War & Words

by Surrey Libraries

  THE LAST DANCE

  By

  Alexia Lavender

  We spun around and around and around. My gaze remained firmly fixed on his shining hazel eyes and as we spun faster and faster, my hands gripping his tighter and tighter. My hair flew streaming out behind me whilst the dance hall and people in it went whizzing past, merely a blur. We thought we were untouchable, immortal even.

  "Charlie! I feel like I'm going to collapse in a heap on the floor!" I protested breathlessly.

  "Then I'll have to catch you, won't I?" he teased.

  Gradually the room stopped spinning and the people in the busy hall came into focus. We staggered over to the nearest empty table, giggling hopelessly like schoolchildren, and flopped down onto the chairs.

  "Well", Charlie said once he had caught his breath, "That wasn't exactly dancing, but I don't know much else. We're going to have to learn a proper dance soon, you and me, what do you think Rose?"

  "I'd love that," I replied, a wide grin spreading across my face.

  We had known each other since we were little, Charlie and I. He had always been a mischievous child, who somehow always managed to worm his way out of even the most difficult of situations. Maybe it was his cheeky grin, or his infectious laugh - whatever it was, it consistently seemed to work. Charlie had recently started at his uncle's farm just outside the village, but had often mentioned how he wanted to do so much more with his life than waking up at the crack of dawn every morning to milk cows. Dreams of a more exciting future rarely translated into reality for people like us, especially those of a young farm boy, but at sixteen years of age Charlie had the drive and ambition needed to work his way up. All he needed was the chance to do so.

  In summer 1914, an opportunity arose for him that was just too good to ignore. An opportunity that promised a kind of adventure that he had never known before.

  "The army?" I replied to him, creases of concern forming on my brow. "Aren't you too young to join up? You have to be eighteen to enrol Charlie, I'm fairly certain of that. You're two years underage."

  "But they don't have to know that, do they? My mate Billy signed up yesterday, he's fifteen. He said the officers didn't even bat an eyelid. And I could easily look older if I wanted to", he said eagerly, straightening his posture whilst puffing out his chest.

  I couldn't stop a few giggles escaping at his masculine poise, but he did make a convincing eighteen year old, I'll admit. The recruitment officers seemed to buy this new, eighteen year old Charlie too, and before long he was signed up and had started training with the rest of the men from the surrounding towns and villages. I noticed a change in him over those first few weeks. He was no longer the roguish Charlie I had grown up with. He had become more confident, mature, and handsome too. He'd often tell me stories he'd heard of heroic Britons fighting overseas, working together in the trenches to defeat the enemy.

  A week or so before Charlie was sent to France, I noticed a poster pinned up outside the post office advertising a new dance hall in the village. I knew exactly who to go with.

  "A dance hall? In our village?" Charlie questioned doubtfully.

  "Yes", I replied, "It's opening tonight. Mother said as long as I'm home before ten I can go, and that you are the only male companion I am to go with, no-one else. So you have to come!"

  "Alright, Rose, alright", he said with a smile, "But you know I can't dance, so you mustn't laugh at me, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  So off we went to the dance hall, arm in arm.

  On the 8th of May 1917, I received a letter from Charlie. It said he had been sent home from the front due to a serious injury, and was back at the farm. He wanted to see me. I packed a small bag with some bread, a newspaper and flowers, wheeled my bicycle round the side of the house and set off for the farm.

  When I arrived, I saw in the distance a crouched-over figure sitting in a wheelchair under a great oak.

  “Charlie?” I thought to myself.

  Anxiety started to rise up like a demon inside of me. I walked briskly over to the figure, but halted when I reached the tree. Charlie glanced up at me, shifted his gaze to his leg which now ended just below the knee, and turned his head away to stare at the corn fields over his shoulder.

  “Charlie, I…” I began, cautiously moving closer to him. But then words escaped me, and I found myself just standing and staring.

