He pushed his way down the trench, crouching low whilst maintaining a jogging pace. As always it was the best way to avoid being shot by a sniper, without running so fast that you would slip in the mud and gunk in the bottom of the trench. The duckboards, when they were present, could be slippery.
There was a blast of light up ahead, then shingle and clods of mud sprayed across him and the men around him. They cowered back from it, then stood up when it had gone. He didn’t even bother wiping the mud off his uniform, it could just join the rest already there. Perhaps the lice would enjoy the added habitat.
The trench wall had subsided ahead of him, but there was still room to squeeze through. Within minutes he was back with his section. They were no longer sat around cooking, but perched on the firing step in wait. He checked his men. They were ready.
‘Where is Samuels? I left him with you.’
One of his men, Walters, slowly shook his head. It was an unspoken sign between them all. There was only a hint of sadness in his eyes; instead they were filled with the distant, regretful look of the trench soldier.
George felt the guilt that he guessed all officers felt, even non-commissioned ones such as himself. He had ordered Samuels to stay, if he hadn’t he may be somewhere else now, running errands for the Captain. That was no guarantee of his safety, but George had been responsible for his death this way. He added another name to the mental list of families he would have to visit when he got home. If he ever got home.
*
The sun hadn’t risen above the horizon when George was standing in the trench alongside the men of his section, yet its rays were silently creeping across the land. It was time for the next assault. They had been given their objective of the village of Cambrai, and he had made sure that every man he was responsible for knew their duty. They stood in silence, waiting for the whistles that would signal the advance. The artillery had been softening up the Germans since reveille, but they would have to be quick – the sun was rising and would give away their positions.
George noticed movement to his right. The Captain was walking down the trench accompanied by his adjutants. He often inspected the troops before an assault, but this time he appeared different, more commanding. He held his Webley revolver in one hand and his whistle in the other. He nodded at each soldier he passed.
‘Ready?’ he asked George as he strode past, trying to give of the air of a noble commander.
‘Er… yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
With that, he checked his watch, and then with a large breath, blew his whistle. Similar bursts broke out along the line, as the other officers joined in. The man in front of George was first up the ladder, and George followed. The sounds of gunfire barked out as the Germans heard them coming.
The man in front of him was cut down by machine gun fire that sounded like slaps against his body. George ducked out of the way and used some of the wooden joists that used to hold barbed wire as cover for his advance. He noticed the Captain a few metres to his left, walking towards the enemy with his pistol raised in an outstretched arm in front of him, firing off rounds at an enemy he couldn’t see.
There was the bang of a trench mortar going off, and George moved forward with the rest of his men, trying to move away from the Germans’ target. More bullets whistled past, followed by other explosions.
A dull crump to his left blocked out his hearing, and he felt a sudden sharp pain in his right leg. He couldn’t see what had happened, his senses were too blurred. He couldn’t move his leg and he thought he could feel a wetness there. He tried to shake his head to clear the fog, but his head hurt more with the movement. He couldn’t move and fell backwards unable to stop his fall.
Another explosion boomed nearby, covering him in mud and blood. He no longer cared to do anything about it. He couldn’t move out of the way. He couldn’t wipe his face clean.
The last thing he saw was a ray of sunshine as it broke through the thick black clouds, then everything turned black.
Chapter 39
The heavy bolt of the cell door clanged open, and light spilt into the chamber. Joe didn’t bother to look up at his captors. He knew who they were and he didn’t care to see their smug, self-satisfied faces. He continued staring at the ground. They didn’t say a word to him as their feet drew nearer, making long shadows across the floor that wobbled as they drew nearer.
‘Still refusing to eat?’ one of them said, scoffing. Joe didn’t see who it was. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Words were a foreign concept to him. He had been alone so long, and he had given up trying to articulate his feelings. It was as if these men spoke a different language to him. Even his letters had dropped off. He couldn’t write anymore. Couldn’t hold the pencil that he had hidden under the corner of his mattress, or even lift the mattress to get to it for that matter. He was alone with his thoughts.
They hauled him to his feet, each man grabbing him under the arm and dragging him up from his knees. He was so light now, so weak, that they didn’t need to put much effort in. It only served to make them more rough in their purchase. Or perhaps it was just because he was so weak.
He had lost so much weight, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat the swill they called food that was pushed through the small slit in the door a few times a day. It wasn’t just that he refused to give in to their demands until they listened to his genuine objections, it was also because the food was almost inedible. But he had paid the price. His body had withered, beginning to consume itself.
There were often times where he slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness. It sometimes helped to pass the time, as there was very little to do in his cell. He had one book available to him that he had already read several times. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the dreams he had when he lapsed, or the waking-nightmare he awoke into.
This was one such occasion that was worse. They dragged him out of the cell, only just raising him above the ground so that his knees scuffed along the floor, ripping the cheap cloth of the prison uniform he had been given. At least he had managed to refuse to wear khaki when they had left him with nothing but that to wear. It gave him hope that he could overcome anything, even this hunger strike.
