by Hill, David
But not for long. The sound of another aeroplane grew, from their side this time. Circles of red, white and blue on its wings, it droned over their heads and flew in a slow circle around the balloon.
William caught his breath as a tiny shape dropped from the basket beneath the balloon, plummeting towards the ground. White fluttered above it, a parachute spread, and the shape became a man, drifting down behind the German trenches. He lifted a hand to the British aeroplane, which circled again, then flew straight at the balloon. Flashes flickered from the plane. The balloon crumpled and began tumbling to earth.
He didn’t kill him, William realised as he watched. The pilot could have killed that man, yet he let him live. And the German observer knew it. I’ve seen something generous and noble, William thought. Or something pointless and foolish.
That afternoon, it began to rain. Gently at first, then a steady downpour. Men huddled under waterproof capes that turned out not to be waterproof. Rain dripped from the back of William’s helmet down his neck, dribbled down his sleeves, seeped inside his boots. The bottom of the trench became porridge-like mud, then ankle-high water. Rain drove into the alcoves where men tried to shelter or sleep. It poured down the walls in streams. By evening, work parties with buckets were bailing water from the deepest parts, sloshing it out onto the ground behind. Half of it poured straight back in. The rain kept falling. ‘I didn’t join the Army to go swimming, either,’ Jerry grunted.
They chewed on stale bread and stringy cold bacon for tea. William was soaked through. His feet squelched in his boots. Under his cape, his tunic and shirt were plastered to his back. He gazed at the dripping faces of the others and wondered if he would ever be so miserable in his life again.
The downpour continued through the night. On sentry duty, William couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t hear a thing. Any enemy who tried to attack tonight would probably drown in No Man’s Land. Even the guns were fairly quiet: just a few bursts of roaring fire now and then. William was so exhausted that when Jerry came to take his place, he crawled into the sodden, filthy alcove in the trench wall and fell straight asleep.
By morning, No Man’s Land had become a chaos of shell-holes filled to the brim with clay-coloured water, and stretches of liquid mud in between. Not even the rats were around. Still the rain fell.
About two hours after breakfast (bread so wet, it fell apart in their hands, plus tea that was half rainwater), a squad of men floundered down the trench, shin-deep in the slush, dragging two heavy boxes. They spoke to Sergeant Molloy, then splashed off again.
The sergeant called to William, who was nearest. ‘Help me open these, lad.’
Rain pouring off them, they levered open the boxes with the tip of William’s bayonet. He stared at what lay inside. Wicked-looking long knives and wooden clubs whose heads were studded with metal knobs and spikes.
Sergeant Molloy’s face was grim. ‘Trench-raiding weapons. Must be our turn next.’ He squinted up into the driving rain. ‘Better hope the weather stays this bad.’
It didn’t. It got even worse. By evening, half of 3 Platoon were trying to bail out their section of trench. The water was up to their knees. Gear had vanished under the dirty water. Men stumbled, became stuck in the mud, fell full-length into the filthy muck.
There was no food, no dry clothing. As darkness came, the rain thrashed down. William almost welcomed his two hours on sentry duty; at least most of him was above the water. For the rest of the night, he leaned against the trench wall, gripping his rifle so it didn’t fall into the water, head down, sunk in misery. If the Germans attacked now … but perhaps the Germans were just as wretched.
Just before dawn, the rain stopped suddenly. The sun rose in a bright blue sky, with a few white clouds at the edges. But the trench and No Man’s Land were still oozing swamps.
‘Wonder if the generals have any idea what it’s like up here,’ Jerry muttered as he and Jack tried to squeeze water from their tunics.
Herbert shrugged. ‘Some of them haven’t ever been near the front. They just look at photos.’
They were relieved the next night – by Australian soldiers, already filthy and tired from the long march up. ‘Never thought I’d be glad to see an Aussie,’ Jack grinned.
There was no moon, thank goodness, and this time their guides seemed to know the way. Heads down, bodies weary, they struggled back over the muddy fields, through the shattered trees, onto the narrow road. I’ve been in the trenches, William told himself as he trudged along. I’ve seen war. But he was too exhausted to care.
