Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  ‘Come on, George,’ Tom said as he walked past.

  They picked their kit up from the heap that had been loaded onto the dock and walked off after the rest of their section. As they walked away from the dock the smell of fish faded and was replaced with an overbearing scent of sweat and iron. The road ran off into the distance, and they didn’t know where they were going. A sea of khaki moved in front of them and so they followed.

  There were plenty of other people moving along the side of the road: some men carrying stretchers and others lying, groaning in the gutter. There were doctors, rushing about in bloodstained overalls, which were already turning from red to brown. They eyed the new men with an odd stare, somewhere between concern and suspicion. There were also nurses, but they were too busy to even notice them.

  One of the men shouted at George and Tom as they passed.

  ‘Good luck with the Boche, lads!’ he said, his voice a hoarse growl. He was sat against a tree, one leg a bandaged stump and a bloody welt on the side of his face. He smiled a crooked smile at them as they waved. ‘Give ’em hell!’

  ‘Boche?’ George asked Tom, who shrugged.

  ‘It’s French for the Germans,’ one of the men in their section added.

  ‘This lot must have been hit hard, Tom,’ George said, looking around him at the carnage. He swallowed hard, feeling the bile rise in his throat. Some of the bodies were unmoving, others just groaned and groaned where they lay. There was one body that was frosting in the cold February air. How could that Tommy be so happy to see them when he was surrounded by this?

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time, no doubt, George.’ Tom looked like he was going to be sick, but he swallowed and colour returned to his face. ‘I guess this is why we’re here. This lot are going back to Blighty for treatment and they need us to hold the line for them until they come back.’

  ‘We must have missed a big German offensive,’ George agreed.

  ‘Aye, the bastards have putting up a big fight the last few months. Don’t worry though, George. It’ll all be all right now. “Tom Adams’ Army” is here! We’ll show them what for.’

  He grinned his grin and it was at complete contrast to their surroundings, but George couldn’t help but smile with him. They had been trying to get out to France for months, and now they were here. They had their work cut out for them, but it wasn’t before time. The injured men by the roadside just affirmed George’s decision to sign up. He would fight for them and he would fight for everyone still at home. He would fight because his dad couldn’t and because his brother wouldn’t.

  *

  Across the dock, their officers were waiting for them. The Captain and his adjutant were stood to attention and each of the private soldiers saluted as they came within distance, George and Tom amongst them. Some of the men were still pale from the voyage across the Channel, and George was sure that there were little globules of vomit on his battledress. He would have to make sure he didn’t get close enough to an officer that they would notice and put him on a charge, but surely they would forgive him that? It had been a hellish journey. He had worked amongst boats for years, but never appreciated what sailing on one was like – and he had only sailed across the Channel. Some sailors were at sea for months.

  He hoped that they would get somewhere soon where he could sit down and settle his stomach with a bite to eat and, most importantly, a drink. Despite having been out at sea, his throat was dry as a bone. But he couldn’t wait to get the wetness of the sea out of his uniform. The air had been damp in the sea mist and his clothes had stuck to his body, chafing every time he moved.

  The Captain gave them a small speech welcoming them to France and then he formed them up into fours. It seemed that they would be marching to the front. Even though they could hear the sounds of guns nearby, and some of the men around him flinched at every bang, the front must have been miles from where they were. George wasn’t looking forward to the long slog. He remembered poring over the maps back home and the place that the British Army had managed to staunch the German tide was some distance from Le Havre.

  They walked off, already weary despite not having moved far. George wasn’t the only one who hadn’t enjoyed the experience aboard the SS City of Edinburgh. Some of the other men from his company were dead on their feet, ready for bed. They would have to will themselves on, otherwise they would never reach anywhere to rest and would only get punished. It was this thought that pushed him on, despite the burning in his muscles and the chafing of his uniform.

  After a few miles they stopped and the Captain pulled them over to the side of the road so that some artillery could pass. They were just outside what once must have been a village. Farmhouses decorated the landscape, more pieces of masonry missing as they got closer to the front. Here, the artillery had grown from a background din, to a rumble, to now being on the verge of making the head swim. George had never heard so much noise. A few French villagers peered out of their houses at the stationary soldiers, then went back inside, shaking their heads. They wanted nothing more to do with this war. This wasn’t a place where they would stop long, there was nowhere here to billet and every soldier that could be seen was moving quick step away. It was a miserable place.

  There were less wounded men here, moving along the road in the search of safety. As they got closer to the front they saw more wounded landscape instead.

  The artillery carriages reminded George of the horse carts at home, but instead of the carts with flat beds the horses were all attached to a limber that carried a heavy gun behind them. One horse slipped in the thick, cloying mud that caked the road and pulled the limber with it, the other horses in its wake. The artilleryman cursed and ran around the limber trying to right the horse.

