by Dan Simmons
Both observers jumped just as the German plane turned toward them and I nodded in satisfaction to see their parachutes open at once. The plane made a single pass, its guns hammered for less than three seconds, and the balloon did what all such hydrogen targets do when punctured by hot lead—it exploded into a giant mass of flaming gas and rubberized shreds. The wicker basket beneath it ignited like tinder.
Unfortunately, there was almost no wind, so rather than drift toward Albert or our rear lines, the observers descended almost directly under the balloon, their parachutes settling down in slow spirals like seeds from a shaken dandelion. The flaming mass caught the first man still two hundred feet above the ground. I distinctly heard him scream as first his parachute ignited and then his clothes.
The second man jerked desperately at the lines connecting him to his silk umbrella, and for a moment I was sure that he had avoided the fate of his friend, The tumbling mass of wicker, steel cable, flaming rubber and burning gas missed him by five yards—enough to singe him but not enough to ignite his parachute or pull him down. Then I saw the Medusa-like mass of ropes and cables trailing behind the central mass. These whipped about like the flagella of some dying creature, and it was only bad luck that one of these steel cables lashed around the lines of the parachute, tugged it and the man sideways in a terrible jerk, and pulled him down.
The umbrella did not quite fold up and the observer might have survived if the cable had not pulled him into the burning mass of debris on the ground. As it was, I and several other passing messengers ran to the edge of the great pyre, but there was no chance of running in to help the poor chap. The flame must have covered a diameter of thirty yards. He was able to stand, run a few yards, fall into the flames, stand, run again, and fall again. This happened four or five times before he did not rise. I rather thought that the boys back in the trenches could hear his screams three miles away.
I delivered the message to Headquarters, ran into a chap there whom I had known in college, and accepted his offer of a whiskey and soda before cycling back toward the Front.
Monday, 14 August, 7.45 P.M.—
Every sort of evil omen today.
After two weeks of sunny, hot August weather, the skies opened up today. It poured. As if in response to the counterbarrage of thunder and lightning, the big guns on both sides retreated into relative silence with only an occasional salvo to keep us or the Germans honest. This is not rain, it is deluge.
After an hour the duckboards were all under water. After three hours, the sandbags began to slip in places as entire trench walls became the consistency of very moist coffee grounds. Shell holes have become lakes with their deadly green scum of solidified poison gas running off in rivulets into streams and tributaries. Everywhere bodies are washing up and washing out, and a walk in any direction shows green hands and plastered clumps of hair rising from the mud as if the trumpet for the Second Coming had sounded.
Captain Brown and Sergeant Ackroyd tell me that the River Ancre has flooded its banks and is filling the valley behind us. Ahead of us, the village of Thiepval is awash, as are the German trenches. We can tell that because the lads coming back from the fighting in Thiepval Wood say that the water the Germans pump out of their cushy trenches runs downhill to our lads’ precarious positions among the shattered tree trunks. Word is that the Australians have captured the windmill that has eluded them for so long, but the Anzacs are so exhausted that all the living can do is lie in the mud with their dead and dying and suffer the deluge.
The second evil omen is that early this morning we were ordered to rear billets “for rest and refitting.” By noon we had marched back to the temporary camp between Pozieres and Albert and were drying off in tents rather than our leaking dugouts. This would seem to be good news, but as we have not been directly involved in any of the fighting so far, the “rest and refitting” has to fall under the category of preparation for our own go at the objectives that have eluded so many of our dead and rotting predecessors.
The final evil omen was at the 4 o’clock meal when the men received hot stew, fresh-baked bread, hot rather than tepid tea, and oranges and chestnuts. It was the oranges and chestnuts that tied it all up in a ribbon. They only serve us these delicacies when they are fattening us up for the slaughter. I would have taken the daily trenchfare of bully beef and beans, even with its usual cloud of flies, rather than this final meal.
