by Thomas Wood
I would be fighting against my own mind, a much more powerful and capable enemy than the dreaded German soldier.
“Okay then chaps, we’re moving, down the road to Gonneville, where we’ll break and brief you on the attack plan.”
But that particular battle would have to wait as, for now, I had another battle to be won, I had other jobs to be done.
Part IV
34
I was an experienced soldier, even before the landings in 1944, I knew what war was like, what to expect and how my mind might react. I had seen fighting before, felt what it was like to have a bullet shriek past your ear and come within an inch of your life, come so close to death that you feel like you’ll never be this excited, never feel this alive ever again. I had witnessed death, I had seen men get hit, go down and die in front of me, holding my hand, staring into my eyes. But the scale, the barbarity and the brutality of the way that so many died in the Normandy landings were on a scale that I had never experienced before, on a scale so large and vicious, that there was no way that a single man would have ever been able to prepare himself for the onslaught.
The scene of blanketed bleakness and annihilation that I witnessed as I left was something that I struggled to think I would ever see again. Men, from both sides lay face down in the mud, faces up to the sky, dead or dying, some had smouldering packs on their back, whereas others had been burnt so badly there was no way they would ever be identified. Supplies, weapons and ammunition was scattered all over the ground, random biscuits and canteens were arranged in no particular order or fashion, only that determined by the blast of a high explosive shell, or as it fell from a wounded man.
I had experienced it, lived it, and yet, I began to feel sorry for the poor souls who would be tasked with clearing up the mess that we had left behind, on whichever side of the war they happened to be on. It would take them years to clear it, to make sure that a small part of a human body was never found by a curious child or a hungry dog in years to come. Graves would spring up in a disorderly fashion, German and British side by side, identified only by the uniform that they wore or, if they were fortunate, by which regiment they had served in.
I speculated over whether Harry would have a grave or not, would he have been one of the lucky ones where they would be able to vaguely identify him? Would he have a marked grave one day, one that I could return to, to apologise for my failings and to ask for his forgiveness. I wondered about whether or not they had identified his leg as his, and whether or not they had decided to bury it with Harry, or whether it had been chucked in alongside another poor soul who had found himself trapped under six feet of French soil.
Harry’s death had been swift, he had barely known what had happened to him, or so I hoped. Others had had similar demises, being left in an almost untouched position, as if, had they been unfrozen, they simply would have continued with their task of loading a machine gun, launching a grenade or laughing alongside their mates.
The scene of death and the destruction of man was one that I would never forget, but the smell that quickly arose from the stale, decaying bodies was worse, lingering around in my nostrils and in the fibres of my uniform for weeks to come. The air that I tried to breathe in was sweet, thicker than normal so that my chest laboured to be able to bring in the quantities that it needed, and it was saturated with the smell of flesh, rotting, burning flesh, the smell of oil and churned up, sodden earth.
I felt self-centred for many weeks following our actions, as I had only witnessed a minute, tiny part of the battlefield, but it was one that had begun to consume me, threatened to shut me down and forced me into a deep depression.
Since, I have been reconciled with my wife, my children, which has added a dimension to the meaning of my life that I had never appreciated previously. While I had been away before, I had made a promise to myself that I would not think of them while I was away, as I thought it would jeopardise my chances at survival, it would distract me from doing the job that I was meant to do. Being back with them though, I realised that it was for them that I should be fighting, for them that I should make it my duty to live through whatever was happening and continue my life with them. I needed to see them grow up, I needed to be there to support them if something like this was to happen to them.
Being with them didn’t solve the battle that was raging in my head ever since I had left Normandy however. If anything, the battle had intensified, with machine gun after machine gun being added to the firefight, pinging rounds and emotions in every direction inside my fragmented mind. I found it difficult to relate to them, it was impossible for them to feel how I had felt in those few hours, how I was feeling now, no matter how much sympathy and emotion that they threw my way. They were just glad that I was back, but I needed more from them, I needed them to understand, but that was something that they were never going to be able to do. And so, I have become distant from them, not physically, I still see them as often as I can, but emotionally, mentally, I couldn’t be further from them.
That is why I always return to the regiment. That is why I always turn to the men that I serve with, the men that were there, the men that understand. A lot of them died in Normandy, a lot of them lost their minds over there, but, since then, we have seen action elsewhere, they understand what it feels like to want to look over someone, to protect them, and to have that cruelly swiped from you, with nothing that you could have done. No matter how helpless, and powerless I felt in those moments after losing Harry, I accepted that there was nothing I could have done, nothing that could have changed what had happened to him, but there is a side to me that will never forget him. The childlike innocence that he assumed as soon as he turned up on base, the grit and determination that he displayed to want to try and save as many men as he possibly could on that night, was something that would not be easy to wipe from my recollections of him.
