This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Christ, it’s heavy,’ muttered Jack to his brother. ‘I never knew we’d need so much. How much does this stuff weigh?’

  ‘About seventy pounds,’ said Robert, adjusting his shoulder straps.

  ‘Blimey, that’s half my body weight. They expect us to carry this for fifteen miles?’ The packs contained all manner of essentials: spare pair of boots, socks and underwear, groundsheet, blankets, quilted coat, shovel, gas mask, half a dozen hand grenades, four days’ worth of food and water, soap, razor and of course, a rifle. ‘I feel like a bloody packhorse,’ said Jack.

  ‘Jack,’ said Guy, ‘for Pete’s sake, stop whining, will you?’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I was just saying it’s heavy, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, and I think we get the point.’

  Robert stepped in. ‘Steady on, Guy old chap, it’s his first time, remember?’

  ‘As if I needed reminding.’

  On Lieutenant Lafferty’s orders, the men began the long hike. They marched in ranks of four, the brothers marching side by side. The platoon walked in silence, conserving their energies for the long day ahead. Only the sound of the marching boots, their panting breaths and the clinking of their bayonets broke the morning silence. With the warmth of the August dawn, the men soon began to sweat. And with the sweat came the lice.

  ‘They don’t seem to be bothering me,’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s ‘cause your uniform is still nice an’ fresh,’ said Robert. ‘Don’t you worry, old chap, they’ll catch you up soon enough.’

  ‘Shut it back there,’ yelled Sergeant Wilkins from the front.

  They traversed through the attractive French countryside; passing villages, cutting across fields, and through copses, but the men were soon too exhausted to notice or care about the scenery. Each hour, they were allowed ten minutes’ rest.

  As they marched the last few miles, the rumble of artillery fire became louder. Guy kept looking at Jack who began showing the first signs of trepidation, his eyes scanning the horizon at the large clouds of black smoke. Finally, after almost seven long hours, the platoon reached the reserve trench. It was early afternoon. The platoon was allocated two adjoining dugouts.

  ‘These dugouts are sturdy things,’ said Robert, ‘about twenty feet deep, so need to worry here.’

  Jack forced a smile. ‘It stinks.’

  ‘Does it?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Cosy, I guess,’ said Jack, pulling off his pack. He removed his boots and rubbed his aching swollen feet, swearing under his breath. He lay on a bottom bunk and within moments was fast asleep.

  Guy pulled himself onto the bunk above his brother and closed his eyes. He found himself tugging nervously on one of the metal buttons on his tunic. They were on the edge of Hell; in only another few hours they would find themselves in the midst of the cauldron. He remembered his own first time. Familiarity didn’t take away the fear, but at least one knew what to expect. He wondered how Jack would cope.

  *

  Eight p.m.; it was getting dark, a damp chill hung in the air. After a dinner of almost indigestible stewed beef, the platoon was ready to move. Lieutenant Lafferty split his troops into four sections, each containing fifteen men. ‘Remember,’ he bellowed, ‘thin out as you make your way down the communication trench. Keep your heads down, especially where there’re gaps, or the Hun knock your blocks off. If anyone falls, you are to ignore them and carry on your way. No talking, no slacking, no smoking. Understood?’ He paused. ‘Leave your packs here. Transport will bring them up for you tomorrow. Your section commands will give you your loads.’

  Jack and Guy reported to Sergeant Wilkins. The rugged little man assigned Jack a large crate of small arms ammunition to lug to the front. ‘Bloody awkward, this,’ said Jack, getting to grips with it. Guy was given a bag full of sandbags, which, although an effort, seemed positively lightweight in comparison to his pack. With his men at the ready, Wilkins led them down the trench, which three miles later would bring them to the very epicentre of Hell itself.

  The walk was torturous. The trench, deep and narrow, was too slippery underfoot to allow for any rhythm in their walking. Precariously, they trudged forward, each step an effort. Guy felt as if the mud was sucking his boots from him. The men within the section soon became separated from each other. Jack slipped and fell into a pool of mud, cursing as he landed on his backside. ‘Christ, get up, Jack.’ One couldn’t tell how deep these pools were and his mind flashed back to the time he saw a man almost drown in a shallow crater of mud.

