Eventually, they came to a dead-end and saw three men covered in grimy glistening sweat working the mine face. One man lay on his back on a wooden board with his feet facing the blue clay. In his hands he held a shovel, which he stabbed into the clay, and then using his feet he pushed it further into the face and twisted.
“Clay kicker, that’s what they call him. He digs out the clay and the second man pulls it away to pass to a third man waiting behind, who bags it. Three men operate the trolleys and take the bags to the mine entrance to be deposited where the Germans won’t see them, or they use them to reinforce the trenches. Another man works a set of manual bellows, pumping in fresh oxygen,” Leslie Hill said.
“How the bloody hell do you know all this?” Stan Banks asked screwing up his eyes.
Hill never got the opportunity to answer.
“Hello, boyos, come to look after us have you?” Taff Palfrey from Cardiff interrupted. “About bloody time, the bloody Germans are everywhere tonight, boyos. You’ll see some action tonight, I can guarantee it. This here is Billy Williams, and this handsome young man is Bryn Evans. Where are you boyos from then?”
“We are from the Yorkshire Rifles,” Hill answered.
“Pudding makers are you?” Palfrey chuckled loudly at his own joke. “I’m a tenor in the Cardiff Operatic Society, Bryn here is a landlord, owns his own pub he does, lucky bastard, and Bill, well he’s a real miner, see. Trouble with the English generals is they think everyone born in Wales digs bloody great holes for a living.”
“Don’t you get cave-ins?” Stan Banks asked, looking round tentatively at the dull blue clay.
“All the time, boyo, all the time, but don’t let anyone else know, or they’ll all bugger off and won’t come back,” Palfrey said, glancing at Hill’s paling face.
“Don’t listen to that silly bugger,” Williams said, shaking his head from side-to-side. “There’ll be no cave-ins while I’m in charge. Safe as a Chinaman in a curry shop we are. The thing is, bach, we can hear Fritz scratching away like a rat in a sandwich and we’ve arranged a little reception for him.”
Stan Banks looked up, his face a picture of apprehension.
“Mined a special tunnel we have, a dummy tunnel we call it, to keep him away from what’s really going on down here, and he’s heading straight for it – should break into it anytime now by my reckoning. That’s why you’re here, bach, to make sure he doesn’t get out alive and reveal our little secret. When you’ve finished with them we’ll block the tunnel off.”
“How many are there? Will they be alone or will they have soldiers with them?” Thomas asked anxiously.
“Oh no they won’t be alone, boyo, you can be certain of that, they’ll be armed to the teeth and have troops with them, might be a whole battalion of them, see. Hard to say how many, but there’ll be enough to keep you busy for a while.”
Williams shook his head at Palfrey’s exaggerated remarks.
“You’ll need to get them bayonets cut down, bach, they’re too long to handle properly in confined spaces. You need a six-inch double-edged blade with a sharp point for stabbing. It will be fine to use revolvers, no problem there, but try not to use the rifles if you can avoid it, just to be on the safe side,” Williams said, heaving a bag of clay onto the waiting trolley.
“Go and have a fag and a brew, boyo. We’ll tell you when we want you,” Palfrey said, staring at the passive expression on John Burke’s face.
John Burke lit a cigarette. “Jasus! I reckon this tunnel’s shrinking.”
“Shut your bloody big mouth,” Hill snapped, looking hopefully at Thomas for sympathy. “And put that bloody cigarette out, you heard what they said about escaping gas.”
Thomas dismissed the need to look up at their worried faces, he shared their turmoil. All around the walls seemed to close in, and the sticky blue clay clung to his feet as though attempting to hold him down forever and keep him prisoner. His hands became unsteady and he felt the cold sweat forming on his forehead. He pulled his bayonet from the scabbard and scraped the clay from his boots, then wiped the blade clean on his puttees. The others automatically followed suit.
