My Brother's War

by Hill, David

  ‘This the conchie?’ growled the newcomer.

  ‘Yes, sergeant-major,’ replied the corporal. ‘He’s—’

  ‘He’s nothing,’ the CSM interrupted. ‘He’s rubbish.’ He thrust his face forward until it was almost touching Edmund’s. ‘We’ve got another conchie up here. He tried to get clever with us – wouldn’t march when he was ordered. So he was dragged across the duckboards to wake his ideas up a bit. He just lay there like a coward and took it. You a coward, too, conchie?’

  Edmund’s temper rose. ‘Being a conscientious objector doesn’t make you a coward. It—’

  A thick fist smashed against the side of his face. He staggered sideways. White lights seemed to explode in front of his eyes; there was a ringing inside his skull. He clutched at the trench wall. Then a boot kicked his legs from under him, and he collapsed onto the duckboards. His head throbbed; his sore back sent a shaft of pain through him.

  The escort and the cooks stood staring. Corporal McKean stepped forward. ‘The prisoner has given no trouble, CSM. He’s been co-operative.’

  The sergeant-major sneered. ‘You on his side, are you, Corporal? Conchies are cowards, and that’s the way I treat cowards.’

  Painfully, Edmund struggled to his feet. He steadied himself with one hand against the side of the trench, and looked straight at the CSM. ‘Why did you do that? I’ve never done you any harm. Why do you treat another man like that?’

  The other man’s face flushed. He pulled his arm back for another punch. Edmund whipped a hand forward, seized the thick wrist and held it. All the strength of the market garden and prison quarry days seemed to come flooding back into his aching body. He pushed the CSM’s fist aside.

  ‘I don’t believe in war!’ He felt startled at the anger in his voice. ‘I won’t obey orders to harm other men. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you treat me like a dog. Stop it! Stop it now!’

  The sergeant-major tore his fist out of Edmund’s grasp. ‘Take him to the ammunition dump. If he tries to escape, shoot him!’ He spun around and stamped off up the trench.

  Corporal McKean shook his head. ‘You don’t make things easy for yourself, do you, Hayes?’ He glanced along the trench where the CSM had gone, then gazed at Edmund for a second. ‘He’s in charge of you now. Just think before you act, eh?’

  Edmund’s heart was still pounding from the rage he’d felt. He tried to speak calmly. ‘Thank you, Corporal. Good luck to you.’

  Corporal McKean watched him for another second. Then he turned, signalled to the escort and was gone.

  Edmund began trudging along the trench, the other corporal close behind. His head still throbbed from the punch. The side of his face hurt when he touched it. His whole body ached. The strength that had flooded through it when he seized the CSM’s wrist had vanished just as suddenly. He felt sick and shaky again.

  The sergeant-major was waiting around the next corner of the trench. ‘Don’t think you’re anyone special, conchie. We broke the other one and we’ll break you. You’re in uniform, so you’re a soldier, understand?’

  Edmund said nothing, which seemed to make the burly man angrier. ‘If you get killed here, people will just think you’d joined up like any real man would. It’s more than you deserve, rubbish like you.’

  Edmund kept silent. ‘Handcuff him!’ the CSM ordered the corporal. ‘He stays here. If he tries anything, you know what to do – though he’s not even worth a bullet.’

  The last hours of the night crawled past. Edmund lay huddled in a corner of the dug-out, his hands handcuffed to a heavy wooden box. ‘Sorry, chum,’ muttered the soldier who clamped the steel around his wrists. ‘Orders is orders.’

  More men pressed past, shoulders bent under the weight of weapons, belts of bullets, boxes. NCOs and officers urged them on in anxious whispers. ‘Hurry! There’s no time to spare!’ The guns were largely silent; the world seemed to be waiting.

  The sky was still half-dark when the CSM appeared, along with two armed soldiers. ‘Bring him to the bomb dump’ was all he said. The handcuffs were unlocked, and Edmund was led along another length of trench to a side passage. Heavy beams covered it. In the far corner, earth steps led up to the open air. Boxes were stacked on the floor. Troops were lifting objects from them: objects with wooden handles and metal heads shaped like pineapples.

