The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  It didn't even flinch as the second missile passed by.

  Brookes raised the juddering barrel of his rifle towards the rodent.

  Squinting down the sight, he took aim.

  Smithy batted the rifle down, “You want to end up with Field Punishment One for wasting a bullet on a rat, Private?”

  For a moment, there was silence.

  “No, Sarge,” Brookes whispered.

  “Leave that thing. When the shells start going over, it'll be blown to kingdom come. It won't be around to bother you anymore.”

  “You saw it, Sarge. It was looking right at me. You know what they say about the rats, that they're not scared of the dead. I'm not going to get a Blighty. Fuckin’ Christ, I'm going to die here, today, aren't I?”

  Smithy cuffed him on the chin, “That's enough of that. You're going over the top with me and Wilson this morning. You don't think further ahead than that.”

  Brookes made to say something more.

  “Get back to your position!” Smithy barked.

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  Brookes braced himself alongside Wilson.

  I'm going to die today, he thought, and for what?

  Chapter Four

  The wail of the officers' whistles pierced the air.

  Seconds later, the first whines of the creeping barrage could be heard. The shells landed up ahead with a series of wet whumphs. The men squinted through the haze of dirt thrown into the air. In an uneven line, they clambered out of their craters and trenches. Bent over by the weight of their packs. Wincing at the din made by the falling shells. Half-walking, half-wading through the ruined earth. The going was good but they kept their eyes peeled all the same. Everyone watching for the tell-tale sign of movement that would betray Hun positions.

  They made it all the way into Black Wood. Their heads ached from the unending shriek, whine and bang of the barrage. Nothing else could be heard. Officers communicated with gestures of the hand and nods of the head. The claws of the wood closed around them as they moved further in. A few smiles crept across bedraggled faces. No-one dared speak it but the thought was already there, in their heads.

  The Jerries had done a bunk, but that couldn’t be right.

  No, they could not be that lucky. Could cutting down the first wave of the attack have been cover for the enemy's retreat?

  The hearts of the infantry became lighter as they marched on through Black Wood.

  Then, they came to the Menin Road.

  It bisected Black Wood. It was a supply road. Horse-drawn limbers clattering up and down it, carrying commodities and foodstuffs to the Entente's soldiers. The Germans knew the road's importance. With their bird's eye view, they were able to pound the length of the road with shells, day and night, trying to cut the life-giving artery for good. The shattered remains of limbers jutted up from the slurry of the road. Ugly wooden gravestones for the drivers and horses claimed by the swampy depths.

  The soldiers would need to cross the road to complete their mission. They would be exposed when they did so. No-one wanted to take that first step out onto open ground. They might not be alive long enough to take a second one. The officers dithered. Fingering their revolvers, anxious to lead a heroic historic charge, none too keen to be blown to bits. The creeping barrage edged further and further in front of them. If they lost the cover of the barrage, they would be completely vulnerable.

  Sergeant Smith took the first step forward. More followed him, taking one careful step after another. Looking back and forth, back and forth. Easy victories were not common out here. None of them could believe they'd gotten this far as they ventured out onto the Menin Road.

  The air behind them tore open. Cascades of bullets ripped into the rear of the company. Dripping forms were rising up from amongst the trees. Screams of surprise drowned in lungs filling with blood. Wilson felt Smithy's meaty hand thump into his back, driving him face forward, “Get your arse down, Wilson, or you'll never be able to sit down and shit again.”

  Wilson looked up, watching his comrades fall this way and that, butchered by gunfire. Smithy whacked him on the backside with his rifle butt, “Come on. We're going to get those Jerries. They've pulled a dirty trick on us and we're going to pay them back.”

  “Right behind you, sir. Let's get the cunts,” Wilson said.

  His face set, Wilson began to edge his way around until he was facing the woodland they had just traversed, where the rain of death was coming from. The attack had degenerated into a massacre in minutes.

  Fucking hell, thought Wilson.

  It was then that the German bombardment began.