  He was a wreck. His hands and arms were shaking fiercely, and when he turned back to face me I saw tears streaming down his pale cheeks. I reached out to touch his hand, but he firmly pulled it away.

  “I can’t walk”, his quivering voice told me, “I can’t sleep or think. I...I keep hearing gunfire. But there are no guns. I don’t know what to do anymore, Rose. I don't know what to do.”

  I wanted to tell him that he was one of the lucky ones. I wanted to tell him that it would all be okay, and he’d soon recover. But nothing was certain. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that.

  Charlie had lost his leg and his sanity, a part of him that he was never going to get back.

  I had lost the Charlie I knew and loved, my Charlie, a part of me that I was never going to get back.

  SURREY LION

  By

  Richard Vidal

  History often ridicules Captain Wilfred ‘Billie’ Nevill- commander of East Surrey Regiment’s ‘B ‘ Company. Many say that he was flippant and that he had a total disregard for the lives of others. They see him as just another of the many incompetent donkeys that led brave lions into battle. But he was none of those things and I know because I was there. I saw it all.

  The Somme, 1916

  I won’t deny it. I know I’ve had it easy compared to others. Sure I’ve been battered and kicked around. I’ve seen things that I didn’t want to see and that I’ll never be able to forget. But I can’t complain. I know I’ve had an easy war compared to those around me.

  Every day I see the men of ‘B’ company writing home. Some of them write to their wives. Some of them write to their lovers. Some of them write to both. Some of them write to the children they can’t wait to see again. Many, without knowing it, write to the children they’ve already seen for the last time.

  Their letters will be kept and treasured. Future generations will read them and try to work out who their ancestors were and what life must have been like in the trenches. But the letters won’t help.

  The letters won’t help because it’s not what they say that matters; it’s what they don’t say. The letters won’t really describe how vile it is to live in the trenches. Who would want loving friends and relatives to know that? Neither will the letters convey any of the fear soldiers have that they might fail to give a good account of themselves when called upon. Because that’s the most important thing to these men of East Surrey- that they serve their country and stand tall when the moment comes. And the moment is coming.

  It’s July 1st, 1916. The British army is about to experience the bloodiest day in its history. In the next twenty-four hours almost twenty thousand British soldiers will be killed in the Somme region of France. Many of the PALS battalions that took so long to mould will be completely wiped out. In some areas postmen will suffer trauma from so frequently being the bearer of bad news in the form of telegram after telegram after telegram.

  Everyone in our East Surrey trench knows that we’re about to play our part in something huge. For days there’s been a monstrous bombardment of German lines designed to decimate their defensive barbed wire.

  Our troops have been promised that the offensive will be easy. They’ve been promised that they won’t be called to attack until the German lines have been completely pulverised. The men have all been reassured that there won’t be a patch of barbed wire or even a single rat left alive. With no enemy defenders, it will simply be a matter of walking across unopposed to the German trenches. The British Generals believe this; so do the me
n. Captain Wilfred ‘Billie’ Nevill doesn’t.

  I’ve always liked what I’ve seen of Captain Nevill. He’s never been one to hang back when there’s a job to be done. And he’s never expected his men to do what he isn’t prepared to do himself. He’s brave and leads by example. He’s also very astute.

  Captain Nevill has been on frequent night patrols around the Somme trenches and he’s seen the formidable German defences for himself. He knows exactly what it will take to attack them and instinctively knows that it is going to be harder than the Generals promise. Much harder. That was why he came up with the idea of the ‘football charge’ across no man’s land.

  After the war some will claim that Captain Nevill’s football charge showed that he was completely naive about what he was up against; he wasn’t. Captain Nevill knew that his men would have to overcome a terrifying and ferocious German defence. He knew that if they were going to perform well then he needed to do something to take people’s minds off the horrendous sights and noises of battle. He also knew how much his men liked football. And so Captain Nevil decided that when the East Surrey Regiment advanced across no man’s land, they would be dribbling footballs.

