by Alan David
The awful finality of the simple words struck deep into the choking grief that Eddie felt. Tears sprang to his eyes. How could all this be true? This time yesterday they were getting ready to celebrate his birthday. Today he was dying. Wally was lying here, weak and dying, and there was nothing to be done but pray.
The orderly covered the face of the soldier on the next stretcher. He went out, and the padre followed. Eddie stood up as cramp seized his legs. His unwashed face and empty stomach made him feel wretched and ill. He stood and looked down at his brother. Oh, God, what will my mother and father feel when they get the news? He thought of his family then, still happily unaware that one of their sons was as good as dead.
The sergeant made a slight movement, and Eddie crouched down again, attentive and sorrowing. Wally’s eyes flickered open. They were vacant. He groaned. They were beautiful blue eyes, and had sparkled in humour and glinted in battle. Now they would never see the fields again, or the sky or the sea, or the faces of loved ones.
‘Wally, can you hear me?’ he whispered.
The sergeant’s eyes took on a light that dispelled the vacancy. His head turned ever so slightly towards Eddie. Then recognition dawned in his eyes. Eddie choked on a sob.
‘Wally,’ he murmured brokenly.
‘Eddie.’ Wally’s voice was barely a whisper, only a hiss of his painful breath between his slack lips. ‘What happened? He stood there, watching us file past. . .I couldn’t see his face, it was getting dark. . . there were hundreds of us walking past… He called me on . . .some came back . . . I don’t want to die . . . God, there’s a lot of things I want to do before. . . Eddie.’
‘Yes, Wally?’
‘Where’s Arthur? I’m dying. . . I can feel it. I know, I want to see Arthur before — before…’
Eddie’s tears splashed hotly upon his hands as he gripped the edge of the stretcher. ‘You’re not going to die, Wally. The M.O. said so. You’re badly hurt, but you’ll be all right. Are you in pain?’
‘No. I’m numb. . .Where’s Arthur?’
‘He’ll be back in a moment, Wally. The sergeant-major wanted him. He’ll be back shortly. He was here a little while ago.’
‘Eddie, take care of yourself. Tell. . . Arthur, tell Dad, I. . .’ Wally’s lips twisted into a fleeting smile. ‘My number came up on my birthday. . .don’t grieve for me, Eddie ... I know you always thought a lot of me. . .don’t worry. . .it doesn’t help.’
Eddie gripped Wally’s hand, and recoiled at the clammy, almost lifeless flesh. A strange light filled Wally’s eyes. The recognition that came with the sight of his brother fled before the onset of death. Wally’s broken chest heaved strongly. Eddie could see he was going fast. But he was powerless. He could only watch.
‘I can see. . .’ Wally muttered, and groaned.
Eddie leaned over the stretcher and strained his ears to catch his brother’s last words, but a harsh rattle in Wally’s throat made his voice unintelligible. Then he seemed to gather himself and stiffen. He gasped, his head twisting sharply from side to side. Then he relaxed. The sound of his last breath seemed to go on and on in the deep silence. Eddie sat with his brother’s hand in a death grip upon his own. . .
Arthur Rawlings was reporting to the sergeant-major. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your brother, Corporal. How is he?’
‘He’s dying, sir. They give him a few hours at most.’
‘That’s bad. Damned hard luck, too. Look, you’ll have to take his place in the platoon. We’d better give your section to your brother. Where is he, by the way?’
‘At the Aid Post, sir.’
The sergeant-major nodded. ‘I’ll excuse the both of you from all parades this morning. I’ll look after your platoon. As you know, we’re moving out this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Arthur dismissed himself and walked slowly back along the battered village street. He passed the ruined café, and paused momentarily to look at the blackened ruins. He shook his head sadly. This time yesterday I was in there making arrangements for the cake. Killed on his birthday! He walked on quickly, almost angrily.
He was met at the door of the Aid Post by the medical orderly.
‘He’s gone, mate. It’s all over. You’d better get your other brother out of there. He took no notice of me just now. Just sat there staring. Better get him back to his billet.’ His voice took on an apologetic tone. ‘The burial party is waiting.’
