by Thomas Wood
My eyes stopped scanning as they fell on a bloke I knew well. CSM Pearce had been a close friend to me since we were first posted to the battalion a few months back. Both being in charge of discipline, morale, as well as the day to day tasks of the lads, meant that we had spent a great deal of time working together, as well as long periods of time talking about our lives before the war and our families.
We concluded on our final meeting together before the op, that we had somehow met each other before, as both our regiments had been stationed in Ramdaspur in India back in '33 and so we must have conflabbed on a few things back then. He had been made CSM shortly after being posted to the battalion, similar to me, and he had a wife and two children back at home.
As I stared at his now lifeless eyes, sinking back slightly as they rapidly lost the fluid in them that makes them look alive, I felt desperately sad for his family. Less than twelve hours ago, he had been alive, raring for the off and for a chance to exact revenge for the boys that he had lost in North Africa. Less than twelve hours ago, he had been a husband, his wife expectantly awaiting his return, this time for good, but now, all she would get was a piece of paper with an impersonal, cold, typed message on its yellowing background, accompanied with instructions on how to draw her war widow's pension.
Less than twelve hours ago, his wife would have put his children to bed, not knowing that soon their father would be flying overhead and that, by the time that they had woken up, they would no longer have a father.
They would never see him again, there was no final goodbye as they cried over his corpse, no sobbing as a coffin was carried into church. That last goodbye as they had waved him off after his last leave, was the last time they would ever see their daddy.
I wondered about how many children had lost their fathers tonight. How many wives who would now have to learn to cope on their own, how many mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters would have to cope with an empty seat at the dinner table, or an empty bed in the bedroom.
Despite my successful attempts previously to block my family out while I was away, and to not focus on getting myself home, it was all I could think about as I looked at William, and I thanked him for it. I needed to make sure I was okay. I tore myself away from staring at the gaping wound in his left shoulder, as I gave up swiping at the flies that were now feasting on the buffet that was on offer.
A flash of a red cross snapped me back into reality, now wasn't the time to be thinking about myself, I needed to find Harry.
“You!” I screeched, making the poor man stop dead in his tracks, obviously worrying that he had done something to personally offend me. “Where are they putting the wounded?”
Obviously delighted that I was willing to help he gleefully replied, “In and around number one casement!” He looked almost puzzled for a moment after, clearly confused with himself about how happy he appeared to be shouting about our wounded, it was either that or, he was more surprised about a senior NCO wanting to help with that sort of thing.
By now, the Colonel arrived in our midst, and began barking orders to his loyal followers about what he wanted to do next. Fortunately, he deemed me far too busy to interrupt what I was doing and so I made my way to the casement disturbed only by the lifeless bodies that now littered the inner perimeter of the battery.
It was easy for him to bark orders at anyone, even those who were in fact his senior, his tall, imposing stature, reaffirming his natural capability to lead men. As he shouted orders, they did not strike me as aggressive or even overly urgent, but the way in which he spoke was commanding, and that was enough to see that anything he said was tended to with the utmost urgency.
I left him to it and before long his shouts were replaced by a unified low groaning that was coming from the casement. At first it seemed to me like what I was hearing wasn't a casualty clearing station or aid post, but a direct hit upon the casement from the earlier action.
The scene inside too, seemed to indicate that it was still reeling from an artillery strike or mortar fire. Blood had been sprayed up the interior walls, like the Israelites had done at Passover, but this was much more than required to deter the Angel of Death.
Blood pooled on the ground and there was so much of it that it began to stream itself across the concrete floor, where the levelling must have been somewhat off slightly. My boots plinked and splashed as I made my way through the mess, with men trying to lift up an arm here and there, and grab at my leg.
Most of these men were beyond helping, some had limbs missing, others had gaping holes in their bodies that were largely completely untended to, one man even looked like he had no face, the burning sensation having receded enough for the man to rest his vocal chords.
There were men from all over here, some were from the 9th Parachute Battalion, some were Royal Engineers, others were from the Canadian delegation and one was even from the Field Ambulance section. My heart sunk as I looked at his injuries, seemingly hopeless from where I was standing. He looked at me with scared, fearful eyes, before rocking his head back gently as he read the expression on my face. I was shocked with the matter of fact way that he was dealing with it all, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty or so, and yet he accepted his fate like that of a man five times his age.
I resisted every urge to try and help, there must have been some obvious reason as to why these poor men had been abandoned here, I needed to find the nucleus of what was going on, and see if I could help, but more importantly, see if Harry was working there.
27
The room was full of men that were just moments away from meeting their maker, there was surely no way that some of these men would survive the injuries that I now found myself transfixed by. Blood had pooled on the floor, a cocktail of men’s blood, fusing together as they reached out to hold one another’s hand while they died. One man sobbed as he clutched on to the bloodstained fingers of his comrade lying beside him, who seemed to have died long ago.
