No Man's Land

by No Man's Land- Horror in the Trenches (epub)

  It was brandy, not gas. Thank God.

  Harry accepted the offered hip flask and took two large gulps, coughing into his hand as the fire first exploded in his chest then sank slowly, gloriously, to settle in the pit of his stomach.

  Re-energized, he got quickly to his feet, dusted himself down, and picked up his rifle. He and Sarge locked eyes for the briefest moment, but it was enough to allow something intangible to pass between the two men, something that instantly solidified them. Maybe it was nothing more than the notion that they could soon be walking to their deaths together.

  Without another word, Sarge turned abruptly, marched a few yards down the trench, and said a few words to a small group of men gathered in a huddle. Harry recognized a few of them, but couldn't recall any names. Maybe they were Sarge's friends? Or, more likely, they represented an alternative chain of command should he not return.

  So it was just the two of them going out this time. Sarge and him. A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine. He wished for another slug of brandy, but knew he shouldn't have too much. There were men who would prefer to step into no man's land half-cut, but he wasn't one of them. He wanted to keep his wits about him. If death came, he wanted to know what form it took.

  The last thing he did before he followed Sergeant Lewis up the rope ladder and over the top was fix his bayonet to his rifle and say, “Hang on Dewi me old mucker. I'm coming to find you...”

  Chapter III:

  Over the Top

  No man's land was deathly still and quiet. Nothing stirred.

  As he and Sergeant Lewis made their way through almost complete darkness exasperated by a swirling ground mist, Harry's heart hammered so hard in his chest he could almost feel it in his throat. Either as a result of nerves, anxiety, or the bone-numbing cold, he was trembling so much that several times his finger slipped onto the trigger of his Enfield. Despite having the safety switch being on, each time it happened he mentally checked himself, afraid he would loose off a shot by mistake and shoot the Sarge up the arse. That wouldn't look good in the report.

  The pot-holed, water-logged ground was soft and boggy underfoot. So much so that in some places, his feet sank past the ankles. Each time he pulled out his boot it made a disgusting wet squelching sound as the ground tried to suck him back in, possibly in an attempt to swallow him whole. Occasionally he would tread down on something hard and unforgiving, some foreign object trapped beneath the surface which felt almost brittle underfoot. He daren't look down to see what it was, even if visibility allowed such a luxury.

  It was far too risky to use lamps to light their way, which in Harry's opinion made reconnaissance missions worthless. If they didn't know what they were looking for, and it was too dark to see anything anyway, what was the bloody point?

  But he wasn't in charge. He had been a soldier long enough to know that very often, there were ulterior motives for being asked to do things. Sometimes the real reasons were hidden behind veils, and subordinates like him were rarely afforded a glimpse of the bigger picture.

  He kept losing sight of Sarge, even though he maintained a distance of no more than three or four yards behind him. Each time he did so, he felt a small knot of panic begin to bubble up inside him and quickened his pace slightly to catch up. Then, the rugged outline of his NCO would drift back into view and the panic would be replaced by a surge of relief. If he could choose anyone he had ever met, or anyone from history for that matter, to be out here with him tonight, he would choose Sergeant Lewis. Or maybe Ghengis Khan.

  The darkness and the unfamiliar terrain were disorienting. Even though Harry was sure they were heading diagonally away from the allied trenches, with no markers or even stars to light the way, there was no real way to be sure. For all he knew, they could be walking a path straight into enemy lines.

  Don't get lost, don't get lost, don't get lost, he repeated to himself. Keep calm, stay alert, follow the Sarge, and above all...

  DON'T GET LOST!

  If Sarge was suffering from nerves, it didn't show. Instead, he just carried on moving silently across the ravaged landscape, crouching slightly to make himself a smaller target, and turning his head slowly from side to side as he went, constantly scanning their surroundings. He had substituted his standard-issue Enfield for a Vickers machine-gun. The Vickers was a fearsome weapon, and quite new to the battlefield. Harry had never even fired one, but he knew all about the reputation they had. Capable of firing up to five hundred .303 rounds a minute to a distance of over four thousand yards, they could literally rip men to pieces.