Arthur went into the room. Eddie was holding Wally’s hand. For a moment the new sergeant stood looking down at the body of the brother whose rank and place he had taken, and his eyes were misty as he thought of some of the happy times they had spent together. Then he stirred himself and bent over Eddie. He had to prise open Wally’s fingers to free Eddie’s hand. He gazed once more at the dear, dead face, then pulled up the blood-stained blanket and covered it gently. He touched Eddie’s shoulder.
‘Time to go, Eddie.’ He spoke softly. Eddie stood up immediately, tottering on cramped legs. He did not meet Arthur’s eyes with his own, but led the way out to the street, his face pale and harsh, his eyes unseeing and very bright.
They both paused at the café, and then exchanged glances, and Eddie looked away. They went on.
‘I’ll write to mother today,’ said Arthur. ‘I want them to have a letter as soon as possible after the telegram they’ll get.’ He was surprised that his voice sounded so normal. But everything was normal. The only difference was a numb patch in their minds, and the awful knowledge that their brother was dead. Yet it didn’t seem true. It took some believing.
‘This time yesterday he was alive. If only we hadn’t gone into the café last night.’ Eddie kicked at a stone which skittered away into the silent rubble. Arthur nodded absently. His mind seemed incapable of clear thought.
There were questions to be answered when they reached the platoon position. But the questions stopped when everyone learned that the sergeant was dead. Smith produced two jam sandwiches, which he handed to the brothers.
‘I saved these from breakfast. You haven’t had any.’
‘No thanks, Smudger.’ Eddie turned away. He lifted his right hand and looked at it. ‘I can still feel where he gripped me when he died,’ he said softly.
The others avoided conversation whenever possible. They were all accustomed to losing mates and comrades, and the sergeant had been one of the best. But his loss was felt more strongly because of the two silent brothers who packed and worked, and who, it was obvious, didn’t really have their minds on today and the work in hand.
In the afternoon Captain Mason put in an appearance and sought out Eddie. They walked to the padre’s jeep and sat in the vehicle.
‘How are you feeling now, son?’
‘Pretty low, sir.’
‘It is a burden one has to bear. But time is a wonderful healer. The shock and then the pain will pass away. I’ve brought you a Bible. Perhaps you will gain some comfort from it. God is always there to be called upon. He never refuses help. He is always with you.’
‘I don’t feel like religion right now, sir. It’s all right for you. You really believe in it. I don’t. I don’t know if there is such a thing or if there isn’t, and right now I’m inclined to think there isn’t. I’ve just lost a brother. I’ve seen nothing but war in the last four months. Where is God’s hand in that? My brother is dead now, so praying isn’t any good. I’ve got nothing left to pray for.’
‘There is yourself, and your other brother, and what about your parents? They will need strength to recover from their grief. Pray for them, and get into the habit of praying. It will help, I know.’
Eddie smiled mirthlessly, but took the proffered black book and studied the silver lettering on its front cover. He opened it and touched the flimsy pages.
‘Thank you for the book, sir. I appreciate your interest.’
‘We must all work for God, my son, for He never ceases in His work for us.’
Eddie thought of the battles he had seen, and of those y
et to come. Had God worked unceasingly to prepare them? It seemed that man had to suffer and die hard to fit himself for Heaven, if there was such a place. Was Wally up there now in some bright and shining place?
‘I hope to see you again,’ said the padre. ‘If at any time you feel the need to talk to someone don’t hesitate to come to me. I am here to guide you, and sometimes a few words can give a deal of comfort.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll remember that.’ Eddie climbed out of the jeep and walked away. God took my brother and gave me back a Bible, he thought sadly. But surely there was a much simpler way of gaining access to the Promised Land.
Chapter Twelve
THE First Blankfolks lay in reserve in a wood on their first night back in the forward area. They huddled in ditches and dugouts, remembering the sounds of war and recalling the lessons of experience. The four days’ rest had passed quickly, yet it seemed that years had passed since they were pulled out nearly a week ago.
