This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  Robert came and sat next to him, slapping him on the knee. Neither could talk. They nodded. Robert’s eyes were raw red, accentuated by his mud-caked face. Everywhere the sound of men in pain, men crying, men dying. Nearby lay bits of Private Bishop; where the rest of him was, no one would ever know. Ten feet away, Albert Jarrett sat upright, his hands cradling his intestines. His eyes seemed to be laughing. Guy inspected his fingers, throbbing and black, and grimaced at the lack of fingernails. He spat more dirt from his mouth. Someone screamed, the noise soon disintegrating to sobbing.

  ‘Where’s my brother?’ panted Guy.

  ‘Over there.’ Guy followed the direction of Robert’s pointing finger. Through the smoke Guy could make out the vision of a man huddled in a ball, not far from Jarrett. Robert nodded, yes, that’s your brother.

  It took a couple of efforts for Guy to stand. His legs felt like jelly. He staggered over to Jack, across the ripped-up ground, stumbling over a body. A hand momentarily gripped his ankle. It was Jarrett, the goo of his stomach piled neatly on his lap. He muttered something. Guy wanted to ignore him. Jarrett beckoned him to lean over. The stench made Guy want to puke. ‘What? What is it, Jarrett?’

  ‘Shoot me. Please, I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Help will come.’

  Jarrett shook his head; he couldn’t speak any more. His eyes lolled around. Guy left him. As he approached his brother, he realised Jack was whimpering, his words unintelligible. He’d curled up on the ground, his knees tucked up beneath him, his arms covering his head, his whole body shivering. Next to him, lay a helmet. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Guy, ‘what’s happened to you?’ He sunk to the ground next to him. ‘Jack, it’s me,’ he whispered, trying to bend down low enough so that his brother could see him. ‘Can you hear me? Jack? You can come out now, it’s OK, it’s stopped.’

  Jack removed one hand from behind his head, then the other. He looked at Guy; he was crying. He tried to speak but, wheezing heavily, couldn’t catch his breath.

  Guy rubbed his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s finished now, you’re OK. God, look at you. This wasn’t meant to happen, not to you, not to Jack.’

  Jack attempted to sit up but his knees jarred. Slowly, still trembling, he stretched himself out. As he righted himself, Guy noticed a couple of stretcher bearers arrive on the scene, their stretcher slack between them. They looked around, trying to decide where to start first. He pointed them in the direction of Jarrett.

  Jack cursed as the life returned to his joints.

  ‘You all right, Jack?’

  Jack fought to speak between breaths. ‘Guy...’

  ‘Don’t talk.’ There was no blood on his tunic, nor his trousers. He felt up and down Jack’s legs, his arms, seeing if anything’s broken. ‘You’re not hurt?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘Good. I think you’re OK.’

  The stretcher bearers had ignored Jarrett – he was too far gone to be salvageable. Guy watched them as they bore another to the First Aid post. With their heavy cargo, they struggled to maintain their balance over the bumpy ground.

  ‘That was hell, wasn’t it?’ said Guy. ‘I never knew sound could be so loud.’ His brother wasn’t listening. ‘Jack, you OK? Jack – speak to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I said –’

  ‘No.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘I mean, I’m sorry.’ The words came slowly. ‘So – fucking – sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘No. It’s not. It’s not fine. You’re my brother. You mean more to me than anything in the world.’

  ‘You don’t have to say it.’

  ‘No, I have to, I want to. It’s just... you’ve always been there for me. Haven’t you? And then I did that to you.’

  ‘It’s OK now.’ Guy put his arm round his brother’s shaking shoulders.

  ‘You were out here, with all this shit, and me? What was I doing? Playing the dandy. What an idiot. She never meant that much to me. How could I have done that to you? Guy, I’m sorry.’

  He stroked Jack’s mud-streaked hair. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You’re my big brother. And I did that to you. I’m sorry, I’m...’ The words faded into tears as he let his head droop into his brother’s neck.

