My Brother's War

by Hill, David

  ‘I helped with some dead soldiers,’ Edmund said.

  Archie watched him and nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s all. I helped cover them up. Made them decent. But it was army work and I did it.’

  Archie smiled. ‘Sounds like good human work to me. Nothing to be worried about.’

  A long burst of machine-gun fire made them both jerk. More rifles were firing. More yells and a scream came to them. Edmund swallowed. ‘What’s happening?’

  Archie sighed again. ‘More bloodshed. It just goes on and on.’

  ‘There are New Zealanders fighting near here,’ Edmund said. ‘They … some of them were among the dead I helped cover up.’

  Archie nodded. ‘It’s why they brought us to this part of the line. To humiliate us in front of our own people. And to show them what happens if you stand up for peace.’

  Edmund hesitated. ‘My brother – William – he could be here.’

  Archie stared. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s—’

  Sloshing feet approached. The soldiers who’d handcuffed them to the post, two, three hours back came around the corner of the trench. ‘We’re moving you blokes. No silly stuff, all right?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Edmund asked, as the handcuffs were undone, and he stood, rubbing his wrists, back and shoulders which were pulsing with pain.

  The soldiers were flushed and excited. ‘Our lads captured a big stretch of German trenches. Now the Huns are trying to get them back. It’s pretty hot stuff up in front.’

  For a second, Edmund felt almost jealous. Other men were out there, doing amazing things. William might be among them. While he—

  One of the soldiers interrupted his thoughts. ‘CSM wants you with him. Didn’t say why.’ He looked at Archie. ‘You going to help us, chum? Don’t want to drag you like those other blokes did.’

  Archie was easing his cut, bruised shoulders under the ripped tunic and wincing as he did so. ‘I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘Just this once, Archie,’ Edmund said. ‘It’s these fellows who have a rough time if you refuse. Wait ’til we’re where that CSM is. He’s the real problem.’

  The older man frowned. He began to shake his head, then stopped and shrugged. ‘Very well. But this doesn’t mean I’m obeying any army orders.’

  ‘Suits me, pal.’ The soldier grinned. ‘Don’t enjoy obeying most of them myself. OK, let’s go.’ He raised his voice as more artillery slammed and a volley of rifle shots cracked somewhere up ahead. ‘Keep your heads down. Sounds like the Huns are in a bad mood. I’ll put the cuffs back on you before we get to the CSM.’

  They set off along the trench, feet sucking in the porridgy, ankle-high mud. Archie didn’t speak, and Edmund knew that his fellow CO was annoyed at what he’d done.

  More firing and yelling burst out ahead, and he shuddered. Wouldn’t this horror ever end?

  My Dear Mother,

  If you ever receive this letter, you will already have learned that I am dead. I know you have dreaded hearing such news ever since I enlisted, and the only regret I feel is the pain it will cause you.

  I have spent the last few months with the finest group of chaps I could ever have known. We have fought for a cause we believe in and we have stood up to things until the very end. I hope that makes you feel I haven’t died in vain.

  I send all my fondest love to you and Jessie. I know my sister will grow into a fine and lovely woman, and she will always be there for you. Please give my best wishes to Mr Parkinson at the factory, to all our friends and neighbours, and to Violet and the others at the tennis club. I have been grateful to know you all. You may also receive a letter I left with Mr Darney before I went away, but this is the one which says what I really feel.

  Mother, I want to send my love and kindest thoughts to Edmund. I have thought over and over about the choice he made. Although I still see things differently, I understand much more now about why he and others like him refuse to fight.

  War is very different from what I thought. I still feel it was right for me to enlist, but I accept and respect what my brother has done.

  I’ve been incredibly lucky to have you for a mother. I couldn’t have wished for a better life. And if this letter never needs to be sent to you, then what a lot of beautiful words I’ve wasted!

  Your Loving Son

  William

  William

  William had written the letter as 3 Platoon waited to march up to the trenches once more. When he’d finished, he wrote his mother’s name and address on the front, and put it in the pocket of his army greatcoat that he would be leaving in the reserve lines. If the worst happened, then whoever went through his gear would know where to send it.

