George jumped up from behind the barricade he had been crouching behind and shouted his men to fall in with him. He ran as fast as he could towards the German trench, the weight of his gear adding to his momentum. He didn’t check if his men were with him. He thought about attaching his bayonet, but didn’t have time. A machine gun was still firing rounds into the ground below the ridge.
He jumped down into the trench, his feet landing on hard wooden duckboards. His boots prevented him from jarring his ankle. A small group of German soldiers were moving along to reinforce the trench. He fired one shot along the trench, then another. It was more difficult to miss than hit.
More men followed George into the trench. Some had bayonets attached and grappled with the few Germans that were left. George didn’t look to see what happened to them. As an officer he had to assess the situation. The trench was a mess, blood and body parts mingled in the duckboards. A young German lay against the firing step, groaning in pain. He had lost both legs, and would die from a loss of blood in seconds. One of George’s men leant down and put him out his misery with a quick round. The groaning stopped.
Corporal Harlow came up beside him, in a crouch. The German machine gunners were still firing on them, but they were safer now in the confines of the trench. The Germans could only come from the flanks or assault them directly. There was no communication trench in this section, for which George was relieved.
‘We’ve secured this part of the trench, sir.’ Harlow’s voice had lost some of the wheeze he had had upon enlisting, but he was still out of breath like the rest of them. ‘But I’m not sure how long we can hold it for. That farm is pretty well fortified, and we’ve lost too many men.’
The Corporal put George’s thoughts into words, and he nodded. They would have to try and force something, or dig in. The fog wasn’t helping things.
He had an idea, but it was dangerous.
‘Corporal, when I say so, throw a Mills bombs towards that machine gun pit from along there.’ He pointed to an alcove in the trench closer to the farmhouse. ‘Don’t put anything above the trench.’
Harlow nodded and moved to obey.
‘Now!’ George shouted.
As soon as the bomb went off, the machine gun went silent. George pulled himself up to get a better view of the situation. The fog was easing off, but was still thick in the valley below them. Fierce fighting was taking place all along the line, but the other nearby sections were pinned down as they were.
He ducked down back into the trench, avoiding the bullets that whistled past his head. Dirt tumbled down into the duckboard after him, and the sandbags threatened to fall, lurching on the apex of the trench wall.
The usual sounds of warfare filled George’s senses: the crack of rifle fire, the chatter of machine guns, accompanied by the dull crump of explosions, but there was a new sound permeating the landscape, an uncomfortable sound that was always just on the periphery of hearing. A low resonance rumbled through the earthworks of the trenches that reminded George of the sound of distant thunder. Unlike thunder it didn’t stop, but carried on resonating, until it was joined by the whir and hum of a mechanical engine.
All of a sudden, the rising sun in the morning sky was blocked out by an immense shadow across the trench, and the sound grew in intensity with the added high creak of gears. George could smell thick engine oil, much like that used on the ships back home, and he got the sense of a massive machine lumbering over him.
It didn’t fall but lurched over the gap in the earth in which George was hiding, and then was gone, light falling back into the void.
He crawled up after it, at first kneeling on the firing step and then using his hands to claw his way up to standing. In his curiosity he just about dared to pop his head up and risk a view into no man’s land. The machine was rumbling away from him in the direction of the fortified farmhouse.
It was a great land-ship, painted in an olive green that almost helped it to blend in with the landscape – if only it had a bit more muddy brown to it. George had heard rumours of these land-ships or tanks from when they had been used further up the line, but he had never seen one for himself, until now. The sound was deafening, and for the first time he admitted to himself that he had been terrified by it. He was relieved to see that it was on his side.
On each side of the tank, a gunmetal grey cannon protruded. It looked ridiculous, like the side sails of a tall ship. Every so often one of the cannons recoiled and shot a round at the German defences.
It was a lumbering machine, but the sight of it gave them hope, and clearly terrified the Germans. It fired its cannons at the farmhouse and the concrete sandbox that housed the machine gunners collapsed in a shower of grey dust. Germans started to pull back from the farmhouse. Moments later another land-ship crawled across the trench they had taken and the men cheered.
George went back to organising his men. He ordered Harlow to take a section and hold one end of the trench while he took the other. They couldn’t get much further with the men they had. They would have to fortify the ground they had taken before the inevitable German counter-attack. George had seen it before at Loos, and by the Somme river. Even with the land-ships roaming their lines, the Germans would come.
George would have to hold out until the reinforcements arrived.
Chapter 37
Joe awoke with a start, and almost screamed. Pain forced him back down against the bed, or whatever it was he was lying on. Every slight movement elicited another peal of pain, and he tried to lay still. Even shallow breathing ached.
He had been having a terrible dream, and that had woken him suddenly. He was being beaten by meaty fists. A group of men wearing khaki uniforms surrounded him, jeering, and joining in with the barrage of blows. He couldn’t get away and they kept laughing at him. It wouldn’t stop, each laugh had brought more pain as the men crowded in. He couldn’t take any more, and then he had woken up. He knew now that despite the horror of it, it was real. Some parts of it were the fiction of his mind, such as the khaki and the large leering grins of the men beating him, but the pain was glaringly, horrifyingly real.
