Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  ‘Sorry,’ he said in a meek voice, and shook his right hand trying to dislodge the broth.

  The man grabbed Joe’s wrist in an iron grip and dragged it upwards. Joe had no choice but to look the man in the face.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  He bawled at Joe with a mix of stale breath and spit. His eyes were almost bulging in his anger. Joe’s broth had covered the other prisoner’s uniform, turning the grey wool a brown sludge. Joe hadn’t intended to spill his food, despite his brain telling him otherwise he had wanted to eat it, but he knew he would pay for that, somehow.

  ‘I… I’m sorry. It was an accident.’

  The bully dug his nails deeper into Joe’s wrist, causing him to cry out in pain. He was certain he could feel blood dripping down his arm.

  ‘A fucking accident? Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes. Why would I spill my food?’

  ‘Nothing you do is by accident, coward. You’re a piece of work.’

  So this prisoner knew him then. Joe tried to recall any memory of having seen this person before, but it was no good; he was sure he hadn’t met him outside of the prison. That only left one thing, word of mouth. The prisoners must have heard about him, but who from? The warders? Would they tell the prisoners that a conscientious objector was coming into the prison? He knew they had wanted to torment him, but would they actually talk to the prisoners? Word must have got around some other way. The man had stood behind him at the counter on purpose, waiting for him to do something stupid, and he had got what he wanted. Joe regretted not being more careful.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It was a poor defence, but it was all he had. The other man was stronger than him, and angry. He would have to be careful not to infuriate him more. ‘I just want to sit by myself and eat. I mean you no harm. Here, I will help clean up the mess.’

  He searched around for something with which to wipe down the front of the other prisoner’s uniform and saw nothing. Instead he bunched up his own sleeve around his free fist and started scrubbing the man’s front.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said in his deep baritone voice. ‘Ger’off me!’

  He pushed Joe’s hand away and let go of his other. Joe cradled his free hand and began rubbing at the wrist with thumb and forefinger joined. There was no blood, it had been a psychosomatic response. His wrist still hurt though, that was every bit as real as the situation he found himself in.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘What else can I do?’

  Before the other prisoner could respond, the warder from earlier on came over.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ he shouted at them. The aggression looked strange on his face, like he was forcing it, and Joe flinched away from him.

  ‘Get to a table now, or you’ll be put in solitary. No talking in the line!’

  He ran off to deal with another prisoner who was complaining about the food.

  Joe was going to have to watch his back in here. He suspected there were a lot of rules, and no one was going to tell him what they were. He was going to have to find out the hard way.

  ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’ The other prisoner hadn’t left him alone as he’d hoped.

  The fist came out of nowhere, cracking him in the nose. He felt blood burst out of his nostrils, this time for real. He fell back with the blow, dropping the zinc bowl. He reached out to arrest his fall. Groping, his hands felt another man passing behind him in the queue. He had no choice but to put his weight against him, or he would hit the floor.

  ‘Oi,’ the man shouted and pushed him away.

  Joe dropped to one knee and rested himself on one hand, thankful that he hadn’t fallen flat on the floor. He was still vulnerable but at least he wasn’t prone. His knee was in the pool of broth and it soaked into his uniform. The hot liquid burnt, but he didn’t have time to move away.

  The big prisoner threw another punch in his direction, and Joe threw up his other arm to protect his face. The blow hit him in the elbow and jarred his shoulder. The prisoner was far stronger than Joe was.

  The was a lot more noise in the dining hall now, and Joe could hear shouts of support for the prisoner, and jeering in his direction. Where were the warders? Why weren’t they stopping this?

  ‘Fight back you coward,’ the prisoner shouted in his face, spittle flying as if from the maw of a rabid animal.

  He punched Joe again. This time he didn’t have a chance to raise his arm. His head cracked and he felt his nose break. He could taste the cold iron of blood in his mouth as it ran down his lip. He began to feel disorientated and the room spun. The big man wouldn’t stay still in his vision. He blocked out the electric light from the ceiling, and the words streaming from his mouth became unintelligible.

  Joe tried to stand, to do anything to get away, away to safety. He felt hands push him back down again, and he slipped in the broth, spreading his knees to leave him sitting as if in prayer, head bowed in pain. Another series of blows hit him, but the pain seemed distant. He fell onto his back, and lay, groaning. He tried to form words, to appeal to mercy, but his tongue filled his mouth and his lips were swollen.

  He became still. He had given up.

  After a few painful moments, fearing more blows, the shadow above him disappeared. He felt strong arms grab him under his armpits. The motion hurt him almost as much as the punches had and he groaned again. Someone tried to speak to him, but he couldn’t make out the words over the sound of his heart beating in his ears.

  Instead, they satisfied themselves with dragging him away from the scene.

  1917

  Chapter 36

  George was so numb from tiredness, he felt like he was already dead. He was having some kind of existential experience, looking outside of his own body. It felt weird and unnatural, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of not quite being alive. Had he already been killed somewhere else in this war and his mind was yet to keep up with the information? Would the increasing numbness become eventual blackness, nothingness?

