My Brother's War

by Hill, David

  Edmund heard himself answer at the same time as someone else. ‘I’ll go,’ they both said. It was Archie who had spoken. The two of them gaped at each other. ‘You stay here,’ Edmund told his friend. ‘You look half-dead already. No need to finish the job.’

  ‘No, I’ll—’ Archie began. Then he stopped. ‘You take care, young fellow,’ he said.

  The other Red Cross orderlies nodded at Edmund. ‘Good luck, chum.’ Next minute, he was heading up the steps and into the trench.

  Three other men waited there, two of them holding a stretcher on its side. Its canvas was filthy with mud and blotched with blood. Their sunken eyes watched Edmund as he emerged. ‘Thanks, pal,’ one said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Along the trench they stumbled, squeezing against the wall as armed troops, walking wounded, other stretchers crowded by. Abandoned or smashed equipment and gasping, hurrying figures were everywhere. Above and ahead, the roar and howl of battle went on. The rain pelted down; everything was drenched and fouled with mud. Edmund remembered the man in the dug-out: ‘The attack’s a shambles.’

  Around one corner they floundered, then another. Edmund was already struggling for breath. His arms and shoulders throbbed with pain. Then a trench wall and a ladder were in front of them. One of the other bearers turned. ‘We look for the badly wounded only. If they can walk, they look after themselves. If they’re dead, the poor sods stay there ’til later. Keep your head down.’

  One by one, they clambered up the ladder and clawed their way over the parapet. Edmund was last, heaving the heavy stretcher up ahead of him. He hauled himself over the top, and, still on hands and knees, he stared around him.

  Mud. Mud and shell-holes and smashed barbed wire and sandbags lying twisted in the filthy slush. Then his breath caught. Not sandbags – men. Some motionless, some squirming on the ground like maggots. Over to one side, black and broken stumps of trees. About fifty yards in front, a storm of erupting earth and billowing black smoke where shells were landing. Somewhere in there, men were fighting and dying.

  ‘Come on!’ They began struggling across the ruined ground. A whine, a shriek: they flung themselves face-down in the mud as a fountain of fire and dirt burst from the ground nearby.

  They battled on again, slipping and falling. The din was so dreadful that Edmund thought he would be deaf forever. This was terrible. This was as bad as the Field Punishment – almost.

  Two of the bearers crouched over a shape on the ground. ‘Chum!’ One of them pulled at the figure’s arm. ‘Hey, chum! Can you hear us?’ No sound, no movement. The bearers looked at each other and shook their heads. They stumbled on, bent almost double. A machine-gun rattled nearby. Distant yells and shots sounded in front. The noise never stopped.

  Edmund half-slithered into a shell-hole. He grabbed a log sticking out from the side and pulled himself back up. Only as he stood did he realise the log was a body. Just in front, the others had stopped by another shape on the ground, a shape so caked in mud that Edmund didn’t realise at first it was a man. ‘Chum!’ the bearers shouted again. ‘Hey, chum!’

  This time, the shape stirred and made a sound. ‘Take him,’ one bearer said. They placed the stretcher on the mud and began lifting the soldier onto it. ‘We’ve got you, pal,’ one of them panted. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  They didn’t carry the man back to the trench. The mud was too thick; up to their knees in places. Instead they pushed and dragged their stretcher-load across the ground like a child’s sled, scooping the half-liquid slush away from the front with their hands, sliding and falling. The man lay still now, but every so often he made another noise. Edmund couldn’t make out his face under the filth caking it, but he felt sure the soldier was shorter than his brother.

  Another whine and shriek. Another eruption of fire, not far away. Wet dirt whipped past them, landed on the wounded man. They crawled and struggled on, pulling and shoving their burden.

  Finally, the trench was just ahead. Two of them wriggled over the parapet and down the ladder. Edmund and one other bearer pushed from behind; arms reached up and seized the handles. Other troops grabbed the sides of the stretcher, and dragged it into the trench. Edmund half-climbed, half-fell over the edge and was down in the mud beside it.

