by Hill, David
They reached a section of trench just like the morning’s trench. ‘Quick!’ Sergeant Molloy was calling. ‘Bayonets fixed! Find the nearest ladder. Hurry!’ Gasping and panting, William and the others crowded along, boots sinking into the shin-deep slush of the trench floor. One man slipped, fell face-downward, clambered to his feet trying to wipe the filth from his rifle.
Mr Gowing was shouting at them, too, staring at the watch in his hand. This is going to be a mess, William thought. We’re not ready for this.
Overhead, the drum-beat of guns grew louder and louder. German artillery was firing back. As they crouched against the trench wall, they felt the ground shuddering with explosions. I hope those tanks do their job, William told himself. We’ll need everything we—
Whistles shrilled. Men scrambled for the ladders, swarming up, hurling themselves over the parapet and into No Man’s Land, ready to spread out and advance, just as they had that morning.
But William saw instantly that it wasn’t going to be anything like the morning. The chest-high tangles of barbed wire in front were almost unbroken. Nobody had cut them, the way they had before the first attack.
They bunched there, trying to see a way through. Enemy machine-guns were already firing. William heard the whip-whip-whip of bullets flashing past. We’re sitting ducks, he realised. They’ll shoot us to bits.
Men began scrambling along to one side, slipping and falling, searching for a way through. Then Herbert yelled, ‘Use me! Use me!’ Still gripping his rifle, he crossed his arms over his face, floundered forward, and threw himself down across the wire. Those near him stood stock-still for a second, then they charged forward, too, clambering and trampling over the bridge formed by Herbert’s body, blundering onwards.
The rain blinded them. Mud from a shell-burst showered over them. William wiped his eyes half-clear as he struggled forward. He couldn’t see more than a few yards in front. The trench they were supposed to attack was invisible in the downpour, the flying wet earth, the smoke and explosions up ahead. It’s hopeless, he knew. Hopeless.
Something had happened to their own artillery. The wall of fire that protected them as they advanced in the morning wasn’t there this time. Far fewer shells were landing where the German trenches must be.
William wrenched his head around, trying to see Jerry. No sign. And Herbert – was he still sprawled across the barbed wire behind them? He must be cut to ribbons. Surely—
His feet skidded from under him and he fell. He hadn’t seen the shell-hole. He clawed at the side as he slipped down, fingers digging into the mud. His rifle jerked from his grasp, and he grabbed it just in time, jamming his boots into the slippery slope to hold on.
He lay there, helmeted head just above ground level. Mud and smoke and a couple of shattered trees were all he could see. And bodies. Bodies in mud-coloured khaki uniforms, lying still or crawling on hands and knees. Other men were still trying to advance, wrenching their feet out of the ooze, battling forward, falling again.
Where were the tanks? Why weren’t they attacking, crushing the enemy lines? Then William heard an engine revving wildly. He stared sideways through the rain and smoke, and saw one steel shape, bogged in the mud, tracks spinning, gun pointing at the sky. A whine, the flash and crack of an explosion. He hunched down in the shell-hole. When he raised his head again, the tank lay silent and smoking. Its tracks had stopped turning.
He began dragging himself upwards, scrabbling at the slushy earth. His rifle snagged and as he glanced down to free it, he glimpsed something half-floating in the scummy water at the bottom of the shell-hole. A body.
A hand seized his arm and hauled him to his feet. Jerry, uniform sodden and torn, face filthy with mud. A little further on, he saw Mr Gowing, stooped over a fallen soldier. There was no line of attacking men, the way there’d been this morning. Just a jumble of 3 Platoon and others, fighting their way through the terrible mud, while rain and shells kept falling.
Even as William straightened up, machine-gun bullets came snapping past, a line of fountains erupting from the slush near him. A man two yards away spun sideways, fell, didn’t move again. Everywhere William looked, the ground was strewn with dead and wounded.
‘Come – on!’ Jerry was bawling in his ear, but William could barely hear him above the roar of artillery and the crack of rifles. He stumbled forward again. His boots were balls of mud; wrenching one from the swamp of No Man’s Land seemed to take all his strength.
