Knowing the conditions were ripe for infection, Harry did his best to patch up his canine-ravaged forearm with what little remained in his emergency first aid kit, daubing antiseptic ointment on the tears in his flesh and wrapping gauze around the wounds to stem the flow of blood. He wished he had brought more. The arm was already swelling, and he had lost some mobility which would make operating the Vickers gun even more difficult than it already was.
Carrying out a second field inventory in that God awful place, next to the still-warm body of Sarge, was a depressing experience. Travelling light was a calculated risk, you sacrificed useful supplies and equipment in favour of speed and agility. After the two fire fights, all that remained of their ammo was half a belt of ammo for the Vickers, eighteen rifle rounds for the lost Enfield, a hand grenade, the two daggers, and a solitary bullet left in one of the chambers of Sarge's service revolver. Despite a thorough search, Harry could find nothing else.
Upon discovering that single bullet, dark thoughts began to circulate in the corners of Harry's mind. It seemed to have been left there by design, rather than by chance. Its mere presence was an invitation.
He could use the bullet on himself. Put an end to it all, and be done with this whole sorry mess. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. No more seeing his friends blown to pieces and sitting around waiting for the spectre of death to tap him on the shoulder and tell him his number was up. In a second, he could just float away on a bed of clouds.
Goodbye, cruel world.
Harry fondled the revolver for a while, flicking the safety catch on and off and opening and closing the cylinder to peek at the single bullet it contained. He even put the weapon to his temple to see what it felt like, touching the cold steel of the barrel against his skin. Then, with a grunt of anguish, he threw the revolver down in the mud.
He couldn't pull the trigger on himself. To commit suicide would be the ultimate act of selfishness. The Bible says such a crime would land him in purgatory. Eternal limbo. Caught perpetually between two worlds. It would be like being in no man’s land forever. Still, he wondered, could purgatory really be worse than hell? For this war was certainly that.
Instead of blowing his brains out, he decided instead to dig in and try to see out the couple of hours which remained until dawn. If he was still alive to greet first light, he could hopefully get his bearings and make it back to his lines in one piece, even if it meant dumping all his gear and sprinting. Changing position now would only leave him more exposed, and use up more of his strength. Besides, with the dog able to follow his trail seeking refuge somewhere else was a pointless exercise.
All he had to do was stave off any more attacks. He was quite sure there would be more, especially if the stormtrooper knew he was wounded and low on supplies.
So why didn't he just come?
But the stormtrooper was also injured, wasn't he? Sarge had shot him in the belly, and at close range! Harry had seen it with his own eyes. So maybe the stormtrooper wasn't in the mood to attack anyone. In fact, there was a good chance he had been mortally wounded and slunk off to die quietly somewhere.
Deep down, Harry knew that was just wishful thinking. He just didn't want to address the issue of how that bullet had failed to do its job. It defied logic.
There were other alternatives.
Perhaps the stormtrooper had gone back to his lines for treatment or reinforcements. Or perhaps he was playing games. Like a cat toying with a cornered mouse for its own amusement, just before jumping on it and ruthlessly tearing it to pieces.
That was it. The sadistic bastard was purposely dragging it out, messing with him. Making a sport out of hunting the lone lost Tommy.
Damn him!
Regarding the Vickers which, despite its steadily diminishing supply of ammunition was still a formidable weapon, Harry regretted dropping his Enfield more than ever. The machine-gun was too big and heavy to be practical, it would slow him down if and when he started moving again. Plus, he wasn't familiar with it. It felt awkward in his hands. He would feel much more comfortable with his trusty Enfield.
He began contemplating going back to find it. How hard could it be? He and Sarge could only have travelled a short distance, and he was reasonably sure of the direction. He could just retrace his steps. But it was no good looking in the dark, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. It felt good to have some semblance of a plan in place, even if it would have to wait until first light to be implemented.
Slowly, the seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. Harry breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. He was shivering with cold, but couldn't bring himself to claim his overcoat back from Sarge. It was now a shroud, preserving his friend's dignity in death.
Some time later, he didn't know how long, his skin began to crawl and he became convinced he was being watched. Not just watched, scrutinised from afar. As if someone or something was out there, hiding in the darkness, their eyes boring into his soul. Shifting nervously, Harry did yet another sweep of his surroundings. There was nothing to see except mounds of plundered earth, broken tree stumps, languid coils of ground mist, and dwindling shadows. As he watched, the swirls of mist transformed themselves into vaguely humanoid shapes that could almost be the ghosts of dead soldiers.
If he couldn't see whoever was staring him down, then it must surely mean that they couldn't see him, either. Wherever 'they' were. Not that it mattered, Harry realized with a sigh. They didn't have to look for him. They already knew where he was.
With so little artillery fire in the dead of night, the silence that enveloped him was unearthly, cocooning him and dulling his senses. Despite his best efforts to stay awake and alert, fatigue slowly got the better of him and Harry was faced with a struggle just to keep his eyes open. It would be so easy to sleep, just drift away.
