The fainthearted had no place in the trenches with only the stink of human shit and the sickening stench of rotting flesh for company.
Less than an hour had passed since he’d left Sarah, yet it seemed a million years ago set in another world far from here. Further down the quayside a ship disgorged its bloody cargo: blood-red bandages, screams of pain, lines of ambulances and the ever-present angels of mercy equipped with permanent smiles and smelling of soap and disinfectant. The sights attempted to blot everything else from his mind. Frantically he pushed his hand into his pocket feeling for the watch and was relieved to feel the cold metal. It was still there, it must really have happened. Sarah and Catherine really had existed and it wasn’t merely a passing quirk of his troubled mind. He shivered and felt afraid.
Leaning on the ship’s rail, he watched the waving crowd as the ship’s whistle whoop-whooped. Water churned and frothed grey-white under the throbbing propellers. Soldiers returned the kisses blown across the oily water from the quay and waved back vigorously. Suddenly, the sound of a splash brought boos and cat-calls.
“You bloody coward,” someone shouted.
“I hope you drown, you chicken-hearted sod,” another voice called.
All eyes fell on the man as he struck out for the shore. In full uniform and greatcoat he floundered and disappeared from sight. Then his head bobbed to the surface, uttering words no one could hear above the noise of the shouting. His hands waved and flailed above his head and he slipped down, disappearing below the murky water. The noise abated as people stood on tiptoe craning their necks, waiting in vain for him to reappear. Only the khaki peaked cap bobbing on the waves marked the watery grave.
“Poor bastard’s better off down there than where you lot are going. In a couple of weeks you’ll be wishing you were down there with him,” a sergeant called out. “Now get about your business.”
The sea spread calm like a millpond on a summer’s day, making the crossing easy and pleasurable under the warming spring sun. He found a rare quiet spot and ate his cheese and pickle sandwiches and when he had finished he pulled out his newly-acquired pocket watch and checked the time.
The weather changed from sunshine to a steady but not uncomfortable overcast drizzle at Calais. Rolling his shoulders he shrugged away the gloom. Aboard a London bus he entered the blood-letting theatre of war. Soon the green of Mother Nature gave way to the manmade hell, a place where nothing but misery ever grew. At Serre, in northern France, he caught up with the Yorkshire Rifles. Nothing had changed and Sergeant Bull still kept a watchful eye on the newly-promoted Captain Devonshire like a doting mother. Fresh troops shipped in to make up the depleted numbers were ready to face a battle of attrition; their prize, a few sparse fields of rotting turnips and potatoes.
“Glad to have you back, lad. Not a lot going on at the moment so try and take things easy while you have the opportunity,” Sergeant Bull said.
“Good to see you, Corporal Elkin,” Captain Devonshire said, pumping his hand in an unexpected display of friendliness. “How are you, my man, did enjoy your leave? Rogered a few beauties I’ll be bound! Good man, one needs to make up the population these days.”
To Sergeant Bull’s amusement Thomas frowned and failed to understand the gist of the question, so he answered with just a small smile and a nod. The captain still trembled like a sack of frightened jellyfish and Thomas wondered where on earth he found his courage from.
“Get yourself north of the village, lad, there’s a large farmhouse with a red roof, you can’t miss it, get settled in there for the time being,” Sergeant Bull said. “Fritz is too busy running to do any mischief for now.”
The next day they were joined by a company of cyclist soldiers from the Highland Light Infantry from a village further south called Vraignes. Their arrival brought good-natured catcalls and whistles, as their kilts fluttered in the air leaving nothing to the imagination and answering the imponderable.
“Only little girls and babbies wear knickers, you heathen bunch of Sassenachs,” they called back.
Both Vraignes and Serre had been razed to the ground in accordance with the Germans’ scorched earth policy. The usual trail of devastation and raped women lay in their wake as they fell back to re-group and the men hated the Germans more with each day that passed. When they came face-to-face in the final reckoning the bayonet would sink a little deeper and Fritz would settle in full for his abnormal cruelty. For months they had fought and died, only to be rewarded with the ruined remnants of a town or village that offered less than nothing, no running water and no electricity to heat water for something as simple as a bath. The rain steadily increased, and once again the front resembled a quagmire. Horses left standing overnight sank to their bellies, and officers drew their pistols and shot them were they stood. Groups of men, tired and weary caked in wet clinging mud, watched, hissing and sneering openly at the officers. A beautiful bay mare blinked slowly as an officer raised his revolver.