  Gasping and heaving, they carried the man to the dugout. The air inside was dank and foul-smelling, smoky from the oil lamps. A medical orderly bent over the stretcher. ‘Well done, you blokes,’ he told the bearers. ‘We can save this one.’

  Edmund and the other three men stumbled out into the trench. They slumped down against the side, eyes closed, chests heaving. They hardly noticed the trampling boots of still more troops thronging towards the front line. All around, the bellow of guns went on. Will the world ever be quiet again? wondered Edmund.

  One of the other bearers offered him a cigarette. Edmund shook his head, managed to mumble ‘No, thanks.’ The man gazed at his plain khaki uniform, no badges, no markings. ‘What lot are you with, chum?’

  Again, Edmund shook his head. ‘I’m a conscientious objector. The Army put this uniform on me.’ The soldier who’d offered him the cigarette glared. ‘So why are you doing this, if you’ve got such high and mighty ideas about war?’

  ‘My ideas aren’t high and mighty,’ Edmund told him. ‘They’re just mine. And I’m doing this to try and save lives, instead of destroying them.’

  The man who’d challenged him was silent. What a time to be having a discussion like this, Edmund thought. He almost laughed, and felt a shudder run through his aching body. He was close to breaking point. He and most of the others around him. How much more of this could a human being stand?

  Another five minutes and they set off again, along the trench, clawing their way up the ladder, sliding over the trench parapet into the howling waste of No Man’s Land, stumbling forward as they searched for more wounded.

  These men are heroes, thought Edmund, as he snatched a glance at the grunting, struggling figures beside him. I hate what they belong to, but they’re heroes.

  A mud-covered bundle on the ground was trying to crawl back towards the British lines, collapsing after just a yard. ‘All right, pal!’ one of the bearers bawled above the rolling roar of the guns. ‘We’ve got you!’

  Once more they loaded a groaning man onto their stretcher. Once more they turned and laboured in the direction of their own front line. They hurled themselves flat as yet another shell came shrieking down to land close by, then got to their feet and hauled, pushed, dragged their burden on.

  The porridgy mud was so thick, it took them nearly half an hour to cover the thirty or so yards back to the parapet. Hands from below reached up again, easing the stretcher down into the trench. They tumbled after it, collapsing on the filthy ground as they tried to recover breath and strength. They blundered on to the dug-out.

  But this time when they laid the soldier down, a different orderly bent over him, shook him, put his ear to his chest and listened. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he straightened up. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘He can’t be!’ protested the bearer who had challenged Edmund. ‘He was moving.’

  The orderly shook his head. ‘He’s gone. Not your fault.’

  Edmund stared at the despairing faces of the other three bearers and felt his own body sag. Why were they trying to do this? What was the use of it?

  Somehow they started out for a third time. They’d saved one life; perhaps they could save another. They were halfway to the ladder leading out of the trench when they had to squeeze against the wall while another stretcher party struggled past. One of the bearers was the CSM, urging the others on. The thick-set figure saw Edmund, and his mouth flopped open again in astonishment.

  Something was different this time. Edmund realised it as soon as they crawled over the parapet. The noise was less. The artillery had mostly stopped. So had the rifle and machine-gun fire from up ahead. Shells still burst across No Man’s Land, but the battle seemed to have worn itself out.

  However, m
en continued to stumble or crawl across the churned-up earth and around shell-holes while the rain thrashed down on them. Voices still called out for help; sobs and moans came from all around.

  They’d gone thirty yards over the ruined ground when a voice yelled ‘Hey! Hey, over here!’ A soldier staggered towards them, holding one arm. His tunic sleeve was torn and blood-stained. His smoke-blackened face was crowned with blood also. Or was it his hair? ‘Over here!’ the man kept yelling. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘You can get back by yourself, pal,’ one of the bearers told him. ‘Keep heading that way. They’ll look after you.’

  The soldier shook his head. He clutched his wounded arm harder and clenched his teeth. ‘Not me – my friend. He’s over here. He’s hurt bad.’

  They squelched after him, hauling the stretcher. Just inside the rim of a shell-hole, a mud-covered shape lay, helmet beside him, silent and unmoving. Edmund’s heart went heavy. Another death.