Once again, his brittle mind was cast back into childhood, and the fear that something unseen lurked beneath his bed or in his bedroom wardrobe. Childish, irrational notions. He could see that now. But little did the child he used to be know that the adult world, the one created by actual, living people, held more horrors than he could have ever imagined, even in his darkest nightmares.
Lost in his thoughts, Harry's mind struggled to free itself, break free from its moorings, and he was happy to let it slip away and take him back to those bygone days when innocence reigned and the world around him was full of mystery and wonder. Anywhere but here. His mind drifting wantonly through time and space, he slipped into that familiar, semi-lucid state.
He must have slipped over the precipice into sleep for a while, because he dreamed about clouds. White, translucent clouds, rolling all around him like huge swabs of cotton wool. He reached out to grasp them, but each time they slipped through his fingers leaving him holding nothing but air. Faces and figures appeared all around him, partially hidden at first, then slowly revealing themselves to be representations of people he had once known.
There was Grandad! Harry hadn't seen him in years. He was looking well, with that beaming smile showing off the trademark gap in his teeth, permanent reminders of the time he had fought pirates whilst serving in Her Majesty's Navy, he had claimed. Grandad was always full of tall stories. And Uncle Elvet, who had lost one of his arms down the pit. As a fifteen year-old it had been his job to open the doors for the trams full of coal to come through. One day, he slipped and fell with his arm on the track. Along came a tram and took it off clean. Everyone though his working life to be over, but four months later, he was back in the same pit, doing the same job, only this time on the opposite side of the track so he could use his other arm.
Tom the Baker from was next. Even though he had died of a heart attack the year the war broke out. Lucky him, some would say. No woman was safe from Tom’s charms. The story went that one day he had slept with three in a single day, all wives of men from the village. And look! There's Dewi! With his head back on his shoulders and everything! He looks young, fit
, happy. Oh, how one day we will meet again, share a drink, and maybe even laugh together about his unfortunate demise.
Then, the mood began to change, and a question pushed itself to the forefront of Harry’s mind, demanding attention.
Had he died in his sleep and gone to heaven?
Gradually, he became aware of a dark figure that seemed to hover on the periphery of his vision, for a time fully concealed in the rolling banks of fuzzy cloud. This particular figure was different to the others in some fundamental way Harry couldn't put a finger on. He strained his eyes to see more. The hulking presence was brooding, menacing. Yet seemed somehow familiar, as if he had some connection to it.
Sarge?
No. This presence was malevolent. It oozed evil and hatred.
Harry shrank away from it, feeling chills race up and down his spine.
Suddenly, in the dream, bolts of lightning began streaking through the clouds. At first the sight was beautiful, spellbinding. He watched, fascinated, as the silver shards of electricity turned golden and tore the clouds asunder. But the dreamy comfort he wallowed in soon turned to anxiety and trepidation as the lightning steadily grew in brightness and intensity. God was angry. Harry tried to look away but found himself unable, so instead he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. And then his arm was burning, like it was on fire.
The searing pain brought him back, and his eyes snapped open. The cotton wool clouds from his dream retreated and seamlessly melted into the ground fog that still swirled around him. Dawn was cracking the horizon, and his mauled arm hurt. Those first jagged glimpses of sunlight, which his mind had initially translated as lightning, were his cue to get moving again. He knew what must be done, he had had ample time to prepare himself, having spent the past few hours drilling this latest set of directives into his brain.
Find the Enfield, and make it back to his lines.
He had played the mission through in his mind so many times now that he had already convinced himself that it was going to be a great success. Funny how the mind works.
Cautiously, he set the Vickers on the ground and stretched out his aching limbs as much as he dared, warily watchful as he did so. The vague sense of being studied from a distance lingered, but there was still no culprit to be seen. He decided it was his imagination playing tricks, reasoning that if anyone really was out there watching him, they would have killed him by now. The window of opportunity had been left wide open all night.
Now Harry was faced with another dilemma. Should he take the machine gun on his search for the Enfield? If he did, he would only have to leave it out in the field in place of the rifle. Carrying both weapons back to his lines would slow him down, especially given his injured arm. The alternative was to leave the Vickers with Sarge, and take his chances with just the grenade, dagger, and the service revolver with its one remaining bullet.
Rightly or wrongly, he decided on the latter option. He would at least be more mobile.
Easing himself out of the relative sanctuary of the crater, he gave Sarge one last, regretful look, and set off.
He hunched over, keeping his profile as close to the ground as possible, as he jogged across the sodden earth. He had been taught to always be mindful of treading land mines and kept a permanent look-out for tell-tale signs. Another hazard was losing his footing, falling over, and breaking a leg or an ankle. Both scenarios would almost certainly mean a slow, painful death alone out here in no man’s land.
Harry was acutely aware that even though the morning light would make finding his rifle and navigating his way back to his lines easier, it would also allow ample opportunity for the stormtrooper to spot him, along with any eagle-eyed snipers who may be awake early and eager to exercise their trigger fingers. He still had no idea how close he was to enemy lines, and even whether his own side would be able to distinguish him from the enemy at sniping distance or not. Conceivably, pretty soon he could be getting shot at from all sides.
No sooner had he started jogging, holding his injured arm to his chest and clutching the service revolver in his other hand, he heard the low, mournful howl drift across the battlefield.
