by Dan Simmons
“Yes,” I said again to the beautiful woman in whose bed I now lay, “I know you.”
She smiled once more and this time there seemed less mockery and more pleasure there. I released her wrist, but rather than stroke my cheek, the Lady slid her pale hand under the bedclothes. I started ever so slightly when her fingers touched my side and she held them still there, just above the ridge of my hip, as someone does when trying not to startle an animal which might or might not allow itself to be petted.
Her eyes, I noticed, were not all black but merely very brown, the iris actually surrounded by an infinitely thin band of green that somehow added to the lustre there.
She slid her hand slowly across the bone of my hip and down my thigh, bending her fingers back slightly so that the pads of her fingers rather than her long nails would touch my skin. I admit that the tender flesh along my thigh rippled like the pelt of some forest animal as her fingers slid lower. Never had a woman been so bold with me, behaving as if my body were hers with which to play. When her fingers curved around my rigid sex, I closed my eyes.
Friday, 18 August, 5.45 A.M.—
Dawn ends this seemingly endless night. Routine takes over. Before breakfast, each company dumps its tent packs and stacks blankets into bundles of twelve.
There is reassurance here. Each man is thinking that there is safety in routine, that Death must wait if we are called on to complete the Army’s tasks.
The cooks have made an effort to brew fresh coffee and tea, although the water is often bad. Sometimes they have to lower their cans into the shell holes for water. They say that boiling it kills the germs that the foetid corpses breed, but if the cooks have miscalculated and captured the green scum on the surface left from the residues of poison gas, boiling the water merely releases and reactivates the bubbles of deadly gas. Normally we would worry about this in the advance trenches, but now with only hours until we go over the top, such a bellyache would be welcomed as an excuse to go back to hospital.
There is also an attempt at a good British breakfast—sausages, baked beans, even stewed tomatoes and eggs for some of the officers—but few of us take advantage of it. The thought of a ruptured stomach or intestines, of metal and filthy cloth driven through a gut full of such food, still drives away appetite from most of us. Fear stops the rest from eating.
We know that the order to go over the top today will come later than usual—Captain Brown thought mid-afternoon—and this makes the waiting more miserable than last time for me. At least we were up and murdered and all but finished with it by 9 A.M. during the last go.
10.10 A.M.—
I have not mentioned the barrage this morning, but it is insane. Our own position here is slightly higher than that of the Germans only a few hundred yards in front of us, and this topography dictates that our guns have to lower their aim so severely that the air above is filled with shells flying literally inches above our parapets. Half an hour ago the inevitable occurred and a chap in C Company had his head blown quite off. The effect on those crowded into that section of trench was rather terrible, since blood and brain matter drenched dozens of them and two men were carried rearward with shrapnel wounds from splinters of flying skull.
The Sergeants are going around now with a bottle of rum, doling out spoonsful to the chaps and taking frequent swigs themselves. I notice that Sergeant Ackroyd’s red face has grown noticeably redder.
12.30 P.M.—
For the past fifteen minutes there has been a strange diversion.
First the guns fell silent on both sides, as if our and the German artillery chaps had all gone out for dinner. At first the men became more tense rather than less, believing that the lull in the barrage meant that our attack was imminent, but Captain Brown sent the subalterns down the length of the trench, telling the men that the attack had been set for 3 P.M. We all relaxed. Some of the chaps had a brew up while others surrendered to hunger and heated up some of their bully beef.
To add to the sense of relief from both barrage and anxiety over the uncertainty of when we were to go over the top, the rain that has plagued us for the past four days finally relented. While the sun did not actually emerge, the clouds did lift from their low-lying sullenness to a solid but much brighter ceiling some three or four thousand feet above the trenches.
And that is when the aeroplanes appeared.
At first they were a mere droning sound in the unaccustomed silence, then two specks broke free of the clouds some miles to the west, and soon we could make out the machines themselves, although with my nearsightedness there was no question of my actually telling friend from foe. The men did, though, and when what I perceived as the smaller of the two droning crosses quickly circled into a position behind the larger, the troops along our entire section of trench sent up a cheer.
For the next ten minutes or so it was as if we were spectators to some aerial Punch and Judy show as the two machines whirled and circled and dipped and climbed into and out of the cloud ceiling. All sniping and harassing machine-gun fire stopped as both sides of No Man’s Land became engrossed in the spectacle. For the first time in weeks, the Front became so silent that one could hear bird song from the river behind us or the cough of men many yards away. And then came the tiny hammering sound of the machine guns in the aeroplanes themselves—just occasionally when one had the advantage on the other—and then so briefly as to make all of us on the ground—under the ground—feel like wantons for our constant and endless expenditure of ammunition.