He didn’t know where they were taking him. At first his knees and legs rubbed along coarse concrete, but now they were clanging against metal, as each of the wardens’ footsteps brought him nearer to the gantry they were walking on. He could see through the metal at the levels of the prison below, and men looked back in his direction, muttering amongst themselves. Joe didn’t have much energy to wonder himself, but at least they were not forcing him to walk, as they might have done in his early days in prison.
After many painful strides they ascended the walkways and out of the main prison block. The staring eyes disappeared and Joe was once again left with only the warders for company. They strode into the large room that served as the medical wing of the prison, where gurneys dressed in off-white sheets lined either side of the room in pairs. No other medical equipment could be seen as it was all locked away lest some prisoner decided to use it for something they shouldn’t.
They dropped him on one gurney, and one of them lifted him as his body drooped towards the ground. He didn’t know whether he was struggling to control his muscles, or whether he no longer cared. One of the other prisoners was on an opposite gurney surrounded by wardens, the doctor, and some macabre equipment. Joe couldn’t see him clearly from where he sat, and it was an effort to lift his head and to the side to peer around the warders.
A strange gurgle emitted from the other prisoner, and Joe noticed that the two warders were holding the man down. After a few seconds of gurgling the man screamed. It was a high shrill scream, which pierced the infirmary and hurt Joe’s ears. Fear welled up inside him.
‘Will you be silent?’ the doctor said, and the warders doubled their grip on the man, who was no longer screaming, but wailing in pain, amid wracking sobs.
‘No,’ Joe said, only
a whisper from between his parched lips. No one heard him, or at least no one turned around. The warder holding him upright didn’t even react. He just stared, holding Joe with a passive expression on his face.
After he was done, the doctor extricated himself from the group and turned around. He saw Joe and smiled. He was a corpulent man, who lived a full life. His balding hair was plastered across his head where sweat kept it down. He must eat all that spare prison food, Joe thought. He was too tired to laugh.
‘Ah, Mr Abbott,’ he said, as if seeing an old friend. ‘Ready, are we?’
He walked over to the gurney and inspected Joe, lifting his arms, much like the warders had done, without take any care about his wellbeing. He pulled Joe’s prison shirt down and placed a cold stethoscope on his back. Joe winced at the coldness, but it didn’t stop the doctor.
‘You’ve been naughty, Mr Abbott. You need to take better care of yourself.’
He took the stethoscope away and begun checking his jaw and teeth, as if he were an animal. Not a prize race horse, an animal.
‘Though you have been exceptionally strong willed. Much stronger than I would expect for a coward like you.’
‘I’m not a co…’ He had lost all strength to complain. The doctor was taunting him and he refused to cooperate. Even with the fear, he wished they would get whatever they were planning over and done with so he could return to his cell in peace. Peace was all he had ever wanted.
The doctor had finished his ministrations and dragged a tray across from the opposite gurney. The other prisoner had gone, but Joe didn’t see where, or what his condition was. The doctor had taken up all of his small attention span.
‘Now,’ the doctor said, lifting Joe’s head up by the chin. ‘I will give you one last chance to eat of your own volition. Your lack of food has left you in this state. Look at how pathetic you are, you cannot even lift your own head.’
Joe wanted so much to lift his head and defy the doctor, but his body betrayed him.
‘If you don’t eat, you will die. It’s that simple. As your own life is so precious to you, so precious that you won’t even fight for your own country, to protect your own countrymen, why won’t you eat and protect your own life?’
The doctor must have known that he couldn’t answer, he was having fun with him, enjoying the sense of power it gave him.
The warders held a tray of crusty bread and slop in front of him.
‘Eat,’ the doctor urged. ‘Eat and you will feel better.’
Joe held the stare for as long as he could. He would not, could not let this vile specimen of a doctor win. With all the strength he could muster, he reached towards the tray of food. The doctor smiled, it was a serpentine smile, full of evil and malice. Joe lifted his arm, and let it drop on the tray, which crashed out of the warder’s arm and spilled all over the pristine white-tiled floor. The slop stained it a blood-brown mess.
The warder was furious and punched Joe across the face. His head snapped back. It could be that he had lost the ability to feel pain, or perhaps it was that his body was already broken, but he just felt numb.
‘Now, now, Mr Abbott,’ the doctor said, as one of the warders attempted to clean up the mess. ‘That was rude. We are only trying to help, although you are not deserving of our help. If you will not eat, then you have left me with little choice. Remember that we tried to give you food. This is a result of your actions, or rather your lack of action.’
He laughed at his own joke with a deep, rich boom of a laugh.
Without a further word the warders lifted Joe’s legs up and positioned him on the gurney. He sat back against the head of the bed, which had only one narrow pillow perpendicular to the surface. It was the most comfortable he had been in weeks. He let his arms and legs go limp, hanging off the gurney, and relaxed, if such a thing were possible, on the bed.
The doctor frowned at him.
‘Lazy. Coward,’ he said, almost spitting at Joe, and motioned for the warders to lift up his arms and place them back on the gurney. Each warder held an arm down on the side of the bed. They held him firm, but as Joe stopped resisting they loosened their grip.