They reached the safety of the rear lines just after daybreak. As they marched the last couple of miles, they stared around them. Guns stood in every group of trees, hidden from the air. Piles of shells lay nearby. Every building with a roof was full of troops, resting or checking gear. Horses stood in lines behind every wall. A long line of ambulances drove past, down into a gulley where they couldn’t easily be seen.
‘What’s going on?’ William wondered.
It was Herbert who answered him. ‘There’s an attack being planned. A big one.’
Dearest Ma,
I know you’ll never get this letter.
I’m writing it inside my head, the way Archie showed me. I asked for paper and pen so I could tell you I’m alive and unhurt, but prisoners here aren’t allowed to write letters.
I’m in France, in a camp near the rear lines. They say I’ll soon be taken up to the trenches – the battlefield – among the troops. Sometimes I’ve been told that I’ll be stood out in the open where the enemy can see and shoot me, I think the Army hope they can frighten me into carrying out their orders. Or they’re trying to make me feel so ashamed that I’ll give up and obey them.
I am frightened. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But it’s not fear of being killed. It’s fear that I may give in; I’ve lasted this far. I’m sure others who oppose war like me have put up with much more. I don’t want to let them down now.
There are NZ soldiers nearby. The guards mentioned them, and I’ve seen them passing by the place where I’m held. I keep looking for William. I just want to wish him well.
There is talk of a great attack coming very soon, and I hope with all my heart that he comes through safely. Perhaps it’s better that I can’t send you this letter, dear Ma! It would only give you even more to worry about.
Dearest Ma, I think of you and little (still ha-ha!) Jessie so much. I hope that someday all four of us will be together again. Until that happens, I will hold you in my heart, to help me be strong.
Your Loving Son
Edmund
Edmund
He was taken to France by train and boat. The morning after Corporal McKean told him he would be going, boots tramped outside his cell before it was properly light. The door opened, and he was ordered into the corridor. A two-man escort led him to a bigger, brighter room where the Camp Commandant, Colonel Brabin, sat.
‘Atten-shun!’ The escort’s boots crashed together. Edmund stood as he was. In the last couple of days, his cold had become a fever. He felt weak and shaky, but he made himself stand as straight as possible and nodded to the officer. ‘Good morning.’
Colonel Brabin surveyed him coldly. ‘Have you any complaints about the way you’ve been treated here, Hayes?’
The question sounded so silly that Edmund almost laughed. But he kept his face blank and just shook his head slightly. ‘You’ve done your best.’
The colonel glared at him as though Edmund were being cheeky. ‘You’re being moved from this camp to where you’ll have your last chance to act like a man.’ He paused. Edmund kept watching him, but said nothing. After a few seconds, Colonel Brabin jerked his head. ‘Take him away.’
For two hours or more, Edmund and his escort waited by the camp gate. Soldiers passing by looked at him curiously or joked with the soldiers guarding him. ‘He looks fierce … You afraid he’ll bite?’
He dozed on the train, his hot head bumping against the cool window
glass. At a port noisy with wheels, whistles and men yelling orders, his escort marched him out onto a wharf, then stood looking around uncertainly.
Corporal McKean appeared. ‘Put the handcuffs on him.’ As the soldiers hesitated, and Edmund opened his mouth to protest, the NCO shouted: ‘Obey the order! Put the cuffs on him!’
The steel bracelets were clamped on his wrists. He was marched along the wharf and up a gangway onto a ship. He tried to keep his head up as he’d done before, but tiredness and loneliness dragged at him. What chance did he have against the great machine of the Army? Without Archie, or anyone else who felt the same way, he was helpless and feeble. Perhaps it was time to give up after all.
Edmund was locked in a tiny storeroom and saw nothing of the short voyage across the English Channel. He felt the floor shudder under his feet as the engines turned, the slowing down and the slight jolt as they docked. For an hour after that, feet tramped overhead: the soldiers being moved off. Then his escort appeared, took him down to the wharf and along to a truck piled high with boxes of vegetables.
