Everybody's Somebody

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘They’re as big as bleedin’ cats,’ the sergeant warned, ‘an’ there’s thousands of the beggars. They’ll bite yer face off as soon as look at you, so watch out for yerselves.’

  ‘An’ a merry Christmas to you too Sarge,’ Fred said.

  That made them all roar with much needed laughter.

  ‘All right! All right!’ the sergeant said, grinning at them. ‘Now let’s be ’avin’ yer, you dozy lot. We ain’t got all day.’

  Jim and Fred worked hard that afternoon. Pumping out the trench was a foul, smelly job and by the time it was done their boots were clogged with mud, their puttees were more slime than cloth and Fred said they were like ‘a couple a’ mudlarks, strike me if we ain’t’.

  ‘Strike me’ made Jim laugh. ‘What part a’ London you from then?’ he grinned, leaning on his shovel.

  ‘The Borough,’ Fred told him. ‘My ol’ man’s got a stall in Borough Market. Feigenbaum, fruit an’ veg. I was workin’ wiv ’im ’fore I got called up fer this lot.’

  ‘Is that your name then?’ Jim asked. ‘Feigenbaum?’

  ‘Bit of a moniker,’ Fred said and explained. ‘It’s Jewish. My grandfather come to Whitechapel in the eighties to get away from the pogroms.’

  ‘An’ now you’re in the Borough,’ Jim said. ‘So we’re neighbours. I live in Southwark.’

  ‘Near the ol’ Star,’ Fred said.

  ‘Just up the road.’

  ‘I used to go there a lot. Seen Marie Lloyd there once. Lovely she was.’

  Jim was instantly back in the Star with Rosie sitting warm and close beside him. ‘Me an’ all.’

  ‘I was a boxer once wiv her daughter,’ Fred said.

  Jim was intrigued, ‘Whose daughter?’

  ‘Marie Lloyd’s. She runs the boxing in the Surrey Chapel up Blackfriars Road. She’s the promoter like. Great lady. She’s on the ’alls an’ all. Bella Burge. Bella a’ Blackfriars. You might ha’ seen her.’

  ‘So you was a boxer,’ Jim said, resting on his shovel. ‘Don’t surprise me. I reckoned you was on account a’ that hooter.’

  Fred touched his broken nose, ruefully. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Took a right hook I done. More fool me. You should ha’ seen the shiners what went with it.’

  ‘Takin’ ’oliday are we?’ the sergeant said, coming up behind them.

  ‘No Sarge,’ Fred said. ‘Just breavin’.’

  ‘Well leave orf breaving an’ fix them duckboards,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’ll be stand-to directly an’ I wants ’em good an’ ready by then.’

  They grinned at him and took up their shovels. If he wanted it done by stand-to, it would be done. He was a good old bloke. It was tiring to be on the go all the time but, after six weeks on Salisbury Plain, reassuringly familiar. Stand-to, when it came was something new, nerve-racking and different. Commands were given briskly — fix bayonets, take position, keep yer eyes skinned — then they were left to stand on the fire step and watch the muddy wreckage in no-man’s-land for any sign of movement from the German trenches. Dusk was the time when an attack was most likely, and it was their job to watch out for it. When it was finally dark, they were given the order to stand down and the supply wagons began to arrive but that seemed to be the signal for the Germans to start shelling. The noise was so sudden and overwhelming that there was an outburst of terrified swearing all along the trench and within seconds two shells had exploded to their left and they could hear shouts and screams, so they knew some of their mates had been injured.

  ‘Bloody hell fire!’ Jim roared, as another shell shrilled overhead, and the sergeant stormed along the trench shouting at them to keep their bleedin’ heads down. ‘How long’s this gonna go on, Sarge?’

  ‘We ’ave a bit of a truce when it’s grub-time,’ the sergeant shouted back, ‘as a general rule. But I shouldn’t bank on it if I was you.’