The blood covered the entire concrete floor, and was only disturbed by the figures that lay on the ground, contributing pint after pint of their own blood to the reservoir. Their uniforms, if they had not already been torn or burnt away, soaked up as much of it as it could, before it too began seeping the excess fluid onto the floor.
Some moaned, others shrieked while others too just sat there in silence, staring at me, or the ceiling above them. I wondered if they were able to register the fact that I was even there, but each one of them had a glazed look in their eye, the kind that a child has while their minds wander into make-believe. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they were all in their own make-believe worlds, not here, in France, but miles away, inside their homes, with their family, with their friends. For a lot of these poor boys, it hadn’t been long since their holiday to make-believe had been a regular occurrence, as most of them were still children themselves. They hadn’t had time to grow up, hadn’t had time to experience what it had been to be a teenager, this war had been forced upon them and they had thrust into it headfirst, out of a sense of duty, or maybe coercion. Either way, whatever their reason for being here, it didn’t matter, they were still only boys.
My eyes fell on one man, my feet splashing to a halt near his, a half second later. His face showed no signs of injury, no sense even that anything was wrong, his eyes darting all over the place to take in as much of his surroundings as he possibly could, he seemed to still have his wits about him. He was silent, almost as if he was straining to hear something, a sound that he knew to be there, but one that still managed to be evading him. He seemed completely normal.
That was until my eyes scanned his body. I found myself running my eyes up and down him numerous times, as if my brain didn’t quite believe what my eyes were telling me I was seeing.
His left leg, just above the knee, seemed to be gone, like the lower part of his leg should not have still been attached to the rest of the body. His lower leg clung to the rest of his leg, like a scared child gripping its mother’s h
and, simply by a strand of flesh that must have once housed his knee cap. There seemed to be no blood spurting out of this side, like one would expect, just the very occasional drip of scarlet, like a hosepipe that had been turned off a few moments ago.
A Samways tourniquet had been applied just above the hole in his leg. It was a long piece of rubber tubing that had been wrapped around this particular limb about three times, which was then wound round an anchor like clip in such a way that when you let go, it didn’t unravel. The idea behind it being that enough pressure was applied to the wound, to prevent it bleeding anymore and thus, stopping the casualty from bleeding out completely. This one seemed to be doing its job, as I assumed that, without it, the reservoir on the floor would have been topped up nicely, and quite quickly too.
His right leg, seemed okay, until my eyes gazed at his ankle. Instead of seeing a foot, intact and in fully working order at the end of his leg, all that I could see was a tangled mess of blood, sinews and shin bone. The bone was jagged and looked sharp to the touch, with the sinews decorating it like some loose electrical wiring that had been left untended. This one was dripping much more furiously than his other leg, a second tourniquet having been applied further up the leg, but seemingly not as successfully as his other.
I sunk down to my knees, splashing myself in blood as I dipped into the puddle, taking my helmet off as I did so, trying to see if there was anything that I could do.
“You could put your bodyweight pressure just above his knee, if you’re looking for something useful to do.” His voice was calm, in control, and if it had been me that was lying there, would have given me great comfort that my injuries weren’t half as bad as some of the blokes lying here.
I watched as he unscrewed the black cap of the morphine efficiently, pushing the needle into the syringe to pierce the seal, before pinching at a flap of skin on his lower torso, and forcing it in. The man let out a half-chuckle half-sigh, as the pain relief began to kick in and he let his head relax further. I wondered if this had been the right decision, if this man got any more relaxed, then he would be asleep, a nightmare to be able to monitor him, especially under the seriousness of his injuries.
I looked up and nodded, and that’s when our eyes met. The feeling of relief and a sense of alleviation of my duty was quickly overtaken by a desire to instantly vomit, and even one to pull him into a father-like embrace. He was caked in blood; the scarlet pigment having washed away most of the cam cream that he had smothered himself in before the drop.
“Harry…” I gave him a nod as my voice trailed off with an element of pride, but also in an attempt to stop myself from blubbing of happiness.
I had a thousand questions for him, to know exactly how he was getting on and what was going through his head right now, but all I could get out of my mouth was, “You’re okay then?”
I got to work, pushing down hard on the man’s leg, and I watched as it caused a waterfall out of the end of his leg, like all I was succeeding in doing was speeding up this man’s death.
“Push down harder than that, I’m going to readjust this.” I locked my arms harder and almost came off my knees, forcing down my entire bodyweight on this one part of his body. The waterfall slowed slightly, before speeding up again when the tourniquet was removed. The man’s face didn’t even wince once, he was having the best night of his life as he danced the night away in his dream world.
The tourniquet was expertly reapplied, and Harry had seemed to have become more accustomed to his application tonight, as if he had adapted his craft in the short while that we had been in enemy territory.
“Yes…” he eventually said, as he finished up on the leg clamp, “I’m okay, bit of a hairy landing, got lost, that sort of thing…but I guess I’m okay.”
He got to his feet. “Take the pressure off now, slowly, you shouldn’t be needed on him anymore. We’ve done what we can for now.”
