We will grow old together, Rose, age shall not weary us, nor time corrode your beauty. For me, you will be beautiful for ever.
You are my life, my love, my everything, my darling Rose. I love the way your smile kisses the edge of your lips. The way your eyes shine with a brightness only God could create. The way your hair curls to cover your eye. The way your skin trembles beneath my fingers.
I love each and every inch of your body and soul.
My one and only, Rose.
Whatever happens, remember I love you. In your darkest hours, always remember I love you.
Your David.'
Jayne couldn’t say anything. Mark coughed nervously. For once the old man just sat there, quietly puffing on his cigarette, staring into mid-air.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Hawthorn Ridge, the Somme. July 1, 1916.
He blew his whistle, hearing it echo down the ragged line of the trench. Men began to climb out of the trench on the ladders, led by Sergeant Flaherty.
The dust and dirt from the explosion on Hawthorn Ridge had died down to be replaced by the soft light of a July morning.
Corporal Doyle passed him a rifle. 'You might need this, sir.'
'I hope I don't, Corporal.'
His men were assembling into a line, being chivvied along by Sergeant Flaherty. A few German shells were shrieking over their heads, landing in the communication trenches behind them. A shout of 'stretcher bearer' came from somewhere in the distance.
He peered out up the ridge into the smoke. The acrid smell of lyddite was everywhere, filling his nostrils with its bitter tang. Where was the first wave? Was it already in the first line and advancing on the second? He hoped not. Their battalion commander had drilled into them all the importance of timing. Everything was to be done to a timetable. They were to go through to the third German trench in the first ten minutes and wait for support. That's why the men were carrying ladders, sandbags, wire and other kit; to block the captured trenches in case of a German counter attack.
He joined the end of the line. Blew his whistle once more and the men began to move off, advancing uphill towards the German trenches. One of the corporals, not from his platoon, luckily, began shouting and waving his arms. 'Get 'em, lads. Get 'em,' encouraging the men forward.
Before he could shout anything, Sergeant Flaherty had bellowed, 'Steady, lads. Walk, don't run.'
Far in front of him, he could see the red explosions still landing in the white chalk. A flash of bright red against the green and white. A cloud of cordite and then nothing.
The men were still walking forward, rifles at the slope arms, a long ragged line. Suddenly, a gap appeared to his left. A German shell had exploded in mid-air, showering shrapnel down, tearing a hole in their ranks.
The sergeant again, his voice cutting through the shellfire. 'Close up on the left. Steady lads.'
A noise.
A sound like someone rapping at a door with the sharp edge of a knife. Why did anyone want to come here into this hellhole?
The noise again. Louder now, more insistent.
A man fell in front of him. Just stopped moving forward and fell face first into the grass.
Then another,
and another.
He looked behind him. The third wave hadn't left the trenches yet. They were behind time, somebody would get a rocket.
He glanced at his watch. Just four minutes had gone since he had blown his whistle. An age and half a lifetime.
To his left and right, there were just a few men left, grouping together to protect themselves from the machine guns, seeking safety in numbers. They mustn't bunch together. He must get across and warn them.
He stumbled, nearly falling. At his feet lay a body, face staring at the sky, a few spots of mud splashed artfully on the cheeks. Sheehan. The man who had been drinking rum and laughing and smoking in the trench just half an hour before.
Dead eyes staring up at the blue sky.
More German whizz-bangs roaring over his head. The constant chatter of the machine guns. The stench of cordite.
A hare raced past him, the eyes bulging with fear from its round head, running towards the German wire and slipping beneath it.
The wire. It was still there. Uncut. Undamaged.
He saw a gap, a hole where the wire wasn't as thick as elsewhere. He began to run towards it. As he raced closer, he saw a hedge of khaki bodies in front of him, the flashes on their shoulders proudly shouting out the name of his regiment.
The first wave.
A force like a blast of heat from an oven threw him onto his back, tumbling down into a still-smoking shell hole. His leg was drenched in hot water. Why were the Germans firing hot water?
He looked down at his khaki trousers. They were wet, the green turning a dark shade of mauve. Was he hit? But there was no pain. He couldn't feel anything.
Sergeant Flaherty jumped into the shell hole, landing next to him, followed by three other men. They huddled down into the safety of the bottom, curling like children in a bed too small for them.
The sergeant shouted in his ear. 'Their first trench is just 20 yards away, sir. Shall we rush it?'
