My Brother's War

by Hill, David

  William said nothing. While the din of artillery, rifles, and shouting, screaming men swirled all around him, he stood and gazed down at the dead young enemy. This isn’t right, he thought. This isn’t right.

  Finally he stooped, crossed the German’s hands on his chest, then turned to where Jerry still huddled against the wall of the trench. ‘Come on, pal,’ he said. ‘We’d better get moving.’

  The Germans had all retreated, those who hadn’t been captured or killed. When William stared over the rear wall of the trench they’d captured, he shivered. The mine had blown a crater deep enough and wide enough to bury an entire ship. Sour-smelling smoke rose from it. The twisted metal and shattered concrete of pillboxes lay scattered around.

  Prisoners were being lined up to be taken back to the New Zealand lines. They were haggard and shocked. Eyes stared from frightened faces. They and the dead young boy still lying on the trench floor didn’t look anything like the savage Huns William had heard about when he enlisted.

  Their own wounded were already being helped back across No Man’s Land. The dead were carried by stretcher-bearers. Mr Gowing, a blood-stained bandage on one hand, paused as he came down the trench, and spoke to William, Herbert and Jerry. ‘Sorry about your chum, lads. Jack Kahui was a good soldier and a fine chap.’

  William and Herbert both nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Jerry stood, staring out across the ruined land behind the German trenches, the vast mine crater, the smashed pillboxes and the barbed-wire tangles on the far side. He didn’t seem to hear their platoon officer. He hadn’t spoken since he’d collapsed in tears in the trench.

  Sergeant Molloy was barking at them. ‘Dig! Get some sandbags up on this rear wall! The Huns will want their trench back. There’ll be a counter-attack any minute. Look lively!’

  Men began shovelling up earth that the mine had hurled into the trench, filling a pile of empty sandbags they’d found in one corner, stacking these on top of the back wall, facing where the enemy had retreated. Others were scooping up dirt with shovels, their helmets, their hands, piling it along the parapet while others thumped it down hard. ‘Leave a space for rifles!’ their sergeant ordered. Twenty yards up the trench, a group of men struggled with a heavy machine-gun the enemy had left behind, heaving it up and carving a ledge out of the trench wall so that it could be turned against its previous owners.

  Now that the fury of the attack was over, William felt tired to death. He wanted to flop down in the dirt at the bottom of the trench and sleep. He didn’t care if the Germans came storming back at them; didn’t care if he lived or died. But he made himself dig like the others. If he gave up now, it would only be harder on his pals.

  Their own artillery was still firing, trying to prevent the enemy from getting organised, William supposed. Fountains of dirt lifted into the air, eighty yards or so ahead of the trench they’d captured. Black smoke drifted across the ground. It was bright daylight now, but the explosions and smoke meant he couldn’t see where the Germans had retreated.

  Then – ‘Here they come!’ someone shouted. At the same moment, William saw shapes emerge from the smoke. Men, running and stumbling towards them. Men in differently-shaped helmets from theirs, carrying rifles, tripping and falling on the churned-up ground, standing and advancing again. The enemy.

  ‘Pick your man!’ Sergeant Molloy was bellowing. ‘Fire when ready!’ From either side of William, the rear wall of the captured trench began to spit flame.

  The next ten – fifteen? – minutes passed in a blur. William aimed, fired, worked his rifle bolt to eject the spent cartridge and ram in a new round, aimed and fired again. He didn’t want to see if he hit anyone. In his mind, he kept seeing three faces. Jack, laughing and joking. The German boy, a second before he fell. Edmund.

  The attackers had no chance. The rifles of William’s platoon and the others, plus the captured machine-gun, cut them down when they were still forty yards away. They couldn’t cross the great pit of the mine crater, had to skirt around it on either side. Crowded into the narrow strips of ground, they were almost impossible to miss.

  William glimpsed four or five of them fall as the machine-gun sent bullets spraying across them. Somewhere along the trench, a horrified voice kept shouting: ‘Go back! For God’s sake, go back!’

