‘Hey, Ernie, make sure you get my best side,’ one of the soldiers shouted.
‘You haven’t got a best side, Bill,’ said Ernest, laughing.
‘How about this then?’ Bill pretended to undo his trousers and show his bottom to the camera. The men laughed and swaggered.
At the front of the column, an officer turned his horse and shouted, ‘Fall in. Quiet back there.’
The men quickly got back in line, grumbling. As they marched past Ernest, he took his photograph.
Through the morning mist, Bill looked back at Ernest, smiled and stuck his middle finger up. Ernest returned the gesture.
* * *
The men sat in a line, keenly drawing on their tiny roll-ups. There was low laughter and chatter in the air, but they looked pale and drawn. Light-brown mud daubed their uniforms. Their bench was built of slats of wood and a large, mud-clad trench piled high with sandbags, provided their shelter. Distant gunfire rumbled, then came the thud of an explosion. One soldier crouched on the fire-step – a ledge cut three feet higher than the wooden planking of the trench floor – and looked out over no man’s land.
Ernest was young and looked fragile, his dark hair fashionably swept back and longer than most of his comrades’. The years had not yet broadened his body.
Next to him sat Bill – hardy, weather-beaten, his skin lined and tanned, hair cut short. Dark stubble prickled his face. He wore his sleeves rolled up and the muscles in his forearms moved visibly as he prepared a small cigarette. Despite the many months of hardship, he still looked strong and fit. He passed the finished roll-up to Ernest.
‘So, you jammy sod, how’d you get to take photographs while we’re all running round like headless chickens?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ said Ernest. ‘A bloke called Ernest Brooks saw my Kodak.’ He lifted a black oblong case tied around his neck. ‘He asked if I knew how to use it, and when I said I loved taking pictures, he told me the army needed official photographers. The next day he gave me this.’ Ernest hoisted a much larger black box from the duckboards beneath his feet and placed it heavily on his lap. He moved a lever and the box concertinaed open to reveal a camera lens and viewfinder. ‘It’s called a Goerz-Anschütz and, would you believe it, it’s bloody German. It needs to be big to take photographs good enough for the newspapers, but I have to carry round these glass plates as well and they weigh a ton, so it’s not all glamour.’
‘At least you haven’t had to go to the front line,’ said Bill.
‘Until now,’ said Ernest quietly. ‘I know it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me, getting this’ – he patted the camera – ‘but now the papers want action.’
‘You stick with me, mate. You’ll be all right. This is my fourth campaign. There’s only me left now from the Lyndhurst training.’ Bill straightened his legs and stretched his arms. ‘Everything happens for a reason. I’ll be something after the war.’
‘Be something what?’ asked Ernest. ‘I’m going straight back to my mother’s house when this is all over.’
Bill laughed. ‘Bloody hell, Ernie. Show some ambition mate. This war will give us ordinary blokes a chance. We can open a factory, become gamblers, marry a countess, anything you like. Believe me, there won’t be enough chaps to go round. You know what I want?’ Ernest shook his head. ‘To open a place where people can be happy again, a theatre or restaurant. I don’t know … something like that.’
A column of men trudged past and Bill quickly pulled in his legs. Ernest looked at their faces. Each had a dull, vacant expression, eyes focused on something far in the distance, oblivious to their surroundings. The chatter of the trench dropped sharply and a funereal silence fell.
‘Poor sods,’ said Bill once they were out of earshot. ‘Front-line fodder.’
‘God, we’ll be there soon.’ Ernest gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Anyway, you don’t know the first thing about theatres or restaurants, do you?’
‘We’ll invent the rules, mate. And you’ll take photos of all the rich and famous people visiting Bill’s brassiere.’
Ernest laughed. ‘You mean brasserie – what you said means bra.’
‘I think I was right first time, mate. It’s bound to be full of tits.’
Both men looked at each other, then burst into unbridled laughter. Bill fell from his seat and knelt on the floor of the trench, his elbows on the bench and his head resting in his hands. His shoulders shook with each hooting convulsion.
A whistle blew.