  Just as the resolve of Scottish regiments is stiffened by the sound of the bagpipes, so Nevill reasoned that the sight of footballs being kicked across no man’s land would reassure his young Surrey men. As well as their stated military targets, it was to be every man’s responsibility to ensure that, regardless of what happened in battle, the game of football continued right up to the German trenches.

  It is 7.29 AM and the deafening barrage has finally stopped. The world is silent. Captain Nevill stands with his whistle poised. In sixty seconds a blast from his whistle will send the East Surrey regiment over the top to war.

  It will prove to be the slaughter he envisaged and, leading from the front, he will be one of the first to die. On a day of unimaginable bloodshed and carnage, few regiments will achieve their objectives. The East Surrey Regiment will.

  Captain Nevill looks at his wristwatch again. There are ten seconds left. Ten precious seconds. Ten seconds longer to pray, to reflect, to bear witness, to wonder, to marvel at the beauty of the birdsong and feel the warmth of the sun.

  It is time.

  Captain Nevill blows hard on his whistle, bounces me one last time and kicks me skywards.

  ANOTHER MORNING CAME

  By

  Richard Todman

  The rumour had swept the lines: We’re pushing them back; the filthy hun are retreating pell mell; it’s bound to be over by Christmas chum. Hadn’t people said that back in 1914? It didn’t take long at the front to make a sceptic of anyone with an ounce of sense in their noggin and he reckoned he had more sense than most. Corporal Harry Brooks, private soldier with two years and four months service. It was now early October 1918 and any optimism he’d brought with him to Belgium had long withered, along with the pals he’d joined up with. Brave lads most, but he’d learned that war somehow diminishes even the toughest of men.

  As he stood, naked, in a dilapidated barn that had been crudely converted into a bath house and delousing facility, he recalled that back when he was simply ‘young Harry’ he’d barely paid any attention to the world beyond the walled limits of the family’s sturdy, grey stone house. Breakfast each morning was accompanied by the salty tang of the sea in the breeze that drifted in from

  Hartlepool docks and, on mornings when his father was home, he would be confronted by the sight of a held up copy of the Times newspaper, from behind which a disembodied voice would bluster away about something or other, generally ensuring that the day was begun on a sour note. But then another morning came. One where there was no voice grumbling, or offering solutions to the world’s problems.

  A day when the news confronting his father was of such a nature as to force even him to silence. For on August 4th 1914 George Brooks was reading of war and had seen the future. A future that he knew would inevitably wrest his son from his protection and place him at the King’s mercy.

  His father had harboured no illusions, for he was a travelled man. Many times he’d walked the streets of Bremerhaven, Kiel and Danzig, as he waited for the turning tide and his return to England, growing fearful as German warships ever increased in number. Even in Hamburg, that most anglophile of the northern cities, he’d experienced the martial posturing of German youth and the populations’ unequivocal distaste for the British, which Bismarck had so assiduously cultivated. And now it had finally happened; rhetoric was to turn to action and Britain’s hand was forced. He would stand his patriotism against any man’s in the town, but he knew Germany would demand a high price in men

  and gold in return for Britain’s victory. Harry had only been sixteen at the time and knew nothing of the thoughts oppressing his father on that suitably overcast morning. It was only two years later, during his first leave, that the conscripted son sat with his father and began to learn of his mind that day. Between times, grief had weighed heavy on them both, for even father hadn’t foreseen the events of the morning of December 16th 1914. The morning those sinister ships from German ports approached the

  East coast of England and fired their mighty guns, casting destruction and death into the heart of their town. Mother had gone to market early to buy fresh bread and milk and was returning when the first shell struck. It fell to their local bobby, the sad task of knocking at their door with the news. Thus it took but months for the war to take its tribute from the Brooks family and cruel tribute it was for its

  injustice. It was hardly surprising that such a tragedy should inspire the desire for vengeance in young Harry but his father would be damned if this war would take his only son as well. At least not before it was legally demanded. His convoy work with the shipping company was now more important than ever, ensuring his fellow countrymen still had food for the table, and he’d secured a clerk’s position for Harry. They were both doing their share, so he refused to bear guilt for the selfish protection of his son. But in May 1916, Harry received his papers and he could shield him from fate no longer.