“Put that bloody gun away, you useless turd,” Neil Letts spat at the young chinless lieutenant.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Private?” the officer snapped, startled by the sharpness of Letts’ tone.
“We need those horses a bloody sight more than we need the likes of you, now fuck off,” Letts replied, looking the officer full in the face.
“Sergeant, arrest that man and bring him to colonel’s quarters immediately,” the officer said lowering his revolver.
“What man would that be, Sir?” Sergeant Bull said evenly.
“You know precisely who I mean, and that’s an order.”
A hush descended over the village and men turned from their tasks – this wasn’t the first time conscripted men had turned their anger and resentment towards officers. The young officer raised the revolver and pointed the muzzle at Sergeant Bull’s head.
“I shall tell you one more time, Sergeant, arrest that man!” the officer said in a rising falsetto voice.
“I’m arresting no one, Sir. So it’s best you pull the trigger, Sir, if you’ve a mind to,” Sergeant Bull said, staring directly into the officer’s face. “Letts, get some shovels and men and start digging those horses out of the mud before they disappear, there’s a good chap.”
The young officer froze. Unsure of his next move he stared at Sergeant Bull. The metallic click of a bolt drawn and slammed closed echoed in his ears, followed by another click, then another. Suddenly he felt his self-respect drain from his body, flushed away in a tide of disgust at his uncertainty. He looked at the rifles turned towards him and gasped, knowing they would pull the triggers. It mattered not a great deal to them, tomorrow or the day after they would die anyway. He grimaced and clenched his teeth.
“You men,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t break to a shriek, “get some shovels and do as the sergeant says, quickly now.”
“Thank you for your help, Sir, much appreciated it is,” Sergeant Bull said calmly.
“Yes, well carry on,” the officer muttered, backing away.
Rumours were rife of officers who’d disappeared overnight after incurring the wrath of their men. These men were snipers and he was aware that the same might happen to him one moonless night.
“Bloody hell, Bully’s got some bloody nerve, I thought he were a dead man for sure, lad,” Stan Banks said to Hill.
Sheets of blinding rain saturated the men to the skin, doubling the weight of their uniforms and equipment. The skin on their backs and shoulders stung red raw with chafing webbing, and the clinging ankle-deep mud sucked at their feet, wearing them down until their limbs ached. They walked in silence, eyes fixed on the back of the man in front. Some fell and floundered, paddling in the thick mud with cold hands in an attempt to rise. Hands gripped at exhausted bodies and helped them to their feet and a few paces onward the same men would succumb once more. Past tiredness and past caring they sank into a mindless oblivion, all shards of common decency ripped from their shambling existence. Again, withou
t prejudice, the strongest hauled the desperately tired bodies from the filthy clinging swamp, ignoring the screams and wails of broken men eager to die and vanquish the misery forever.
News that the French Army had mutinied against the way they were treated sent British morale plummeting to an all-time low.
“Would you believe it, eh? Only the bloody frogs would do a runner,” one of the newly-arrived replacements said. “Thirty thousand of the cowards left their trenches and went home.”
“Aye, if I catch one of those red-legged bastards in my sights he’s as good as dead,” another man grumbled, referring to the red trousers worn by French soldiers.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Sergeant Bull snapped, sensing the unrest and growing resentment.
Sergeant Bull knew the men were tired and talk of mutiny had become commonplace for weeks. Months of forced hardship and the constant degradation of living like animals in the filthy infested trenches had stretched their taut nerve ends to breaking point. The night patrols he sent out ventured no further than a few yards from their own lines, and in the morning when they came back they muttered a garbled report invented by their own imagination. A normal night’s sleep became almost impossible as men shook with fear at the thought of death or, worse, mutilation. Lately some had been seen waving their helmets above the trenches in the hope of taking a sniper’s bullet in the arm. Some even lay brazenly on top of the parapet and raised their feet, waiting for a sniper’s bullet in the leg and a one-way ticket to Blighty.