And then, just as the aerial display threatened to become repetitious and boring, one of the machines—the larger—burst into flame and went spiraling down in tighter and tighter circles until it disappeared behind the German trenches in the direction of Guillemont. A moment later a great column of black smoke rose into the sky and our lads gave a triple hurrah followed by so many whistles and shouts that I thought that I was sitting in the working class seats at a football match.
The celebration was premature. A moment later the circling smaller machine—British or French, I assumed, although I could not make out the markings—suddenly emitted a burst of smoke.
“Coo, ’e’s on fire. See the bloody flames?” said a Lance Corporal near me.
I could see no flames, but I could hear the sputter of the aeroplane’s engine as the last of the cheering in our line died away. Evidently the machine was too high to return safely to earth before the flames consumed the pilot—or perhaps there was simply no place for it to come down in our thousand square miles of cratered earth here along the Front—for rather than descend, the aeroplane appeared to climb and try several awkward sideslipping motions, as if the frenzied pilot were attempting to keep the flames away from his body. It must not have worked; a moment later even I could see the flames and thin line of smoke trailing behind the sputtering cruciform-shape.
The men along the line of trench shouted and moaned for several seconds before I could make out the reason for their lamentation. Then I saw what they had already perceived: the pilot had jumped from the machine just below the ceiling of clouds. Even someone as ignorant of the details of aerial machinery and warfare as I knew that pilots did not carry parachutes up with them as our balloon observers do, although whether this abstemiousness is from lack of room in the flying machine or a function of their code of airborne chivalry, I do not know. At any rate, even while knowing that the plummeting figure was doomed by his lack of a few yards of silk, one hoped during the entire plummeting descent that this chap might be an exception and that the circle of white would pop open at the last moment, bearing the warrior gently down to the waiting arms of his comrades.
It did not. He fell into No Man’s Land a few hundred yards to the east of our position, close enough that we could see his arms and legs thrashing as if seeking purchase in the air; close enough that even I could see a white scarf trailing like the tail of an aberrant kite. There was a long silence along the trenches when he struck. I glanced up once, expecting to see the burni
ng aeroplane descending as rapidly as its driver had, but the machine—now blossoming in full flame like Apollo’s chariot—continued to fly along until it passed into the clouds, became an eerie glow through the white ceiling, and then disappeared completely, never to reappear.
A moment later the German machine guns opened up as if the schoolmaster had blown his whistle, ending our little recess. A moment after that the barrage began again.
It is after 1 P.M. We go up and over at 3.00.
2.10 P.M.—
I did not go to sleep. I did not close my eyes.
But one moment I was here, in the slimy trenches under an atmosphere of screaming metal, and the next moment I was there—next to my Lady between clean sheets with the cool air ruffling balcony drapes and bed curtains.
She touched me still. And I responded still.
Brusquely, I moved her hand away from my sex, thrust aside the bedclothes, and sat in the cooling air with my back to her.
I could feel rather than see her moving toward me, feel the featherbed indent as she rested on one elbow behind me. “You do not desire me?” Her voice was the softest of whispers.
I forced an ironic smile. My clean uniform still lay folded neatly over the Empire chair, but I could see no bulge of cigarette case in the pocket of my blouse. It would have helped at that moment to have had a cigarette. “All men must desire you,” I said, my own voice rough and ragged, nowhere near a whisper.
“I am not interested in all men,” she said. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my bare back. “I am interested only in you.”
That statement should have made me shudder, but instead it increased my arousal. I did want her…more than I had wanted any woman or any thing. I said nothing.
She laid her hand flat against my back. I could feel the outline of her palm and each slender finger as a locus of warmth. Outside, the wind blew as if leading in a storm.
“At least lie next to me,” she said, rising so that her lips were next to my neck. “Lie next to me and keep me warm.”
I managed an ironic chuckle. “Keep you warm so that I may be cold forevermore? Or will you keep me warm by pulling a blanket of earth over us?”
She pulled back. “You are unfair,” she said.
I turned to look at her then, knowing even as I did so that such a glance might seal my fate…although I would be Eurydice to her Orpheus.
Neither of us vanished. She was beautiful in the candlelight. Her hair lay loose, her chemise had pulled aside so that I could see the creamy skin above one elegant shoulder, and her left breast was outlined through the thin fabric by the glow behind her. Although my breath caught in my throat, I said, “How can one be unfair to a metaphor?”
She smiled then. “You think me a metaphor?” Her right hand touched my cheek.
“I think you a seductress,” I said through a tightening throat.
Her laugh was soft, pleasant, and it held no scorn. “Then you would be wrong. I am no seductress.” Her fingers slid along my lips. “It is you who seeks to seduce me; it is you who has courted me since birth. It is always thus.” Her face came closer and we kissed before I could speak.
Outside, the storm arrived suddenly with a gust of cold air, a blast of the terrace doors being blown open, and an endless roll of thunder.