  As young corporal Brooks stood shivering in the autumn chill, waiting to be issued with his new, clean and louse-free uniform he gave thanks that their wash had been with water, not gasoline, which they’d heard the American troops were sometimes forced to endure. Damned vermin were more resilient than the Hun. At least now they’d have a week behind the lines. Yes, there’d be the usual pointless inspections and drilling but at least they could offer a hearty welcome to the latest band of unfortunates, arrived to make good their losses. The old hands knew this was mere pretext, for they’d surely have drunk the local estaminets dry, and laid claim to every unguarded egg and wandering pig, even if they'd left the line yesterday with as many souls as had entered it. He tried not to think of his pal Morris, who’d taken a sniper’s bullet through the lung returning from a trench raid and who, as far as he knew, still lay where he fell; food for the rats. From high above, Harry could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire and saw two, dark specks wheeling and turning in an elaborate choreography of death. Probably a German two-seater taking pictures of us, he pondered, jumped by one of our scouts. Just at that moment one of the fragile machines stood on its tail, a flame blossomed and a fiery comet was born to an all too brief life, spinning and falling towards the earth. He’s done for, poor swine. I’d rather be blown to pieces.

  Such reflections can sometimes prove prophecy. Nine days later, his father received a telegram. Father and son had both seen the future but only for the father would another morning come.

  THE TRENCH

  By

  Malcolm Pate

  The trench was a dark, wet and unpleasant place in the middle of nowhere. Joe knew he was in France and had been there for a very long time. The trench stretched out some fifty yards each side of him. It seemed to have been raining for many days, making the floor a sea of stinking mud. He remembered his life before the war and year
ned for the return of those times. All he wanted to do was to go home.

  As Joe looked down the trench, he saw a fellow soldier perched on an ammunition box a few feet from him. His eyes were dark and full of despair. He had a rather shabby appearance, but Joe could see by the stripes on his uniform that he was a sergeant. For some reason, Joe felt sorry for the man. He had thought that he had been alone in the trench after his platoon had been all but wiped out in their last attempt to cross no-man's land between the German and English trenches. Joe had smoked his last cigarette several days ago and was by now getting desperate, so shouted to the man to see if he had any cigarettes. The man did not immediately respond, but continued to stare intently at something in front of him. Joe shouted a second time, which seemed to draw the man out of his reverie. He turned his head and with a thin smile, which showed his rotting teeth, then shouted something back that Joe could not quite hear.

  It started to drizzle with rain again, so Joe retired back into his eight foot square alcove, which served as his home and the only protection from the rain. The trench soon became the usual mud bath, making it most unpleasant under foot. The alcove had been Joe's home for the last three months. He lay in his makeshift string hammock, contemplating the dreadful situation he found himself in. Joe thought about his wife and the child he had never seen, wishing that he were back with them in England.

  He was suddenly awakened by a noise outside the alcove, which made him jump quickly out of his bunk. On opening the heavy green tarpaulin, he saw on the ground before him, two cigarettes wrapped in a cotton handkerchief. He looked around but could see no sign of anyone there, so guessed it must have been the sergeant. He lit one of the cigarettes with the old petrol lighter his mother had given him for his birthday. He retired to his hammock again, until the sound of the guns woke him up. It started at six o'clock each evening and finished, just after midnight. He pulled a well-read crinkled letter out of his greatcoat pocket and read it for the hundredth time. It was the last letter he had from his wife, telling him that she loved him and wanted him home. He also looked at the well-thumbed photograph of her and the new baby.