In a short time, he had turned from a quiet, naïve, innocent boy and turned himself into a driven, no nonsense hero. But now he was gone. Now, he was no more. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot accept that. As long as I live, I will carry him with me. As long as the men he saved live, they too will carry him with them. He will live so much longer than his mortal, physical self and though I continue to torment myself both day and night, forcing myself to relive the horror of his death, to punish myself through not eating for days, the refusal to go outside, I can live with the knowledge that Harry saved me.
I would have been killed long before if it hadn’t been for him, he gave me a drive, a focus to stay breathing for just a few moments more, and, in his death, I realised that it was for something else that I must live.
I am an experienced soldier, and I know that soon I must return to the regiment, to my boys, so we can continue the fight into other parts of the European theatre, just like I knew that when I left the other boys behind in 1940, that I would return one day, to fight for them. I remember Harfield, Vidler, Carter and Knight, I remember Harry Walsh, I remember every boy that I have ever lost, and remind myself, that each time that I return to combat, that I must try and keep as many of these boys alive, but also to fulfil our objectives. To fulfil our objectives means that we shorten the war. And to shorten the war means that these lads no longer need to lay down their lives, no longer need to find themselves limbless, face down in the mud or face up to the stars, but that they might return home, they might get to experience what it means to be a young man.
Watching death has changed me and I know that as I continue in this war, that it will continue to do so, but the fight that I had been told was not mine, is my focus more than it ever was before.
35
The warts and all version had not seemed to shock him but, then again, he was a veteran himself, of a very different, but equally bloody and barbaric war, that meant that his stomach lining must have been made of strong stuff. He shuffled slightly in his chair, adjusting the angle that his chin rested on his walking stick, the skin under his chin now marked red sl
ightly where he had been resting on it all this time.
I had nothing left to say and so we sat in an unadulterated silence for a few minutes. He shifted a few more times, as if he was about to get up and strike me across the face for letting his son perish. He let out a few sighs, each one an attempt to talk, to conjure up some words from within that would release me from my storytelling and allow me to go about with the rest of my day.
“Would you like another cup of tea, Norman?” I sat astounded, my mouth hanging open for what felt like an eternity, before he repeated the question, not out of irritation, but more out of a genuine desire for an answer.
I had just told the man how his son, his only son who had refused to take a weapon into war, had perished in one of the most brutal ways possible, that he had seen things that had been enough to make me vomit, he had tended to injuries completely unimaginable to anyone who had not been there and his only response had been whether I wanted a top up.
“Cup of tea, old boy?”
“Erm…yes…okay, thank you.”
“Bring the cups into the kitchen, would you? It’s difficult to carry things with this old thing,” he said, motioning his stick up in the air slightly.
I allowed him to begin making our new cups of tea, before feeling compelled to speak.
“Sir, I’ve struggled with this ever since I returned, and I do not know how to get around it. I failed your son, I made a promise to myself that I would protect him, see him here back in this house with you to carry on with his life. Instead, he will stay over in France for the rest of time, he will never grow old, you will never have grandchildren to speak of, he was your only living heir, your only family member. I have not only failed him, but I have failed you also.”
He said nothing, but noisily went about making the tea, relying heavily on his stick once more, and I became convinced that at any minute now the stick would bow under the great pressure of this man. He ushered me to pick up our drinks and take them back into the front room once again.
He angled himself in his chair so that, for the first time, he no longer stared at me, but out of the large, un-taped bay window that was the centre piece of this room. He watched as the people outside went about their day to day business, without a care in the world.
After what felt like an eternity, with me nearly at the point of walking out of the house, he spoke.
“During the last war, I was fortunate enough to be awarded the Victoria Cross.” He maintained his gaze firmly out of the bay window, not looking at me for any signs of recognition, or even if I was still in the room. “I was in the Royal Army Medical Corps, just like my boy,” he stopped, this time looking over at me, gauging my reaction at what was his first mention of his son since my story. “We were at a place, Delville Wood it was called, known as the Devil’s Wood to many of the boys…there were so many trees entangled within one another that it seemed impossible that one would ever be able to get out.
“Anyway, we lost many boys there…many good boys lost their lives. I was a medical officer and I took it upon myself to retrieve as many of the wounded from No Man’s Land as I possibly could; men, not British or German but men.”