  ‘You think I slipped on purpose?’

  The barrage of noise intensified with every step. The ground shook as bombs and shells flew around, exploding at regular intervals nearby, showering them with fragments of flying earth and debris.

  ‘Shit, what is all this?’ Jack instinctively ducked every time.

  ‘You get to know after a while.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What the different sounds means, and when to take cover.’

  ‘Jesus, this smoke, it sticks to the back of the throat.’

  Further up the line they heard a yell of ‘make way’. Coming towards them were a couple of stretcher-bearers carrying a wounded man. They could hear the man groaning in pain. Guy and Jack pinned themselves against the trench wall to allow them to pass, but the width was tight. As they approached, the front bearer yelled, ‘Lift.’ The two men stopped to yank up their arms, lifting the stretcher above them, exposing the wounded man above the height of the trench, his uttered groans lost to the night skies. They squeezed past Guy and Jack, but the second man slipped as he struggled past. The stretcher tilted down at an angle and the brothers found themselves momentarily staring at the wounded man face to face, his features almost unrecognisable as human, a congealed mass of blood and grime.

  As the stretcher-bearers scrambled away, Guy glanced at Jack. He saw the glazed look in his brother’s eyes, the ‘thousand-yard stare’ they called it, when fear shocks the mind into numbness. He gave him some water. ‘Come on, we’ve gotta carry on.’ Still clutching onto the hefty weight of the ammo, Jack followed his brother, grappling with each painful step.

  Five hours after leaving the reserve line, Guy and Jack staggered into the front trench, catching up with Sergeant Wilkins and the rest of the men from their section. The sergeant allowed his men fifteen minutes to catch their breaths. The men huddled around a brazier, lapping up its warmth, but Jack, too tired to stand, sat on the fire-step trembling with cold and exhaustion, slurping at his water.

  After a while, the sergeant called the men to order. ‘Right,’ he bellowed, but then remembering he could be within earshot of a German patrol, lowered his voice. ‘The battalion’s holding about a thousand yards of trench here. Us and Second Platoon will hold this bit of front for three days while the third and fourth platoons stick around in support. We all swap around after three days. Don’t expect anything less than three weeks up here. Any questions?’ Jack muttered something under his breath. The sergeant stepped towards him, his eyes bulging with indignation. ‘Speak up, Searight.’

  ‘Nothing, Sarge.’

  ‘No, come on, spit it out, man.’

  ‘I was just wondering what that smell was.’

  ‘That, young Searight,’ said the sergeant gleefully, ‘is the smell of death, of rotting corpses and rotting food. Chuck in a bit of shit and sweat, stir it all up, and this is what yer get!’

  Jack looked around. ‘Putrefying,’ he said disdainfully.

  The sergeant glared at him. He stepped up closer still, his stale breath filling Jack’s nostrils. ‘My, what a big word from such a small bugger. I think we need to get you a bit more acquainted with the sweet smell of roses. Perhaps, Private, you’d do us the honour of being our shit-wallah for the evening.’

  Guy couldn’t help himself – he laughed aloud.

  ‘What’s funny? What’s so fucking funny, Searight. If it’s so bloody hilarious, you can bloody join him, right, Private Searight?’
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  Guy rolled his eyes.

  ‘I said right, Private Searight?’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Well, c’mon, git on with it!’

  Armed with shovels, Guy and Jack made their way a few yards back down the communication trench while the sergeant issued orders to groups of working parties. Night time was the frontline soldier’s busiest time. It was one a.m.; the noise of the big guns had died down; the welcoming party had come to an end, now the work of maintenance began.

  Jack followed his brother. ‘Guy, what are we meant to be doing?’

  ‘All you have to do is find the latrine pits. If they’re full, fill them in, but don’t chuck the earth in from too high or else you’ll get splattered with piss. Then you dig another pit nearby.’

  ‘How deep?’

  ‘Four foot.’

  ‘And how do we find the old ones?’