  The shelling went on until the supplies had all been delivered and the wagons had left. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Jim and Fred pulled off their helmets and wiped the sweat from their heads, looking at one another rather sheepishly.

  ‘Gaw deary me,’ Fred said. ‘Look at the state a’ this trench. It’s shot to buggery.’

  Jim took a hard look at it. It was full of mud, ancient rags and debris, broken planks, chunks of shrapnel still red hot, a trail of rusty barbed wire. And one section of the wall had fallen in and was blocking the walkway.

  ‘Well I tell yer what,’ he said, ‘the grub had better be good after all this.’

  It was the usual Irish stew served up in the usual mess tins, and they ate it by candlelight perched on the broken planks. But after that, the evening perked up no end because the mail arrived and Rosie’s letter was so warm and loving, he felt almost normal again just reading it and took out his pencil and paper at once to answer her. Not that there was very much he could say, given it would all be read by the censor with his rotten blue pencil, but he told her he was well and that the grub wasn’t bad and signed it with a long line of kisses. Even when the sergeant arrived to chivvy them all into working parties to clean up the trenches and take their turn on the night watches, he fell to willingly although he was tired to his bones.

  He was still tired when the orderly officer arrived next morning to bully them awake. It was an hour before dawn and hideously cold, but his orders were clear. They were to get their boots on smartish and look lively for stand-to. Then it was fix bayonets and they were up on the fire step again, peering into the darkness just as they’d done the previous evening, stamping their feet to keep warm and complaining to one another. Day broke far too slowly, staining the sky a lurid green and orange and revealing the filthy mess they were standing in. And just as they were beginning to hope it would get a bit warmer now the sun was up, there was a sudden rattle of machine gun fire from the German trenches followed by a deafening volley of artillery. They were instantly alert and afraid and peered through the mist that was rising from the miasma of no-man’s-land, ready to give the alarm at the first sight of advancing troops. But none appeared and after a few seconds the sergeant bustled along the trench giving orders.

  ‘Morning hate!’ he called. ‘Let ’em have it boys! Fire at will!’

  They did as they were told, although they felt baffled to be asked to fire at the mist, but after a few minutes they got into the swing of it and were soon firing like maniacs. When the German guns finally fell silent, they were wild with excitement, as if they’d won a victory. And then as if that weren’t treat enough, they were all given a tot of rum. It made a cheerful start to the day.

  After that they were back to their routine chores, taking it in turn to clean their rifles and stand guard, eating breakfast in the early light, being inspected by the company commander, hunting rats, picking the lice that had suddenly appeared to plague them, from the seams of their clothes, toiling to clear the filth in the trenches again and again. It was an incessant, daily drudgery. They were quite glad when their first fortnight in the front line came to an end and they could pick up all their equipment — shovels, respirators, backpacks, rifles and all — and trudge back to the rear trenches, where they handed over their filthy uniforms to be washed, slept on a bunk instead of the cold earth and were out of the stink and squalor for a couple of weeks and away from the fear, which was always there, every hour of the waking day, dragging at their guts, waiting and inevitable but kept private. It was no good talking about it. They all knew that. The horror would come sooner or later, when some fool general thought it was time for another push and then they’d be for it and there was nothing they could do about it. In the meantime there were orders to be obeyed, jobs to be done, a steady supply of grub, and letters to write and receive. Thank God for the postmen!

  The horror came at the beginning of July. It opened with an artillery barrage that was so massive and went on for such a long time they were deafened by it and none of them were in any doubt that there was going to be a major assault. On the fourth of July, they we
re woken before dawn in the usual way and given a rather larger tot of rum than they were used to, which alerted Jim and Fred although, apart from making a grimace at one another, they were careful not to say anything. Then the changes began. They were ordered up on the fire step as usual but this time they were wearing their full battle kit, respirators, ammunition, water bottle, grenades and first-aid pack. And as the sun came up, the bombardment decreased, and they all knew it would only be a matter of minutes before they were sent over the top.