  The Sarge’s choice of weapon sent mixed signals to Harry. Due to its sheer size and weight, the Vickers gun was usually manned by a crew of two; a gunner and someone to feed belts of ammo through it. The fact that Sarge carried the thirty-five pound weapon, plus ammo, as if it were a toy, suggested he was as strong as an ox. It also suggested he expected a fire fight.

  As Harry pondered this Sarge suddenly stopped walking, holding is machine-gun steady with his right hand while he signalled with his left. Harry hurried to catch up, clutching his webbing tight to his body to stop it jangling. He had decided to leave most of his kit back in the trench, the whole idea of this mission was to be in and out quickly, then back inside an hour. Even so, there was a combat knife strapped to his leg, several ammo pouches scattered about his person, a number five grenade, and a water bottle clinging to his belt. He also found room for a mini-first aid kit, a box of matches, and some meagre rations. Without wanting to overload himself, he felt he should be prepared for anything.

  Dropping to the ground and sinking into the mud next to Sarge, Harry squinted in the general direction that had caught his Sarge’s attention. The NCO made another hand signal and pointed a single, thick, callused finger. From his position, at first Harry could see nothing but swirling clouds of smoke mixed with ground mist. Then, to his horror, his eyes began to distinguish movement.

  Something was out there.

  There were figures approaching. Two, three, maybe more, moving swiftly and silently across the terrain like ghosts. They too moved without lights.

  A German patrol.

  Harry's mouth suddenly lost all its moisture, and he felt his bowels shift uncomfortably. He had never been this close to a German before, having only spied them briefly across the length of the killing fields. The patrol undoubtedly consisted of Sturmmann. Stormtroopers. Specially-trained soldiers known to operate in no man’s land as merciless execution squads. Their mission was simple. To seek and destroy, and they took no prisoners.

  Death was practically within touching distance.

  Luckily, the patrol was approaching from an angle. Harry and Sarge were not in their eye line, but to risk running for cover now would be suicide. The troopers would certainly be on the lookout for transgressors. Why else would they be prowling around out here in the middle of the night?

  Slowly, Harry raised his Enfield, aimed it at the German patrol, and looked down his sights. He could take one out before they even realized that they were under attack, he was sure of it. He and Sarge had the element of surprise on their side.

  But Sarge hissed at him through clenched teeth, and shot him a sideways look that didn't need words to convey its meaning.

  Don't shoot!

  Slowly, Harry lowered his weapon, feeling a little embarrassed at being so impulsive. They must not engage. That was the order. Even if they encountered enemy troops, they were forbidden from firing unless they came under fire themselves. In the dark, even a single muzzle flash would be enough to compromise their position, and a fire fight would be disastrous. Anything could happen. For all they knew there could be dozens of German infantry in the vicinity, and they would be surrounded and pinned down before they knew it.

  Instead of opening up with the Vickers, Sarge was now belly-crawling stealthily toward a nearby bomb crater. The crater was the only form of cover available, save for a few splintered spikes of decimated trees. All the vegetatio
n had been blown away by mortar shells a dozen times over. The mist and smoke was so thick and heavy now that it seemed to cling to the damp ground, making them virtually invisible to the enemy patrol, which was now less than eighty feet away. Moving slowly so as not to draw any attention, Harry followed his sergeant’s lead, wriggling through the mud after him on his belly.

  Miraculously, they weren’t spotted. Only later did it occur to Harry that maybe they were, but the German patrol was also under orders not to engage, such are the paradoxes of war. Harry often thought it would be marvellous they worked on these principals all the time. Wars would contain so little bloodshed that the whole thing would degenerate into farce, an international game of tag played out on a massive scale. Maybe they could carry home-made wooden guns, and jump out on each other and shout, “BANG!” instead of actually killing or wounding each other. Once tagged, you were sent home and not allowed to play any more. That would be more fun for all concerned. In practical terms, it would be a lot more cost-effective, too.

