This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  The men saluted as the major’s shrill voice faded into the early evening air. Guy swallowed. It all sounded so simple. Before the lieutenant began, Sergeant Wilkins took a roll-call. On hearing his name and confirming his presence, Guy took a deep breath and kicked a stone. He’d been out in the trenches for over two years now, but he had yet to take part in any confrontational attack. He hadn’t gone ‘over the top’, hadn’t been on any raids, in fact, he had yet to see a German close to. The men had often practised trench raids on dummy trenches and straw enemy but this was the first time the section had had to do it for real.

  ‘Shankland,’ bellowed the sergeant, his pencil poised on his clipboard, his small darting eyes scanning the men in front of him. .

  ‘Sarge,’ came the reply.

  ‘Small.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Tasker.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Teale.’

  Silence. Where was Private Teale?

  ‘Teale?’ repeated Sergeant Wilkins looking up from his clipboard. Still no reply. ‘Has anybody seen Private Teale?’

  A voice from the back shouted, ‘He’s out in no-man’s-land, Sarge.’

  ‘Well what the fuck...’ He shot a nervous glance at the lieutenant. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said before turning his attention back to the men. ‘What the blazes is ’e doin’ out there? He ’ad orders to be ’ere.’

  ‘He couldn’t make it, Sarge.’

  ‘Oh, could he not? And why is that?’

  ‘He’s dead, sir.’ The men laughed.

  ‘That’s his excuse, is it?’ More sniggering. ‘OK, OK, quieten it, joke’s over. Thatcher?’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Thomas.’

  The roll-call continued. Guy had known Archie Teale. Another victim, another son sacrificed. But what the heck, he got a good laugh. And just for a moment, Guy envied him. At least for Teale it was all over – none of this waiting, this foreboding sense of apprehension.

  Lieutenant Lafferty briefed the men on the times and the exact details. The bombardment was due to start at 1745 hours; the raid would go fifteen minutes later, at exactly 1800 hours. He then assigned the men their specific duties. Guy was given one of the most important roles, and one of the most dangerous: he was to be a bayonet man. ‘You know the drill,’ said the lieutenant, ‘bombers first with the grenades; bayoneters next to kill any survivors. Then, following through, those of you detailed to capture a few unscathed Germans, although slightly wounded will do. You men will have an assortment of truncheons and clubs to subdue your prisoners.’

  ‘What about knuckle-dusters, sir, can we have knuckle-dusters?’

  ‘Yes. You can have knuckle-dusters. Old habits die hard, eh, Chadwick?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that, sir.’

  ‘Lastly, the rear-guard to subdue any German reinforcements and stifle any attempt at a counterattack. Any questions? Good. Go prepare.’

  Guy looked at his watch – it was 5.15. The men began by removing anything that could give the Germans clues as to who they were and what regiment they belonged to: buttons, cloth badges, and identification papers.

  Charlie Fitzpatrick, the Irishman with the skewered rat, and Robert were both ‘clubmen’. Robert secured a sturdy piece of lead to a long stick with a length of string. ‘That should do the trick,’ he said to himself.

  Guy smiled as he fastened safety pins to his tunic in place of the buttons. ‘You OK, chap?’ he asked.

  ‘Course he’s OK,’ interrupted Fitzpatrick. ‘Nothin’ like a bit of proper action, is there? What do they say? You’re either bored stiff, frozen stiff or scared stiff. Makes a change being scared stiff, don’t you think?’

  Robert laughed. ‘Well, right now, I think I’d gladly swap with bored stiff.’

  ‘Soon be over,’ said Guy.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  ‘Best time to get a Blighty, nice little wound to get you back home,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  ‘I’ve got a cold sore, will that do?’ sniggered Robert.

  ‘Only if it gets lanced by a German bayonet,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  Private Greene approached them carrying a tin bucket.

  ‘Here comes Stan the Man,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  Stanley Greene looked like a man with fur balls in his mouth, constantly puffing his cheeks. ‘OK, boys,’ he said, ‘let’s be having your badges an’ buttons. Don’t forget to black up.’ Greene moved on with his bucket.