  But as they knelt beside him, the man moved. His eyes flickered, then shut again. He was so caked with mud that his face was like a black mask.

  ‘Head wound,’ said a bearer. ‘Let’s get him back.’ As they began to lift the limp weight onto the stretcher, the soldier who’d called them tried to help. He bit back a cry as his wounded arm flopped to his side.

  ‘Leave it,’ one of the bearers told him. ‘Go on – get yourself back. We’ll bring him.’ The soldier hesitated, touched his friend’s shoulder, then set off, hunched and lurching, through the pelting rain towards the front line.

  Edmund and the others struggled after him. One of them slipped in a mud patch, and the stretcher tilted wildly until they heaved it back level. Edmund was so exhausted that he wanted only to collapse on the flooded ground and lie there forever. Somehow he dragged himself on, sliding their load across the surface where they couldn’t carry it, pulling himself after it.

  Other wounded men reeled past. The trench edged nearer. The mud-caked, unrecognisable figure on the stretcher moved and moaned once more. Please let this one live, Edmund thought.

  Into the trench they slid and dropped, fighting to keep their burden from falling. Other hands seized the stretcher and steadied it. The soldier with the wounded arm appeared, yelled something at his friend, vanished again.

  They trudged and squeezed on towards the dug-out. All around them, men stood or sprawled, filthy and haggard. I’m still alive, Edmund marvelled. The man they’d brought back …

  Inside the dug-out, Archie was helping to unbutton a blood-soaked tunic. He glanced up as they stumbled in, and stared. What do I look like? Edmund wondered, while they lowered the stretcher to the ground. There was scarcely room for another man. The lantern cast long shadows on the dirt walls. Orderlies stooped and knelt over the crammed figures, bandaging, washing, talking.

  ‘Good pulse,’ said one, as he hunched over the man they’d just brought in. ‘Wash some of that mud off, will you, chum. Let’s get a look at things.’

  Edmund realised the orderly was speaking to him. He glanced around, saw a bucket half-full of bloody water, a rag hanging over the edge. As gently as he could, he wiped caked dirt from the man’s forehead. An ugly, jagged gash ran from beside the nose, beside one eye and up into the hair.

  ‘Looks worse than it is,’ the orderly muttered. ‘He’ll be OK. Get some of that filth out his nose and mouth. Let him breathe properly.’

  Edmund dipped the rag into the bucket again, squeezed it, washed the man’s mouth and nostrils. Mud and caked blood came away. The mouth opened, croaked a half-word.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Edmund told him. ‘You’re safe now.’ He dipped, squeezed, began to wipe once more. The mud on eyelids and one cheek sluiced off, and a face was in front of him.

  The sounds of battle outside stopped. The world went still, except for the hammering of his own heart. He realised the orderly was asking him something. From across the dug-out, Archie called ‘Edmund? What’s wrong, friend?’

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He knelt there, unable to move or speak, staring down at the man opening his eyes beneath him.

  William

  William’s platoon and the others had less than three hours’ rest, sprawled in the shell-wrecked skeleton of a barn, a few miles back down the road. They slumped among the fallen bricks, too tired to make themselves comfortable. Some slept, but every time William closed his eyes, the faces of Jack Kahui, folding quietly to the ground, and the terrified young German, beginning to hold out his hand in the trench, were in front of him again.

  Finally he sat, staring into space. The rain still drove down, dripping through the torn roof of the barn, puddling on the earth floor. The guns thundered, ahead and behind. Beside him, Jerry hunched, rocking backwards and forwards, looking at nothing.

  William rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Take it easy, pal. There was nothing you could do.’ Jerry didn’t reply. On his other side, Herbert half-lay, face drawn and filthy. ‘Will’s right, chum,’ he said. ‘We three have to look after one another now.’

  The voice of Sergeant Molloy echoed through the barn. ‘Attention to the officer!’

  ‘Stay where you are, chaps.’ Mr Gowing looked more exhausted than any of them. The bandage on his hand was stained with blood and dirt. ‘Time to check your gear. We’re moving back up to the line in half an hour. We’ve had orders to capture a stretch of trench just along from the one we took this morning. We need to make sure the Huns can’t come at us from the side. No time to bring reserve troops up. This has to be done quickly.’