  The shooting stopped. The battlefield was silent, except for the background rumble of artillery. A few men in grey were running back to where the attack had come from, bent over to avoid the shots that didn’t come. A few more dragged themselves across the ground, trying to find the shelter of the nearest shell-hole. Elsewhere the enemy dead lay sprawled, some on their sides, some on their backs as if gazing up at the sky.

  William drew in a long breath. He leaned his forehead against the cold earth of the trench wall. When he turned, Jerry was staring at him, face pale and mouth trembling. ‘I – I didn’t think it would be like this,’ the red-headed soldier mumbled.

  William shook his head. ‘Me, neither.’

  After another few hours, fresh troops came forward to hold the trench that the New Zealanders had captured. Irish soldiers, who stared at the mine crater and shook their heads at the German dead scattered across the ground.

  ‘God in Heaven,’ one of them said, as he stood between William and Herbert, peering out over the parapet. ‘You Kiwis are terrible men.’ William was too weary to reply.

  Rain was falling again as they trudged back over the ground they had charged across just five or six hours ago. Their heads were bent. Their boots squelched through the clinging mud as they picked their way among shell-holes and tangles of barbed wire. Stretcher-bearers were all around, kneeling to hold a water bottle to the mouth of a soldier whose leg was a wad of bandages, supporting a man in a blood-stained tunic who cried out as they lifted him, carrying away limp bodies. William wondered if Jack was still lying where he’d fallen. Beside him, Jerry and Herbert walked in silence. Once, Herbert rested a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. ‘All right, chum?’ The younger soldier plodded on, saying nothing.

  After another five minutes, they were back in the trenches where they’d huddled before dawn, trenches now filled with other soldiers. A sour smell lingered in some places, and William felt his throat rasp. There must have been a gas attack.

  They filed around corners and up steps onto an area of ground where a row of still shapes lay, each of them wrapped in an army blanket. Someone had placed a sprig of leaves on each body. William gazed at them, and felt his eyes fill.

  As they reached the rough road up which they’d marched the night before, a long, sleek car drew to a halt beside them. An officer with red tabs on his collar, a stout man with a bristly grey moustache, stepped out. Sergeant Molloy and Mr Gowing instantly snapped to attention, and saluted.

  ‘Well done, you fellows.’ The officer’s voice was rich and confident. ‘You showed those Huns what a true Britisher can do, eh? Jolly good show!’

  Jerry was just in front of William. He stiffened, and William knew that his friend was about to burst out at the newcomer. He reached forward, seized the other soldier’s shoulder. ‘No, Jerry,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

  Jerry’s head drooped and he trudged on again. ‘Splendid effort,’ the officer said once more as they passed. ‘A real victory.’

  A victory, thought William. A frightened boy staring and falling, a friend dead, dozens of others shot down or blown to pieces, wounded or maimed. And what had they done? Gained fifty yards of smashed earth and captured a hole in the ground. Victory wasn’t what he thought it would be, either.

  He trod on, rain beating on his pack and helmet, soaking and darkening the uniforms of those ahead. The artillery was firing harder again, a steady crash and boom, ahead and behind. Lines of men were coming the other way, burdened down with gear, faces tight and strained. The killing wasn’t over yet.

  PART 7

  Second Attack

  Edmund

  The rain drove down as Archie and Edmund and their escort sloshed along the trench. It
bounced off the helmets of troops struggling past, crashed onto the duckboards – except where those duckboards were already hidden by rising yellow water. But they couldn’t hear it; it was drowned out by the thunder of artillery, the roar of explosions in front of and behind the trenches, the crack and rattle of rifles and machine-guns.

  The CSM stood near a big dug-out into which stretcher-bearers were carrying silent or moaning shapes, slithering and slipping on the slushy ground. He was soaked through: beneath his helmet, the bristly hair was plastered to his forehead.

  He scowled as they arrived. ‘You two lend a hand with the wounded. You’re not good enough to lick their boots, but I’ve got no real men to spare.’

  Edmund ignored the insult. ‘I’ll do it. Not because you ordered me, but because there are people who need help.’

  Archie meanwhile was shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t accept any military order.’

  The sergeant-major’s face tightened. He took a step forward, lifted a fist. Before he even knew he’d done it, Edmund pushed between the two men, chest to chest with the CSM. ‘Stop that! I said I wouldn’t let you treat me like a dog. You’re not going to treat my friend that way, either.’