She has not come again since I wrote last. I think she will tonight, although I share this tent with young Lieutenants Julian and Raddison, whom the others call Raddy. The rain is pounding the canvas with fists. Everything leaks. The only course of action is to eat our fine meal, smoke our new cigarettes, and crawl into our new, lice-free blankets.
Tuesday, 15 August, 1.20 P.M.—
She did not visit last night, nor this morning when I was alone. It may seem insane to wish for her, but I do. And I know why I do.
It is official. Captain Brown returned from Headquarters this morning, his face slack. We go over the top on Friday, the 18th.
Brown tried to put the best face on it, explaining to all the subalterns that it will be the 33rd Division with the yeoman’s task ahead of it—securing ground between Delville Wood and High Wood while simultaneously securing High Wood itself. All our Brigade has to do, says Brown, is attack on the right flank of the 33rd and to the left of Delville Wood and secure an area of enemy front known as Orchard Trench. Our effort will be part of a general attack stretching from Guillemont to Thiepval Ridge, and Captain Brown says that the boffins in Headquarters cannot see how we can fail to take High Wood and Delville Wood this time.
This Friday, 18 August, will be the fiftieth day of this battle.
A while ago, alone in my tent, I took out my revolver, made sure it was loaded, and seriously considered shooting myself. It would have to be a fatal shot, since any attempt at a self-inflicted wound is punishable by execution.
The irony makes me laugh.
Wednesday, 16 August, 2.30 P.M.—
Late this morning, Brigadier-General Shute himself—the commander of our entire Brigade—showed up with the pompous Colonel and several red-tabbed Staff adjutants in tow. The men were assembled in the rain, three companies on a side of an open square. The order went out to stand at ease and there we were, several thousand men in dripping waterproofs and sodden khaki caps (we put away our tin hats this far behind the lines), with all eyes on General Shute astride his tall black horse in the centre of our square. The horse was nervous and had to be reined in, which the General did without apparent thought.
“Well, I think that…yes…ahem, it seems to be incumbent upon me…that is to say, all you chaps should know that action with the enemy is…well, imminent, shall we say?” The General cleared his throat, reined in the nervous black, and sat higher. “I have no doubt that each and every man jack of you will comport himself with, you know, courage. And uphold the honour of this Division, which has covered itself with, well, glory since the Battle of Mons.”
At this point the horse wheeled around as if leaving and we thought the lecture was over, but the General reined in the recalcitrant animal, almost stood in his stirrups, and got to the crux of his address. “And one more thing, lads,” he said, voice rising. “I visited your reserve trenches two days ago and I was, well, appalled. Simply appalled. Sanitary arrangements were far from satisfactory. Hygiene was as lax as the discipline. Why, I saw human excrement lying about in places. You all know the regulations about burying one’s waste. I need to tell you that I won’t have it—I simply won’t have it! Do you hear? I know that you have been under some artillery harassment recently, but that is no reason to behave like animals. Do you hear me? After this attack, if I find anyone not keeping their section of trench clean and disinfected according to precise regulations, I shall have that man or those men up on charges! And I include officers as well as the lower ranks in this charge.”
As we all stood stunned in the increasingly heavy rain, General Shute whe
eled his black horse a final time and almost galloped to the rear, his covey of adjutants and aides-de-camp racing to their motorcars to catch up.
We were not finished. We were called to attention and made to stand there for another forty minutes as first the Colonel ticked us off with spittle flying, echoing his commander’s sentiments about human waste found lying around, and then—when the Colonel had left—the Sergeant-Major gave a stern lecture about how the severest military penalties would apply to any slacker who held back during the attack. Then the Sergeant-Major read an endless list of names—names of men executed for such offenses, complete with the date of their cowardice, their rank and unit, and finally the date and hour of their execution. It was profoundly depressing, and when we returned to our leaking tents our thoughts were more on floating shit and firing squads than on covering ourselves with glory for Blighty or King.
Same day, 9.00 P.M.—
I may have found a way out of this war more clever, or at least more certain, than shooting myself.