  Brookes crawled along behind Smithy and Wilson. The ground erupting around him as the artillery shells of the enemy's bombardment whistled down. He flung himself to one side as a shell slammed into the ground. The force of the explosion sent him sprawling. Raising his head, Brookes saw soldiers moving quickly amongst the broken trees. All covered in sloughing layers of mud. He didn't know which side was which. Shrieks intertwined with the chatter of gunfire. Brookes hauled himself on through the shuddering sludge. Another shell wailed down, exploding with a dirty bang. Something tore in his left side. Fingering a warm wet patch with his hand, he cried out. Lightness came flooding into his skull, unwanted. He felt winded, then suffocated. He was being beaten up underwater. Sharp things were stabbing him in the heart. He wanted to roll over onto his back. Catch his breath. He couldn't do it. The weight of his pack pinned him down. His thoughts were becoming scrambled with

  …don't want to take a bullet…

  scalding white lines breaking

  …don't want no Blighty no more…

  becoming fractured everything wrong.

  He could feel his heart beating blood out through a big hole. He tried to paw some of his lost blood back in. He was rubbing handfuls of muck deep into the wound. It stung and then it burned. Hot and wet then terribly cold. The world buzzed with static, fraying at the edges.

  …where is it?...

  He had lost his rifle. They would kill him for losing his rifle. He could feel bits moving freely inside himself. Bones scraping. He tried to move. It hurt too much.

  …a little piece of death, Mr Kennington, one of my very own…

  “Get him! Take his arm!”

  Grim, crusty faces loomed over him.

  “I've lost my rifle.”

  Brookes began to cry.

  …don't kill me oh please no…

  Smithy and Wilson dragged the struggling Brookes along. The boy was soaked to the skin. Dark with mud. The patch on his left side was darker still, despite the field dressing.

  “He's not going to last, Sarge,” said Wilson.

  Wilson wanted to leave Brookes behind. The boy was done for. The war had claimed him. Made him one more amongst the millions dead. Taking him with them would slow them down. Get them both killed. It made no sense to sacrifice three lives when only one was at an end. But he could see Smithy didn't want to leave Brookes.

  The old man was being sentimental, thought Wilson.

  “We'll get him back. We'll have you fixed up, boy. Don't you worry, you're going to be alright.”

  A chorus of screams split the air.

  More gunfire made them quiet.

  “Pick him up and let's get moving.”

  *

  Brookes was moving along, rocking from side to side.

  …on a train chuffa-chuffa-chuffa-woo-woo…

  He was on the train. Going out from Victoria. Away from the Gate of Goodbye. It was taking him towards the battlefields of Belgium. His mind was brimming with excitement, lost in a hot whirl of romances. He saw himself saving beautiful raven-haired French damsels from looming, oil-stained, steam-engine dragons. The monsters spat out rattling streams of bullets, not fire. All of the real dragons had been slain a long time ago by the knights of old. Everyone knew that. So, the fiendish Boche had built new ones to terrorise the world.

  David Brookes was going to be the mightiest dragon-s
layer of them all.

  He stood his ground before the king of the dragons, the Kaiser. Wincing as its bullet-breath ricocheted off of his helmet. He charged at it, thrusting his bayonet deep into a chink in its neck-armour. The great beast let out a pained roar. Rearing back, it tore his rifle from his hands. There was a sound of iron splitting apart. The dragon Kaiser burst open, consumed in a furious ball of flame and gas. Brookes face fell. The damsels dissolved into vapour. Their faces sad and disappointed. The remaining dragons thundered towards him, spitting out steel hails of death. Their muddied mouths were leering, victorious.

  Brookes trembled. His eyes went rolling in their sockets, showing the whites. Wilson and Smithy carried him on through the rattling-chattering nightmare of Black Wood.

  Chapter Five

  Shit and corruption, thought Wilson, we're lost.

  With Brookes cradled between them, they'd had to be careful going back through Black Wood. Rifles banged and cracked all around them. Shells whined overhead intermittently. They sheltered in water-logged craters. Some of which were occupied, but not by the living. The dim outlines of dead men could be seen, bobbing just below the surface of the fetid water they drowned in.

