Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  The War Office sent me a letter that said I had three weeks before I was reassessed for fitness to die. I’ve spent a week at home and it’s been great. Mum has fed me up and dad boasts to everybody about his son’s VC. I went into a local grocer for some spuds and he wouldn’t take the money that I tried to pay with. I told him he’d go bust like that and he laughed and said it’s just this once, just to say thanks. What is he thanking me for? I don’t know.

  On the second Friday I was pleased to discover that Speedy was in the Cumberland. His sight is saved but his eye is a little smaller looking and his face a bit scarred. He’s in good spirits and we spent some time talking. He’s having dreams too and feels that there are not many people he can talk to about it. He doesn’t agree with me about the shame idea. He reckons that what happens is we all have an image of ourselves. That image is based on our everyday personality and we develop an idea of ourselves based on what we would prefer to be like. In extreme circumstances, like the front, we are faced with the reality of how we act when our bodies are driven by the chemicals inside us and we revert to a savage state.

  He reckons we can then do one of two things: Either we desperately wish and pretend things were more how we’d like them to be, in which case we break down, or we can just accept and adapt and come to terms with reality. He has some interesting ideas, Speedy. We got drunk and the conversation stopped making sense. The publican knows I’m not twenty one and so does the local copper. Nobody cares about that anymore.

  I’ve just got back from visiting Simon, it was an interesting trip. I took a train out into Hertfordshire. Since I’m good for cash at the moment I travelled second class. That was lucky because I learned that the main Ware station has a short platform. It’s one of those places where the scum in third class, always the rear carriages, are not allowed to get off. I’ve never really thought about that before. Who do these bastards think they are, telling us where we can and can’t get off a train?

  Hertfordshire is short of motor buses but I managed to find a local horse and trap to hire. The owner was a taciturn uncommunicative curmudgeon but knew his way about and was content to take me. He took me to a place called Cold Christmas just outside Ware, Cold Christmas is so named because when the houses were being built it was a particularly chilly winter and they rushed to complete the build. As a result the bottom half of the houses are brick and the upper floors wood framed and filled with plaster.

  He dropped me off near the church and told me how to find Penn Court Manor, about a mile cross country, just follow the track through the iron gates. It was a nice walk. The day was warm and I stopped by a pond to wash down my face and drink a bit. Fear of water borne disease has been pretty much cancelled by the slop I’ve been drinking in the trenches.

  Simon was pleased to see me.

  I said “I’m sorry Speedy isn’t here. He likes you but he said he’d feel out of place here. He’s got a bit of a thing about the class system. I think he might be a closet socialist.”

  Simon laughed. “It’s understandable. I’m drifting that way slightly myself. When it was all on top for us three, class didn’t matter a jot, did it?” he said.

  “No,” I replied. “Who cares how toffee nosed the posh bloke is as long as he can fight.” We both laughed and shook hands warmly.

  His family was nice. His dad died from a blood infection many years ago. His mum was polite and tried to be friendly but found it awkward to talk to me. I don’t have any problem with that; she’s spent her whole life as part of a secluded privileged elite and she probably hasn’t spent much time socialising with the working class. I think she was pleasantly surprised to find I was house trained and didn’t spit on the floor. Both Simon and I found it amusing.

  He introduced me to his sister, the seventeen year old Sarah. I was instantly smitten. I had to remind myself I was back in civilisation and had to conform to the rules of civilised society. She was very pretty, graceful and laughed easily and often, about five feet seven, auburn haired, brown eyed and with one of those smiles that melt into your soul.

  I spent five days at Penn Court Manor. A lot of that time was with Simon but a lot with Sarah as well. I think I fell in love with her over that time. We spent a lot of time walking and talking. She’s very bright and we had plenty to argue about; politics, war, horses and the Empire.

  She thinks that the class system works, I don’t. She thinks that the war is justified and Britain should rule Europe, I don’t and I don’t. She thinks horses are noble and beautiful, I think they are stupid and fart a lot, that made her laugh. She thinks the Empire is a good thing. I think its function, to enforce laws over global free trade, should be the role of a benevolent international body. We agreed that the countryside was wonderful and these walks and fun arguments made for a very pleasant few days.

  On one of these walks she asked me which school I went to. She was surprised when I told her that I only went to the local church teaching group two or three days a week until I was fourteen.

  “But you are so clever and thoughtful,” she said, kindly I thought.

  “I read a lot, we have a library nearby.” She giggled at that for some reason.

  When it came time to leave, Simon told me that he’d had me and Speedy permanently posted to his team. We’d all meet up again at Dover for mobilisation back to France. His mum drove me back to Ware, they have a lovely big motor car but I don’t know the make.

  Sarah and Simon came with us. At the station Simon bought my ticket. I objected at first but then found out that he gets paid 28/-a day, that’s right I said twenty eight shillings. I was shocked, remember I get 1/9d and that’s after the extra for murdering lots of people. How the better classes live, eh? If he gets that, how much does a member of the proper upper classes get? Simon is a simple middle class struggler.