After I penned that last entry, I sat in my tent and wrote a poem. Because I wrote it on foolscap rather than in this journal, Lieutenant Raddison—Raddy—evidently came across it later and showed it to some of the chaps. I was furious, of course, but it was too late. The poem has made the rounds of the camp by now and I have heard laughter from a hundred sources. Even the stern old NCOs are reported to be delighted by it, and many of the lower ranks have begun singing it as a marching ditty.
As of now, only a few of the other officers know that I was the wit behind this broadside, but if it is discovered by the Colonel or anyone of higher rank, I have no doubt that my name will be on the list the next time the men must hear of executions. Captain Brown knows, but he merely gave me an exasperated look and said nothing. I suspect that he secretly enjoyed the poem.
Here it is.
The General inspecting the trenches
Exclaimed with a horrified shout,
“I refuse to command a Division
Which leaves its excreta about.”
But nobody took any notice
No one was prepared to refute,
That the presence of shit was congenial
Compared with the presence of Shute.
And certain responsible critics
Made haste to reply to his words
Observing that his Staff advisers
Consisted entirely of turds.
For shit may be shot at odd corners
And paper supplied there to suit,
But a shit would be shot without mourners
If somebody shot that shit Shute.13
Thursday, 17 August, 4.00 P.M.—
Marched the Brigade back to the reserve trenches by noon, then forward to the advanced trenches held by the devastated 55th until this morning. All the way back here in the rain I kept hearing snatches of the Brigade’s new “marching song.” But the singing died as we reoccupied our old trenches and then moved forward to the advanced line opposite Orchard Trench.
I would like to write now that I feel fatalistic about all this, that I have been through it all before and that nothing can frighten me after what I have seen, but the truth is that I am more terrified than ever before. The thought of dying is like a great void opening within me. Marching here, I look at a field mouse scurrying away from the road in the valley and I think, Will that mouse be alive in forty-eight hours when I am dead? The idea—no, the probability—that I will be condemned to an eternity of non-sight, non-sound, non-touch while other things continue to live and sense the universe is almost unsupportable.
For the past hour I have been trying to read The Return of the Native. I do not want to die before I finish this book.
The men are pooling their cash to be divided amongst the survivors after the attack. Their feeling is admirable—If I should die, better this money goes to some chum or fellow sufferer than rot in the mud of No Man’s Land or be looted by some souvenir-hunting Hun. If the attrition is as bad as it was with my 13th Battalion, or the 34th, or the Church Lads Brigade of the 33rd, or the 51st or 55th who still lie in silent rows, their faces to the rain, in the fields behind us…well, there will be some wealthy chaps this time tomorrow evening.
The religious fellows in the platoon attended a communion service not an hour ago. The altar was two stretchers on which the blood of the wounded was visible on the stained canvas beneath the chalice holding the Blood of Our Savior. I envy the men who found comfort there.
This advance trench is only seven feet deep, barely deep enough to keep our tin hats out of sight. An hour ago a Lance-Corporal from D Company peeked his head up for the briefest second and a bullet caught him square in the ear and took his face quite off. We are all aware that to show any part of ourselves, for even the briefest time, would bring a bullet.
And tomorrow we will stand up there on those sandbags and walk out toward the enemy? It hardly seems sane.
Captain Brown was talking about the barrage, and how the artillery chaps will try a different approach this time—walking a “curtain” across No Man’s Land in front of us. God knows they have tried everything else. For the Australians, our officers commanding the 17-pounders followed the old recipe of twenty-four hours of barrage, then the crescendo…and then waited ten minutes for the Germans to come flocking out of their dugouts and reinforced bunkers…and then resumed it again, trying to catch them in the open.
We do not know how effective this clever plan was—the Australians who went out by the thousands to capture those trenches did not, by and large, return.
Captain Brown is quite sanguine about our Brigade reaching and taking its objective. At times I want to shout at him that the objective is not worth the floating shit that General Shute found so offensive. What use is another hundred yards of bombed-out trench if it costs a hundred thousand lives…or three hundred thousand…or a million? It is common knowledge that General Sir Douglas Haig calls the deaths of thousands of us “the usual wastage” and has said that half a million casualties before this battle is over would be “quite acceptable.”