  The sergeant-major grinned. It was a grin that looked like a snarl. ‘Mills Bombs,’ he said. ‘They make a nasty mess when they explode. I wouldn’t want to be in here if a shell hits.’

  He turned to the soldiers guarding Edmund. ‘Pull a box over to the steps. Cuff him to it.’

  Edmund opened his mouth, shut it again. The two guards glanced at each other. Then they dragged one of the heavy boxes across the dirt until it lay by the steps. Without looking at him, they fixed Edmund’s handcuffs to the metal handles.

  The sergeant-major grinned again. ‘I’ll see you later, conchie – if you’re still in one piece.’

  Then Edmund was alone, the deadly explosives all around him, a square of pink-and-blue dawn sky above. He sat down beside the box. So this is how things will end, he told himself. Blown to bits by a stray shell. No chance for Ma and Jessie to know the truth of what happened. I’ve come all this way, endured all this, for nothing.

  He gazed up at the sky. It was pale with dawn light now. All around there was silence. A flicker high above made him glance up again. A flock of birds, black specks against the growing light, sped across the sky. No, they were— Then the world exploded.

  All at the same moment, artillery slammed and bellowed. Hundreds of guns, thousands of them by the sound of it, blasting and roaring. The din was like great sheets of steel crashing together.

  Then another explosion, so huge that Edmund was flung from where he sat onto the ground. The walls of the trench shook and earth cascaded down. The sky was blotted out as fountains of dirt and black smoke poured across it. Edmund clawed his way off the ground. Dear God, what had happened?

  The artillery still boomed and bellowed. And now there were other noises. Whistles – lots of them, shrilling along the trenches on either side. Voices yelling. The crack of rifles. A wicked burst of shooting: blat-blat-blat! That must be a machine-gun. More whistles. Screams as well as yells. All the while, the thunder of the guns kept on. Deafened and shocked, Edmund crouched beside the box of bombs and tried to understand.

  An attack. It must be. From the Germans or from the British, the New Zealanders? He had no idea. He remembered Corporal McKean’s words: ‘Something big’s going to happen.’ But this wasn’t big. This was monstrous. This was inhuman.

  Without warning, a calm spread through him. In the middle of all the noise, while explosions still boomed, shells tore overhead, and men yelled and howled in the distance, Edmund was completely still. A feeling of great love for his mother and sister flooded him. And for his brother. Right now, perhaps, William was fighting and dying out there. If we ever meet again, Edmund decided, we won’t argue any more. Life is too precious for that.

  The noise of the battle was changing. The shells landed further away. The machine-gun fire was less; the yells and rifle shots seemed more distant. It must be a British attack. Soldiers had left their trenches and were charging towards the German lines.

  A whine, a crack! A shower of dirt and column of dark smoke made him duck his head. The enemy artillery were firing as well. I’m totally helpless here. If a shell lands in the trench, or even near … He stared down at the handcuffs and the box’s metal handles. No way could he break free.

  Another whine, another crack! But no black smoke this time. Instead, a dirty yellow cloud began creeping across the top of the trench. Edmund gaped. What was – then a puff of yellow drifted down to him. Instantly, his eyes stung and streamed. He gasped for breath. Gas!

  His calm vanished. He was going to die like some trapped animal. He wrenched at the box’s handles, beat the handcuffs against its edge. ‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Hel—’ Another drift of gas, and the
words choked in his throat.

  Through streaming eyes, he saw a figure come rushing into the bomb dump. A figure with two huge blank eyes and a snout instead of a face. Someone in a gas mask. Then hands were shoving another mask over his head, pushing it tight against his nose and cheeks. Edmund gasped and coughed, bent over to drag in more air. He could breathe. The other man had vanished.

  Time crawled past. Edmund sprawled beside the steps, wheezing and shocked. Black specks still arced across the sky, but the bombardment seemed to be further and further away. Rifles and machine-guns cracked, but they were more distant still. The blue sky was clouding over.

  Two soldiers appeared. Edmund recognised the ones who had cuffed him to the box. ‘Sit up, pal,’ one panted. ‘Time you were out of here.’

  They unlocked the handcuffs. Edmund forced his aching body to sit. With shaking hands, he pulled off the hot, clammy gas mask. ‘Did you – bring me that?’