Smith and Eddie shared blankets. Smith had felt uneasy in Eddie’s company since the death of Sergeant Walter Rawlings, and was perturbed at the change that had overcome Eddie; once he had been the smiler of the platoon. Now he never smiled, and rarely spoke.
A spate of German shelling brought Smith awake, and he listened to the fearful explosions. When it was over he spoke softly to Eddie.
‘You awake, mate?’
‘I haven’t been asleep.’
‘Oh. You okay?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Smith lapsed into silence. There was nothing he could do to alleviate his friend’s grief. He could only feel sorry, and swear to revenge the sergeant’s death when once again he came to grips with the enemy. He put out his hand in the darkness and touched the cold metal of his bren. The Germans would pay all right.
At dawn they heard the rumour of a big British attack in the offing. From ‘D’ Company’s position the men could see into the distance, and there, in enemy territory, was high ground and ridges: the last barriers before the German frontier itself. That was the Blankfolk’s objective: a suicide mission, said the knowing ones, the veterans of D-Day.
The battalion moved forward from reserve and occupied some fields to the right of a red-roofed village. The morning passed with irregular flurries of mortar bombs dropping about, to mark the passage of time. A faint mist clung to the fields, and there was a noticeable nip in the air. The afternoon passed uneventfully and evening settled, but there was no movement forward.
‘The nights have begun to pull in, mate,’ said Smith.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Eddie.
A Blankfolk patrol went out, with Smith numbered in its ranks, and when it returned, Smith said that four of the patrol had been killed. Two days passed without change. Action consisted of heavy mortar attacks that paralysed movement during daylight. The rumours of a big attack persisted among the men. Bad flying conditions grounded most of the Allied airforces. There was no movement to the war, and inactivity did not lead to victory.
Then came action. The First Blankfolks were given an area to clear which covered the approaches to those last hills and ridges guarding Germany itself. This would be part of a series of offensives intended to build up into the last smashing attack against the Nazis.
‘13’ Company was given the comparatively light task of guarding the right flank of the battalion attack. They moved forward at first light. A barrage signalled the commencement. The roar of the guns was frightening in the half-light. Flashes dabbed the brooding sky with orange spurts of whirling death. The attack went swinging in.
Crouched in a slit trench he and Smith had dug under a hedge, Eddie sat with his Bible opened upon his knees. Smith was standing, leaning on the front parapet, watching the ground before him. He glanced frequently at Eddie, watching him read. The enemy had evidently spotted some movement, for they mortared the company area continuously. Eddie ignored the sounds of battle, and raised his hand occasionally to brush away dust and earth from the fine pages of his book.
‘This time last week we had just moved out to begin our four days’ rest,’ said Smith. He stopped and grimaced apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t mean to remind you.’
‘That’s okay, Smudger. I don’t need any reminding.’
‘What do you make of the Bible, mate?’ Smith was eager for conversation. ‘Get any sense out of it?’
‘There’s a lot of sense in it, Smudger. But who can believe in it while fighting a war? But I’ve got no feelings now. I’ve even lost my fear.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing. But do you hate the Germans any more now?’
‘When I think about it I do. I haven’t got over the shock of it yet. I feel anger when I think of how it happened. I don’t think I’d have felt it so keenly if he had been killed in the heat of battle. But out of the line on a rest, and on his birthday, too.’
It was the first time since the sergeant had been killed that Eddie had spoken more than one sentence. Smith felt a little relieved. He’s snapping out of it, he thought.
Small-arms fire brought them to alertness, and the Bible was discarded while they got up to observe their field of fire. A German counter-attack was coming in on this flank. Eddie saw a Tiger tank vanish under a pall of smoke as supporting artillery put down a murderous wall of fire. Enemy infantry could be seen coming forward.
‘I haven’t killed a Jerry since I’ve been back,’ shouted Smith.
‘Hold your fire until they come closer,’ directed Eddie. He picked up his sten and checked it. He crouched a little for cover, for enemy mortars were still plastering their positions. He watched the enemy infantry advance from cover to cover. Do I hate them any more for killing Wally? he wondered. Would he ever get used to the knowledge that his brother was dead? He straightened and glanced to the left, where the platoon headquarters were situated. He half expected to see Wally coming from there, and shook his head angrily to dispel the thought. Arthur was the sergeant now. Rawlings was still the platoon sergeant, but the memory of one who had gone hurt like hell inside.