He looked over at me, and if he had worn spectacles, I imagined that now would have been the point at which he had lowered them slightly, to really hit home his point.
“My batman and I tirelessly brought men back into safety for hours and hours, not wanting to stop until we knew that we had managed to pull back as many of the wounded men as was humanly possible, even if that meant one of us was to be wounded.
“On one occasion, we found one of our officers, propped up against the back of an almighty oak tree, that had been completely uprooted from the blast of one of our shells. He was in a very bad way, but he was alive and conscious, and so we both felt that it would be best to get him out as soon as we possibly could. Only issue was, there was a sniper, a damn persistent one at that, and he wouldn’t let us withdraw with our officer.
“My batman, Private Henry McGinn, an Irishman, and a fiercely loyal one at that, offered to create a diversion by way of running out from cover, and moving over to our left, where he would try to draw the sniper’s fire away from us so that I could drag the officer to safety. He was successful in drawing the enemy fire away from us, and I was able to get the officer back to safety, and he survived. McGinn on the other hand, took a bullet to the shoulder while trying to draw the sniper fire, and then took another in the small of his back as he tried to fall back, completely paralysing him. He died a very slow, agonising death.
“I was awarded the VC for that and at my investiture, do you know who was also there?” He looked at me, as if I was supposed to jump up and down screaming “Pick me! I know!” But he was looking in the wrong place for such a response.
“Henry’s parents were there. Picking up a Military Cross for what he had done. An MC…all so that me and one officer could get away.”
He bit down onto his knuckle to prevent the tears from falling, but he was unsuccessful. We sat there for a moment more, in silence, breaking only for a slurp of tea. His body jolted as the clock chimed to tell us that we had just reached three o’clock in the afternoon.
The chiming seemed to jump start him back into his speech.
“I didn’t deserve that VC, in the same way that McGinn didn’t deserve that MC. He deserved so much more. I let Henry McGinn down, he didn’t need to die, but he did, he had volunteered to do what he did, I hadn’t ordered him. So, to myself, I failed him, but to others, what I did was heroic, what I did was what I had to do. But in my mind, I did not deserve the recognition, I did not deserve to carry on living.
“Harry knew the risks, he knew exactly what he was letting himself in for but you Norman, you did what you had to do, you tried to keep him alive, and that was far more than you were required to do so. I am sad that Harry has gone, but in war, some must die, while others live. It is those who die who are the heroes, but they do not have to live with the aftermath, the guilt and darkness that lurks within. They are the lucky ones.”
He downed his now lukewarm tea in one swift gulp, and I obligingly did the same. We sat for a few moments more, enjoying the company of each other, as if we both knew how each other’s mind was ticking.
“They put those trees in a few years ago now. Those ones lining the road,” he swung his arm wildly from left to right, just in case I wasn’t sure as to which road he was implying. “They dug great big holes in preparation for these things, and left them for about a week, letting them fill with rainwater and everything else that Mother Nature poured in.
“After a few days, I decided I would go out and inspect them and I pushed my hand right the way into the dirt. I put my VC in there. That tree right there, on the corner.”
I watched as a young boy, in shorts and a striped woollen vest came haring round the street corner, followed closely by his scabby-kneed friend.
“I thought it would be best that it was hidden, so that no one would ask me about it, and my failings came to light. And that’s where it’ll stay.” He got up chuckling to himself at the thought, “I wonder what the King would say…” he said as he retreated into the kitchen.
I left shortly after, retreating down the few steps of the house, taking an alternative route back to the train station. I stopped at the tree, and placed my arm on it. I held onto the tree for a moment or two. It had been many years since I had drawn one, or even paid this much attention to one. But as I did so, it seemed to empower me, encourage me, to the point where I felt like one day, maybe, my life would be normal again and that, there was a small possibility, if I was to make it through battle after battle, that I would be able to sit down with my pad and pencil once more, and begin to sketch out a dependable, solid tree for the first time in years. Maybe it would be this one, or maybe I’d head back out to France, and sketch that tree where Harfield had fallen or find one near to where I had been when Harry had been snatched from me.
Chuckling soft
ly, I patted it, before pacing my way back to the station, starting my journey back to the regimental barracks.
I had done all I could. There was nothing more that I could have done to have saved Harry, he had known the risks, he had known what might have happened to him, and I had fought for him like he was my own son.
Harry was relinquished from his duties now, whereas I, as ever, was still a soldier.
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