  Wilson tried not to look at the bodies.

  “What do we do, Sarge?”

  “What d'you mean?”

  “Now. What do we do about getting back. We can't stay put. This place is a bloody death-trap. Jerries everywhere. We're going slow and it'll be getting dark soon.”

  Wilson knew bringing Brookes with them would lead to this but he had kept his own counsel. He was a Private and Smithy was his Sergeant.

  “You suggesting we leave Brookes here? Ditch him? You wouldn't be thinking that?” Smithy's voice was shaky, strained.

  His eyes threatening Wilson.

  Wilson paused, considering his next words.

  He shook his head, “No, Sarge, but we need to do something. Look at him, he's half-dead as it is. If we keep bunking down into these holes, he's likely to catch something. Get an infection.”

  Smithy cast a sideways glance at Wilson and then at Brookes. The wounded boy's face was bleached of colour. His eyes were wide and wild in their sockets. Every time he came to, he croaked, “I got a Blighty, Smithy. I got a Blighty. I'm no coward. I lost my rifle but I'm no coward. It got me in the side, not the back, see. I'm going home. I'm going home with a real Blighty, a real one.”

  It was going to take them an age to get him back, if they made it, and, by then, he could well be dead. They might be doing all of this for nothing.

  Maybe Wilson was right.

  He looked at Brookes again, thinking about what to do.

  No, he couldn't leave the boy behind. Even if he was dead by the time they got back. He would, at least, get a decent burial. He deserved that. If they left him, he would rot in the slime of the wood along with all the other poor bastards. Never to be found.

  That was no way to end your days on this ball of clay, thought Smithy.

  He got to his feet.

  “Come on, Wilson. Let's get him, and us, out of here. It'll be dark soon.”

  They crawled on. Their progress was painfully slow as they went inching towards the perimeter of Black Wood. Crouching then running and ducking down. Bullets came bang-cracking through the air every time they raised their heads. With every yard of ground they covered, they became wetter and weaker. In the pits of their stomachs, they felt a gnawing that was not hunger but fear.

  Fear that they would not get out alive.

  Then there it was, up ahead. A flicker of light through the branches. Smithy and Wilson exchanged glances. The tangled fringe of the wood was waiting for them. Beyond it, open ground. But the distance to it was exposed. If they went for it, over that last patch of ground, they could well take bullets in the back. They would end up looking like cowards, fleeing from the battle. Brookes let out a wet, chuckling wheeze. His entire body convulsing violently in their arms.

  Smithy nodded at Wilson.

  They hitched Brookes's arms over their shoulders and went for it, half-dragging, half-pulling him along, jolts of pain making him groan.

  “That's it, boy. As long as you're moaning and groaning, you're alive. You're still with us.”

  Their muscles ached. Their skulls rang from the endless gunfire. The ground sucked at their feet as they moved. Trees ripped at their bodies and faces. A crack of rifle fire sounded right behind them. Wilson's heart skipped a beat.

  He winced.

  A twinge in his back.

  Must be from humping this bloody pack and Brookes around all day, he thought.

  Then, the world became faint, washed-out. He closed his eyes against a flush of pain. He opened them. He was okay. Black Wood was falling away behind them – its claws letting them go free.

  Smithy and Wilson looked out over the battlefield. Dusk was settling over the salient. Shadows ran into one another, spreading, drowning the earth. Wilson dribbled the last trickles from his water bottle into Brookes' slack mouth. The wounded boy's jaw worked feebly, trying to catch the liquid. Most of it ran over his chin, down his chest. His breathing came in light whispers. They were still out in the field, nowhere near the support trenches. Brookes retched, spitting a stream of slimy blood.

  “What's that?” said Smithy, “Over there, Wilson! It's one of the villages, I think.”

  Wilson squinted. His eyes following the direction of Smithy's jabbing finger. He was pointing to a cluster of unevenness. The edges of it were sharp and unfriendly. Unnatural against the fading light of the horizon.