  The smoke swirled, the only sound was of cries and pitiful groans. Jarrett’s eyes were open but he was dead, finally out of his misery. Robert sat further down the trench, coughing as he tried to smoke a cigarette. A rat scurried past with its ugly naked tail. Guy felt unable to move. His limbs felt heavy, his body sagged with exhaustion. He realised how thirsty he was, the taste of mud still at the back of his throat, the feeling of the stuff on his tongue. He tried to shout for Robert but he lacked the strength even to raise his voice and was too comatose to get to his feet. Jack had fallen asleep, his head on Guy’s shoulder. Guy rested his head on Jack’s and yawned. A deep, deep yawn.

  Chapter 8: At the end of a Bayonet – October 1917

  Guy was having a daytime sleep in a six-foot-long hole dug halfway down into the trench wall, a funk hole. He’d warned Jack against sleeping in these things, especially in the wet. ‘I’d heard of a bloke suffocated by a collapsing funk hole,’ he’d told his brother but it was only damp and after a week of intermittent sleep, Guy was happy to spread his groundsheet out and take the risk.

  After four hours’ sleep, Guy was stirred back into consciousness by an annoying tickling sensation against his chin. He opened his eyes to see the back of a huge brown rat resting on his chest, rising steadily up and down with his breathing, licking its front paws, its tail flicking against his chin. It took a few seconds for Guy to register and when he did, he hollered just at the moment a man was wandering past his resting place. Guy’s scream made the man jump and the rat scampered off as Guy sat up hitting his head against the damp mud ceiling of the hole. The passing soldier instinctively lunged at the rat with the butt of his rifle and, amazingly, scored a direct hit, stunning and almost flattening the rodent. The rat was hurt and started squealing – a surprisingly loud, piercing scream. The soldier quickly twisted his rifle around and thrust the bayonet into the rat, the blade slithering through its back and out the other side through its stomach.

  ‘Got ’im!’ said the soldier gleefully. Guy recognised the thin, gaunt man as Charlie Fitzpatrick, same battalion, but different section. Fitzpatrick held his rifle up, the rat neatly skewered. ‘Fancy a snack?’ he said with a hint of a Northern Irish accent.

  ‘Big bugger, isn’t he?’ said Guy, getting to his feet and feeling slightly embarrassed by his alarmed outburst.

  ‘Yeah, bloody horrid things. Anyway, I was looking for you. You’re needed for a raid. You’ve got to report to the Savoy after dinner.’

  Guy had heard that a number of trench raids were being planned. ‘They’re up to something big, aren’t they?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, but I reckon they wanna catch a few Germans, y’know, get them talking.’ He spotted Robert approaching. ‘Ah, here’s Chadwick. They want ’im too. See you along.’ And with that, Fitzpatrick moved on, the rat still skewered on his bayonet, a thin trickle of blood oozing down the shining blade.

  Guy stretched and yawned; he still ached with fatigue. He stamped up and down the trench, trying to warm his feet up. It was the sort of blustery October day when the sun popped in and out of view and couldn’t decide whether it should be a warm day or not. He joined the others and waited for dinner to arrive, a time of relative quiet as each side respected the other’s need to eat in peace. Guy saw Jack sitting down on the fire-step, busy running his fingernails up the seams of his tunic.

  ‘How are the lice?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Trying to kill the buggers. They get bloody everywhere, don’t they? Got them in my hair, my armpits, sodding everywhere.’ Jack sighed. ‘Fancy a fag?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He lit the cigarette. ‘I’m going out on a raid later on.’

  ‘Oh shit, are you?’

  ‘I s’pose this is what it’s all about
, isn’t it? Hand-to-hand combat, kill or be killed. It’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘Your first time over, isn’t it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes.’ Guy concentrated on his cigarette, hoping the effect of the smoke would help him relax and ease the nagging burden of anticipation. He glanced at Jack drawing on his cigarette, his fingernails stained with smudges of bloodied lice.

  ‘Mine will come one day.’

  ‘You’ve only been here two months – could be another year. Or more. Truth is, I’m not feeling too good about it. Listen Jack...’

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘If anything happens to me, you know...’

  ‘You’ll be OK, they’ll clear them out for you first.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism.’ Perhaps Jack was right, the preliminary bombardment should do the job, but whatever, he didn’t want to think about it. His mind raced back to him and Jack as boys, charging round a churchyard. He smiled and shook his head at the memory. Jack the extrovert, the young daredevil, was always the one to come up with wayward schemes but, having started, often lacked the nerve to see them through, obliging the reluctant but faithful Guy to take over where his young brother had over-stretched himself.