Acceptable to whom, I wonder? Not to me. My life is all I have, I thought that at the advanced age of twenty-eight, I would be less worried about losing my life. Instead, I hold every second of experience to this point as sacred and detest those who would take away my chance to see another sunrise or eat another meal or finish The Return of the Native.
My hand is shaking so that I can hardly read this writing. What will the men think come morning if their Lieutenant cannot muster the courage to lead them over the top? Who cares what the men would think if my funk would gain me even a minute more of life and breath.
I would care. For whatever bizarre reason, I care. Perhaps it is just fear of having one’s comrades think poorly of one that sends us each over the top.
It is time for high tea. Bully beef and a bulb of onion for the men tonight. The days of oranges and chestnuts are past. It is the flies’ favorite meal for us tonight—and tomorrow? Many of us will be meals for flies.
Friday, 18 August, 3.15 A.M.—
She was here tonight. I am writing this by the light of Very flares. The entire Brigade are packed into these trenches and it is very crowded. Men are sleeping with their backs to the sandbags, their feet on the duckboard or in the ten inches of water beneath. Men are crouching on the firesteps, trying to sleep, or pretending to sleep. I was one of the latter until the Lady came.
The periscope above the trench here is a slanted piece of mirror on a broomstick. I had been looking up at it idly—one can sometimes see the flash of their big guns before the sound reaches us—when suddenly the surface of the mirror reflected only her face and flowing gown. I stood then, my helmet almost showing above the parapet, and would have reached for the mirror—and almost certainly would have been shot by the snipers who already tonight had culled two of the curious from our platoon—if she had not reached for me instead.
And then we were within the shelter of her curtained bed.
She was wearing only the softly translucent gown I had first seen her in. My own clothes had been removed and were lying, neatly folded, on the chair just outside the curtains. They were no longer mud-caked or lousy. Nor was I. My hair was still slightly damp, as if from the bath.
She lifted the covers slightly so that I could slide within that inviting envelope. The autumn air had turned cooler and now it ruffled the bed curtains with a sensuous languor. The light from the fireplace and a single candle filtered through the lace and fell on damask and silk with a buttery touch. We lay on the pillows, she and I, studying each other’s faces in the masked light.
When she touched my cheek, I took her wrist and held it firmly.
“You are afraid,” she asked, or said, for although her dark eyes were questioning, I did not hear a rising inflection.
I did not answer.
After a moment she said, “But you know me.”
I held the silence another moment. “Yes,” I said at last, “I know you.”
In my mother’s drawing room there was a mirror in which I had, in silent, narcissistic intensity, contemplated my own face a thousand times or more. And I remember the other details of my mother’s drawing room: the beeswaxed parquet floor, the cat’s half-empty bowl of milk under the gate-legged table, the urn of fresh flowers which the servants replaced daily…or nightly, I should say, so that when I was a small child I had thought that the invisible appearance of these blooms in season was magical, rather like the coming of Father Christmas only much more prompt and reliable.
I remember the Herndon photograph of the painting by G. F. Watts—Love and Death—with the attractive spectre of feminine Death, the folds of her robe elaborated in all their Pre-Raphaelite glory, her face lowered and turned away so that when I was very young I thought that she either possessed no head or had darkness for a skull…beautiful Death with her right arm raised above a cherubic boy-child whose partially concealed right arm was also raised, as if touching Her face, or perhaps attempting, futilely, to hold Her at bay. The photograph of the painting hung directly opposite the mirror which I found so endlessly fascinating, so that each time I studied my young poet’s features—for I was sure even when I was seven or eight that I must be a poet—this image of Love and Death was visible above my right shoulder, Death’s posture reversed from leaning right to leaning left above young Eros, so that it seemed that the form in the image had moved of Her own accord.