He could only move his eyes from side to side without feeling pain, using them to search for where he was. He didn’t recognise the room, but the barred and shuttered windows reminded him that he was in the prison. He closed his eyes, succumbing to the weight of his eyelids as his body told him to rest so that it could repair his wounds.
He was as safe as he could be in the prison, there was no point trying to make an escape or alert anyone. If they thought he was asleep at least they would leave him alone. They had beaten him to within an inch of his life. That must be enough now? It would have been a warning of some kind. He wasn’t sure against what, but they must have known that pointless violence would serve no use here. Although, they were already in prison, what did they have to lose? He wasn’t even sure these kinds of men would think that far ahead.
He opened his eyes again, feeling vulnerable and scared. The cell was still empty, still grey, and still cold. He rolled over onto his side and was hit with a wave of pain. His whole midriff felt like it was on fire, as if he lay on hot coals. He reached again for the comfort of lying on his back with an arch in his spine borne from pain. He lay there for a long time, panting and trying to claw air into his damaged lungs. After some time, he started to feel more human. The initial shock had almost overwhelmed him, but the pain was starting to numb now that his body had woken to it.
He finally felt able to try and stand up. He rolled his legs to the side of the pallet, grimacing at the pain, and grinding his teeth together to stop from crying out. He let his legs dangle over the side of the bed as he sat up. He inspected the bruises on his body, all an angry purple poking through his pale skin. Some had patches of red and even yellow, all were sore. He pushed himself up on both arms and onto his wavering legs. He had an overbearing need to urinate. The urge had never been so strong before and the constriction of his bladder only added to the
pain in his body.
He stood, straining, and almost pitched forward. There was still enough strength in his limbs to keep him upright. He took one tentative step after the next, moving towards the bucket in the corner of the room. As he walked muscle memory returned to him and he became more fluent.
He dared not look at it. The smell of the standing water was enough to turn his stomach, so he turned and eased himself down. The metal was cold against his backside and he jumped away from it. He decided he would have to be quick, like jumping into the sea on a cold spring day. Those cold waters of the Irish Sea would be a welcome alternative to what he faced now. After a few seconds he grew numb to the cold.
At that moment the cell door opened with the clanking of the heavy lock, and the jangling of keys. He almost fell with the shock
*
The warder led him down the narrow walkways, and down two flights of stairs to the main concourse. The prison was expansive, and Joe was sure there were parts he would never get to see. The warder pushed him along, prodding him in the small of the back, and Joe had to force himself not to cry out in pain. It took immense effort not to stumble, but still his walk was a tumbling gait that only just propelled him forwards rather than downwards.
Eventually they came to a warehouse that doubled as a work room. In it, other men were working away at long reams of beige cloth, pulling it towards them and then working with their hands. Joe was forced into a metal chair by a large hand that pushed at his shoulder. The chair squeaked with the physicality of it, but Joe was used, by now, to the abuse. The bruise on his shoulder was but a new one to add to the rest on his battered, purple body. Everything hurt, but it hurt so much that it had dimmed to a constant numbness.
A number of tools lay on the workbench before him, each designed, as far as he could tell, for stitching and sealing the beige hessian material together. He picked up a pair of scissors from the bench, and marvelled at them. He thought it odd that they would supply them with what was essentially a murder weapon. Several big warders stood at intervals along the walls, keeping an eye on the prisoners. He wouldn’t get two yards without being stopped by one of them.
He could always kill himself, but what would that prove? How far he had fallen; the thought would never have crossed his mind but a few months ago. Now, it was there at the back of his mind, like a whispered command, just to see if he could get away with it. The depression had hit him hard.
He ran his thumb along one of the blades; the scissors were blunt. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the other prisoners struggling to cut the hessian.
‘Get on with it,’ the nearest warder barked at him.
‘Get on with what exactly?’ Joe whispered, unable to speak at a higher volume. His larynx craved water, to abate the dryness and the crackling cough that seemed always on the edge of occurring.
‘Sewing, lad,’ a voice at the next workstation said. Joe looked over to see who had spoken.
‘Don’t look at me,’ the voice hissed again, and Joe’s head shot back to his own workstation. ‘If you look at me, they’ll think that we’re talking.’
‘We are talking,’ Joe said.
There was a pause.
‘Well, yes.’ The speaker sounded confused by Joe’s statement. He knew he was stating the obvious, but he didn’t care anymore. ‘We are talking, but they can’t hear us if we speak quietly. It will be obvious if we’re looking at each other.’
‘What are we supposed to be doing here?’ Joe wanted to get straight to the point, he was tired and fed up. ‘I thought this was prison?’
‘Shh! Quieter.’
One of the warders walked down their row of desks, and Joe made it appear as if he was inspecting his materials, which, in a way, he was. When the warder was gone, the other man spoke again.
‘They put you to work in prison. Everyone knows that.’
Joe supposed he had never thought about it. The prison wasn’t somewhere he ever thought he would end up. He waved the end of the hessian at the other inmate.