  Sarah was quiet the whole journey to Ware. As I went to enter the station I shook hands with Simon. Sarah came forward and hugged me.

  “Thank you, Sarah,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed this time. Have a wonderful life.”

  She kissed me on the side of the mouth. “Be safe, John. Come back.”

  Her mother gently pulled her from me. Sarah and Simon returned to the car. Their mum placed her hand on my arm and said, “John, Jack, this war is blurring things. I think Sarah loves you at the moment. You are a fine young man and I can understand that. It can never work, you know this. Your worlds are very different. She will grow up and marry a wealthy man and live a privileged life in comfort. You will also have a good life and I hope you are happy in your future. I like and respect you, Jack, but please never return to Ware. Sarah must forget you. If you feel anything for her, you must ignore it and do what is best for her.”

  I looked at her for few seconds. “I know. I understand. I’ll be back in France soon. I will not contact her again, I give you my word.”

  She smiled, touched her fingers to her mouth and them touched my cheek with them. “Be safe, Jack. And keep Simon safe as well.”

  The train journey back supplied its own little event. I was sitting and quietly dozing when I was brought back to full consciousness by a war vigilante.

  “Coward, take that.” The speaker was a middle aged, well spoken woman in expensive clothing. She had placed a white feather in my lap.

  “What?” I exclaimed, confused.

  “You should be at the front, young man. Good men are fighting while you idle your time here. You inadequately brought up ne’er-do-well.”

  “I see, madam. I’ll try to improve. I shall enlist as soon as we reach London. Thank you for correcting me.”

  I could see by her glare that she did understand a sardonic riposte. I placed the white feather in my pocket, I might wear it next to the VC.

  I’m back on a ship. We mustered at Dover. Simon, me, Speedy and some others were reissued our uniforms and issued our lemmies. It’s a n
ice rifle, a bit heavier and better balanced than the smelly but fundamentally the same gun, just made a bit better. The bolt is smooth and easy unlike the sticky difficult bolt on the smelly. It takes the same bayonet and holds ten rounds. It takes two speed clips to load since nobody bothered to make a ten round fast loader clip.

  Simon turned up with his revolver, I learned it belongs to him. He had to buy it because the army had run out by the time he enlisted. I didn’t know that people of Simon’s class in fine houses could buy revolvers without any kind of authorisation.

  They say we’ll be retrained in France. We saw a doctor at Dover in order to assess our fitness. I was a bit suspicious that the medical assessment was at Dover by the foot of the gang plank onto the ship. I wonder how many are failed and returned, I didn’t see any.

  I’m tempted to start this entry with a rude word, I am not happy. Our retraining consisted of a fifty yard dash in full kit, if we managed it we were considered retrained. One lad couldn’t make it and was arrested for malingering. We’ve been told we’re going back to the front, there’s going to be a push. Great, this is why I’m here; John Bull needs his faithful sons to throw themselves pointlessly at the enemy guns. That’s how wars are won. It isn’t really. We have a few nights in camp outside a small town west of Boulogne before we go at it again.

  I dreamed about Sarah last night, I think it’s best I don’t go into detail; ‘young men dream of love’ is probably the politest way to put it. Speedy and I visited the local brothel. Simon counselled against this but we went anyway. We’re going to go back to the front, we need this comfort. The French are very good about this kind of thing. Everybody we passed in the street knew where we were going but nobody was judgemental. I like the French and their easy going attitude to such matters, we could learn from them.

  When we returned to camp we had to complete a typed report requesting replacement French letters. It made me laugh, more absurdly the items were issued before we’d even submitted the request. The army can be very silly about this kind of thing. We also had to see a doctor, regulations require it, who made us wash our privates with methylated spirits, it stung. We declined the offer to see the chaplain, it seems our moral health is important and we’ve been told to see him anyway. Speedy said we don’t need to bother, it’s just so a staff officer can tick a column in the battalion occurrence book, thereby showing he is an efficient leader.

  This entry is about five weeks after the last and it’s been a busy time. Not long after the washing of the genitals, Simon invited us to dine with him in the officers’ mess tent. Speedy didn’t really want to go but I made him. The place was a surprise to both of us. We’d prepared mentally for dinner with the toffs, we expected the middle to lower upper classes to be here. I’m comfortable with them but Speedy dislikes them in a quiet, deliberate and slightly cross way.

  Instead we were in the company of very young men which included a lot of obviously working class lads.

  “So many of the sons of the ruling and privileged elites are dead, we now prepare the hoi polloi for leadership,” explained Simon who was inappropriately jovial.

  “So take a butchers at the new Ruperts, matey, then take the weight of yer plates,” so spoke one of the new officers, deliberately exaggerated London voice as well.

  The serious point about this invitation was that Simon had obtained permission for both me and Speedy to be assessed and then trained for junior officer, after we spent some NCO time. He promptly handed us some stripes and said that after the coming push, oops he wasn’t supposed to mention it, we’d head back to England to get some pips soldered onto our bare shoulders, or something like that.