Enemy mortaring increased, and it was fatal to raise head above ground. Many gouting fountains of earth and smoke blossomed strangely from the fields, and men huddled in the shuddering trenches and waited as death closed in about them.
Heavy and continuous machine-gun fire punctuated the mortaring. Smoke swirled upwards angrily from the battered earth. Eddie felt devoid of fear as he peered over the parapet of his trench. Smith joined him. They had the psychological cover of the hedge over them, and although they both knew that it could not protect them from blast and shrapnel, its presence gave them a feeling of great security.
Everywhere were the rising plumes of shell-bursts. Smoke obscured the middle distance and the background, but out there was the ominous movement of enemy infantry and tanks. A hedge two hundred yards away suddenly became alive with enemy troops. Groups of Germans were running forward.
Smith lifted the butt of his bren. He adjusted his drum-sight and checked the magazine. A slow, grim smile played around his thick lips. A feeling of sadistic joy surged through him. He settled his elbows on the parapet and cuddled the butt of the gun.
Eddie looked to the left, at his section waiting in their trenches. He glanced back at the enemy. They were coming forward boldly now. He estimated their range at one-hundred-and-fifty yards. There were forty or fifty of them.
‘Three Section,’ he shouted. ‘Two hundred, ten rounds, fire.’ To Smith he said: ‘Give ‘em a couple of mags at the slow rate.’
The riflemen opened fire, and Eddie watched the enemy. Here and there a figure fell; then Smith opened up with short bursts, and a savage joy spread through him when he saw the Germans falling in greater numbers. He ignored his own weapon, content to watch his section engage the enemy. They had suffered about ten casualties now, he thought, and they were drawing closer. He lifted his sten and began firing, taking careful aim and knocking down the approaching figures as if he were at a firing-range.
An enemy machine-gun opened up, and bullets snarled in among the trenches. The rate and volume of fire from the section dropped as some of the men took cover. ‘Keep on firing,’ Eddie shouted. ‘Keep those rifles going.’
‘I’ve fired two magazines,’ said Smith.
‘Give ‘em another two.’ Eddie studied the scene before him.
The enemy were drawing closer, but not at a steady run. They had adopted a safer tactic of rushing forward a few yards then seeking cover. Some fifty yards back there were more of the enemy coming forward.
Eddie watched a German get up and run forward. The man hurled himself down in some long grass, and Eddie caught glimpses of his steel helmet as he crawled a few yards to the left. Eddie took aim at the man, waiting for his next rush. The German fired a shot at the British section, then jumped up and started running forward. Eddie fired two shots, and the German staggered, then fell. He lay quite unmoving in the open.
‘Smudger.’ Eddie touched his comrade’s arm to stop him firing, and when Smith looked round Eddie said: ‘Engage those Jerries back there. The last bunch. It looks as if they might have mortars or machine-guns. Take it easy and get them.’
Smith grinned and changed magazines. Eddie watched for a moment, and then saw Jerries falling from the second wave. He smiled. Smith knew his job. He turned his attention back to the first wave. There appeared to be about thirty of the enemy still coming forward.
‘Rifle Group,’ he shouted, ‘cease firing.’
His men stopped firing and looked at him. Smith was shooting slowly at the enemy. Eddie left him to it, and concentrated upon the nearer enemy. They were only fifty yards away now, and shooting wildly at the defenders.
‘At the enemy in front,’ shouted Eddie, ‘ten rounds rapid fire!’
A volley crashed out, and several Jerries fell. Then the rapid shooting blared out as each man fired ten rounds as fast as possible. Eddie waited with his sten. He saw three Germans jump up and race forward almost together. Trying to get into grenade range, he thought. He lifted his sten and fired three double shots. The Germans fell, wounded or dead. It was apparent that the enemy fire was bothering his section, but Eddie ignored it. He sniped at the nearest enemy whenever a target presented itself, and the German casualties mounted.