  Soon, Harry and Sarge reached the comparative safety of the bomb crater, and slid noiselessly over the jagged lip into the stinking boggy depths below. The crater was so big that it must have been made by a heavy artillery shell, probably from a Big Bertha, rather than a plain old mortar. A shell that size would have a devastating effect on the sodden, already-damaged earth. The crater must have been four feet deep at its lowest point, with slippery, sloping sides, and was half-filled with rancid, freezing water.

  Harry now realized, too late, as Sarge surely did, that the crater was a death-trap. If they were spotted, all it would take to wipe them both out in such a confined space would be a single lobbed grenade. If they saw it come in they would lose it in the water, and would never be able to crawl out in time. And even if they did make it out of the hole, the next thing they would face would be a hail of German bullets.

  Harry's lower body was submerged in the icy water that festered at the bottom of the crater. He could feel its coldness seeping through his clothes as his sodden boots scrambled for purchase on the slippery bottom. His head was just below the crater's rim, neck twisted painfully. He considered changing position, perhaps climbing up the side a ways where it was drier, just to make the situation more bearable. But a quick glance at Sarge, who was laying perfectly still, told him to stay put and not move a muscle. So he waited, and listened.

  He thought he heard a whistle somewhere nearby.

  A whistle?

  At first he thought it may have been the mournful whine of a shell as it arced through the air on its journey of destruction, but there was no ensuing explosion. None nearby, anyway.

  After the whistle there was nothing, which made Harry think he may have imagined it. Not a solitary sound broke the perfect stillness, save for the murmur of the occasional low gust of breeze, which only added to the heightening tension. There were no voices or shuffling feet around them, which could mean the German patrol had safely passed them by. Alternatively, it could just as easily mean the Huns were hovering out of sight, beyond the lip of the crater, biding their time. Letting their cornered prey suffer for a while before putting them out of their misery.

  It was then that Harry realized that they were not alone in the crater. Something else shared the foul, stinking pit with them. He could sense the wet, shapeless grey mass before he felt it. But before he could begin to get his head around such an eventuality, he was forced to ram a fist in his mouth to stifle a scream as something unseen gripped his submerged leg. He jerked spasmodically, and clumsily thrust the bayoneted barrel of his Enfield into the filth below, probing, aware of the sergeant's head snapping in his direction as he did so.

  There was something else there, all right. Someone, in fact.

  But this someone was far beyond gripping anything. Instead, the corpse bobbed lifelessly in the few feet of water. What Harry had reacted to was simply the corpse's extended arm brushing lazily against him, as if to attract his attention.

  Relaxing once more, Harry peered at the corpse. There was something wrong with it. The shape, it just wasn't right. And then he saw why. The head was missing. Just gone. The neck instead ending in a jagged cut, the puffy, white flesh torn open to reveal splintered vertebrae beneath. Perhaps the head was also in the crater, or somewhere nearby. Harry decided he didn't want to look for it. Even if he managed to find it, it wouldn't do anyone any good. Least of all him.

  “Sarge?” Harry whispered as loudly as he dared. “Sarge, I found something.”

  “Shhh!” the NCO hissed, making a shooing motion with his hand as he did so.

  So Harry waited, locked together with the corpse. On closer inspection, he could see that it was one of theirs. Although it was dark, he could just about distinguish the uniform and insignia on the lapels of the fallen soldier. He came from the same regiment. With a sick feeling of dread Harry began to realize that, given his close proximity to the trench, this slowly putrefying corpse had probably been a member of one of the earlier patrols.

  That much was no more than educated guesswork, however, as the poor bloke was unidentifiable. He might have been lying here for weeks. In addition to missing his head, after lying undisturbed in the water-filled crater for so long, the corpse had become grotesquely misshapen and bloated. In the near-complete absence of light, the exposed flesh of the neck and hands was fish-belly white and the torso covered with savage, deep cuts. Shrapnel wounds? If so, they were unlike any shrapnel wounds harry had ever seen before.