  The men looked surprised. ‘Not us, chum. Too busy keeping our heads down.’

  Edmund didn’t know what to think.

  There was no sign of the CSM. The two soldiers led him back through trenches that Corporal McKean had brought him along last night. Groups of men were filing down them, filthy, drained-looking, eyes staring. Some were held up by others. Some clutched arms from which blood dripped, or pressed hands to their faces as they staggered along. They’ve been in the attack, Edmund realised.

  He stood against the trench wall as men carrying a stretcher struggled by. A limp shape lay on it, one arm trailing along the ground. Another stretcher followed: another still figure, with a tunic over its face.

  One of the stretcher-bearers slipped, fought to keep his grip on the handles. Without thinking, Edmund grabbed one to steady the load. His sore arms throbbed with pain. ‘Thanks, chum,’ panted the bearer. Next minute, he and Edmund were carrying the silent load on down the trench.

  The escort was left behind. Edmund glanced back, but couldn’t see them. Will they think I’m trying to escape? he wondered. Will they shoot – no, they can’t; not in here. Then the other stretcher-bearer gasped ‘This way’, and Edmund looked around just as they began straining to lift their load up some clay steps.

  At the top, other sprawled shapes lay beside a low bank where a few more half-smashed shrubs grew. Edmund stood, gazing at the row of dead young men. How could people do this to one another?

  ‘Hey?’ A voice was calling to him. ‘Hey, pal? Lend us a hand.’ Edmund jerked. A soldier with a Red Cross armband was kneeling beside one of the bodies, covering it with a blanket. ‘Let’s make these poor devils decent. Might be days before we can take them back for burial.’ He stared at Edmund, who was still looking at the row of motionless figures. ‘All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Edmund, and knelt to help.

  They worked together, not speaking much, laying the grey blankets over man after man, tucking them under. A few spots of rain fell. More stretchers arrived; more bodies were laid on the ground. Sometimes the stretcher-bearers stood and watched for a few minutes. Sometimes they just turned and trudged away.

  The rain began to fall harder. The guns were thumping again in the distance. Fresh bursts of rifle and machine-gun fire broke out, somewhere over to one side. After an hour or so, fewer stretcher-loads arrived.

  The soldier with the Red Cross armband, a tall, thin man with a quiet voice, said, ‘Check their tags will you, chum? I’ll write them down.’ When Edmund looked uncertain, the other man pointed. ‘Their identity tags. Around their necks. We want a record of who the poor blokes are.’

  Edmund’s body still throbbed with pain, but slowly he began to move along the row of bodies, folding back blankets, opening shirts and tunics, trying not to look at ruined faces. He read aloud as the other man scribbled in a notebook, hunched over it to keep the rain off. ‘Benton A. K., 758788, Third Manchester Regiment … O’Neill P., 952286, Royal Irish Guards … MacNeice L. R., 793518, Highland Light Infantry …’

  Then a voice sneered: ‘So this is where you’re hiding, Hayes! Thought you’d run away to somewhere safe, did you? I see you’ve decided to do some decent army work after all.’ It was the CSM, hair bristling more than ever, chest heaving.

  ‘This is nothing to do with the Army!’ Edmund stood to face the sergeant-major. ‘I’m just trying to make sure these poor creatures are treated like human beings.’

  The CSM turned to the soldier with the Red Cross armband. ‘Don’t trust him. He’s a conchie.’

  The other man’s voice stayed quiet. ‘He’s doing a good job, whoever he is.’

  The sergeant-major glared and stamped away. Edmund bent over the next body, opened the tunic and began to read. ‘Aitken O. P., 108563, New—’ He heard his voice catch. ‘New Zealand Division.’

  He lifted his head in the streaming rain. He gazed along the line of motionless shapes ahead. Dear God, he thought. What am I going to find?

  But there were only two more New Zealand names among the dead, and Edmund knew neither of them. When the last body had been recorded and covered, he and the other soldier rose stiffly to their feet. The rain was falling more steadily now. Both of them were wet through. The other man tucked the notebook into an inside pocket and nodded to Edmund. ‘Thanks, chum. You’re all right.’

  Edmund gazed along the line of still forms. Then he moved to one of the broken bushes lining the low bank and snapped off a couple of branches. He moved along the row of dead young men, placing a sprig of green leaves on each body.