  Guy scooped up a wad of damp mud and smeared it across his face. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Oh lovely, old chap, quite divine,’ said Robert. ‘May I have this last dance with you, you look so beautiful tonight.’ Guy flung a small ball of mud at him. ‘Oi, steady on, old man. This was clean on four weeks ago!’

  Guy picked up his Lee-Enfield and gave it a last-minute inspection, ensuring the bayonet was securely fixed.

  ‘Remember,’ said Fitzpatrick, ‘it’s not for killing rats.’

  ‘What, no rat stew for dinner tonight then?’

  ‘More like bacon an’ lice.’

  ‘Have you heard that Aussie joke?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The officer says to the new Australian recruit, “Did you come here to die?" and the Aussie says, “No, sah, I came yesterdie”.’

  They heard Lieutenant Lafferty’s voice. ‘OK, men, let’s be having you. Line up please.’

  The men stood in two raggedy lines armed with an assortment of grenades, rifles and clubs; their faces blackened with mud or burnt cork. On the lieutenant’s order, they filed up the couple of hundred yards to the front trench. As they made their way, the artillery bombardment began. Guy looked at his watch. It was 5.45. On reaching the front line, the lieutenant led them to a straight stretch of trench referred to as ‘The Strand’, which had been prepared with a number of wooden ladders for the men to climb out of the trench. The men shuffled around and lined up in two squashed lines, with the bombers and bayoneters in front. The lieutenant repeated his orders and walked up and down the line wishing his men good luck. The time passed quickly while the mass concentration of artillery fire pounded the strip of German trench opposite them.

  ‘OK, gentlemen,’ shouted Lafferty clutching a whistle tied with a piece of string around his neck. ‘Remember, move out on my order, don’t dilly-dally, keep your heads down, if anyone falls, do not stop, proceed with your orders. On hearing the second whistle, retire. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes max. OK then, get ready...’ He looked at his watch. ‘We go in one minute. One minute.’

  One minute or an eternity, it made little difference now. Sixty seconds to prepare, but to prepare for what exactly? The men stood in total silence, waiting, heads bowed, perhaps lost deep in thought or offering a silent prayer, or perhaps their minds empty, numb. Guy gazed at his mud-caked boots, his rifle by his side, the gleaming bayonet. He took a deep breath, conscious that his whole body was trembling. He’d known fear before, but not like this, not this intense. It seemed to be invading every pore of his being; he felt rooted to the spot with it. He feared the fear would prevent him from moving but he’d rather die out there in no-man’s-land than be left behind in the trench simpering like a coward. Pride was the most precious commodity for a soldier – to do and to act as one expected others to do and to act. To fail, to be brushed with the tar of cowardice was more fearful than death itself. He found himself praying. The very act of praying was something that had become alien to him. He thought of himself as a boy kneeling in church, his hands clasped, praying for a better batch of conkers, the presence of his parents either side of him. He prayed that he may be granted the chance to see them one more time, the chance to feel their sobering presence either side of him. His father, who had invested his fighting spirit into his eldest son. If he died, his father would bathe in the glory of his son’s bravery. If he lived, his father would embrace the man that his son had become, while his mother would mourn the loss of the boy that was. The boy
who lost his youth and his innocence in the trenches.

  The man in the trench stood, his eyes clenched shut, his hands clasped around the shaft of his Lee-Enfield. He prayed for courage, the courage to act like a man. He prayed for a Blighty. He prayed for a clean death. There were no halfway measures with death – like virginity, one either was or one wasn’t.

  Thirty seconds. His whole life had come to this, signposted to this place at this moment. This was the watershed, the moment that would forever divide his past and his future. If he survived, the rest of his life would be defined by what was about to take place – out there in a muddy field in a foreign country. His youth, if not his life, sacrificed to the greater cause. A cause worth more than his life and the life of all these men put together. Guy swallowed. Yes, this was fear all right. Fear of death perhaps; fear of pain most certainly; fear of letting your comrades down; fear of letting yourself down. The fear of being killed, the fear of killing. He gripped his rifle – his rod, his staff. The soothing words came to his head: “Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death...”

  ‘OK, gentlemen, at the ready...’