  The officers were nowhere to be seen to ask for orders, so George grabbed Tom and Fred’s arms and pulled them after him, running over to the limber. Without saying a word, they put their shoulders to the limber and pushed, while the artillery man calmed the horse. The mud was cloying and thick, and made every footstep hard work, pulling at their muscles. The boys pushed and the limber pushed back. Fred cried out as his hands slipped on the wet surface and his body dropped. He landed face first in the mud and scrambled around until he found some purchase. The mud threatened to pull him down again, but he managed to get free and stood up, covered head to toe in brown muck. George looked away, trying to resist the urge to laugh, and put more force into the pushing.

  Eventually, after more pushing and shoving, the sweat pouring down George’s face despite the coldness of the day, they got the gun limber back on the road. The horses were distressed and whinnied at the artillery crew. It took them more time still to get them moving.

  ‘I needed that rest,’ Tom said wryly, leaning against a fence by the side of the road. The artillery had moved on and the NCOs had told the men to rest up while they waited for the officers to come back. Pain poured down in droves, making the mud turn into a thick bog.

  ‘Right then, lads. Gather round, gather round,’ the Captain said as he got back and stood on a slight incline to the side of the road. His adjutant, next to him, frowned. The hill was the only bit of green still left in the mud-drenched, boggy landscape, and George suspected that the Captain was not inclined to stand anywhere else, the height advantage was a coincidence. George couldn’t help but compare the Captain to the old dock master, standing in front of the crowds and giving them their orders from up on high. He was a good man, the Captain, but he wasn’t what George would call a rousing speaker.

  ‘Right, now that I’ve got all of your attention,’ he called out, before being interrupted by some movement from the men. ‘Steady there, at the back.’

  George saw Campbell push his way to the back of the assembled men, anger etched on his face, but he couldn’t see what the problem was. The Captain continued regardless.

  ‘Now, lads. We’ve some work to do all right. The top brass think that you’re ready for it and so do I.’

  A cheer went
up from some of the men, but the rain still poured down on the rest. They’d been ready for almost six months already, George thought.

  ‘We’re to move up the line immediately and relieve some of our boys that need a bit of a break. It’ll be the first bit of action for some of you, and I want you to make us proud. Let’s show the rest of the army what the King’s regiment can do.’ With that final sentence, he climbed down off the hill with the help of his adjutant and the men went to find their sections.

  Campbell pushed back through the crowd to the head of their section, rubbing his hands together, and with a smile on his usually dour face.

  ‘That’ll show them,’ he mumbled half to himself and half to George.

  They formed into fours without a word from the Lance-Sergeant and he looked on, smug and satisfied. His training had worked on them. There was no need for him to stand on an incline, his presence and voice easily carried across the section, and there were far less of them by now.

  ‘Look, you horrible lot,’ he said, by way of getting their attention. By now they were used to his manner. ‘We’ve still got to get to the bloody front, see? So we’re gonna march along this ’ere road, and then find our way on another bloody train.’

  There was a distinct murmur and grumbling from the men, including George.

  ‘Quiet, you bloody ingrates. You can march all the way there if you want, but you’ll be too bloody tired to fight well, see? And I can’t be having that. Form out!’

  He barked the last command, and the men were quick to react, not wanting to be the last in line and receive a biting tirade from the Lance-Sergeant. At the next village along they found the train which they would be travelling on. It was nothing compared to the trains at home. George wondered that it could be called a train at all. Each carriage was made of sodden, wooden planking that was rotting and moulding in places. There was no platform for them to gain access to the carriages, so they had to climb their way up the side, putting one foot on the undercarriage and lifting the other leg up like climbing over a fence. The men already on the train helped the others up one by one.

  The inside was covered with straw like a barn. It had been used to convey cattle, before the army needed it. The corners smelt of urine, and there was a small metal bucket to one side. George didn’t dare inspect it.

  There were no seats for them to sit on, so the men had to sit on the floor. Those that got there first put their backs against the side of the carriage wall with their legs outstretched. The others had to sit, crouch, or lie where they could find space, and space was hard to come by once they were all crammed into the carriage. Once again there was no sign of the officers. George very much doubted that the Captain would travel in these conditions. He no doubt had a more lavish carriage to himself further up the train, or even a car in which to travel in comfort. With a lurch the train set up, smoke billowing down the side of the carriages and coming inside through the cracks and poor joins in the wood. Some of the men coughed, others fell over on top of each other with the sudden shift in momentum. George didn’t think he would ever long for the boat that had brought them over here, but at least it was open to the air.

  Once the train gained some momentum, the smoke drifted off and they were left with the rotten stench of the carriage again. Regardless, George breathed a deep breath, savouring the air.

  Where they were going was anyone’s guess, but the journey wasn’t going to be an enjoyable one. George had seen just about enough of trains for one lifetime.

  Chapter 20

  George ducked underneath a piece of wooden lintel that ran across the entrance to the communication trench and stepped down into the mud. In the trenches, the soldiers were always ducking and crouching, trying to keep as low as possible. Standing up straight would give a German sniper the perfect opportunity to put a bullet through your skull, the soft cap scant protection. George’s boots squelched, mud covering his puttees. The smell hit him immediately. It was like the smell of fresh, wet sand at the beach, as he remembered the beaches of New Brighton, but mixed with something else. Something that smelt like the rusting iron ships the he worked with on the docks. The smell permeated everything, filling the nostrils with rotting metal.