‘On your feet, lads!’ a sergeant shouted as he walked down the line, pulling sleeping soldiers off the benches and kicking at outstretched legs. The moans and groans of the disturbed men filled the air with a dull drone. Ernest looked around at his companions and saw their eyes furtive with fear and resignation.
‘Christ, they can’t want us to go again,’ hissed Bill. ‘It’s fucking madness; only a handful of us came back from the last one.’
Ernest shivered and felt the colour drain from his face, turning it into a pale glassy mask. Bill nudged him in the ribs playfully.
‘Stick with me, Ernie. You’ll be all right, mate.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ whispered Ernest. ‘I’ve taken hundreds of photos of dead people; I don’t want to end up like that.’
The sergeant walked over and stopped in front of them. He was an older man, a powerful hardened soldier, his clipped moustache dark against his ruddy complexion.
‘Well, what have we here?’ he said, addressing the whole trench while looking down at Ernest. ‘It’s our official photographer joining us for once.’ He turned to the men and raised his voice. ‘Make sure you look good for the camera, boys!’ The men laughed half-heartedly, their eyes lowered, not wishing to be the butt of the next joke. ‘You’re looking a shade pale, Gardiner. Everything all right?’
‘He’s fine, Sarge,’ said Bill.
‘Make sure he is. I’ve heard the papers are impatient for some pictures so I want you two at the front of the advance, in the thick of it. Right! Off your arses. Get your equipment on that pack horse, Gardiner. Double quick time. Let’s go – everyone up.’
Dusk fell as the men moved through the maze of trenches that led to the front line. They walked for what seemed like hours but the sound of gunfire remained distant. Every few seconds an explosion lit the sky lightning like, allowing them to see the man ahead, hunched in resignation and terror, aware of his temporality.
There was a commotion at the head of the line.
‘Move, move boys. Quick, let us through now.’
Desperate shouts and then the thud of boots on board. Wretched stretcher-bearers struggled to find their way through the reluctant muddle of men. Ernest looked down at their burden. A young man sprawled on the stretcher, head raised as if trying to direct the rescuers. His breath came in bloody gargles, the fine spray of red already colouring his uniform, but it was his stomach that drew Ernest’s gaze. The soldier had lost most of the uniform covering his torso, exposing his ripped, bare flesh. Muscle and sinew shone in the strobing light and the man used his hands to hold his stomach closed and his bloody innards in place.
Ernest turned to the trench wall and vomited. He looked at Bill, his face white and drained.
‘Come on, mate,’ said Bill. ‘It’ll be okay. Stick with me.’ Ernest felt himself half-pushed, half-dragged along the trench, his legs buckling with every step.
Smoke drifted across the winding column of men creating a ghostly haze. White ash stuck to their mud-encrusted uniforms and added to Ernest’s fear that they were marching inexorably closer to a world of spirits.
The soldiers reached the final entrenchment and came to a halt. Every few seconds yellow flares illuminated the night sky, then faded. Ernest surveyed his barren surroundings. Bombed and broken barbed-wire fences littered the landscape. Thick dark posts, snapped at odd angles, sprung from the ground, their earlier purpose now long forgotten.
A low, guttural cry invaded the silence. On the fi
re-step next to Ernest a sentry lowered his head and rested it in his open hand; his fingers clawed through his dark hair. He shook his head back and forth in hopeless surrender.
‘Christ, make it stop. Please, God.’ He turned to Ernest. ‘He’s been out there since this morning, trapped on the wire. He won’t die.’ The sentry gulped in the stagnant air and closed his eyes.
‘Come over here, mate,’ said Bill to Ernest, and dragged him down the line. He lit a cigarette, passed it to Ernest and squeezed his shoulder. Ernest took the cigarette gratefully but found his hands shook so violently he could not raise it to his lips. He tried three more times, but intensified trebling foiled each attempt. With a sigh, he clenched his fists and rested them by his side, the glowing roll-up still visible in the dark. Bill moved closer and guided the cigarette to Ernest’s lips. Ernest closed his eyes, took a long slow drag, then released the smoke into the air, watching it swirl upwards towards the glistening stars.