“Good Christ,” gasped the Lance Corporal huddled next to me on the firestep, “that fuckin’ barrage is too fuckin’ close for me fuckin’ peace of mind.”
2.35 P.M.—
The Sergeant and I moved along the trenches a moment ago, checking a final time that the men’s kit was in battle order. Normally the chaps wear their haversacks on the left side, but in preparation for the attack they move it to the back below the shoulder blade. Beneath their haversack, their groundsheet must be rolled tightly. Our objective is to seize and occupy Orchard Trench and we pack as if there is no doubt that this objective will be achieved. A partial list of the men’s kit includes—
Entrenching tool
Pull-through
Rifle with fixed bayonet
Bootlaces
Spine protector
Gas mask
Tin of grease
Waterproof sheet
Latherbrush
Razor and case
Holdall
Housewife
Towel
Water bottle
Bottle of oil
150 rounds of rifle ammunition
Paybook
Toothbrush
Cardigan
Cap comforter
Knife, fork, spoon
Comb
Soap
Socks (3 pairs)
Shirt Mess tin
In addition, each man now carries an extra 180 rounds of rifle ammunition in a spare bandolier over his right shoulder and a 5-lb. Mills grenade in each tunic pocket. Many of the men carry extra canisters for the Lewis gun. Other extra burdens include Very flares, wirecutters for every tenth man, periscopes, signal lamps, wire for the telephone lines, and extra water because of the heat. The Sergeant always demands that the men show him their filled water bottles carried on the right side and the white linen bag containing an extra iron ration. My grim job is to remind the men of their field dressing sewn into the lower right flap of their tunics, and to show them how to use the iodine on the wound before wrapping it with the temporary dressing. The lads look at me—at my chalky, wasted face and cane—and they listen, believing me to be a man of more experience than I actually have.
It is no wonder, with these tons of superfluous detritus, that after each battle No Man’s Land looks like a gigantic garbage heap of bandages, torn papers, toilet paper, abandoned weapons, spent cartridges, and bits of the men who carried all this there.
Earlier today the men had their teaspoon of rum to give them courage during the long wait; now the Sergeant has gone around with the attack-ration of rum: one sixty-fourth of a gallon per man, carefully doled out in a small tin cup. The easy joking of this morning’s ration is not matched by horseplay now—the men accept their dole in silence, as if receiving Communion.
2.48—
The barrage intensifies, if such a thing is possible. Captain Brown just came by and reminded us that the officers will be leading the attack for each company. Previously, some stayed behind until all men were out of the trenches, but this time the military police will make sure that there are no laggards. The same police will follow the attack, using their bayonets on shirkers if need be.
Captain Brown patted me on the shoulder and said, “We’ll knock back a pint after all this settles, Jimmy. See you in Orchard Trench.” And then he was off to reassure the men with jokes and pats on the back.
2.56—
Numbness. I am so frightened that I am as numb as when I was shellshocked during the last attack. I only pray that my legs will carry me up the side of the trench and into the killing ground.
I will bring my cane.
2.58—
I cannot hear the barrage for the pounding of my heart. I see men’s mouths moving in shouts but hear nothing—perhaps I have gone death.{sic}
For some reason I recall a snatch of Byron—
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.14
My father’s watch says it is only 2.59 but the barrage has moved away and whistles are blowing up and down the
{Ed. note—The next several pages of James Edwin Rooke’s diary are missing and appear to have been torn out. A fragment of one page exists and has the following verse scribbled in pencil:}
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows?
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ teeth wicked? Stroke on stroke of
pain—but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
&nb
sp; And from their hair and through their hands’ palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk in hell; but who these hellish?15
{Ed. note—the journal resumes several pages later in mid-sentence with no date or time of entry}
none of this makes any sense, so will try again…thusly…
Whistles blow. I thrust my journal in my pocket, grasp my cane like a sword, and climb the ladder. The ladder. Up. For weeks, showing the smallest part of one’s head above the parapet means a sniper bullet through the brain. Death, instant, inevitable. Now they order us to climb up there. Above.
I climb. The men throng like terrified cattle thrust too many to a chute above which the slaughterhouse executioner waits. Bayonets from below make retreat down the ladder impossible once the ascent has begun. Mud on the soles of the boots of the man ahead of me—Captain Brown. He is shouting. The barrage has not ended, but is moving across No Man’s Land like a curtain.
Standing on the lip of our own trench, up in sunlight and still alive—miraculous! Energy flows through me like an electric current. Up here and alive!—I wave the men up and out with my cane. Then I turn to lead the advance…
…turn to lead the advance…
and am hit quite squarely between the eyes.
My feet fly out from under me, I feel blood fly from my shattered brow, a great weight seems to descend out of the sky to fall upon me, and I sense my body tumbling backwards, over the edge of the trench, and then down, flying blindly into my own grave with a great splintering of duckboard and splash of muck.