  ‘Why?’ Heads jerked as the voice came. It was Jerry, struggling to his feet, face tight. ‘What’s the point of it, sir? You said yourself that Jack Kahui was a good soldier and a good man. How many others have we lost? Now they want us to lose even more, just so they can have another hole in the ground!’

  The red-haired soldier’s voice was harsh and wild. William reached up to pull him back. He’d been thinking the same thing, but to say it out loud …

  ‘Sit down, O’Brien!’ Sergeant Molloy shouted. ‘Sit down, or I’ll put you under arrest!’

  Mr Gowing lifted a hand. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant.’ He spoke quietly, but they could hear him even above the guns. ‘I know how you feel, O’Brien, but it’s not our job to question orders. Things are happening all over the battlefield. We may be attacking here to help our fellows break through somewhere else. Those in command do the best they can.’ He paused. ‘You fought splendidly this morning, O’Brien. All of you did. I’m asking you to fight splendidly again.’

  ‘Sir.’ Jerry stared at the ground.

  Sergeant Molloy lifted his voice. ‘Right, check your rifles. A hundred rounds of ammunition per man. Two Mills Bombs. They’re outside. Get moving, then!’

  Across the muddy floor of the barn, men began to stand. William pictured the officer with the red tabs on his collar who had hailed them so cheerfully as they trudged back. Was he doing his best, too, like Mr Gowing said? How would they ever know?

  Engines suddenly snarled above them as they filed out of the barn and began lining up on the road. Men ducked, began to lift rifles. Dark shapes with circles of red, white and blue on their wings swept out of the clouds, then vanished into the rain, heading for the front lines. Aeroplanes. A minute later, explosions and machine-gun fire could be heard. ‘They’re bombing the Hun lines!’ someone called.

  More noise. Different engines, clanking and growling. Around a bend in the road, a shape lumbered into view. A steel wall, higher than a wagon, thick metal treads running in a loop along its sides, machine-guns poking from slits, a bigger gun thrusting forward. Another appeared behind it, then another, rumbling through the pouring rain. Tanks. William and the others gaped as they crawled past. How can anyone stand against such monstrous things? he wondered.

  Mr Gowing shouted above the noise. ‘They can go straight through barbed wire, crush enemy trenches. Everything’s being done to help us, chaps!’

  Five … six … eight. The ta
nks ground on, no faster than a man marching, but growling unstoppably along the narrow road and fading into the rain ahead. From the direction of the German lines, the aeroplanes came skimming back, one of them trailing black smoke. The things I’ll be able to tell Edmund if we ever meet again, William thought.

  He took a deep breath, tried to grin at Jerry standing beside him. Five minutes later, heads bent as the rain drove down harder, they were sloshing back along the road, towards the front line they had left such a short time before.

  They passed clips of ammunition to one another as they marched. Those who had Mills Bombs handed one to those who didn’t have any. There weren’t enough to go around.

  ‘The generals are in a hurry,’ said Herbert as 3 Platoon trudged through the spreading puddles. ‘Hope they’ve had time to think this through properly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind waiting for a couple of years while they do,’ grunted someone from further back. Nervous laughter rippled along the ranks. William kept his head down so the rain didn’t drive into his face. Will I ever be properly dry and warm again? he wondered. Just ahead of him, Jerry plodded on. He’d said nothing since his outburst to Mr Gowing. Maybe he was too tired to speak. William’s eyes felt like filled sandbags. His back and shoulders ached; his soaked uniform chafed his skin.

  Inside an hour, they re-entered the maze of trenches. Other troops were also trying to get forward to the front lines. Everywhere was a cram of men and gear. Stretcher-bearers struggled back with their silent or groaning loads. William didn’t dare look at the faces.

  Wounded men lay in every dug-out. William remembered the row of bodies with a sprig of leaves laid on each one. Whoever had done that understood that human life meant something.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Sergeant Molloy kept urging. ‘Hurry up!’ It’s all too soon, William thought. They’re rushing us into this. The artillery was building up once again. A rolling thunder of explosions filled the sky, from which rain continued to pour.