They stood in silence for a while as the cigarettes smouldered.
‘I don’t want to move. I’m going to stay here,’ Ernest said quietly.
‘Come on, mate. You’ll be okay; you’re going to be someone, remember?’
Bill took the spent stub from Ernest’s frozen fingers and threw it on to the trench floor. Then he rubbed Ernest’s hands between his, warming them.
He smiled. ‘You’ll never be able to take any pictures like this, will you?’
* * *
The hours dragged by and the men remained huddled together, as much for comfort as for warmth. The first light of day seeped through the shadows and the sun’s warming rays fell on their bloodless faces until whispered orders and silent shoves roused them from their slumber.
Ernest went to the packhorses to retrieve his camera, then joined the men standing three deep next to the trench wall – a line of dark khaki stretching as far as the eye could see. A few had hip flasks full of whisky and they passed these around to those lucky enough to be close by.
They waited for what seemed like hours, trying to avoid each other’s gaze, afraid they’d witness their own mirrored terror.
A shrill peal shocked the silent line as their captain put his whistle to his lips and blew hard, a brain-wrenching scream of a signal. The men, eyes wide, veins bursting like racehorses’, clambered over the trench wall and into the morning haze. The skies opened in a kaleidoscope of colour and light, as the soldier’s desperate cries combined with the cacophony of gunfire and bomb blasts to make sounds that had never been made. Thuds moved kidneys and made heartbeats stutter as screams penetrated deep into the earth to a place below hell. Ahead of him soldiers disappeared into no man’s land, led by their captain, who held a single revolver and waved his men forward like Ahab.
‘I can’t move.’ Ernest knew the consequences of refusing to advance but accepted his fate. He shook his head. ‘I can’t go.’
‘You have to, mate, or they’ll shoot you here. Come on.’
Bill pulled Ernest upright and thrust him over the top of the trench.
Weighed down by the camera and canvas bag, he was like a rag doll. The strength left his legs and, jelly-like, he stumbled. Explosions spewed mud and debris in every direction. He tripped and staggered over the bloodied limbs of fallen comrades and he watched, helpless, as a stream of bullets zipped into those in front of him; they dropped instantly, their love, laughter, hopes and dreams gone in a heartbeat.
Twenty yards ahead, a deafening blast lofted Ernest and Bill into the air. They turned and spun before landing heavily on the soft ground.
* * *
Dazed and on all fours, Bill crawled through the mud in an ever-widening circle. He searched for his friend, oblivious to the zing of bullets and the eruptions that buckled his arms.
There was no sign of Ernest.
An explosion covered him in muddy debris. He lay on his stomach, his ears ringing; everything becoming a dull thud. He raised his head. Through the smoke, highlighted by a yellow flare, he saw a slight outline of a figure leap, then disappear.
Bill snaked forward through the mud. Gradually his hearing recovered and he was greeted once more by the nightmare of noise, the brief respite only intensifying the sensation. He neared his goal and found the path blocked by a huge shell hole. He turned slowly until his body was level with the lip, and rolled in.
Giddy and unsettled by the tumble, it took several minutes until he could breathe normally and for the nausea to pass. He looked up. At the far end of the hole was a small, frightened man with his back to the muddy wall. It was Ernest.
There was another explosion. Bill watched as Ernest fumbled on the ground, pulled his camera closer and wrapped his body around it. His mouth opened like a drowning fish and he screamed, silver spit glistened in the smoke. But there was no sound.
Ernest tried to stand, then dropped to his knees. Bill stumbled towards him, grasped his arm firmly and pulled him towards the other end of the shell hole.
‘Ernest,’ he whispered. There was no response; his friend’s eyes were glazed and lifeless. ‘Ernie,’ he said again, louder now. Still no response. In desperation, he shouted as loud and as long as his lungs would last. ‘Ernest, get up. NOW.’
Ernest turned his head and Bill saw the faintest spark of recognition in his eyes. He cradled his friend and, amid the outrageous roar, took Ernest’s second box and smashed it on the wall until it rattled.
‘Come on, mate. Let’s get out of here!’
Ernest shook his head. ‘What’s the point? I can’t keep going. Leave me here.’