  ‘Follow your nose. Should be easier for you ‘cause the stench in this place has dulled my sense of smell. It’s easier during the day too, because you can spot them a mile off; you just look for the little black clouds of flies hovering above them. Here’s one, full to the brim. Go on, start shovelling, I’ll find another one.’

  ‘Great, thanks, brother.’ They started work.

  After a while, Jack asked, ‘Hey, Guy, can I ask... did you and Mary ever, you know...’

  ‘What? You’re asking me that? Sod off, Jack, mind your own bloody business.’

  ‘Do you remember the party? When Mary and I had that little argument?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s because I asked her if... you know, she would. With me.’

  ‘I guess from her reaction, she said no.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘I don’t know to know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A flare shot up into the night sky lighting up the whole landscape.

  ‘Keep still,’ said Guy urgently. ‘Don’t move an inch.’

  Jack watched as the light arched up and then fell back down with a hissing sound, gradually losing its light and extinguishing as it hit the ground. ‘A Very light?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. You’ve gotta learn not to move when those are up, even if you’re stuck standing up in the middle of no-man’s-land. Move an inch and you’ll be plucked off in an instant.’

  Latrine duty was an hour’s worth of work. The brothers laboured in silence, working steadily and rhythmically. Guy hated digging in the dark. The whole Western Front was a continual plot of shallow graves. Whether human or animal, if the corpse was recent, the fetor would warn you off, but otherwise you never knew what you were thrusting your shovel into. A few feet away, Jack had speeded up and was digging frantically, expending unnecessary energy.

  ‘Slow down, you fool, you’ve got to learn to pace yourself.’

  Jack stopped and caught his breath. He looked up at his brother.

  Guy saw the tears streaming down Jack’s shit-splattered face. ‘It’s OK, Jack, you’re doing fine, it’s OK.’

  Chapter 7: Potatoes – 14 September 1917

  The day was warm, the sun bright, the morning peaceful. An hour before their allocated stint of sentry duty, Guy and Jack were sitting on the fire-step, cleaning their rifles. Nearby, men tried to snatch a few moments’ sleep. A corporal puffed on his pipe, his eyes blissfully closed.

  ‘I got a letter from Mary today,’ said Jack.

  The sound of her name still made Guy wince. ‘Oh. How is she?’

  ‘She’s fine. Sends her love.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘She’s volunteered too, you know, a nurse, a VAD. She’ll be based at one of those base hospitals on the coast. Calais perhaps, or maybe Le Havre.’

  ‘Good for her. Aren’t you meant to be peeling carrots or something?’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I’m going. Still waiting on the potatoes. Reynolds should have been back by now. Look, here’s Robert’

  ‘Hello, chaps, lovely day,’ said Robert, sitting next to Guy on the fire-step.

  ‘Yep,’ said Jack, ‘but it’s the dugout and a peeler for me. See you.’

  ‘Hope this weather holds out till Saturday,’ said Robert, watching Jack leave. In two days the platoon was due a rest behind the lines. ‘Imagine – four days in the sun. Just think, we might even see sight of a bath.’

  ‘Oh for such luxury.’

  From inside the dugout, Guy could hear their chatter and laughter. Jack had been out for six weeks. So far he seemed to be coping but much of their time had been spent behind the lines.

  A small group of men passed, carrying planks of wood, each bidding Guy and Robert a good morning.

  ‘You seem to be doing very well over this girl malarkey.’

  Guy sighed. ‘It’s this place, isn’t it? Sort of puts everything into a different perspective.’

  ‘I guess you’re right but I reckon I’d have killed the little bastard by now. Watch out, here comes Father Christmas.’

  A private called Reynolds was struggling up the trench, a large sack slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Good God,’ said Guy, ‘how many potatoes has he got there?’

  ‘They’d better not be rotten like the last lot. Hey, you lot,’ Robert shouted to the men in the dugout, ‘potato man’s here.’

  Jack and a friend by the name of Pickard popped out from the dugout. Jack’s sleeves were rolled up, his hands wet. ‘Reynolds,’ shouted Jack, ‘what took you so long?’