‘We’ll take the cuffs off you, chum,’ one soldier said. ‘But if the corp turns up, they’ll have to go back on.’
Edmund stood by the truck, rubbing his wrists where the metal had pinched them. After a while, they all climbed up and sat among the crates. When the truck moved off in a long line of vehicles an hour later, there was still no sign of the NCO.
They drove all through the afternoon. It was almost like taking the market garden vegetables to the shops. Edmund wondered how Mr Yee was and if he would ever work there again. He felt himself growing sleepy. His body still shook sometimes with fever.
At first the road was straight and level, with lines of poplar trees on each side. But then great holes began to appear in the fields around them, craters with soil flung in all directions. The trucks slowed and jolted as they edged around other holes in the road. Men in grey uniforms, with shovels and wooden barrows, were filling some, while a couple of soldiers in dark blue leaned on their rifles, watching. Germans and their French guards, Edmund realised. He and his escort stared as the convoy crawled on.
Progress got even slower. Most of the farmhouses they passed now were damaged or ruined, roofs and walls smashed. In the deep ditches beside the roads, wrecked carts lay. A couple of times, there were dead mules or horses as well, bodies swollen, mouths open and tongues lolling. Black clouds of flies circled them. The smell was like rotting apples.
Further on, the fields were just swamps. Drains and streams had been blocked by bursting shells, or their banks had been destroyed so they poured onto the land. An old man and woman stood at the edge of one flooded field where two dead cows half-floated. The old woman was crying.
It was evening when they ground through a gate in a high wire fence, past sentries in British uniforms. Tents, a few bare buildings, paths of muddy duckboards, more open areas with troops marching across them. Yet another army camp.
But this one was different in two ways. Now that the truck had stopped, Edmund could hear the deep rumbling and growling from somewhere up ahead. He knew what the sound was: the artillery of the battlefield.
The other difference was on one of the areas where men were marching. A wooden post, higher than a man, set into the ground. Edmund knew what that was as well.
Corporal McKean was waiting for them. ‘Why isn’t the prisoner handcuffed?’ he snapped at the escort.
As they started to reply, he jabbed a finger at Edmund. ‘You have no rights here, conchie. None at all. Nobody’s going to worry if something happens to you. Nobody’s going to miss you. There’s no-one for you to run to.’
Edmund said nothing. He held out his wrists for the handcuffs. He and the escort stood there while other soldiers unloaded the crates and carried them to a nearby building with smoke rising from a tin chimney. He gazed around, hoping to see some sign of the other COs. But there was none. His heart began to sink again. His head ached; his body kept shivering.
He was taken to yet another bare office, yet another table with yet another officer – a sandy-haired major with glasses. The man ignored Edmund at first; kept scribbling on a sheet of paper. Then he looked up. ‘What’s this one’s name?’
The escort snapped to attention, and one of them opened his mouth. But Edmund spoke first. Archie’s words came to him again, and he made sure he stayed polite. ‘Good evening. I’m Edmund Hayes.’
The major looked annoyed. ‘There’s nothing special about you, you realise, Hayes.’
Edmund nodded. ‘I know. I’m just one of many who feel the same way.’
A glare. ‘There are New Zealanders fighting near here. Your countrymen. They’re crack troops. Don’t you feel ashamed that you’re a coward and you’re letting them down?’
New Zealanders. One face was instantly in Edmund’s mind. Could he ask – no, of course not. He realised the major was still glaring at him. ‘No, I’m not ashamed. I want this war to stop so their friends and families can see them come home safely.’
‘Don’t try and be clever with me, Hayes!’ Oh, why do people think I’m being clever? Edmund sighed. I’m only trying to answer the questions. His head ached; he tried to concentrate on what the sandy-haired officer was saying to him.
‘We’re not going to shoot you, Hayes. That’s the easy way out. We’re not going to make a martyr out of you.’
Edmund couldn’t decide what to say. He felt too tired to be grateful, but he heard himself say ‘Thank you.’