  It very much reminded him of the smell of hospitals. He had been to one in Liverpool a couple of times when he was younger. He had escorted his father through the whitewashed walls, and the smell of blood and death had never left him. He had hated hospitals ever since.

  He couldn’t tell if the smell in the trench was from the abused, rusting ironwork, or if it was from the casualties this section had suffered.

  They were going in to relieve one of the Irish divisions that had come in before them. He hadn’t known what to expect when he ducked into their trench, but the soldiers were the same as the thousands he had seen so far. Only their regimental cab badges and their accents singled them out as any different.

  ‘Ooh. Fresh fish,’ the Irish soldier said at George’s approach. When he spoke, it reminded George of Patrick. George wondered where his friend was; was he in France or still at home?

  ‘We’re here to relieve you, lad,’ Tom said over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s all well and good, son, but we have to wait for the say so before we up and leave.’

  The soldier was a Sergeant going by his stripes and he outranked both George and Tom. He moved along the trench in a crouch, careful to stay on the duckboards that kept the water in the bottom. He outstretched an arm and shook George’s hand, then Tom’s.

  ‘Sergeant O’Connor,’ he said. ‘Most just call me Paddy. Welcome to Park Lane.’

  He laughed and pointed up at a sign that hung on the entrance to the trench, which someone had painted the words ‘Park Lane’ on in lazy handwriting.

  ‘One of the London lads here before us got a bit homesick. We thought it’d be poor luck to take it down. Damned if I’ve ever seen London, mind.’

  George and Tom introduced themselves and the Sergeant led them back along the trench to where the others were sitting.

  ‘Not that I’d mind getting out of here as quick as possible, the lice are killing me, but orders is orders and I’ve gotta wait for orders from the Captain before he says we can move out. Even if you have come to relieve us, like you say.’

  ‘We have,’ Tom insisted.

  ‘Fair do. But we’ll just stick around and introduce you to your new home for now if you don’t mind?’

  He handed them both a metal mug with a liquid in it that had been brewing in a larger tin above a stove. It smelled like coffee, but George could only just make it out over the smell of mud. The mug was nice and warm in his hands in the cold, and he just held it rather than drinking. The steam rose up around his head, warming his face and he breathed it in. It was a reassuring smell, comforting, but it had a slight tinge of petrol to it, a tangy metallic smell. The trench was a world of different smells, George mused. They would all take some getting used to, but the boys here seemed to take no notice as they poured more water from a petrol can into their stove and handed mugs around to the newcomers.

  Rain fell around them and pinged off the corrugated metal sheets that lined the dugout. It hadn’t let up for hours, and George wasn’t sure he had ever seen so much rain. At times the Mersey would fill up and threaten to burst over the banks, but eventually it would subside. Here was only rain, and he had no idea where it would all go. The bottom of the trench was almost like a bog, a marshy, muddy mess that coated his khaki and stuck to his boots. The smell of damp only heightened the other smells.

  He raised his eyes to the sky and the rain hit his face. He hoped it would end soon.

  He reached around in his webbing and pulled out a sheet of writing paper and a small pencil. He stretched it out over a small earth ledge in the trench, careful to make sure that the surface wasn’t wet. Small drops of water landed on the edge of the paper, but he couldn’t prevent that. He was careful to wipe it away before it obscured the words he was writing. At first he di
dn’t know what to say, but soon the words started to flow like the Mersey when the tide was rushing out. He tried to get everything they had been up to since he had last written home onto the piece of paper, but ran out of room. He had to keep it concise, the officers would censor most of it anyway.

  When he was done, he folded the piece of paper and put it in his breast pocket next to the letter he had written to be sent home should he be killed. He would give it to the post master as soon as he got a chance.

  He went back to the small dugout in his trench that they had put aside for sleeping and sat silently, gazing out over the trench, waiting for the inevitable German attack. He wasn’t officially on duty, Tom was already snoring away next to him, but it took him some time to fall asleep.

  *

  George was woken by an itch on the end of his nose. Half asleep, and suspecting that a piece of his clothing had fallen on his face, he tried to slap it aside with a lazy hand. He jumped as his hand touched a firm, furry shape. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted and in the darkness he couldn’t make out what it had been, until the shape moved again, and made a slight shuffling sound. The rat then ran across his legs not caring that he was there.

  ‘Ugh!’ He jumped up again, shouting.

  The sound raised Tom who was asleep next to him in the recesses cut in the trench that the soldiers used for sleeping. He lazily came to, but the other men of their section were awake and alert straight away.

  ‘What is it?’ one of them shouted.

  More rats sniffed around in the trench, hunting for food. Some of them were as big as cats, and possibly a lot more vicious. They hunted around in the meagre planks that they used for duckboard and disappeared into the bog at the bottom of the trench where wood was scarce. George felt embarrassed at shouting out.