“It’s true, Sergeant, on my life. Mate of mine saw it happen with his own eyes,” the conscript continued.
Later the words were found to be true. Four hundred French ring-leaders were tried and found guilty of mutiny and treason. Fifty were executed by firing squads made up of their own friends and the remainder sent to the penal colony on Devil’s Island. The French Army, to its disgrace, had offered to defend its own country but refused to leave the trenches and participate in any attacks, leaving the bulk of the British Army to fight alone on the Western Front.
Three days later Thomas watched disinterestedly at the sight of Sergeant Bull approaching. As usual, he displayed the ever-present bobbing head now synonymous throughout the battalion.
“Report to Captain Devonshire’s quarters, eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Sergeant Bull told him and left without another word. Thomas shrugged his shoulders.
The following morning, holding a groundsheet over his head in a vain attempt to keep out the sheeting rain, he dragged his feet through the morass of clinging mud and made his way to the large empty house where Captain Devonshire quartered. He stopped and waited for a convoy of lorries to pass, crossed the road and made his way up a worn gravel path full of deep potholes filled with brackish water. The men told him they had heard rumours that the captain kept two French waitresses as mistresses, and Thomas promised to keep his eyes open and let them know if the rumours were true.
“Sit down, Corporal, no need to stand on ceremony. We all know each other well enough by now,” the captain said smiling, the twitch still visible on his mouth.
Thomas grabbed a wooden chair and made himself comfortable facing his commanding officer. The face beneath the peaked hat was hard with the stubble of a prohibited beard, his eyes dull and set far apart. Thomas felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for the captain. He was a good and decent man who held the safety and well-being of his men close to his heart. He knew many of them by name, those who had a wife or a fiancée waiting for them back home. At burials he could always be relied on to be present with a small white wooden cross for the spot of a fallen comrade, and he would lead the reciting of the Lord’s Prayer in a loud, solemn voice. Like the rest of them he’d been forced into a war he wanted no part of, and the men referred to him a gent and held him in the highest respect. Sergeant Bull in particular knew the comforting effect the captain had on his men.
“I’m concerned about the number of men we have been losing, and both Sergeant Bull and I have come up with an idea which might concern you, Corporal Elkin,” he beamed. “How would you feel about taking forty of our best shots and turning them into snipers? Your own little band of merry men, so to speak. it’ll work wonders for morale.”
Thomas felt his brow crinkle and gazed in embarrassment down at his mud-caked boots. No officer had ever asked him how he felt about doing anything before. He was used to accepting orders and obeying them. It was always that simple, without fuss and the way he preferred it. Now he was unsure how to respond. He felt a mixture of pride and humbleness, although he doubted whether the men would be merry.
“Don’t sit there looking your age, Elkin, answer the captain,” Sergeant Bull said, glaring though narrowed eyes.
“Well yes, Sir, I could manage that, if you think I could, Sir,” he stammered. “What would we do with forty snipers? We can’t have them crawling all over the place. Fritz would soon find out and retaliate in kind.”
Sergeant Bull nodded and smiled his approval at the answer.
“Not if they were to operate in four groups of ten and alternate in different positions at different times. With Hill, Letts, Banks and you with nine men apiece you could cause havoc. With you in overall command I think it’s a splendid idea. I’ve heard what you did with a rifle a few long months back. It’ll keep Fritz’s head down and give us a better chance of survival,” the captain said.
“You’ve got three weeks to find and train your men, Corporal Elkin,” Sergeant Bull said. “I want them up and down the line harassing and skirmishing with the enemy as soon as possible. There’s talk a big push is on the cards, starting at Ypres. The weather we are having at the moment is forecast for weeks and I want all the help we can get. Raise the men’s morale – we want to send them home, not into graves.”
“Excellent,” said the captain. “Well spoken, my sentiments exactly. I think that deserves a little drink. Tell me, do you like cognac, Corporal Elkin?”