  It was painful to keep his eyes open, the tears stung and every time a light passed it hurt even more. He stared into the distance, on watch for the enemy, blinking his eyes as often as he dared, to clear the strain, but to avoid them closing for good. Keep them open he must, or he would be shot like so many men before him. The fear of falling asleep made him sick to the stomach, the odd full feeling that accompanied fear and belied the fact that he hadn’t eaten well in years. It gave him the curious need to burp.

  He had never felt so lonely and scared in his life. He needed someone he trusted, someone that cared for him, to tell him that everything would be all right. But where would he find such a person? Not here in the trenches, they had all gone. He was the only one from Canterbury left now.

  The battalion had moved back up the line towards Ypres again, and leave into the towns and villages in the area had been sparse. They had been too busy preparing for the next series of assault to think about any downtime. George and the other lads that had been around for a while were well versed in the army’s tactics by now, and they’d been thrown back into the trenches to get ready.

  Almost every face around him now was new and unfamiliar, and even the brown muck of the trenches had failed to diminish their youthful facade. They all appeared young to him, even the ones that had been born before him. They had not seen as much as he had, they were yet to be reborn in war.

  While he was on duty, keeping watch, they all huddled around the trench, trying to keep out of the mud. Every man stared into the middle ground and no one acknowledged each other, ensconced within their own private hells. Men came and went, bringing the rum ration round, and bringing post. A runner brought news to a nearby officer, then ran off in the other direction past George.

  There was a crack that reverberated in the silence of no man’s land, followed by a heavy thud. A body dropped in front of George, swelling the mud at his feet. Its hel
met rolled off and bright red blood mingled with the brown earth. No one else moved. The cold lifeless eyes of the runner stared back at George as if imploring him for help. He shrugged. Another fallen soldier. He had been foolish enough to put his head above the parapet. In the trench you either learnt not to do it by seeing someone else get shot, or you learnt it the hard way.

  After a while a pair of stretcher-bearers came by to take the body away. Where they took them George didn’t know, and he no longer cared. He just sat there smoking and waiting for word on the next big push. The French had often buried their dead in the walls of their trenches; he’d once had the misfortune of having to dig them up to repair a trench.

  There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned. It was Private Sutcliffe, getting ready to go on duty and relieve George. He could tell by the downturned corners of Sutcliffe’s mouth that showed through the brown fuzz of his growing beard that he wasn’t happy about the prospect. Being on sentry duty was long and boring, one of the most hazardous positions to be in, but everyone had to take their turn. George had been told that the private was an old school friend of Joe’s, but he had never broached the subject with Sutcliffe. There hadn’t been time.

  George nodded his thanks to the small, grumpy man, and slid himself out from the sentry position. He handed the trench periscope to Sutcliffe and walked away. Very few words passed between him and the other men from his section now. What was there that could be said? He could remember the last time he’d had a drink and a joke in a local estaminet. Other soldiers still visited them, but not him.

  He rubbed a hand across the stripes on his sleeve. Sergeant. It was something that he had wanted for so long. He remembered a time that seemed like too long ago now, even though it was less than two years, when he had been angry at Tom for getting a stripe ahead of him. He had wanted to write home and tell his parents how well he had done, so that they would write back and tell him how proud they were. It wasn’t that they weren’t proud, he knew they were, he had just craved the recognition more than anything, he needed it to keep him going. Now it had actually happened, he expected it would just be a footnote in one of his letters, should he get time to write. Now he had been promoted it felt hollow, empty.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. He knew he would be a good leader. Hell, he had lived long enough through this to be one of the most experienced men in the regiment, even at only nineteen years old. He had spent over a year in the trenches before he had got the chance to go on leave. He hadn’t been allowed since. He had even missed his sister’s wedding, and she would probably never forgive him. This was the only life he knew now, and he would teach the other soldiers his craft.

  It was that it felt hollow. He hadn’t been angry with Tom because he had been promoted ahead of him, he had been angry because he had been promoted without him. It had separated the two closest of friends, and that had worried George at the time. Now that he had been given this stripe, it only served to further highlight how far apart the two friends had grown. Here was George still in the land of the living. Tom was gone and forgotten for most, buried in the mud of Flanders. He hadn’t even been buried with the other brave lads who had given their lives for this war.

  Only, he wasn’t brave. That’s what they had said, right before they had shot him. God only knew what they had done with his body.

  George threw himself into the nearest dugout, and wrapped his arms around himself, too tired to think any longer. He wished he had his greatcoat to keep him warm, but he would have to make do. His eyes stung and his head hung heavy with a dull ache. Despite it being summer, the area was cold and the sky was overcast. In a few short hours they would be taking part in another assault. This time they were hoping to overcome the mistakes of the previous battles. George was determined that he would at least try to get some sleep. He rolled over and lay on his side, closing his eyes and slept a restless sleep until just before dawn.