  The five days 3 Platoon and the others spent in the rear lines were supposed to be a rest time. But they had hardly any rest.

  Every night, they had to carry supplies up to the front trenches: ammunition, duckboards, food. They moved in darkness so the Germans couldn’t see, but even so they weren’t safe. Enemy artillery sent shells raining down. Machine-guns spat bullets suddenly, hoping to hit supply parties like theirs.

  One night as they waited to move up, the enemy guns opened fire without warning. Bursts of flame shredded the darkness on the rough road they were meant to travel. Half an hour later, soldiers from 1 Platoon came struggling back, helping moaning comrades, carrying slumped bodies.

  In the mornings, they worked on the roads still further back, filling the holes that long-range guns had torn in the surface, trying to heave capsized lorries and wagons back upright.

  Labour battalions toiled on the road as well. Africans or Chinese from British colonies, allowed to work but not to fight. Jack Kahui shook his head. ‘Do they think it’s only white blokes who make proper soldiers?’

  In the afternoons, they grabbed a few hours’ sleep. Every evening, Mr Gowing or Sergeant Molloy inspected them, examined their weapons, made sure nobody was sick, even checked their feet to make sure the days spent up to their knees in water in the trenches hadn’t caused infection. ‘See,’ Jack told Jerry. ‘Just standing still gets you into trouble in the Army.’

  On the fifth day, they didn’t work in the morning. ‘Holiday for you horrible little men,’ Sergeant Molloy grunted. ‘Get some rest.’

  William, Herbert, Jerry and Jack exchanged glances. ‘I know what that means,’ muttered Herbert.

  He was right. That night, they marched up to the front-line trenches to join the attack.

  The dark came early. Clouds had begun filling the skies from mid-morning. They trudged slowly, weighed down again with belts of extra ammunition and boxes of Mills Bombs.

  All around them on the narrow road columns of men and horses plodded forward. The animals’ hoofs were padded, their mouths held with bridles and bits to stop them from neighing. Hundreds of troops, thousands of them, all moving towards the battlefield.

  The night was quiet. A few distant guns; a couple of bursts of rifle fire far away. But mainly just the tramp of feet heading for the trenches.

  William’s platoon, along with 1 and 2 Platoons, left the road after two hours’ marching and started across shell-torn fields. They’d gone only a hundred yards or so when the first drops of rain fell. ‘Bloomin’ wonderful,’ muttered Jerry. ‘A nice swim to the front. We’ll—’ He stopped as Sergeant Molloy’s voice growled, ‘No talking!’

  But the rain eased after only a few minutes. And this time the guides were waiting and knew exactly where to go. They were led down steps like last time and through a labyrinth of trenches, all crammed with men.

  William glimpsed side passages full of ammunition and Mills Bomb boxes. He stared as they edged past a stretch of duckboards where a body was being dragged along, back bumping and scraping on the rough surface. No, not a body. The man’s eyes were open, and he was biting his lips against the pain. ‘What’s—’ William began to ask. But then they were turning down another trench, and the man was behind them.

  There was coloure
d tape pinned along the sides of trenches: red in some places, green in others. Their guide was evidently following the green tape. They stopped after another half-hour, in a length of trench that could almost have been the one they’d spent six wretched nights in the week before. But now there were new duckboards underfoot and a fresh line of filled sandbags stacked along the parapet.

  ‘This is it, chaps,’ Mr Gowing told them. ‘Sentries posted right away, please, Sergeant Molloy. Just one hour on, three hours off. Get as much rest as you can, men. I’ll tell you more when I hear anything.’

  William was in the second group of sentries, from midnight until one. Before and after, he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat, either, even though he knew he needed energy for what was coming. ‘No smoking,’ Sergeant Molloy reminded them. ‘Snipers can see a cigarette fifty yards away.’

  He and Herbert leaned against the wall of the trench, with Jerry and Jack next to them. Mostly they were silent, although sometimes they talked quietly about what they’d do when the war was over. William thought about the letter tucked inside his army greatcoat. He thought of Jessie, his mother, Edmund, Violet.