  Jim was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. His heart was beating so hard it was painful. It filled his chest and rose into his throat, tightening it so that he could barely breathe. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Swallowing was difficult, any movement impossible. He stood on the fire step, stiff as a mechanical toy, rifle at the ready, waiting and knowing that it was death he was waiting for. He was so taut that, when the whistles began to shrill, the sound made him jump. Then they were all on the move, scrambling over the parapet, struggling through the coils of barbed wire, walking forward into the smoke, crossing the stinking mire of no-man’s-land, as the guns roared, shells screamed overhead, and the enemy machine guns stuttered and rattled and spat red fire. Jim walked blindly, obeying orders in the way he’d been taught, but noticing everything as though his senses had been sharpened. The land in front of them wasn’t flat as he’d imagined but rose in a gradual slope where the German trenches were, slightly above them and with a clear line of fire. We’re open targets he thought, trudging forward, one foot after the other, as men screamed and fell all round him and lay in the mud crying and groaning and the machine guns went on spitting out their lethal fire. He was walking right behind a tall soldier who seemed to be firing his rifle with every step, steadily and stolidly. But then things happened at such speed there wasn’t time to take them in.

  A shell fell so close to them that they were covered in gobbets of mud and Jim could feel a piece of shrapnel falling hot and heavy on his tin hat. The tall soldier toppled backwards and fell towards him knocking him off his feet so that they were both falling. They landed in a shell hole full of muddy water and, for a few seconds, Jim struggled to stand and found he couldn’t do it. Then he must have passed out because the next thing he knew he was waking to the sound of a duck quacking and lay on his back looking up into the smoke of the battle wondering what a duck was doing out there in that hellhole. It took him some time to work out that the sound was coming from the tall soldier who was lying virtually on top of him and was extremely heavy. They were both soaked in blood and Jim had no feeling in his feet. He knew he ought to get up and go on marching, but he didn’t have the energy to do it and, although he scrabbled in the mud to try and find something to grip to give him some leverage, he couldn’t do that either. He lay on his back listening to the soldier’s terrible breathing until he gave one last long choking sound and stopped. He’s dead, Jim thought, poor sod, and he made another effort to struggle out from underneath him, pushing against the sides of the shell hole until he was more or less sitting up and then hauling the body to one side until he could ease out from underneath it. The smoke had cleared a little by that time although the sound of gunfire and the screams and groans were still going on. He had to pull his legs from under the soldier’s body using both hands because by that time he had no feeling in the lower part of his body at all but at least his arms and legs were in one piece, although they were slimy with blood. But the soldier was mutilated. His face was just a mass of torn flesh, his belly was a huge gaping hole and his guts had fallen out and lay in the mud beside him in grey, bloodstained coils.

  Jim was so shocked at the sight of him it made him shake but, oddly, he felt no pity for the man. That should have shamed him, but he didn’t feel any shame either. The poor devil was gone. There was nothing he could do to help him. And he was left in the shell hole and would have to get up and go on with the attack even though he felt so tired all he really wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep. He struggled to one knee and peered out over the rim of the hole. The rest of the battalion had moved a long way since he fell. He could see their moving bodies in the far distance, but there were other bodies too, hundreds and hundreds of them, lying in distorted positions everywhere he looked, limbs missing and faces blackened. It had been a massacre. A total, bloody massacre. And beyond all those obscene deaths were others that were even more horrific. The men in the front line had reached the enemy barbed wire and been caught up in it and shot to pieces where they struggled. Some were still hanging by the arms, some kneeling as if they were praying, but all of them were shattered and dead. It was a horror like nothing he had ever known or could possibly have imagined.

  He slid back into the shell hole and tried to breathe normally. Then he passed out again.

  When he came to for the second time, it was dark and there was a soldier leaning over the shell hole looking at him.

  ‘Two more here, Corp,’ the soldier called.