  *

  They were up and out of the trenches as they had been many times before, rushing up the ladders over the parapets with as much haste as they could manage. George led his section up the incline that led from his trench up to the German lines. They had a slight advantage of being able to fire down at the British, but they wouldn’t be able to see them. Not just because of the shelling, but because the early morning was covered in a heavy mist, which gave the scene a haunting, lonely feel.

  The British advanced behind a creeping barrage. It was deafening. George could feel the pressure of every bang and thump of the guns pressing against his ears. The constant low rumble gave him a headache. He thought he had seen as much shelling as he could imagine, but with every fresh assault the artillery seemed to bring forward even more guns.

  They advanced slowly through no man’s land, under orders not to get too far ahead of schedule lest they fall under their own guns. The going was hard, and the overcast sky, bringing increasing rain, was turning the ground to thick mud that clung at their boots.

  The section had been well prepared. They knew the area well from their days surveying and raiding this section. They moved forward, using the cover as best they could, quickening the pace when they could, and spreading out to make sure that they weren’t easy targets.

  George passed along the railway line that led from Ypres off to the west. He had been told to keep it to his right at all times on the way to their first objective. If he kept an eye on it, they wouldn’t get lost in the mud and the featureless expanse between theirs and the Germans’ lines. He had been lost before out here, and it was a more terrifying experience than the assault. He could just make out the hill through the mist and mud-flinging explosions. The Frezenburg Ridge was their first objective, and they had to get there as soon as possible. George slipped in the mud but righted himself with the help of his Corporal.

  Corporal Harlow was by his side, moving and keeping alert as they had practised. When Joe’s old boss had first joined them, George hadn’t thought much of him, but he had proven himself well and worked twice as hard as any other man to be the best soldier he could be. He gave George a tug forward and carried on up the hill.

  The artillery was crossing the first German trench, and George crouched down, expecting fire to come against them at any second. As they slogged up the hill, taking mud with them, they pushed through the broken wire and found the German trench empty.

  With a quick gesture, he ordered his men to keep moving up and over the trench. They didn’t have time to stop and inspect the trench, the reserve sections would have to deal with that. They had to get moving even though they had made good progress thanks to the cover of the barrage – the rain was growing stronger.

  He jumped down into the trench, noticing the run-down state of it, and with help from Harlow, he climbed up the opposite side. The German trenches he had seen before were in much better condition than this one, but he pushed the thought from his mind, intent on his target.

  He climbed to the top of the ridge, already exhausted. His uniform was chafing at his skin as the rain soaked through and his feet were getting new blisters from the slog through the mud. His head was splitting.

  From the incline he could see a bit further than before, but the mist was still hampering their advance. The artillery died out gradually as the army began to fall on their objectives; they were on their own now.

  There were some sounds of shouting up ahead and, through the mist, George could make out a group of Germans falling back. Field-grey figures blurred into the grey mist, but a line of soldiers formed a rear guard. Without thought he dropped to one knee, pulled back the bolt on his Lee Enfield and shot the nearest man. The round took him in the shoulder of his firing arm and he fell back to the mud. The Germans returned fire, and he heard a cry of pain behind him.

  Following his example, the rest of his section begun firing at the rest. They let the runners go. Shooting a man in the back was frowned upon, even out here.

  George pulled himself back to his feet and continued the advan
ce.

  Rounds zipped past them, and a few unlucky men beside him dropped to the ground. In the cacophony of war, he didn’t hear their cries. The section didn’t stop to see if they were fine, or go back for them. Their orders were clear: keep moving. They had to clear enough ground for the reserve battalions to be able to reinforce them. They had already advanced further than George had in the entire war. He had never been this far into Belgium.

  There were more trenches the other side of the ridge. Like the British, the Germans had reserve lines, and unlike the forward lines, they weren’t empty.

  They came under a heavy weight of fire a few metres from the trench as the mist cleared enough to get a good line of sight. George and his men advanced in an ordered fashion, firing their weapons when they got a clear shot and using the cover of the ruined ground to keep them out of sight for as long as possible.

  The German trench ringed a farm which had been fortified as a defensive position. Machine guns opened up around it, and more men fell into the mud. No crops or animals were left to the farm, long since obliterated by war, and it now resembled a small castle. There were shouts, explosions and gunfire all around. His ears rang with pain at the sounds. They didn’t have enough men to attack the farm, but if they could get to the trench then they would have some relative safety until the reinforcements arrived. He didn’t dare check the time. He knew they were too far away.

  One of his men jumped up and threw a Mills bomb towards the trench. As he released, a sniper put a bullet through him, and he collapsed like a marionette that had had its strings cut. It was a brave act, in a desperate situation, and George would make sure he got a commendation.

  A few Germans jumped out of the trench and ran towards the farmhouse. A few seconds later, there was a thud as the bomb went off. Body parts cartwheeled in the air and the firing from that part of the trench died out. It was now or never.