The stillness mixed with a ghostly silence slowly began to affect their minds and fired their over-worked imagination distorting their natural instincts. Below ground, the rumble of guns and screams of dying men no longer pounded in their ears and stretched their taut nerves to breaking point. Now only an eerie foreboding silence seeped into their thoughts, magnifying their over-vivid fear of burial beneath tons of clinging earth. Their haunted eyes darted around. They felt as though they were confined alive in a dark inescapable coffin.
“Hope we don’t have to use our rifles. What do you reckon, Archie, will it be all right to use them?” Hill said breaking the silence.
“If any bugger comes for me I’ll use anything I can lay my bloody hands on,” Banks interrupted. “I’ve no intention of being buried alive down here.”
Stan Banks found himself becoming increasingly dependent on the safety of the mines. He saw them as the one place where the world seemed at least sane and didn’t understand why the men found the solitude threatening or the smell nauseating. To his mind anything was infinitely more tolerable than the carnage and wasteful slaughter committed in the trenches above ground.
Thomas moved away down the subway and sat alone, three sets of eyes watched him in silence. He couldn’t be afraid, not Thomas, he was fearless, faced the enemy alone he did, bold as the brass knocker on the mayor’s front door, everyone knew that.
I’m glad the bugger’s here, Hill thought.
Banks smiled, sitting contentedly on his hands.
Thomas studied the address on the letter carefully for a few minutes. There could be no escaping the fact it was addressed to him. Even the serial numbers matched his own, or Archie’s. Frantically, he searched his mind for a valid reason not to open the letter, afraid of what the contents might contain. The smile on his face spread and he felt foolish for not realising earlier. The letter couldn’t be for his eyes, it was addressed to Archie Elkin, not Thomas, therefore, the contents were none of his business, he reckoned, and it wouldn’t be right to read another person’s mail.
He recalled the case of Spenny Harrison, one of his friends in the village who’d read out a letter addressed to his father because his father couldn’t read. The letter stated his father had been ordered to attend the local court to answer charges of poaching. When Spenny finished reading the letter, his father cuffed him hard round the ears and thanked him to mind his own business in future.
Time waits for no man and in one easy flowing motion he tore the letter open. Holding his breath, he read the address at the top right-hand corner. His breath whooshed from his open mouth and his shoulders sagged. Pushing his head back he looked up at the damp roof and sucked in oxygen. The letter was from Dilly.
“Bloody hell, lad. Must be some letter if it takes your breath away,” Banks giggled.
“How is she, Thomas, how’s Ruby? Keeping your slippers warm for you, is she? Not like my missus I hope, always down the bloody Melbourne Arms she is, drunken little mare,” Leslie Hill complained. “Good spanking with the arse end of a bedpan, that’s what she needs.”
Thomas never had the opportunity to answer or even time to read the letter. Billy Williams scurried into the subway waving his arms like a puppet with broken strings.
“Come on, boyos, the action’s about to start!”
Thomas grabbed his rifle and in a moment of lucidity hurried after the others feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he frowned and couldn’t remember ever giving his address to Dilly, or his army serial number.
“In here, quickly, they’re almost through,” Williams said, darting into a tunnel concealed by an anti-gas curtain.
Palfrey and Evans leaned against the wall, their faces covered in lines of concentration. Pushing flat-sided French water canteens tight to the wall with a rubber pipe attached to the stoppe
r, they held the stoppers to their ears and listened to the magnified sound of the German miners chipping at the clay from the opposite side. Both men moved closer to the spot where the chipping sounded loudest, and when they stood side-by-side they knew the exact spot where the Germans would break through.
“Be sure to kill them all, boyos, we can’t have them getting back to their own lines and raising the alarm. Good luck, we’ll have a brew waiting for you,” Palfrey said, moving away.
“One on either side, one kneeling and one standing, wait until they’re inside before firing. Use the pistols first, save the bayonets as a last resort,” Thomas said grimly.
Each man then began to arrange himself for the coming combat in such a manner as his fancy took him. Hill swallowed and wiped away the cold sweat trickling from his face with his cuff. Banks stared wide-eyed at the wall as if trying to see through to the other side. His hands ceased to tremble like they always did at killing time. Burke began sniffing as if he’d discovered a bad smell.