  Jack saw him smile. ‘Penny for them,’ he asked. He threw his cigarette away and watched it fizzle on the sodden duckboard.

  ‘Do you remember the Albert Carr night?’

  Jack smiled, the dimples showing in his cheeks. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘I was, what, eleven, and you about seven? Twelve years ago.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t say I was particularly proud of it, but –’

  ‘Ah, the silly sod deserved it.’

  They sat in silence, each casting their minds back to that mild autumn evening and the incident that seemed to define their growing-up together. Guy remembered the church clock and the sound of it chiming nine o’clock...

  *

  It was already getting dark when the three boys stole into the churchyard. Shushing each other and suppressing their nervous giggles, the two eleven-year-old friends, Guy and Albert, led the way round to the back of the church, with Guy’s seven-year-old brother, Jack, bringing up the rear. It was still warm, the nights had only just started drawing in and the full moon cast long shadows across their path. Guy could smell the dampness of the dew. He glanced up at the church clock, its Roman numerals showing a quarter to nine. Without warning, he ran ahead, full of bravado, rounded a corner and ducked behind a tilted headstone, hiding within its sloping shadow. Albert and Jack ran to catch up and although they couldn’t see him, they could hear his ghostly voice hovering in the air near them: ‘I’m coming to haunt yooou.’ Drawing to a halt, Albert crouched down and crept forward while Jack followed, chortling to himself.

  ‘Boo!’

  Despite themselves, Albert jumped and Jack screamed. Then the three boys, standing in a circle, collapsed with laughter. ‘Got you,’ roared Guy, catching his breath between laughs and pointing at his friend.

  ‘We knew it was you,’ shrieked Jack. ‘Didn’t we, Albert?’

  ‘Shush,’ said Albert, raising his finger to his lips and glancing around with exaggerated nervousness. ‘Someone’s coming.’ Immediately, the brothers stopped giggling and listened intently.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ said Guy in a whisper.

  ‘Is it a ghost, a real ghost?’ asked Jack. Guy tried to read Jack’s expression in the semi-light and wondered if his brother meant the question seriously.

  ‘Run for it,’ said Albert quickly, before speeding off along the grassy path between the jagged rows of headstones. The brothers hastily followed him into the depths of the graveyard, their shadows sprinting in front of them, lapping at Albert’s heels.

  Finally, Albert stopped so abruptly that Guy ran straight into him. Untangling themselves, they realised they’d lost Jack. ‘Come on, let’s hide,’ urged Albert. The two boys darted behind a sarcophagus and waited, kneeling on the damp grass, trying to control their panting breaths. A minute or two passed and there was still no sign of Jack. Crouching behind his friend, Guy scanned his eye across the weathered stone of the sarcophagus. He could just make out the outline of what seemed like a pair of floating angels and beneath it, an inscription to a soldier, a casualty of the Crimean War, who’d died exactly fifty years previously. But where was Jack – what was taking him so long? Then, at last, they heard him, coming slowly up the path, quietly sobbing, then softly calling out for his brother, his voice edged with fright. Albert rose to his haunches, ready to pounce. Guy put his hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder. Albert turned round and Guy whispered ‘no’ before rising to his feet.

  ‘Jack? Jack, it’s OK, I’m here.’ His brother was only a few feet away, his eyes wide open, his body shivering. He could see the relief on Jack’s face, his smile dimpling his cheeks.

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Jack nodded and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He was all right now, now that he was with his big brother again.

  Albert stepped out from behind the sarcophagus, clearly annoyed that Guy had spoilt the fun. ‘You weren’t frightened, were you?’

  Jack shook his head vehemently. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, we’d better go,’ said Guy. He grabbed his little brother’s sweaty hand and dragged him out through the main avenue, their shadows silhouetting against the leering headstones. Albert followed, glancing behind anxiously as they went, ensuring that the bogeyman wasn’t pursuing them.

  A couple of minutes later, the three of them were standing silently in front of the church’s main entrance. Eventually, Albert said, ‘That was fun; we should come again when it’s really dark.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack, under his breath.

  ‘You were frightened.’

  ‘So were you.’

  Albert started laughing. ‘No, I wasn’t. You’re the scaredy-cat. Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat.’