I did as I was told. He was right, the blood flow was much slower, much more like a drip that dripped out of sync with his other leg.
His hands were stained red, and he wiped them on the legs of his trousers, smearing them with a number of other men’s blood that had already decorated his legs, as he prepared to look at his next patient. I felt immensely proud of him, the boy that had been so sensitive at the mere mention of someone else’s mother, the child who snuck off to cry in the toilets or his billet, now looked like a grown adult, one that was in complete control of a helpless situation, moving from one man to the next, trying to keep them alive.
I moved along to the next man with him, but he shooed me away, “The one’s that look dead, check their pulses, if they’re gone, mark a ‘D’ on their heads.”
I must have given him a puzzled look as he finished off his order with, “Use their blood.”
As I moved onto my first casualty, the Captain walked in, his helmet now replaced proudly by his Parachute Regiment beret. His regimental cap badge beamed at us all proudly, the winged parachute acting at the foundation for a royal crown and lion that adorned it. It was a badge that made all the lads that wore it incredibly proud, one that made me almost believe that these boys would get up, salute, before crumpling in a heap once more.
“CSM Baker, come on, we’ve got other places to be, old boy. This isn’t your fight, you’ve been told that before.”
I made to protest but I was beaten to it with a smirk, “Not your fight, Norm.”
28
“We’re regrouping, up at the firm base, at Calvary.” We had studied maps and aerial photographs of the area as much as we possibly could, and the one thing that stood out to me, more than the battery itself, was the presence of a crucifix, that was around seven, or eight hundred yards east of our current position.
That had been our firm base, the area that was being secured by the Canadians, so that if anything went wrong during the assault, we could fall back there to continue the fight. Fortunately, we hadn’t needed it, but now was for the next phase of our invasion.
“Gather up as many men as possible for us Baker, anyone that can still walk, we’ll need every man.”
As he turned to walk out, I blurted, “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said turning back to me, bringing his face as close as possible to mine, lowering the volume as low as he could, “put it this way, we’ve lost half the men we started out with and I can’t imagine we started with many more than one-fifty, one-sixty men.”
He left me there, dumbstruck, as he gave me a nod of appreciation as he plonked his beret back on his head. He spun on his heel once again, spraying a mist of blood around as he did so, before mimicking a sort of jive with his right hand, cheerily declaring, “Next stop, La Plein!”
I had never been particularly good at maths, but I could quite easily work things out that were divisible by two. By the Captain’s estimations we had between seventy-five, to eighty men left standing and able to fight. So out of a battalion strength of six hundred men, we now only had eighty men left able to carry on.
How was this in any way heroic? How in any way was this fulfilling a duty? I had failed these boys, again, I had failed at what I was meant to do. The feeling was strange, a familiar feeling, but one that I found odd nonetheless. Even now, I do not know how to describe that feeling, how to get across how it truly felt, standing in that concrete box with men bleeding and dying all around me.
I wanted, longed to be able to smile, to laugh at the situation that I was in, to try and chase away the fear and gut-wrenching sadness that was racing through my mind. But there was something stopping me from doing that, and it made me fear that I would never experience happiness again in my lifetime, however short that may be. Every time I tried to laugh, something snatched hold of my heart, and squeezed it, until all that was left were a thousand tiny pieces. It felt like the flashlight that was on in my inside was slowly dying out, and that the brightness, the spark, was being quickly chased away, engulfed by the darkness, so all that was left was an empt
iness.
I had to push it all away, let my mind wipe the feelings of despair and emptiness from my conscious, so that I could continue to focus on what was being asked of me, what was expected. But I was so tired, so tired of it all.
Our next objective was to head back to the Calvary, before making our way down the road that ran south, towards a village called Breville. We would wait there to formulate an attack plan, which, I assumed would be a mammoth task if we only had seventy odd men left standing. We would then advance on La Plein, a German stronghold and take their prized possession there, a large, French château. I hoped that there would be a large, four poster bed there for me to rest my knackered head on and to take the weight off my poor, ruined feet.
“Walsh, come on, we’ve got to move!”
“No…” he said looking at me, almost scoffing, “look at them all.”
“Exactly! There’s nothing you can do, c’mon, we’re leaving!”
“I am not leaving!”
I went to grab him from his position, aiming for the red cross that was on his arm, I clamped a hold on him, but he quickly fought me off.
“No! Sir…” he added regrettably at the end of his sudden outburst. “My job is to look after these men, yours is to be a soldier! You do your job and I’ll do mine!”
“You’re wrong!” I found myself screaming into his face, “My job is to try and keep idiots like you alive! These men have had it, we’re withdrawing and none of them can move, we need you at the next village!”
I didn’t feel like I was getting through to him at all, “Look,” I tried lowering my tone, going all paternal on him, “you’ve done a good job, honest you have, but this is war, some of these men have to die, and it’s the ones who are still walking that will need you now, they’re our best bet.”