Thomas held his pistol loosely in his hand and waited patiently. Gradually, the faint scraping grew louder, sounding like a trapped animal burrowing its way to freedom. The wall trembled ever so slightly and a lump of clay fell shuddering to the floor. The end of a shovel appeared, prodding, twisting and enlarging the hole until it became big enough for a man to crawl through. The sound of grunting and heavy breathing dulled by the damp clay walls halted, and quietness descended.
Thomas gritted his teeth and gripped the pistol butt tightly in his hands, turning his knuckles a ghostly white, and waited. Without warning, part of the wall collapsed and four armed German soldiers rushed through the gaping hole. Before they could raise their weapons they were quickly cut down and fell kicking and twitching. Two more rushed in and were metered with the same treatment.
“Right, lads,” Thomas shouted, “let’s finish the buggers!”
He rushed for the opening, firing blindly into the body of men futilely attempting to back away yet forced forward by the men behind. Germans dropped like flies, screaming and yelling in a bid to escape the hail of bullets. For a fleeting moment Thomas thought there might be too many for them to handle. Leslie Hill pushed his way into the tunnel and, drawing his bayonet, slashed at the panicking Germans. A tall hook-nosed officer raised his pistol and took point-blank aim at him. Calm and collected, oblivious to the carnage raging around him, his finger tightened around the trigger. Thomas automatically stepped in front to take the bullet. The sound of igniting gunpowder raked his eardrums and the smell of cordite burned into his nostrils. Suddenly, against all the odds, he felt the grip of life tighten, and more than ever before he experienced the overriding unwanted will to live, it was too late. Then, yelping in pain, he felt the bullet strike the blade of his bayonet, sending it spinning from his hand.
“Christ that was bloody close! Thanks, mate,” Hill said, slashing open the officer’s face and plunging the blade into the gasping chest.
Burke quickly re-loaded his revolver and with his bayonet in his other hand sprinted down the tunnel to finish off the retreating Germans. Thomas followed, jumping over dead and writhing bodies while loading his pistol on the run. A German stopped, turned, and dropped to one knee. Burke froze and raising his hand made the sign of the cross, certain in his mind that he was about to die. Thomas hurled him roughly to one side, sending him cursing and sprawling headfirst down into the sticky mud.
This is it. At last. From no more than twenty yards, the German fired and the bullet grazed his shoulder like a red-hot poker brushing against his bare skin. His eyes shone livid with anger and disappointment, still he lived. A second shot struck his chest with the force of a blacksmith’s sledgehammer, hurling him backwards. Slammed against the soft wall of clay he slumped to the floor, his sight dimmed into blackness. His ears filled with a sound like a tide flowing onto a sandy beach, and surging rushing waves washed away his consciousness.
Hastily working the bolt, the German fumbled another bullet into the breech and stared at Thomas though hate-filled eyes. His head jerked upward at the sight of Leslie Hill bearing down on him, followed by John Burke. Without aiming, he pulled the trigger sending the bullet flying harmlessly over their heads. The rifle fell from his shaking hands and he backed away then turned and fled. From one hundred yards Hill dropped him with one shot to the back of his head, and it was over.
Palfrey waited with a large smile on his face. Unperturbed by the sight of the bloodstained bodies, he waited until they had removed Thomas from the tunnel and then set a small detonation to block the tunnel off. Now directly over the enemy lines, the miners could begin tunnelling in different directions.
“Well done, boyos,” he said. “Sorry about your corporal though. Soon be ready for the big bang – it’ll send thousands of the German buggers to hell, it will, boyos. Just make sure you don’t miss it.”