Somehow he kept moving. That morning he’d felt weirdly alone on the battlefield. Now, there seemed to be dying or panting men all around him. And everywhere the noise of the guns, like great monsters bellowing.
They hauled themselves around another shell-hole, coughing as smoke blew past. A body lay in the bottom of this one, too. No, a figure desperately trying to climb up the sides. Then an explosion, a fury of flying earth that sent them staggering sideways, and when William peered down again, the shell-hole had half-collapsed, burying whoever was in it under masses of mud.
He heard a different sort of cry. A soldier had turned, was trying to run back to the trenches they’d started from. William glimpsed a terrified white face, eyes wild and bulging. The man had broken under the horror of it all. Next minute, Sergeant Molloy had the soldier, yelling into his face, wrenching him around towards the German line, somewhere ahead in the smoke.
For a second, William seemed to see and hear everything at once. The wasteland of rain and mud, blackened tree-stumps, shell-holes, wrecked machines and wrecked men. The screams of voices and falling shells. The foul smoke and deafening explosions. This isn’t heroism, he knew. This isn’t war. This is Hell.
Still no sign of Herbert. The enemy line seemed to be about thirty yards in front. Would they ever make it? Rifle and machine-gun fire grew louder with every step as they battled forward. A burst of bullets split the air to one side, and William hunched over, head sunk into his shoulders.
He straightened up again, and his back went cold. Jerry was hit. His friend lurched sideways, hand clamped to his right arm. Blood was already pouring out, soaking the sleeve of his tunic. His rifle dropped. He stood swaying, staring at William. His lips moved, but no sound came.
William threw himself through the slush to Jerry’s side. With strength he never knew he had, he seized the torn tunic sleeve and ripped it apart. Blood streamed from a deep gash in Jerry’s upper arm. A glint of white bone showed.
Amazingly, the First Aid lessons of months ago in their New Zealand training camp were instantly in his mind. From his own tunic pocket, he snatched the tightly wadded field dressing, shoved it hard into the armpit on Jerry’s wounded side. ‘Keep your arm – down against you!’ he told the dazed soldier. ‘It’ll help – stop the bleeding.’ He grabbed Jerry’s field dressing, too, tore it open and wound the bandage as hard as he could around his friend’s arm. Straight away the bandage was blotched with red, but the flow of blood seemed to be less.
‘I’ll find help. You sit here!’ He pushed the red-head down onto the ground.
‘Be – careful!’ grunted Jerry through clenched teeth.
William straightened up again and stared around. In the space of just a few minutes, the attack seemed to have stopped. On all sides, men were moving back, turning to fire behind them as they stumbled along, helping others, slipping and falling in the mud. William saw Mr Gowing, one arm raised and signalling, revolver gripped in his fist.
He saw stretcher-bearers, too. Four of them, three with Red Cross armbands, labouring through the mud twenty yards away, heaving their heavy stretcher. ‘Hey!’ He began to yell as loudly as he could over the storm of the guns. ‘Hey! Over here!’
They hadn’t heard him. William struggled towards them, gasping and shouting. ‘Hey! Over—’
An ear-splitting shriek rose suddenly behind him. As he started to throw himself down, a white flash erupted on his left. A wall of heat slammed at him. A bellowing roar dinned in his ears. At the same moment, someone smashed him ac
ross the head with a steel bar. He felt the blow on his helmet, heard it ring like a gong with the impact. His head swelled with heat and noise. Hot rain gushed over one eye.
He reeled sideways, trying to understand. Somehow an enemy soldier had crept up and attacked him. But how – he tottered in a circle, trying to see and protect himself, peering from one eye. There was nobody near.
Jerry, he told himself. I have to get help for Jerry. ‘Hey!’ he shouted again. It wasn’t a shout; it was a croak. His legs wouldn’t hold him up. His head seemed to be filling with darkness. From somewhere far away, he watched himself crumple down into the mud.
Thunder was rumbling above him, William realised. And rain was falling on him. He must have been caught in a sudden shower while he was walking to work. No. No, he was on the battlefield. He was lying down, for some reason. He had to get up. Jerry … that’s right, he had to get help for Jerry.