  The CSM glared into his face. ‘I’ll knock you and this other coward into a pulp. I’ll—’

  ‘Sarn’t-major! Captain wants you, sir!’ The call came from outside the dug-out. The CSM stayed glaring at Edmund for a second, shoved him backwards so the handcuffs caught at him. He lurched against Archie and they both almost fell. ‘Put them to work!’ the sergeant-major grunted.

  To Edmund’s astonishment, the escort were grinning. ‘Well done, chum,’ one said. ‘He’s a bully. Time someone stood up to him.’

  Archie was annoyed. ‘You didn’t need to do that. I can look after myself. I told you I’m having nothing to do with army orders.’

  Edmund still held the older man by the arm, where he’d grabbed him after the sergeant-major’s shove. ‘This isn’t anything to do with the Army. This is just doing the decent thing.’ How strange, his mind was telling him meanwhile. Suddenly I’m the one in charge.

  He smiled at his friend. ‘Look at you. You’re worn-out. We all are. We need to help one another. Please, Archie?’

  Archie said nothing. The rain thrashed and the sounds of battle beat all around. ‘He’s right, pal,’ one of the escort said.

  Archie shrugged. ‘I’ll do it this once. I’ll do it for you.’

  The handcuffs were taken off and they were left alone. Alone except for the stretcher-bearers struggling back and forth with the loads they carried into the dug-out. They huddled together against the side of the trench, out of the worst of the sweeping rain. Edmund pictured the bomb shelter and how he’d crouched there, sure he was going to die. If I ever get back home, he thought, what stories I’ll be able to tell.

  He realised Archie was talking, mumbling as they crouched together. ‘I’m afraid, lad. I’d thought that the ones who gave in and agreed to be stretcher-bearers and medical orderlies had lost their courage, that they weren’t true to our cause. Now I’ve found that the only way I can carry on is to refuse every order. But I’m still afraid.’

  Edmund squeezed the older man’s shoulder. ‘Everyone is. The soldiers, us. Everyone has different ways of handling it. Nobody could be braver than you.’

  A roaring, howling sound above made them duck and stare up. Edmund glimpsed dark shapes rushing through the sodden sky. ‘Aeroplanes attacking.’ Sure enough, a few seconds later, more explosions and firing came from the direction of the German trenches. Archie shook his head. ‘It won’t ever end.’

  Another line of troops crowded past, floundering and falling in the mud, clutching rifles and bayonets, all heading towards the front line of trenches. The rain was driving down harder than ever.

  A different noise came. A rumbling, clanking sound, from somewhere in the rear. ‘A train?’ Archie said. ‘No, can’t be. There’s no railway lines near here. The artillery fire has smashed them.’

  A voice from the dug-out hailed them. ‘You two! Over here!’ Archie and Edmund struggled to the entrance and groped their way down into the half-darkness. Fifteen or twenty men lay crowded together on the wet duckboards. In the dim light of two lanterns, others with Red Cross armbands were bent over them, cutting away blood-soaked clothes, tying bandages, murmuring words of comfort.

  The man who’d called them looked coolly at Edmund and Archie. ‘You’re the COs? Well, make yourselves useful. Get some water. There are men here desperate for a drink.’

  For the next hour, they toiled alongside the medical orderlies. They carried mugs of water from dixies in the corner, held them to trembling mouths. They helped lift limp bodies from stretchers as they arrived, laid them down as gently as possible. They wiped mud from faces, held smashed limbs as bandages were wrapped around them. The wounded lay white and silent, or cried out suddenly with pain. Archie murmured to them. His voice seemed to help; they grew quieter and less distressed.

  Edmund, arms and back still aching each time he moved, stared into every face as it was brought in. William: was he – He held his breath suddenly as a voice called from the dug-out entrance. ‘The New Zealanders? Anyone know where the New Zealanders are?’

  The man who’d told Archie and Edmund what to do replied: ‘Further along the trench. They were in the first attack.’

  The soldier outside moved on. ‘God help them if they’re in this attack, too,’ the other man muttered as he bent over a stretcher. ‘The Huns’ artillery will know the range to a few yards.’