Banks and Hill carefully lifted Thomas onto the trolley and slowly pushed him to the entrance of the mine. It was six-fifteen when they emerged into the breaking dawn. A heavy mist hung over No Man’s Land like a giant cloak and the morning air felt cold. A couple of sentries gave them a cursory look, puffed and coughed chestily on Craven A cigarettes, sniffed and wiped their runny noses on their cuffs. John Burke cleared his throat, unscrewed his water bottle and took a long swig, rinsed his mouth and spat out the taste of the mines. Tipping the bottle upside down, he poured the remaining contents over Thomas’s upturned face.
“Get up, yer idle man,” he grunted.
Thomas stirred and roused from his unconsciousness, spluttering water from his nose.
“Am I dead?” he said quickly, glancing around.
“You’re no deader than I am. The bullet struck the winder on that pocket watch of yours. You’re a lucky man so you are, someone’s watching over you.”
Thomas attempted to lift himself and lay back with a yelp.
“Fractured or broke a rib, I reckon. We’ll find a stretcher-bearer and get you up to the medical station.”
Stan Banks frowned and peered at Thomas through thoughtful eyes. On two occasions in the tunnel he’d seen him attempt what was tantamount to an act of blatant suicide. His mind went back to Catterick and Corporal Woollard and he remembered Archie struggling to remember his own name. His sympathy, though well intentioned, carried with it an indictment of a deep-rooted secret so malignant that he feared for his friend’s life.
Unable to walk unaided Thomas sat apart from the others waiting for the arrival of the medics to take him away on a horse-drawn cart for treatment. That night in the trenches sleep would not come and fatigue racked their limbs. Hill attempted to revive his spirits with a shave in tepid water, nicking his throat only once with the dull-bladed razor, he congratulated himself and felt better.
“That Archie, he does some strange things at times,” Stan Banks said, cleaning his black fingernails through the gaps in his front teeth and swallowing the proceeds.
“He took a bullet meant for me, I’m sure of it. Just stood there like a man waiting to be shot,” John Burke mused.
Leslie Hill scratched his head.
“Yeah, funny you should say that. That bloody Fritz officer had me in his sights at point-blank range. Thomas, he steps in front and waits for the bullet as cool as a fresh cucumber. Bullet struck his bayonet and saved his life, and mine,” he said.
Stan glanced across at Moses sitting quietly in the background cleaning his rifle. Moses remained silent, uncertain whether or not to speak, thought he might try to change the subject, or at least put a different perspective on the informal exchange of words. With a concerted effort he pulled himself to his feet and eased the stiffness from his legs before walking a few paces down the trench. Stan watched him sit down on the firing step, take out his bayonet and prod away a rat chewing at his shoelaces. It squealed in protest and disappeared.
“Maybe they were acts of bravery, perhaps he didn’t want any of you to die, perhaps he felt responsible for you and felt the need to p
rotect you,” Moses shrugged. “He is always first in line whenever something needs doing. Perhaps you should celebrate the fact that because of him you are still alive.”
Hill ripped the top from a tin of bully beef and stuffed the contents into his mouth until it could hold no more. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right. I’m going to tell Mr Bellamy tomorrow,” he chomped thoughtfully. “He deserves another medal I reckon. Where is he anyway?”
“He’s up at the farmhouse, lad, with Apple,” Banks chirped in, keeping his eyes firmly on Moses.
“Bloody hell, that sounds a bit dodgy, the number of times Apple’s been blown up it’s a wonder anyone goes near him,” someone called from further down the trench.
The rib was broken, they told him, and they bandaged him tightly to help the bones knit together properly. He didn’t dare think how he’d survived in the mines and his thoughts were no more than black shadows that evaded reason or even common sense. How much longer could he survive aware of the inexorable onslaught on his own ruin? He had promised himself life. Yet once again he had unconsciously tried to end it and struggled to reason why his mind forced him to do the things his heart denied him. He understood he must learn to face his fears, confront them, grasp and bend them to his own will. The past is over and done with, live like a man, Moses had said. But he couldn’t because he knew deep down he lacked the inner strength, the moral fibre, and he loathed himself for his weakness. He belonged only to Archie, and no other would ever possess him unless he found the strength to bludgeon down the doors of guilt and wash away the curse of shame.
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