  After what seemed like an age, Sarge eventually decided the coast was clear of Germans for the time being and slithered down the side of the crater into the water. “Jesus Christ...” he said when his eyes fell on the body.

  “He's one of ours, Sarge. What do you think happened to him? His head's off...”

  “Buggered if I know, Son...” Sarge replied in a hoarse whisper. “... I've seen all sorts in this war, but I don't remember ever seeing anything like that.”

  “Could he have been blown up?”

  “What, from the neck up? I don't think so, unless he fell victim to an exploding neck tie.” Sarge leaned in for a closer look. “His head's not even been lopped off clean, judging by the mess on the poor fella's neck. It looks like it was ripped off his shoulders.”

  “Bloody 'ell, Sarge. What shall we do?”

  Sergeant Lewis composed himself. “What do you suggest we do, Private? Perform some Last Rites? Have a funeral wake? We still have an assignment to finish, remember.”

  “But Sarge, shouldn't we go back and report this?”

  “Report what?” Sarge shrugged. “Finding a dead 'un? In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a war. There's dead 'uns everywhere. The people filling in the paperwork can't keep up as it is, they won't thank you for adding to their workload. So, there’s nothing to report. Is there, Private?”

  “I s'pose yer right, Sarge. But shouldn't we at least get some ID off of him, so we can say that we found 'im an all? Maybe mark the spot? Come back for 'im later, like?”

  Sergeant Lewis sighed deeply. His body language tried to indicate impatience, but Harry knew the man well enough to know that was just a veneer. A tough shell. Inside, beneath the conditioned exterior, was a man of honour and principal who cared deeply about the men under his command and he was feeling this just as much as Harry was. “Do whatever you think is decent, Private,” he said. “I'll wait.”

  Grimacing, Harry fumbled in the fallen soldier's mutilated neck area until he found his dog tags. Luckily, they hadn't come off with the head. He held them up close to his eye, and tried to rub off enough mud and blood to uncover the name and number. It seemed important to know the dead soldier's name. But it was no good. Too dark. Then he remembered something, and reached into one of his shoulder pockets to retrieve the box of matches he had stashed there earlier.

  Ordinarily, he wouldn't even consider using the matches out here in no man's land. Matches were beacons for snipers, who spent muc
h of their time skulking around looking for just that, enemy soldiers lighting smokes for each other, which they often did to conserve matches. When the match was struck and the first cigarette lit, the sniper saw you. Lighting the second gave him precious time to aim. And on the third light, he pulled the trigger. There were many who would rather go without a smoke than be the Third Light.

  To avoid the attention of any snipers, Harry ducked beneath the lip of the crater, which was below ground level, and shielded the match with his hand as he lit it. He kept the flame alight just long enough to determine name on the dog tags. He couldn't believe what he saw.

  DEWI PERRETT

  18/03/1894

  3967224

  Harry blew out the match and slumped back against the wall of the crater. So tonight's mission had already been accomplished, he had found his best friend. Or what was left of him.

  Chapter IV:

  Fire Fight

  Harry would have loved to say he had prepared himself for that moment. But the truth was, he hadn't. Not at all. In fact, he had done anything but prepare himself for finding his friend’s body. He had preferred to believe that poor Dewi had gotten lost or, at worst, got himself captured. Finding his friend alive was one of the few strands of hope that he had clung to. Now that strand had been severed.

  Silently contemplating the twisted, mangled body in the crater Harry tried to work out whether Dewi had been killed quickly, or if he had suffered a slow, lingering, painful death. It seemed important. The fact that his head was missing indicated the former, but there was no way of knowing whether the head had been blown or hacked off first or last.

  Slipping the dog tags and the matches into a pouch for safekeeping, Harry scrambled up the wall of the crater and over to where the Sarge now crouched, still gripping the Vickers gun, steely eyes surveying the ravaged landscape around them looking for the German patrol that had passed them minutes earlier. Although the air could hardly be considered fresh, there was always the stink of war, it felt good to be out of that crater. It was beginning to get claustrophobic in there.