The major must have thought he was being clever again. ‘We’re going to break you instead. You’re in army uniform. You’re in an army camp. You’ll be given orders like any soldier. The penalties for refusing to obey those orders are severe, I’ll tell you that right now. They include death by firing squad.’
In spite of his sick tiredness, Edmund half-smiled. ‘You mean you won’t shoot me, but you’ll have me shot?’
The major banged a fist down on the table. ‘Move, you men!’ he shouted at Edmund’s escort. ‘Put him in the cells!’
It wasn’t a proper cell. Just a room on the end of a bigger building, with a padlock on the door. Darkness grew. No food. Edmund was so tired that he didn’t want to eat anyway. He still felt lonely and helpless. In spite of what he’d said to the major, he didn’t know how much longer he could last by himself.
He sat with his back against a wall and dozed. In the distance, the guns rumbled on. Sometime later, he jolted awake to boots tramping past outside. Soldiers, hundreds of them by the sound of it.
In the morning, he felt a little better. A mess tin of watery stew was brought to him and a mug of dark-brown tea. He swallowed them both eagerly.
A two-man escort, different soldiers from yesterday (the Army must be afraid I’ll pass on conscientious objector germs if I’m with any of them too long, he decided) took him outside. All around the camp, troops were bustling and moving. His guards had just taken up position on either side of him when a line of soldiers came around the corner.
These ones weren’t marching. They were shambling, stumbling. Their faces were haggard; their uniforms filthy with mud. They reeled as they moved. Some trudged along with eyes closed. They held their rifles crookedly; some weapons were almost dragging on the ground.
‘Just back from the trenches,’ murmured one of Edmund’s escort, while they stared.
As they came past, one man staggered. His knees buckled and he lurched sideways. He was going to fall.
Without thinking, Edmund stepped forward and seized him. He put one arm around the soldier’s shoulders, grabbed the rifle with his other as it fell from the soldier’s grasp. The soldier sagged against him, while Edmund struggled to hold him upright.
Then the escort and two of the man’s companions gripped him and steadied him until he was standing shakily upright. His eyes flickered open. He stared around in confusion and embarrassment. ‘Sorry. I … sorry.’
The other two mud-caked soldiers slung their exhausted comrade’s ar
ms over their shoulders. ‘Thanks, chum,’ one mumbled to Edmund. ‘OK, Dick. Just another few yards,’ he told the slumped figure between them as they began to move on.
For a moment, Edmund stood there. He seemed to see himself from the outside. Someone dressed in an army uniform. Someone holding a rifle. He stared at the weapon in his hand: the long steel barrel, the smooth wooden butt, the snug bolt and chunky magazine of bullets. Quickly he thrust it at one of the escort. ‘Here!’
The soldier jerked backwards. Then he took the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He grinned at Edmund. ‘Thanks for not shooting us, pal.’
Edmund didn’t know what to think.
They marched him on. Another show-and-be-ashamed around another camp, Edmund supposed.
No. They turned a corner, turned a second, and came to the building with the tin chimney, the one into which the boxes of vegetables had been carried yesterday. One of the guards took a quick look around and nodded to the other. They opened the door, and Edmund was inside the cookhouse.
Cooks were cutting up chunks of meat, peeling potatoes, stoking the fires of three huge stoves. They glanced up as escort and prisoner came in, then carried on with their work.
‘Cup of tea time,’ one guard announced. He headed for the stoves, where big dixies bubbled. The other leaned his rifle and the one Edmund had handed him against a table, and sat where he could see through the window. ‘Sit yourself down, pal. If any officers are coming, we’ll march you out of here fast enough.’
Edmund sat gratefully. He still felt weak, although his cold and fever seemed less. The first soldier returned, with two steaming mugs. He handed one to Edmund. ‘Get that down you, pal.’ Tears filled Edmund’s eyes suddenly. It was kindness, not harshness, that almost undid him.
For ten minutes, they just sat and talked. Edmund remembered the camp in England and the other soldiers behind the barn. These ones also wanted to know why he’d chosen to stand against the war. He told them, as briefly as he could, and they nodded. ‘Makes sense,’ one said. ‘But nobody’s going to listen to you.’