But his legs wouldn’t work when he told them to, and his head kept throbbing. His helmet – what had happened to his helmet? I have to get a stretcher party for Jerry, he remembered now. He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn’t work, either.
Strange things were happening to the daylight. It kept going dark, growing bright again, then fading once more. He felt so tired. He could easily go to sleep right there on the soaked ground. No, he told himself, I mustn’t do that. There’s something I have to do first. Jerry …
Faces drifted in front of him. His mother and Jessie. Edmund: he had to talk to Edmund, too. Violet from the tennis club. He’d made his mind up – when he got back home, he’d ask Violet if …
His head felt hot still, in spite of the rain. Hot and different, somehow. He tried to open his eyes, and see where the stretcher parties were. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see anything. Was he—
He could see something – just. Men, hurrying, staggering back towards the trench they’d started from. There was Mr Gowing, helping one along. Should he salute? he wondered. No, I’ll look silly, lying on the ground and saluting.
Nobody seemed to notice him. It didn’t matter, William decided. I’ll just lie here and go to sleep. Or die. Dying didn’t seem to matter, either. The light grew bright, then started to darken once again. Everything was fading, further and further away. I’m cold, he realised: cold and soaked through. I really should go inside and change my wet clothes. What will Ma say if she sees me all filthy like this? She’ll really give me a telling-off.
‘William! Will!’ That was his name. He must be in school. No, he was in the training camp, and somebody was ordering him to get up. He tried to say ‘Yes, sir’, but his mouth was half-full of mud.
‘Will!’ He knew that voice. He tried to speak again, managed a croak. Next second, Jerry was there, staring into his face, eyes wild and frightened. Jerry looked different, too. There was a blood-stained bandage on his arm. William remembered that bandage. Hadn’t he …
‘Are you all right? Will?’ Again he made a croaking sound, tried to nod his head. But his head felt twice its normal size. And it hurt. It really hurt. Why hadn’t he noticed that? Hammers pounded inside it.
Jerry’s face vanished, and another one was there. A man he’d never seen before. ‘Head wound,’ he heard the man saying. No, it’s Jerry’s arm that’s wounded, he wanted to tell them.
‘Can’t see how bad,’ the man was telling others. ‘All that mud. Let’s get him moving.’ Then hands and arms were all around him, lifting him, lowering him onto something. A stretcher. This is wrong, he wanted to tell them. The stretcher is for Jerry. I’m – but noises and sights and the world were going dark and distant, like they had before.
Gaspings and gruntings were what he heard next. He was rocking, lurching from side to side. A boat? No, he remembered – the stretcher. Men were carrying him. His head still hurt. Hurt badly, but it didn’t matter. I’ve seen war, he thought. I know war’s a mess. That’s what matters.
Words were being spoken. William couldn’t hear them properly. Couldn’t hear the guns properly either, but he knew they weren’t firing so much. Everyone must be going home. Won’t that be wonderful?
He could see from one eye. The other felt glued shut. Rain was still falling on him, but it was good and cool. The sky looked dark and low and sodden. He could make out the stretcher-bearers’ arms, as they clutched and staggered along. Khaki tunics, one with no badges on. Helmets and bare, wet heads.
He rose up, so suddenly that he almost cried out. Then he was dropping down, down, and more hands and arms were all around him. He glimpsed clay walls on either side, men pushing past. Some glanced at him; most just plodded along. He was in the trench.
Jerry’s face thrust at him. His friend was all right, even though William hadn’t helped him. Good.
‘Herbert—’ William tried to understand what Jerry was saying. ‘Herbert … safe.’ That’s good, too, he decided. He felt himself being carried again. More exhausted faces passed by. Their attack must have failed. Somehow he knew that. It was another thing that didn’t matter.
Once more, the world faded to blackness. When things came back, it was still dark, except for a dull glow near him. An oil lamp. He was in a shelter or a deep trench of some sort. Another strange face was looking into his. It turned away and said something to another figure nearby.