  “I think you're right. Brookes might make it through the night if we can get him under some cover.”

  Kneeling down by Brookes's shivering form, Smithy slid an arm around the boy's shoulders. He leaned in to whisper, “Come on, boy. You need to use all the strength God has left to you. Then we can get you under a roof for the night.”

  Brookes' eyes went wheeling before fixing on Smithy. The whites were the colour of spoiling eggs. The pupils dilating. Brookes nodded his head loosely. The world around him was loud and freezing cold. He wanted to leave it behind. Death was sliding bony fingers through his guts. He could taste phlegmy blood and salt in his throat. Brookes staggered to his feet. Flopping into the supporting embrace of his two comrades. Death might be with him every step but he could go a little further. One last step on your feet was better than lying down and dying.

  They set off towards the shapes in the mist.

  Chapter Six

  Twilight came down as a depressing reverse of the day's dawn. Light grey faded to dark grey and then to blackness. The shapes in the mist were the ruins of a church. It had no roof. The empty carcass was all that was left of it. Rubble was scattered everywhere. The walls were holed from countless bombardments. Looking up at it, Wilson frowned. He'd never seen or heard of it before.

  Smithy kicked at a lump of fallen masonry.

  “These walls won't protect us any more than the trees in the wood,” Smithy said, “One good bang and this'll all be down on top of us.”

  “Yeah well, we can't go any further tonight, Sarge. Brookes is knackered and so am I. We'll have to doss down here and hope a stretcher party'll find us.”

  “Brookes won't make it through the night, if we stay here. This place is too exposed,” there was that strain in Smithy's voice again.

  It set Wilson's nerves on edge. Was the old man cracking up? About to get the horrors? That was the last thing they needed.

  “Maybe he will die, maybe he won't. There's nothing you or I can do to change that now, is there? “

  Smithy eyed Wilson, not wanting to believe him. The Private was right. They would have to stay here tonight. Breathing out hard, Smithy slumped down to the ground. Gravel and crumbling stone gave it some substance, stopping them from sinking down into the mire of no man's land. Smithy looked over at Brookes. The boy looked dead already. Smithy could see him breathing though. His weak breaths were scarcely noticeable but they were there.
You could easily tell the living from the dead, once you saw enough of the latter.

  *

  Wilson looked around their roofless shelter. He didn't remember seeing it marked out when they were doing the dummy battles behind the lines at all. The officers had been very careful about the details, even using scale models, not wanting to leave anything out. Clumps of foliage were the trees. Lengths of wood were the trenches. Little stacks of brick were the buildings. Wilson remembered wondering if they all had toy train sets at home. Neatly laid out in the attics of their country mansions, with mocked-up villages, bridges and rivers. This church had not been mentioned once. That bothered him. It nagged away at the back of his skull.

  …scratching…

  It was odd, considering how much of it was still standing. There were mills and villages out here that had been knocked flat. They were still marked out for the dummy battles. But not this place. Wilson shook his head. This was shelter. That was what was important. Brookes was dying. He was better off doing it here than being blown sky high as they struggled across no man's land. Wilson stood up to stretch, aching lines of fire were racing through his shoulders and down through his back from all the walking and carrying done today.

  A machine gun sang out.

  Wilson threw himself down. Bullets rattled off stone. He rolled over, watching the light of a flare catch, briefly, on the crimson wings of an aeroplane swooping overhead.

  Some bloody shelter, he thought.

  The three lost soldiers shuddered as they huddled together for the night. Brookes tugged at his field dressing, pressing it tight against the wound in his side. A moment of unconsciousness swept through him. Smithy elected himself to be on night watch. Wilson didn't argue. He settled down to sleep. He began to dream.

  *

  Fire everywhere. Leaping through the air, weeping flaming droplets as it sprayed over men. There was nothing they could fight it with. Bullets and bayonets were no match for fire. No-one knew what to do. They were at the furthest tip of the salient.