‘So what’s this for then?’
‘That? That’s for cutting.’
Joe wasn’t sure if the other man was being deliberately obtuse, but his manner was frustrating him. He talked with more care and tried to phrase his question to get the answer he had wanted all along.
‘What, then, are we cutting it for? What are we supposed to be making? Bags? What for?’
‘Bags, aye,’ the other said. ‘What did you think we were making?’
Joe was silent.
‘They’re for sandbags of course. What other kind of bag do you think they need thousands of at the moment?’
Joe put down his tools. He turned to the other man, no longer caring about the warders and what they might do to him. The other inmate was a thin man, but not gaunt through lack of nutrition like Joe. No, he was thin of nature. His oval face was framed by a neat black beard and centred with a moustache, that on the outside would have had more care taken of it. The man’s skin was deathly pale, and Joe wondered if his was the same. He shuddered at the thought. There was an intelligence behind his green eyes that looked on in shock.
‘What are you doing?’ he hissed, and his moustache wobbled on the top of his lip.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘What?’
‘There is absolutely no way that I’m making sandbags for the war.’
The other inmate sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Look, we’re all just trying to get by. Get out of here alive, you know? Just pull your weight and we’ll all be fine.’
Joe shook his head. He had had this argument many times before, but his conviction had never faltered. He had gone further with it than many people thought he might, but he could go further still. To object was to object.
‘I’m a conscientious objector, surely you’ve heard?’
The other inmate looked around to see if they had been spotted. A warder was moving in their direction but hadn’t noticed the two talking yet.
‘We all are,’ he said leaning closer to Joe.
Joe was shocked. He was lost for words and just stared around, dumb. The warder had noticed him and was rushing over.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ came the concerned voice from beside him. ‘Just sit down and get on with it or you’ll make it worse for all of us. Please.’
‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘You know I can’t. I’m sorry.’
The warder grabbed Joe by the arm, wrenching it around behind his back almost pulling it from his shoulder socket. He whelped and held back a cry of pain. His bruises stung with the exertion of his muscles. He couldn’t hold that position for long without breaking down.
‘What are you doing?’ the warder shouted. ‘Get back to work.’
‘No,’ was the only word Joe could get out of his mouth in spite of the pain from his arm.
‘No?’
Joe grunted an affirmative and stared as defiantly as he could at the warder.
‘Fine.’
The warder pushed him along the aisle of benches. Every other man had stopped to watch, and the warders shouted at them to continue. Joe’s arm was stuck in the arch of his lower back, and the warder’s iron grip gave him no room for comfort. He pushed him in this fashion all the way through the prison and back to his cell. Another warder opened the door, and Joe was pushed inside. He tripped over the doorframe and landed on his outstretched arms. The shock of the fall jarred his right wrist and he clutched it with his other hand, breathing in through his teeth in pain.
Neither warder moved to assist him, and he lay there on the floor with sore knees and wrists. He knew they didn’t care about him, but he couldn’t work out why they were so hostile towards him. There must be far worse people than he in this prison. Perhaps they were treated worse.
‘If you refuse to work, then you will spend all your time in here,’ the warder who had brought him back said. ‘You will eat here, you will sleep here, and you will also defecate here.’
The other war
der grinned at the last statement, and Joe looked away.
‘You will have no contact with other prisoners, this cell will be your entire world. You have already refused to put on your uniform and leave the prison. You are one of ours now. That means that by refusing to work, you refuse all other concerns. Is that clear?’
Joe didn’t answer, what was the point? They could do what they liked to him.
They stepped out of the cell, leaving him prone and closed the door behind them. The heavy clang shut out the sounds of their walking away, and left Joe alone with his thoughts. He had always found solitude less tiring than being around others, but the only way he could describe his current situation was lonely. It was a paradox of conflicting emotion within him. For the first time in his life he longed for the company of others. He sat on the pallet. A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand as he stared after the closed door.
*
Joe’s life became monotonous. He sat in his cell, back against the wall, and stared at the door. He didn’t stare and wait for it to open, it was just the only difference in the cells walls. He counted the rivets every now and then, playing mathematical games in his head. After a while even that grew tiresome. Often he slept, allowing himself to drift off into a dream world where things were much better than here. Other times he just sat and listened. He could, on occasion, hear a faint tapping against the pipes that ran up the walls of the prison. He guessed it was Morse code, but he had never bothered to learn it. So, he liked to play games trying to think what messages the other prisoners were trying to send to each other and inventing his own codes and ciphers.
Every now and then a slit in the door opened and food was pushed inside. He left it where it lay, unwilling to touch it, despite his ravenous hunger. He had heard of other prisoners going on hunger strike and had decided that it was the only way he might be listened to. Every other way of being heard had failed him and refusing to eat was all he was left with. They weren’t taking him seriously. To them he was just a coward, but he would show them. He had no fear. Fear wasn’t it. He hadn’t wanted to do it. He had refused food before, but that was in self-pity, not as an act of defiance. Now it was different, he had been left with no choice.
Goodbye for Now Page 36