  Another voice answered him, sounding quite close. ‘Dead or alive?’

  ‘Dead,’ the soldier said.

  Jim struggled to form words, swallowed, gasped and managed to croak. ‘No. No. I ain’t dead.’

  ‘Correction,’ the soldier said. ‘One dead. One wounded.’ Then he turned his head back to his casualty. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s be ’avin’ yer.’

  They hauled him out of the slime, gave him a fag and asked if he could walk. When he said he thought so, they slung his arms round their shoulders and set off. He managed three steps before his legs gave way and he sank to his knees in the mud in an agony of frustration.

  The corporal was calling for a stretcher and one seemed to have arrived, although he couldn’t be sure because he was finding it hard to focus his eyes. He was lifted up and lowered onto the canvas and then four of them were carrying him through the squelch of the mud and the noise of the incessant shellfire towards the British trenches. Then he was in a wagon, sitting on benches with a lot of other wounded men, and he knew there were horses straining and blowing as they pulled it along.

  After that he was too confused to be able to pay any attention to anything except the difficult business of sitting upright and the fact that there was a horrible painful pounding in his head, and he knew from the smell that was rising from him with every jolt that he must have shit himself on that nightmare advance. He was relieved when they arrived at the casualty clearing station and he was eased out of the wagon by two more orderlies and half walked, half dragged into a dugout, which was crowded with wounded men. There was an overpowering smell of blood and shit. But there were also long rows of camp beds and he was able to lie down.

  A uniformed doctor was inching along the packed rows examining his newly arrived patients one after the other with an orderly in attendance. He shone a torch into Jim’s eyes and then asked, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ but it was difficult to answer because the fingers wouldn’t stay in focus.

  The doctor spoke to the orderly. ‘No physical injuries,’ he said. ‘Probable concussion.’ Then he turned to talk to Jim again. ‘I’m sending you to a CCS,’ he said. And moved on to the next soldier.

  Another stretcher, another crowded wagon, another journey as the wagon walls swam in and out of focus and his nose was clogged with the smell of his own foul shit and the men around him groaned and cursed. And then they seemed to have arrived at a hospital of some sort. There were nurses waiting for them, clean and pretty in their white aprons and their white caps ready to lead them, gradually and carefully, into a tent full of beds. Oh the bliss of lying on a bed. The two nurses who were looking after him were gentle and thorough and set to work at once to strip off his blood-soaked uniform and examine him for wounds, gentling his shamefaced apologies aside.

  ‘Not to worry,’ one said. ‘Most of our patients come in like this. Soon have you clean again. You’ll feel better then.’

  She was right. It was such a relief to be lying down in a clean bed
wearing clean clothes — although the things they called pyjamas were a novelty to him. He managed to smile, for the first time since he’d gone over the top and the nurse smiled back.

  ‘Better now?’ she asked.

  ‘I reckon I’ve died an’ gone to heaven,’ he said.

  Chapter 10

  Rosie saw the headlines in The Times the following morning as she was serving breakfast at the RAC Club. Most of the people at the table had brought a copy in with them and they were all reading avidly.

  Great British Offensive

  Attack on 20-mile front.

  German trenches occupied.

  Our casualties not heavy.

  It made Rosie’s heart constrict most painfully. Jim would’ve been in that, she thought. Bound to have been. Oh please, please God don’t let him be killed.

  It took all her self-control to take orders, serve the meals and keep smiling but she managed it and, when they’d all gorged themselves full in their rich, idle way, she loitered by the kitchen door until the room was empty, and darted in to retrieve one of the papers that had been left behind and hid it behind a curtain, working quickly before the others arrived to clear the tables and lay them again ready for lunch. The minute the tables were set she retrieved the paper and took it off to the kitchen where she read it attentively. Underneath the headlines were the words ‘Official Statement’, so it had to be true, didn’t it? If they said our casualties weren’t heavy, there was some hope. Oh please, please, please God don’t let him be killed.