Thomas threw Sergeant Bull a quizzical look. The sergeant turned away hoping Thomas never noticed the small smile play across his lips while the captain pulled out a bottle from an ornate drinks cabinet with broken doors. With fumbling hands, he attempted to remove the cork, almost losing his grip on the bottle.
“Let me, Sir,” Sergeant Bull said.
Thomas watched the two men drink and threw the cognac down his throat. Seconds later his stomach caught fire and exploded, sending a rush of breath erupting from his mouth followed by a bout of coughing.
“Bloody hell!” he said, forgetting the company he was in. “That were reet hot, that were.”
The captain laughed. “What did you do before you joined the army, Corporal Elkin?”
“I helped my father on his farm, Sir,” he said, struggling for breath.
“Must be an incredibly healthy life, you don’t look old enough to be in the army. Still, all that fresh air, eh? Perhaps we can find work for you round here, must be a farm somewhere nearby, eh?”
“Yes, Sir, I’m sure there is, Sir,” Thomas said, glancing at the sergeant staring back expressionless.
“On your way, lad,” the sergeant said, nodding his head towards the door. “And you might find a use for this,” he added, handing him a new Mauser sniper rifle similar to the one he’d stolen in Quadrangle Wood.
Neil Letts clapped his hands and thought it was a grand idea, so did Leslie Hill. As Thomas expected Stan Banks remained silent. For some reason, today, Banks’s petulant attitude annoyed him and, out of character, he rounded on him.
“Whether or not you agree is no concern of mine, Banks,” he snapped angrily. “I want nine men from each of you in three days, so instead of whinging and whining, get on with it. That’s an order.”
“Soldiers like to whinge, it’s one of our privileges, but like most of other things I didn’t expect you to know that. You are becoming a regular little Kaiser, aren’t you?” Stan Banks sneered.
Leslie Hill fidgeted and stared down at his boots.
> Thomas felt a coldness cross his shoulders and stared at Banks through the grey drizzling rain. For the first time he was shocked at Banks’s dishevelled appearance, his uniform streaked in mud and hanging open, unbuttoned and lank. He’d aged dramatically and his sunken eyes stared back impassively. Even his stoop seemed more pronounced than ever before. His trembling hands pushed deep into his pockets to avoid the questioning looks of the other men. When he ate he bolted his food down whole and when he drank the liquid trickled down his chin like an infant. He’d almost become a recluse, like a hermit in a solitary world of his own choosing. Twice he’d refused the offer of leave and respite from the hell and terror of the trenches. He felt too afraid to go for fear he might lack the courage to return and would be branded a coward. Already the wickedness of war had taken his brother, Eli, and he would heap no shame on his family name.
For a moment Thomas felt a surge of overwhelming pity for the man who had once been his best friend, his only friend. He wanted to extend his hand in everlasting friendship, yet kindness seemed out of place, a mark of weakness in the unnatural surroundings where only raw courage and strength survived. On the day he died, Robert McCaughey had told him the trenches were no place to harbour bad feeling towards each other. He hesitated briefly, and then walked away.
In the farmhouse he removed his helmet and swept his hand across his wet brow, tugged off his boots, threw himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Sooner or later, unless death took either one first, it was inevitable that he and Stan Banks would need to settle their differences. The thought even crossed his mind that Banks might be his saviour, a means to an end, and maybe if he riled him enough he might be the one to pull the trigger. Perhaps one day he might give him the opportunity.
Three days passed and the mud became deeper, in some places waist high, the latrines overflowed and the excrement ran out, mixing with the mud and turning it a sickly orange colour. Every company had a sanitary man. Dan, Dan, the sanitary man they called him, regardless of his proper name. He’d come with a can of creosote on his back, and pumping up the can he sprayed the trenches to keep out undesirable smells. It made little difference and the men took to wearing gasmasks to prevent continual vomiting. Arguments over trivial matters broke out, bayonets were drawn and waved in temper, rifles were raised and safety catches released. The balance of the men’s minds became precarious and the trenches were vacated.
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