  ‘Stop it, Albert,’ ordered Guy.

  ‘Oh, don’t start sticking up for scaredy-cat; what a little coward.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ yelled Jack, his eyes filling with tears.

  But his tears only encouraged Albert with further taunts. ‘Oh, poor little Jack, the cowardly-custard!’

  ‘Stop it!’ Jack’s pleading scream pierced the silent summer air.

  ‘Cowardly-custard!’

  ‘Stop!’

  Jack’s humiliation was too much for Guy.

  He only meant to hit Albert the once, just to shut him up. Albert stepped back, more stunned than hurt, and looked at Guy, holding his lip, amazed that his friend had hit him. But then Guy punched him again. This time it hurt. Albert fell but immediately staggered back up. Jack caught his breath. Guy waited and then dealt Albert another blow, and then another and another. Blood started streaming from Albert’s lip and nose, his arms flailing uselessly, trying to fend off Guy’s persistent attack, the continual blows to his head. Guy should have stopped, but he couldn’t, he simply couldn’t. His brain felt fuzzy, unable to control his anger, the adrenaline feeding his strength. Albert was pinned down against the grass verge that banked onto the church wall, his body limp, his face ballooning with pain.

  ‘Stop it, Guy! Stop!’ sobbed Jack. ‘Please stop!’ The sound of the little boy’s pleading voice immediately permeated Guy’s brain and abated his anger. He stopped as suddenly as he started, his fist still clenched, his breath coming in short bursts. He noticed how Albert had rolled into a ball, his hands clamped behind his head, his elbows meeting in front of his face. Guy felt weak with exhaustion. Panting furiously, he bent forward, his hands on his knees, and spat. Albert lay on the grass and after a while, began to cry quietly. Jack, a look of horror frozen onto his face, stared at his brother. He knew Guy would suffer terrible consequences for this and Albert’s face was too bloody to be patched up.

  Albert sat up and put his face in his hands to try and ease the throbbing pain, the muffled sound of
his sobs still audible. Guy rummaged in his pocket and offered Albert his slightly soiled handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could say.

  The minute hand of the church clock lurched to the top of the hour and the dreary chimes droned high above the three boys. It was nine o’clock. By now, it was properly dark.

  Chapter 9: The Silence

  Following the usual dinner of greasy beef and over-boiled potatoes washed down with tepid tea, Guy made his way back through the matrix of trenches until he arrived at the officers’ dugout, optimistically named ‘The Savoy’. There was already a small group waiting casually outside. Amongst them was Robert.

  ‘Hello, Guy, you’ve been called on too, eh? All those hours spent practising raids weren’t for nothing. Aren’t we the lucky ones? Fancy a fag while we wait?’

  During the following few minutes they were joined by others while the autumn sun made a concerted effort to break through the darkening clouds. Guy reckoned there must have been about thirty-five of them, all of whom he either knew or recognised from the different sections within the platoon. As the time passed, the men fell silent and waited anxiously, smoking and pacing up and down. Eventually two officers emerged from the Savoy dugout. One of them was Lieutenant Lafferty; the other Guy recognised as Major Smyth, a short plump officer with specks of grey punctuating his dark beard.

  Lafferty spoke. ‘Ok, men, stand to attention.’ He turned to the major and saluted.

  ‘Good afternoon, men, at ease.’ The major cleared his throat and spoke with a strident shrill. ‘Now then, you men have been selected for a bit of Jerry-hunting. It’s going to be a short, fast operation, and Lieutenant Lafferty here, will lead you. Your objective, apart from putting some good old-fashioned ginger into Jerry, will be to penetrate their lines, do a bit of damage, and, most importantly, to pull out a few Germans and bring them back here. The rest you can leave to us. OK? Now, I don’t want any unnecessary heroics but I want to see Germans ready to talk. There’ll be plenty of preliminary bombardment to cut their wire up for you, and you’ll have ample covering fire to see you on your way, so you shouldn’t have too many problems. Lieutenant Lafferty will brief you in greater detail. But remember, usual rules apply: work as a team, keep to your orders, and show the buggers what we’re made of.’ The major paused and looked approvingly at the men in front of him. ‘Thank you, men, and good luck to you all.’