  Guy picked up his rifle, his palms wet with sweat and mud. “I shall fear no evil...” He placed his left foot on the fire-step. One of the bombers stood at the foot of the ladder. The final hint of sun disappeared behind a sky of steely blue.

  ‘Steady...’ Lieutenant Lafferty raised an arm and put the whistle to his lips. Guy shivered.

  This was it. “For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff...’

  How suddenly silent everything seemed to be. The big guns had ceased their work. The men were silent. A tin can rattled in the barbed wire.

  ‘Steady...’

  Was Guy imagining it, or was the lieutenant’s hand shaking as he held it in the air, poised to bring it down.

  The eerie silence was punctuated by the shrillness of Lieutenant Lafferty’s whistle. ‘Go, go, go!’ he urged in a sort of subdued yell. The machine-gunners either side of them let rip with a fearsome tirade of fire in their attempt to give the raiding party some cover as they emerged from the trench. The bombers climbed the ladders and were out. Guy and the bayoneters followed, clambering over the parapet. A British artillery shell whizzed over their heads and hit the German line directly ahead of them. Surely there wouldn’t be any Germans left at this rate.

  *

  Guy is out; he is on the edge of no-man’s-land, the Valley of Death lies ahead of him, three hundred, maybe four hundred yards. The men crouch as they inch forward, their slow advance shielded by the clouds of drifting shell-smoke. With each step, they sludge through the mud, their boots sucking into the earth, soft and clawing. For a few minutes (or is it just moments? –adrenaline reduces time to a meaningless measure) they advance without a single shot being fired. But then a volley of machine-gun fire spews out from the German trench. The men instinctively hurl themselves to the ground. Was someone hit? If he was, he must be dead, for there’s no sound. One of the bombers lets fly with a grenade. It explodes amongst the barbed wire, forcing the Germans to take cover. The men exploit the chance to race forward beneath the cover of the smoke. Another German volley, a couple of men are hit, one is killed, another falls screaming. Guy throws himself head first into a small convenient crater and plunges into the freezing water, only to discover a dead English soldier. It is not a fresh casualty; this chap has been here a while for the stomach is grotesquely bloated and will burst at any moment. What’s left of his contorted face has turned into a shade of green; his eyes pecked clean away. Guy covers his nose against the vile fetor. The poor bugger must have crawled wounded into the shallow hole to wait for the rescue that never came. The English machine gunners step up their returning fire; it manages to subdue the Germans for a while. Guy moves forward, every yard an achievement, but every yard reducing the chances of survival as he approaches the German trench. The guns on both sides keep up a tremendous roar. A shell explodes close to Guy, casting up a shaft of black smoke and clumps of earth. Shrapnel falls in a shower of metal and mud, clinking and bouncing off his helmet. To his right, Guy sees a fellow private. He is trying to say something, passing a message on. He is barely four yards away, but his words are inaudible under the cacophony of noise. He leans forward to try and make himself heard. It is a mistake. As he opens his mouth, he is hit. A torrent of blood spouts from his head and he falls face down into the mud. Guy feels nothing, not even a momentary hint of sympathy. The German machine gunners are being pummelled into silence. The raiding party can advance forward again.

  Guy suddenly realises his fear has disappeared. An overwhelming sense of joy, of freedom, washes over him. Every pulse within him surges with adrenaline. He would laugh if every ounce of energy were not being taken up with pure physical exertion. He feels almost light-headed. He wants to meet the enemy; he wants to kill.