  ‘Sod off, Searight, you try lugging this lot a mile and a half in this heat.’

  ‘You got the easy bit, you don’t have to peel them, do you?’

  ‘Whoa,’ puffed Reynolds, sliding the sack off his back, letting it land with a thud. He pushed up his helmet and wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘I’m knackered. Any tea going?’ He looked up to the sky. In an instant his head was gone, blown to smithereens.

  The eruption of noise froze their senses. ‘Fuck,’ came the cry. Reynolds’s body teetered, blood shooting from his neck like an overworked fountain, then buckled and collapsed in a heap. Men threw themselves against the trench wall. A second shell, a third and fourth, landed almost simultaneously all within close proximity. The earth shook. Then, a moment of stillness broken only by screams and cries, both close and afar. It lasted but a moment, and then the shells started falling afresh.

  Guy and Robert pressed their faces against the mud, trying to disappear into the wall. Pickard had been hit, his tunic awash with blood, his arm clean away at the shoulder. He shrieked in agony and panic, his hand failing to stem the torrent of blood spurting from his stump. Clumps of earth and bits of metal fell onto Guy’s helmet. A ball of mud flew into his mouth. He choked but managed to spit it out. The corporal was dead, his neck severed, his head hanging awkwardly but incredibly the pipe remained in his mouth, the tobacco still smouldering.

  Shells burst overhead, shards of metal whooshed down like a swarm of gigantic wasps, cutting and piercing anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed. A pack of rats appeared out of nowhere, screeching en masse as they ran down the trench at great speed, some instinct taking them away from the noise.

  Guy realised he was shivering uncontrollably, his legs shaking as if possessed by a banshee, while beneath him, the earth trembled. Robert’s face, only inches from his, was blackened with dirt, his eyes squeezed shut. The noise, persisting and continual, assaulted Guy’s ears not as a sound but as a physical presence that he could touch, a tangible being enclosing him like a devil’s blanket. He tried to listen beyond the noise, trying to distinguish between one shell blast and another but all he heard was an unremitting roar. Beneath it, he could make out the cries and yells, sounds he never knew men were capable of. He hoped to God Jack was OK. His brother was wearing his helmet, not that it offered much by way of protection. Guy didn’t know where he was – there was no way of seeing beyond a few inches such was the density of smoke.

  The earthen wall of the trench shifted. Robert and Guy glanced up and then at each other. They knew what was
coming. A man on the other side of Robert, a man called Bishop, was quick and dived out of the way as the wall collapsed. For a moment, engulfed in blackness, Guy relished the fact that the noise of the barrage was now muffled. But the earth was heavy and wet. He felt the bile of panic in his throat. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut but still the mud found its way into his nostrils, beneath his eyelids. He couldn’t move his arms, which were pinned to his sides. His ears pounded. The muffled sounds were no more as the soil in his ears compacted. His heart thudded. But there was movement, a shift of earth. He could move his left arm. Desperately he clawed at the earth. What calmness he experienced was now replaced by terror. Nothing so frightening as hope. His fingernails broke as he clawed at the earth. He pushed but didn’t know whether he was pushing it in the right direction. His hand broke free and felt the air. He heard shouting. The soil moved again and he could move his entire arm. He tried to lift his head, swallowing small chunks of earth, his tongue coated with the stuff, cloying and suffocating. His arm was being pulled. His arm socket jarred but his head was freed from its grave. He took in huge gulps of air but, in the process, swallowed more mud. Unable to open his eyes, he rolled onto his front and vomited, his breath coming in violent bursts. Someone placed a bucket of water next to him. He still couldn’t hear but he knew the bombardment had stopped. He plunged his head into the bucket. The water washed over him and felt delicious.

  *

  Guy sat on a new mound of earth, still shivering, shocked, still catching his breath. He surveyed the scene: a shell nearby had left a hole big enough to accommodate a haystack. All around, among the fresh heaps of earth and puddles of blood, were shreds of uniform, pieces of flesh, the odd helmet, most of them buckled, a bayonet, twisted, a shovel without a handle. Smoke lingered menacingly.