  It was something to do with, and near to, a place called Arras or something like. Either we had it or they had and we wanted it or they did and we’d had it or they’d had it and we’d take it back or they would try to. I don’t know anymore, all I know is that it’s back to the butcher’s shop for we three.

  Simon marched us all up to the reserve trenches. We passed the usual collection of bloated dead horses and obscenely fat rats that fled as we approached. We knew when we were near because we started to see fallen soldiers. None recent, though. This graveyard was mature and the corpses I saw were beyond the stinky stage. Now desiccated or flesh fallen, they were from both sides of the dispute so there’d been a bit of a long term argy bargy here.

  Most were beginning to merge with the land and this made the place look like we were sowing human nutrients into the soil. I’m not sure I’d want to eat food grown here when this is over.

  Speedy and I commanded five youngsters each. Simon led us and a few other small groups. I gave my boys the usual ‘trust God and your training’ speech. I didn’t know what else to do or tell them; well done for getting here, you idiots, let’s all go and die horribly with a stiff upper lip to show the Hun how Englishmen throw their lives away. I’d like to just clip their ears and send them all back to their mums. I don’t think the war office would approve of that.

  Simon conducted the briefing, he advised us that just before dawn we would move up to the front trench, which was previously the German reserve trench because our reserve trench used to be the German front trench.

  I leaned towards Simon and whispered, “too much information. Just tell them what to do.” He took the advice and stopped trying to put some sensible reasonable spin on what he said. When he blows his whistle we go over and follow the shells creeping towards the enemy in their new not quite ready front trenches, that’s all they needed to know.

  We all stood at ladders in the front trench, one lad wet himself but managed to continue to look steadfast and soldierly. Down came the barrage. Whistle, over we all went. All except one boy who just stood at the bottom looking at the ladder and whimpering. Simon had his revolver in his hand, as per standing orders for attacks, and I hesitated at the top. This had to be resolved fast and I shouted at the boy, he just looked at me, he was weeping.

  Simon raised his revolver to the boy’s head and shouted at him. Simon looked tortured by the thought of what he should do next according to the standing orders and he too was hesitating. There was no time for this, I slid back down the ladder. As I landed in the dirty mud bottom I raised my rifle and using the stock landed the boy an almighty crack to the side of his face. It certainly broke his cheek bone and probably his jaw as well. He collapsed.

  “I saw him fall as we went over, something hit him, I don’t know what. Leave him here and the medics will find him wounded. Terrible bad luck, hit before he even got into the attack,” I said to Simon. He just nodded, for one disturbing moment he looked as if he might kiss me, then he patted me on the back and up we both went to rejoin the charge.

  As we went over I shouted to Simon, “and don’t bloody shoot me this time.” He laughed at me and we rushed to catch the others.

  As always in this mess of a war, the planners got it wrong. The barrage stopped when we were only half way across. To our surprise the Germans stopped firing not long after. It transpired that a detachment of Gurkhas and a mix of Muslim and Sikh infantry had taken the trenches. Meet the Empire, Fritz.

  We only lost about half our men, not bad for a first wave. We’d pushed the Germans back at least four hundred yards, I suppose that counts as a major advance these days. Their defensive fire hadn’t been very effective, most of the damage to our side was from biplanes overhead dropping vicious weighted darts, small bombs and just plain old rocks. That’s handy, I thought, now the boy that I hit won’t look as if he has an unusual injury.

  “God was with us, this day,” cried the chaplain.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here, you damn fool?” Simon replied.

  “Too see God’s work against the barbarians.” He was serious. He had the half bonkers look of the truly pious. A piety that, more often than not, people like him use to control and manipulate other people. Not very Ch
ristian then.

  “Can I shoot him, Sir?” I called to Simon.

  “Best not, Jack.”

  I put my face close to the religious madman, I looked him hard in the eyes. “See this stare?” I snarled at him. “That stare comes from killing people before they kill you. Is that God’s work? Did God want me to butcher an old man or rip the throat out of…” Simon pulled me away.

  We gathered any of our men we could find and returned to our front trench, which was now our reserve trench because the recent German front trench… Oh never mind, you know how it goes.

  When we got back to the rear marshalling fields, intended to house troops awaiting immediate deployment and receive the wounded and exhausted, we settled down to a few days of rest. It was supposed to be just out of range of the enemy guns. Now, thanks to our magnificent victory it was just out of range and then a little bit. I was told that every so often enemy planes take a pot shot at the place but I didn’t see that.

  I had a letter. It was not the usual home newspaper, mags and gossip from mum and dad. This was a light pink envelope addressed in a practised and well presented hand.

  “Oh la la,” said the post master as he handed it to me. The lads around me laughed.

  “Lucky ol’ you, mate,” cried one of them.

  It was from Sarah.

  [Letter glued onto the pages of the journal]

  My Dearest John. My fine man, Jack.

  I hope this letter finds you well and uninjured. How is Simon? I hope the same for him. I shall also write to him. Your letter shall be the more intimate since the peculiar circumstance of this terrible time embolden me.