  The bombers are now within close range of the German line. They fan out into two distinct groups – to the left and right of the target area. They throw grenades into the trench at regular, short intervals. There appears to be no defensive reaction, maybe the gunners have done too good a job of clearing the trench. The bombers’ job is almost done. It’s up to the bayoneters to follow through and breach the German line. Guy has got as far as the barbed wire. He sees an English corpse caught on the wire nearby. Guy scrambles along on all fours, his uniform drenched in wet mud, until he finds a suitable gap in the wire. He spots one of the bombers. Guy signals to him and the bomber throws a grenade into the trench. Guy flattens himself against the soft earth and waits for the explosion. The ground shakes beneath him, there’s a scream, and a cloud of blackened smoke billows out of the trench. He wriggles through underneath the wire, freeing his trouser leg, caught on a protruding spike. He lies on top of the parapet and peers cautiously into the trench, his rifle at the ready. He sees lying huddled on the trench floor a group of dead Germans – four of them. But he thinks he sees movement, no more than a twitch. He moves quickly. It’s too far down to jump, so he slides down the trench wall, but stills lands awkwardly. As he regains his balance and manoeuvres his rifle, he sees a hand, a revolver. A German, five yards from him; barely clutching onto life, is staring at him and about to fire. There is a slight pause as they look at each other; a fleeting glance of acknowledgement passes between them. It’s you or me. Guy is rooted to the spot, staring at the small black circle at the end of the revolver’s barrel. The German fires, but Guy is still there. He has wet himself. Did he imagine it, or was there a tiny sound of a ‘click’? He sees the look of utter panic in the German’s face; his last lifeline has just failed him. It’s you or me. The sensation of the warm urine slaps Guy’s consciousness back into the present with an inexplicable anger. He flings himself forward, propelled by bloodlust, screaming with pure hatred, both hands gripping his rifle at waist height. He bears down on his terrified foe, who utters a single word: ‘Mutter’ the moment before the point of the bayonet catches the German in the cheek. The blade slices effortlessly through, lodging itself in the back of the man’s throat, spurting blood all over his face. Guy cannot extricate his bayonet; such is the force of the impact. He slams his left foot against the man’s chest and pulls. The man grips the blade as if trying to help Guy remove the impaling metal. The bayonet gives and slips out, slicing the man’s hands as it withdraws from his throat. The German, clinging onto the last moments of life, fumbles in his tunic pocket. Guy fears he is reaching for another revolver. He attacks again. The second blow slices through the man’s nose. The man’s eyes are transfixed on the Heavens; he is dying. But Guy’s anger remains undiminished and he lunges at him again. And a fourth time. The German is dead. Just for a moment, Guy hears a small boy’s voice, pleading with him: ‘Stop, Guy! Stop! Please stop!’ Guy notices something in the German’s hand. It is not a revolver. He reaches down and unclamps the gripped, bloodied fingers to reveal a photograph. It is a picture of a woman and two children, no more than about five or six, a girl and her little brother.
Soon the image is obscured by the man’s blood. Death is like virginity...

  From behind him, Guy hears a frightful scream. He turns to see a German bearing down on him, bayonet fixed. Guy is rooted, too terrified to move, too shocked to defend himself. But amongst the noise, he hears a shot, a single shot that seems to come from above and behind him. Blood spouts from the German’s head as he falls in a heap at Guy’s feet. Guy thrusts his bayonet into the man’s back and grimaces at the ugly squelching noise as the blade does its brutal work. Satisfied that the German is dead, he turns around, but his saviour has vanished.

  Guy leans against the trench wall trying to catch his breath, clutching his rifle, his staff. The noise around him continues unabated and within it the screams and cries of men. Guy peers around the corner of the trench. No one there. He creeps along to the next corner and peeps around. Empty apart from a couple of fresh corpses – one German, one English. He moves on, carefully stepping over the bodies. He recognises the Englishman or rather Irishman – it’s Charlie Fitzpatrick, the man who had skewered the rat just a couple of hours before, his tunic awash with blood, a hint of a smile on his parted lips. The next corner – still empty, but he’s getting closer; he can hear the excitable noise of German voices. Cautiously, with his rifle at the ready, Guy glances around the corner and sees three German soldiers just a matter of yards away, shooting over the top. They are isolated; they must know that, but still they fight on. He hasn’t been spotted. He steps back. He takes a deep breath, glances skyward, and then, with his rifle at the ready, steps fully into the new stretch of trench and fires. The first shot catches the nearest one in the head, killing him instantly. The other two don’t have time to readjust when Guy fires again and hits the middle soldier in the stomach. The man plunges to the ground and writhes in agony. Just then, an unexploded grenade lands in the trench next to the dying German. The third man stares at it, his life flashes by. Guy silently steps back around the corner. Moments later, he hears the explosion. Still with his rifle at the ready, he takes a quick look. Amongst the smoke lay three motionless Germans.