‘Can’t do that. I told you, we’re going to be something. There’s a reason for us to get through this.’
Bill dragged Ernest up the side of the hole and into no man’s land. Then, half-walking, half-sliding, the two men stumbled back through the clawing, sucking mud to their own line.
* * *
They slid down the side of their trench, covered in mud, breathing in deep joyful gulps of air, and collapsed on to the wooden duckboards. Ernest lay with his head propped on Bill’s chest and through half-open eyes saw the sergeant approaching. He was angry; his cheeks were red, his eyes wide and bulging. As he neared them, he kicked out at odd bits of wood that had broken away from the trench wall. He stopped and stared at them for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Well, well, what have we here? The heroes have returned.’ His tone was bitter.
‘We went right to their lines, Sarge. We couldn’t have gone no further. Gardiner was a fucking hero. He was taking photos of the Hun’s trench, then someone ordered the retreat – I think it was the captain.’
‘Is that right, Gardiner?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ernest mumbled.
‘Well, I look forward to seeing the photographs, Gardiner. I’m sure they’ll be just what the papers ordered.’
More battle-worn men returned to the trench, falling over the side and sliding into the mud and debris. They sat with their backs to the wall, their legs outstretched, hands holding lowered heads. Each gasp of air told them they were still alive, but that the nightmare was not yet over. Many nursed wounds, their uniforms a patchwork of deep-red. All looked bedraggled and traumatised.
Bill reached for Ernest’s second bag.
‘Here’s all the glass plates, Sarge. Gardiner needs to get these developed.’ As he raised the bag there was a jangling sound.
Bill opened the bag. ‘Fuck, Sarge. Look.’ He showed the sergeant hundreds of tiny broken pieces of glass and shook his head. ‘Fucking hell, Sarge. All his work.’
Ernest stared at Bill and the bag. He felt his mouth opening in disbelief and made a conscious effort to close it.
A soldier ran towards them.
‘Captain’s dead, sir.’
The sergeant sighed, resigned and beaten. ‘Oh God … thank you, Corporal.’ He stared at Ernest and whispered, ‘Poor bastard.’ Then his voice rose. ‘I’m watching you, son. I know there’s something going on – not much gets past me. Next time, you stick
with me, Gardiner. We’ll get some special photos then.’ The sergeant turned and marched quickly down the trench. He stopped and looked back at them. ‘Sit here with the boys for a bit and then get back to town for some food.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The two men spoke in unison, one much louder than the other.
* * *
They made their way in silence down the maze of trenches and came to the ruins of a once busy town. Ernest went to retrieve more glass plates for his camera while Bill got them bottles of cold beer. They found a straw-filled wagon and sat against a wheel in the bright sunlight. Slowly, the world returned to them.
‘Thanks again, Bill. I was a goner,’ said Ernest. ‘I couldn’t move.’
‘Forget it mate. It’s just one of those things. I’ve seen men go doolally at a lot less than that. You would’ve done the same for me.’ Bill leaned forward and clunked his bottle against Ernest’s. ‘Anyway, don’t talk about that. Come on; tell me what you’re going to do after the war.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe take some more photos – I like doing that.’ Ernest pulled the strap of his small Kodak over his head and laid it on his lap. He clicked the camera open, allowing the black bellows to expand, and looked through the viewfinder. ‘Or I could just stick with you, mate. You seem to have all the answers.’ He pointed the camera at Bill, who laughed.
‘Put that away,’ he said. ‘And I don’t have the answers. I just ask lots of questions. But, you know, I reckon everything happens for a reason and that’s why we’re mates.’
There was a commotion at the far end of the street. Ernest and Bill saw a soldier on horseback questioning a group of men. The men looked around, then pointed up the road in their direction. The rider saluted and reined his horse towards them.
‘Private Gardiner? Is there a Private Gardiner?’ he called out as he rode along the street.
‘Over here, sir,’ shouted Bill. ‘Here he is. It’s Ernie.’
The rider slowed his horse and looked down at them. ‘Private Gardiner?’
Cold Sunflowers Page 6