Then cool water was on his head. A cloth was wiping him, gently, carefully. William kept his eyes closed. The mud was slipping away. His skin felt clean and good. He wanted to thank whoever it was. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips were still caked with dirt, and could only mumble.
‘… all right,’ a voice said, as the cloth wiped wonderfully again. ‘… safe now.’ William felt the world stop. He knew that voice, too. He listened, but it didn’t say any more. Nobody was speaking or stirring. Everything had gone still.
He forced his eyes open and gazed up. Then he knew that even though he felt awake, he must be dreaming, or even dead. Because the shocked, disbelieving face of his brother Edmund was there. Edmund, a wet cloth clutched in one hand, staring down at him.
William and Edmund
Four hours later, the two of them were on their way to a rear First Aid Post, where William would be treated and then sent to hospital. A line of stretchers threaded slowly along the trenches, carrying blood-stained figures. William lay on his back, head covered with bandages, gazing at the sky. Edmund held one of the stretcher handles. Whenever they stopped, he stared down at his elder brother. Sometimes he rested a hand on William’s shoulder, as though to make sure he was really there.
The soldier who’d guided them to William on the battlefield had appeared again just before they left the dug-out, one arm in a sling. ‘Sergeant Molloy says you have to get well fast,’ he gabbled to the wounded figure. ‘He says they need someone to look after me!’ He took William’s hand in his unhurt one, then turned to Edmund. ‘And you look after him, chum.’
Edmund smiled. ‘I will. After all, he’s my brother.’
The red-haired soldier’s eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of his head. ‘Brother? What – How – Who – Why?’
William managed a half-grin. ‘I’ll tell you later, Jerry. Come and visit me, pal. I’ll try to find you some pretty nurses.’
In the moments after their gaze met in the dark, echoing dug-out, both William and Edmund seemed unable to move. For long seconds, they stared at each other. Then they were both exclaiming at once. ‘William! You’re alive!’ ‘Edmund! Is it you?’ Their hands met, clasped, held. Words poured from them, without their knowing what they said.
Archie came stooping over to see what was happening. ‘This – it’s William,’ Edmund managed to say. ‘My brother. It’s him! My brother!’
Edmund’s friend stared. Then a smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. ‘Dear God. Who would believe it?’ He reached down and took William’s other hand carefully in his. ‘You should be proud of this young man.’
William spoke, weak but clear. ‘I am. I’m very prou
d.’ Edmund began to smile, felt something on his face, and realised he was weeping.
They told each other a little of what had happened to them. Not very much: Edmund kept being called away to help as more stretchers came in, with more silent or groaning figures. The second time he came back to where William lay, his elder brother was asleep. Edmund knelt and gazed at the filthy, blood-smeared face for a few seconds. He touched William’s cheek and heard himself give a long, slow sigh.
Outside, the noise of fighting had almost stopped. A few guns fired far off, paused, fired again. For the moment, the battle seemed to be over. Another figure appeared in the dug-out entrance. A young officer with a bandaged hand. ‘I’m looking for William Hayes.’
Edmund stared. It was Archie who replied. ‘Here. A nasty gash in the head, but he’s going to be all right.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ The officer squeezed his way to where William lay. Edmund made his way over, also. William blinked up. ‘Hello, sir.’
‘Hello, Hayes. Very pleased to hear you’ll be OK. The other chaps want to send you their best.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gowing.’ William lifted a shaky hand in Edmund’s direction. ‘Sir, this is my – my brother. Edmund.’
Mr Gowing’s mouth dropped open. ‘Your brother? Heavens above!’ He looked at Edmund, then at William again. ‘Yes, I can see he is.’ The officer shook Edmund’s hand and spoke the same words that Archie had spoken. ‘You should be proud of this young man.’
Edmund smiled. ‘As someone else said, just a little while ago – I am. I’m very proud.’
After another hour, the line of stretchers had reached the rear trenches. Already, the war seemed a little further away. Edmund had no idea whether there had been a victory or a defeat. He couldn’t care. His brother was safe. Just now, nothing else mattered.