‘Hold him,’ the doctor said, matter-of-factly, and one warder reached up and gripped Joe’s chin in a meaty fist. He clamped down on Joe’s mouth making him unable to open it. Even with all his strength remaining, Joe wouldn’t have been able to move in that steel grip.
The doctor reached up to him, but the contents of his hand were obscured by the warder’s fist. Joe didn’t squirm, he didn’t want to give the doctor the satisfaction. He just sat and let them do whatever they were planning to do. His life was easier this way. The doctor pushed one nostril closed and he felt something hard enter the other. There was a resistance at first, but then the doctor redoubled his efforts, frowning and pursing his lips.
There was a sharp jab in his nostril and then the resistance ended in pain. It sent a jolt into his head, and he wanted to cry out as the other patient had done before him. He couldn’t move his head, and the doctor kept pushing the tube into his nostril. He had the intense feeling of needing to sneeze, but his body wouldn’t comply. Instead he had the numb pain like the beginning of a headache, it itched inside his head, a horrible itch that couldn’t be scratched.
The tube pushed through into his mouth and he felt it tickle the back of his tongue. He wanted to gag, but everything was pressed shut. It felt cold in his mouth, which was dry and burning up. He pressed against his restraints, feeling a renewed vigour in his desperation to escape. How could they be doing this to him? Was he just some animal to them? He pushed and he thrashed, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t move an inch. The doctor was not even aware that he was trying to resist. After a few more seconds Joe could feel a warmness permeate his throat, like he had just had a hot drink. Except it wasn’t a drink that was being forced down his throat, it was food. He had refused to eat for so long that they had resorted to force-feeding him. He wanted to gag, to force the liquid food away, not because of his protest, but because of the unnatural presence of the tube down his nose. He wanted to gag, but he couldn’t. The doctor had worked his way into Joe’s oesophagus. Joe had no choice but to eat. He felt like a slave, a worthless being that had no choice but to be kept alive. He felt worse than that, he felt like an animal being fattened up for the slaughter. No doubt they still intended that he should put on the khaki and go out to France to join all the other brave boys.
But to the slaughter he would not go. They would have to force something else down his throat to make him do that, and they had yet to liquidise nationalism. He didn’t know what they had hoped to achieve, but they were forcing him to eat all the same. He wouldn’t change his stance, he wanted out of the prison, but he wouldn’t fight, not ever. He didn’t even fight now as the liquid rolled down into his stomach.
It burned as it went, like eating food that was too hot. His chest made him aware of the force with a hot, burning pain across his ribs. He rocked against the restraints, trying with futility to dislodge the pain. It made his eyes water and his vision blur.
The tube pulled back and his nose felt free. He could breathe again and he sneezed violently. The warder let go to wipe his hand, with a scowl on his face. Joe lurched forward to throw up, but the warder, seeing him, clamped his hand back down over Joe’s mouth. Snot, mixed with whatever they had been feeding him, flew out of his nostrils. It stung. The warder was even less pleased, but what was Joe supposed to do?
He swallowed, forcing the bile back into his throat. After a few moments of swallowing and gagging, the urge to vomit subsided. After some time, the warder let go and observed him warily. He almost dared him to try again.
Joe needed to drink. His throat was so dry and his lips were broken after months of punishment and neglect.
‘Water’, he said. It was an animalistic croak, the sound of dry bark being snapped. He wasn’t sure that they could hear, or even understand him. He tried again, but the pain in his chest robbed h
im of breath.
The doctor turned back and held out a zinc mug before him.
‘If you want to drink, you need merely take this cup and drink,’ he said. He must enjoy toying with his patients. The warders undid his restraints and stepped back. The strength needed to lift his arm was almost beyond his wasted muscles, but the overriding thirst lent him some momentum. He took the cup from the doctor, whose smile faltered for a second, before he let go.
As soon as the doctor let go, the cup felt like a lead weight in Joe’s hand. He shook violently and water spilled over the sides and onto the floor. He cursed, not just because he would be punished for the spill, but also at his own lack of strength. He had never thought of himself as a strong man, but he hated how feeble he had become. Even a child could hold a cup of water without spilling it everywhere. They were right, he was pathetic. He was doing it for the right reasons though, he had to keep telling himself that. Sooner or later, someone would take notice and stand up for not just him, but all those who opposed the war.
He brought the cup to his mouth gradually, still spilling water from side to side. There was only a small amount left when he touched the zinc to his lips, but he drank it greedily all the same. He had expected it to feel refreshing, a relief. Instead it felt wrong. He couldn’t swallow and the paltry water made him feel as if he had a giant lump in his throat. He coughed, trying to dislodge it, and had the sudden feeling of drowning. He dropped the cup, and it clattered against the floor.
The coughs wracked his body and the rest of his pains flared and shocked him. He felt desperate, trying to cling for air and he grabbed hold of the gurney, but his fragile body wouldn’t let him gain any grip.
‘That’s enough,’ one of the warders said, taking Joe by the shoulders in an iron grip. He turned to his colleague. ‘Help me with him.’
Goodbye for Now Page 38