  Somewhere around 4 a.m., Mr Gowing came along the trench. ‘We’ll be attacking at 6.15 a.m. exactly,’ the officer told each group of men. ‘There’s a mine going to be exploded under the German lines at 6 a.m. Our artillery will lay down a barrage straight after that, and we go then. Keep your heads down until you hear the whistle, then over the top and spread out, just like we’ve practised. Good luck, lads.’

  There was silence after he passed. Then Jerry said, ‘This is it. At last!’ William heard the excitement in his voice. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know whether his own voice would sound excited or afraid.

  They were issued with extra clips of bullets and with two Mills Bombs each to carry in their belts. A dixie of hot, sweet tea arrived. Men chewed on tough army biscuits. 5.40 a.m. The sky to one side was paler at the edge. A shower of rain swept past, then stopped.

  5.50 a.m. Ten minutes until the mine was supposed to explode. William imagined the British tunnellers, digging for months probably, as quietly as they could, through the earth towards the German lines, then hauling in explosives. What would it be like?

  He kept swallowing. His heart thumped. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers. ‘All the best, chums,’ Herbert said quietly from beside him, as they stood by the trench wall. The four of them shook hands. Jack was murmuring to Jerry, patting him on the shoulder. These are my friends, William thought. Please let them be all right.

  5.55 a.m. Everything was still. No artillery. No rifle fire. William jerked as something sailed high above. A bird. In the east, the sky had turned a dull grey.

  6.00 a.m. The mine? William held his breath. Nothing. 6.01 a.m. Silence. Why wasn’t— Then out in front of them, the world erupted.

  A colossal roar split the air. Huge shafts of white and red fire leaped skywards. The ground under their feet lurched and bucked. In the dawn half-light, William glimpsed earth hurtling up in great fountains. Silhouetted against the flames behind, posts, concrete slabs, twisted shapes that must be men somersaulted through the air.

  The noise was monstrous. He saw Jerry crouched, hands over his ears, mouth open. William realised his own hands were clamped to his head.

  From behind them, every British gun seemed to open up at once. The sound blasted and bellowed. A rolling thunder of explosions rose from the ground ahead, as shells fell in a deluge on the German front lines – or what was left of them after the mine. Poor devils, William found himself thinking while the torrent of high explosive kept on. Poor devils.

  Then Sergeant Molloy was shouting at him and the others. ‘On your feet! Ladders ready! Wait for the whistle!’

  They stumbled up, clutching their rifles, the long bayonets glinting. William bowed his head, tried to pray. A whistle shrilled. ‘Over you go!’ Sergeant Molloy yelled. ‘Over and spread out!’

  Jerry was already leaping up the ladder and over the parapet of sandbags. William followed him. Next second, he was out of the trench and advancing across No Man’s Land.

  Lines of barbed wire lay ahead – high coils and twists of it, nailed and looped around posts. Straight in front of him, a narrow gap had been cut. Someone’s done that during the night, William realised. Figures were already rushing through, spreading out into a line on the far side. Jerry, face lit with eagerness; Jack, tense and watchful. William sprinted after them.

  Behind them, whistles kept blasting. ‘Spread out!’ NCOs yelled. ‘Five yard gap. Move forward!’ Already there was a line of 3 Platoon, Herbert on William’s left, Jack and Jerry further along, Mr Gowing nearby. Their officer held his pistol. The others clutched their rifles diagonally across their bodies. They began striding towards the enemy lines.

  Just fifty yards in front, shells still pounded down on the enemy trenches. There can’t be anyone left alive there, William thought. They’re all dead.

  Then a man on his right stumbled, dropped his rifle, fell face-down on the earth. And suddenly the bullets came whipping, whining and cracking as they passed, flicking up spurts of dirt in the growing dawn light. Some Germans were alive and shooting back.

  A voice close by was mumbling ‘All right, all right’ over and over. William realised it was himself. He gripped his rifle until his knuckles turned white. Only thirty yards to the enemy front line. The line of exploding shells in front stopped, then began falling again, another fifty yards ahead. The artillery barrage was rolling forward.