  He’d just finished when the two soldiers who’d taken him from the bomb dump appeared again. ‘Sergeant-Major wants you.’

  The burly CSM was standing in a small side trench. On the duckboards at his feet, there sprawled a figure in uniform, with no pouches or helmet. Sodden hair was plastered to his scalp. The back of his tunic and shirt were torn to shreds, and blood oozed from cuts and scratches all over his back. He lay still, dragging in slow breaths.

  ‘This is the conchie who wouldn’t walk when we told him to,’ grunted the sergeant-major. ‘So we gave him a free tour of the duckboards by dragging him.’

  ‘And you hurt him,’ said Edmund. ‘That was brave of you.’

  At the sound of Edmund’s voice, the sprawled figure moved. He levered himself over, gasping as he did so.

  The CSM was shouting. The rain beat down. Edmund didn’t hear one and didn’t feel the other. The man on the ground stared up. His bruised face broke into a smile. ‘Hello, young fellow,’ Archie said.

  He’d spent time in an army camp in England, too, Archie told Edmund. In the north, on a cold, empty plain. There was one part of the camp where soldiers who’d been badly wounded were sent to recover, and Archie had made friends with some of them.

  ‘They’d suffered awful things,’ he said. He and Edmund were seated together, both handcuffed to the wooden posts holding up the wall of a trench. The sergeant-major had ordered it. ‘Leave them here so they can cry on each other’s shoulders.’ The soldiers had put the handcuffs on, but gently, and just a few minutes after the CSM stamped away, one of them came back with two sheets of tin. Holding these above their heads with their cuffed hands kept off the worst of the rain. It was still driving down, and the bottom of the trench was still ankle-deep mud. But Edmund felt strangely contented as he squatted there. I’m not alone any more, he told himself.

  There were soldiers in the camp who had lost legs and arms from artillery fire, Archie said. Others with bullet wounds in the face. ‘They look like monsters now, poor young devils.’ Edmund remembered the soldier he’d seen back in England.

  ‘It turned me more against war than ever,’ Archie went on. ‘Up until then, I went with the soldiers when they told me to, let them lead me around the camp to be shamed in front of the troops – just like you were, young Edmund. But after that, I decided I wasn’t going to obey any army commands. So now they have to carry me – or drag me – everywhere.’

  Archie grinned, then winced as he rubbed his neck
. ‘I always tell the blokes doing it that I’m sorry to cause them trouble. They usually don’t mind. You get a few who are a bit rough, like today.’ He held up one arm; the tunic sleeve was torn and blood-stained. ‘I think my back isn’t looking too good, either.’

  ‘It’s shameful!’ If the CSM were there, Edmund felt he’d have hit the man. He swallowed, tried to push down his anger. If I turn violent, he told himself, I’ll be no better than the war I am opposing.

  Archie was speaking again. ‘Well, I upset the sergeant-major. He asked me if I was the sort of traitor who wanted the Germans to win. I told him I didn’t want either side to win; that it would only bring hatred from whoever lost. So he knocked me down.’

  Edmund squeezed his hands into fists. He stared at the trench wall in front of him. The rain fell. The artillery crashed in the distance. Rifle and machine-gun fire was becoming more frequent again. But for the two men, it all seemed far away.

  Archie sighed. ‘They threw me in a cell one time. There were soldiers in there – young blokes who’d deliberately shot themselves in the hand or the foot so they wouldn’t have to fight. You know what happens to them? The Army puts them on trial, and sometimes they’re executed by firing squad.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t seem to be having such a bad time compared to them.’

  They were both silent.

  But if they were quiet, the world around them wasn’t. Artillery from both sides had begun firing more frequently. The trench walls shook: water and dirt streamed down the sides to join the liquid mud in the bottom. Archie and Edmund were standing now, to keep clear of the water. At least they’d been able to slide their handcuffs up the post supporting the wall.

  They ducked as a shell burst not far away, and waterlogged clods of earth flew through the air. Machine-guns snarled nearby, and rifles spat. Orders were yelled, although they couldn’t make out the words. Were the Germans attacking now? If they were caught in an enemy attack, they’d be helpless. They couldn’t even run.