The Hell Hound was back.
Bloody hell.
The damn thing must be telling its master that Harry was on the move. His pace quickened.
Something inside implored him not to stop and he was filled with a terrible certainty that if he stopped, he would die!
So Harry continued on. He thought he could see lines of trenches in the distance. Were they Allied trenches? Up to now he had been used to looking at the battlefield from only one angle, now that angle had been reversed. But so far there was no sign of the Enfield, and he knew that with every second that passed, the Hell Hound was gaining on him. He could almost smell its foul stench.
Don't stop, don't look back!
The dreaded howl came again, followed by a series of throaty, urgent barks. This time it was not only much closer, but contained an urgency that hadn't been there before.
The animal sounded imbalanced, insane, driven half mad with either starvation or blood lust. And it was coming for him.
It was difficult trying to maintain his pace over the boggy, uneven turf, and Harry soon found himself slowing down. He was exhausted. He slipped and fell forward into the mud. Luckily, he was able to break his fall with his hands. With a superhuman effort he pushed himself to his feet, wobbled, and continued on his way, mouth twisted into a grimace of pain and exertion.
Still no sign of the bloody Enfield.
He risked a glance behind him to see how much ground he had covered, and was greeted with the sight that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his days. A black, canine shape, bounding toward him. It was impossibly large and muscular, and even from this distance Harry could see its sharpened teeth, salivating jaws and blazing eyes.
The Hell Hound.
Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.
He suddenly wished he had brought the machine-gun. However big and mean that dog was, a short burst of large-calibre bullets would rip the thing to pieces. But all he had was the service revolver with its one remaining bullet. He looked around for an additional weapon. The ground was littered with rocks and debris, some of which would make useful bludgeoning tools. But he would have to get close enough to use them, past those sharp teeth and claws.
It was no use running. He could see that now with awful clarity. The monster would chase him down, take him from behind, and he would die suffocating in mud whilst being eaten alive. No thanks. He would stand a far better chance of survival if he conserved what remained of his energy and prepared himself for the fight as best he could.
Harry stopped. Without consciously doing so, he began reciting the Lord's Prayer, the words tumbling from his mouth faster and faster as the Hell Hound approached.
“Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done. On earth, as it is in heaven...”
If some small part of him hoped the Holy words would magically repel the onrushing beast, that meagre glimmer of hope was soon extinguished. The creature bounded on relentlessly toward him, its galloping strides eating up the space between them. He had to act, and fast. Steadying himself, he took a deep breath.
One shot. That was all he had. He couldn't afford to miss.
But paradoxically, the closer the animal came, the closer to the sun he flew, the more chance he had of hitting the bloody thing.
So Harry knelt on the ground, held the revolver in both hands, aimed, and waited. He waited until he could see the spit fly from the dog’s mouth and the rage in its eyes. Just a couple of yards away now.
Then, he pulled the trigger.
POP!
The Hell Hound was thrown off its feet, and yelped in pain as the bullet tore into the side of its head, searing off an ear and a large chunk of skin and flesh with it.
Harry breathed a momentary sigh of relief.
But the beast didn't stop.
Instead it got back to its feet, snarled and shook its head. Something flew off it. A piece of flesh? Harry caught sight of the flying matter and gagged.
Throwing down the now-useless service revolver, he drew his lay a hand on the hilt of his dagger and got to his feet and took a large stride forward. He remembered somebody once telling him that if ever confronted with an angry dog, the first battle is psychological. You must never show fear, or you risk giving the animal the edge. And this dog was most certainly angry. Especially after being shot in the head.
At the same instant as Harry stepped forward, the creature roared and sprang at him with all the dexterity of a panther.
For a few moments the black mass blocked out the rising sun, then it struck Harry like a locomotive, and suddenly he was flying through the air. He landed on his back with a bone-jarring thump, the animal on top of him, gasping as all the air whooshed out of his lungs. For a few terrible moments a vast darkness encroached upon his vision and he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness.
It would be so easy now to just go to sleep. Close his eyes forever. He wouldn't even see the end coming.
But he wasn't ready for death just yet. He had made promises to people. Not least to himself. He would not allow himself to go out like this, out here on this boggy patch of cursed land so very far from home.
The sensation of being splashed with liquid helped bring him spiralling back to the sickening reality. Harry suddenly realized his face was wet. And getting wetter. He gargled and spat something foul-tasting out of his mouth.
It must be raining.
But this rain smelled bad. It tasted metallic, had a strange, sticky consistency, and it was warm.
Then he realized it wasn't rain he could feel on his face and in his mouth, but blood. The dog's blood. A huge flap of loose skin hung down from its head over one of it's fleshy jowls, and blood cascaded from the wound. Harry could see the white of the dog's exposed skull.
The devilish creature loomed over him, snarling, growling and snapping, trying to reach his face. Its sharp claws digging into his chest and shoulders as Harry held it by its throat at arm's length. Thankfully, he had instinctively thrust out his stronger, uninjured arm when the dog attacked. This was now the only thing that separated him from the ravenous teeth and claws of the monster.
No Man's Land Page 6