  A shell-hole in front of them. A glimpse of bodies sprawled in the bottom. They scrambled around it, panting under the weight of ammunition and gear. They formed their line again, hurried on. William’s helmet felt heavy and clumsy. Just twenty yards to the enemy lines.

  Others were all around him. Yet he felt almost alone in the shrieking waste of No Man’s Land.

  A whine as a bullet sped past near him. Then a grunt from his left. William turned his head sideways, and Jack was falling, the rifle slipping from his hand, blood pouring from his neck. He crumpled slowly, almost gracefully, onto the smashed earth.

  ‘Jack!’ yelled Jerry. ‘Jack!’ He stopped, pulled at his friend’s elbow. No movement. The body lay limp.

  Jerry lifted his head. His eyes were wild and staring. ‘No!’ he groaned. ‘No!’ Then he levelled his rifle, bayonet pointing straight forward, and he was running, running and screaming, straight at the enemy trenches.

  The rest of 3 Platoon followed him, yelling and howling, just like they’d done at bayonet practice. William was shouting, too: ‘Jerry! Jerry!’

  The red-head took no notice: he raced towards the German front trench, still screaming. Next second, William saw him leap over the parapet, bayonet angled downwards, and disappear from sight.

  He was there, too, just three seconds later, peering down into the trench, breath rasping, back prickling. This part of the German defences was a shambles. The rear wall had collapsed from the mine blast, and house-sized slips of earth had poured in. William shuddered as he saw an arm sticking out from under one slip, fingers curled.

  Other bodies in grey uniforms lay twisted on the duckboards or sagged up against the walls. A couple of men were trying to crawl away, towards a bend in the trench, around which other figures were fleeing.

  William saw it all in one glance. Then other men from his platoon were jumping down, still yelling, stumbling and rushing after the retreating Germans. They vanished around the corner. The crack of rifles and the crash of Mills Bombs split the air.

  But William’s eyes were on Jerry. A German soldier was crouched on the floor of the trench, arms wrapped around his head. William’s friend was advancing on him, rifle raised and bayonet ready to plunge. The German saw him, gasped, tried to crawl away. He was unarmed, William saw. Jerry stepped nearer, lifted the rifle so the bayonet was directly above the man’s body. The German cried out: ‘Nein! Nein!’ The blade began its downwards thrust.

  ‘No, Jerry!’ Wil
liam flung himself forward. Jerry hesitated, just for a second, then William’s arms were around him, heaving him sideways. The two of them thudded into the wall of the trench.

  Jerry twisted himself free. His eyes were slitted; his teeth bared. For a moment, William thought his friend was going to bayonet him instead. Then Jerry dropped his rifle. He hunched over and began sobbing.

  For a few seconds, William crouched beside him, one arm around his chum. A yard away, the German stared at them, eyes wide and frightened. He was just a boy, William saw – no more than seventeen or eighteen. Edmund’s age.

  William let go of Jerry, who stayed slumped against the side of the trench, dragging in long gasps of air. As William straightened up, the young German began trying to edge away again. Once more he gasped: ‘Nein!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ William said. ‘I’m not going to shoot you.’ The German still looked terrified. William turned his rifle so it was pointing away from the boy, and shook his head. He tried to smile.

  The German’s eyes were fixed on him. He let out a long, slow breath, and some of the fear went from his face. ‘Stand up,’ William told him and gestured with one hand.

  He’d take the boy back to the New Zealand trenches, make sure he got safely sent away as a prisoner. Somewhere in Germany, there must be a mother worrying and praying just like his own. ‘Stand up,’ he said a second time and smiled once more.

  The young soldier scrambled to his feet. His mouth trembled, but he tried to smile, too. ‘Danke,’ he mumbled. ‘Thank.’ Uncertainly, he held his hand out to William. ‘Ich—’

  A rifle shot from up the trench. The German stiffened, staggered. His mouth opened, his eyes stared at William. He made a noise in the back of his throat, then fell in a heap on the duckboards at William’s feet.

  Another soldier from 3 Platoon stood with a smoking rifle where the trench turned a corner. ‘You all right, chum?’ he called to William. ‘Looked like that Hun was all set to have a go at you.’