  They’ll be all right, Edmund told himself as he fetched more water. They have to be.

  ‘Listen!’ another orderly said. ‘The planes have gone.’

  Work paused for a moment. It was true. The gunfire continued, but the snarl of aircraft engines had stopped. Then – ‘What’s that?’ someone else said.

  The clanking, rumbling sound came again, louder this time and getting closer. ‘It’s tanks!’ another orderly exclaimed. ‘Armoured tanks!’

  Edmund and Archie gazed at each other. Tanks? What—

  Then everyone ducked at once. The thunder of artillery swelled suddenly to a deafening roar. The dug-out shook. Yellow slush from the trench splashed down the steps. Once again, whistles shrilled from all directions. Through the gunfire, shouts faintly came. Machine-guns hammered beyond the front lines.

  The noise grew until it throbbed like the sound of mountains falling. The rumbling and clanking of the tanks, or whatever they were, pulsed through it all.

  ‘There they go!’ The orderly next to Edmund was shouting, but Edmund could barely hear him above the din. ‘Get ready!’

  Inside half an hour, the stream of wounded became a flood. Stretcher after stretcher appeared at the dug-out entrance, the bearers filthy and gasping for breath, rain pouring off them as they struggled down the steps. More figures were lifted, whimpering or crying out or silent, to lie beside the others. The dug-out was over half-full now.

  Archie and Edmund brought still more water, held still more bleeding limbs. As they helped carry another agonised young man, Edmund gazed fearfully into his face and saw only another stranger. Archie suddenly said, ‘You were right. This is the decent thing to do. Thank you.’ Edmund squeezed his friend’s shoulder again.

  They all crouched as a shell landed somewhere nearby, and the ground shook once more. ‘Oh, God!’ a voice shouted from somewhere along the trench. ‘The stretcher party!’

  Edmund’s stomach lurched. The CSM’s mud-smeared face appeared for a moment in the dug-out entrance, glared around, mouthed something lost in another burst of gunfire and disappeared.

  Edmund struggled after him, pulled himself up the steps into the trench and stared. Wounded men were everywhere, limping along supported by their friends, plodding past with bandages over faces, slumped against the walls as they dragged in breath. These were the ones who could still move, who could try to make their way to other First Aid Posts in the rea
r. Edmund found himself peering into their faces, too. Still no sign of the one he hoped and dreaded to see.

  Two men came staggering towards him. Edmund’s breath caught. These were faces he knew: from the stretcher party. ‘What—’ he began.

  One man stared at him, shocked and shaking. Blood dripped from his left hand. ‘Shell. Just in front of us. Got Henry and Ned, and the poor sod we were carrying. They hadn’t a chance.’ He reeled on.

  Another stretcher party appeared. Just three of them, the man at the back trying to grip both handles. Edmund recognised the thick-set figure of the CSM. He squeezed forward, rain beating on his head, and seized one side. The sergeant-major, chest heaving, glanced at him, opened his mouth, but said nothing. Inside the dugout, they moved the wounded man onto the ground. The place was almost full. ‘Come on,’ the CSM grunted. He and the other two stretcher-bearers moved off again.

  The dead, Edmund thought suddenly. Where are the dead? He jerked as a voice answered and realised he must have spoken aloud. ‘They’re out there in No Man’s Land,’ the orderly told him. ‘They have to wait. The living first, then the dead.’

  More wounded arrived. The rain poured down. The gunfire drummed on. The artillery sounds different, Edmund thought. There aren’t as many guns firing.

  He paused for a second, lifted his head to listen. Others were doing the same. The soldier who’d first called them into the dug-out spoke: ‘The guns will be sinking into the mud. It happened before when they attacked in weather like this. Every time they fire, they drive themselves deeper in the mud. They can’t shoot straight. They’ll hit our own blokes if they’re not careful.’ The man looked around at the huddled figures, the flickering lanterns, the shadowy, exhausted orderlies. ‘The attack’s a shambles.’

  More noise at the entrance. ‘Bearers!’ a voice called. ‘We need more stretcher-bearers. Hurry!’