by M J Lee
'Where's the rest of the men?'
'Back there, sir.' The sergeant pointed backwards to No Man's Land.
Another shell exploded above them, showering red hot metal down onto their heads.
'We can't stay here, sir.'
Machine gun bullets splattered the grass around them, throwing up little spurts of Flanders into the air as they buried themselves into the soil.
'The third wave?'
'Dunno, sir.'
Captain Russell popped his head over the edge of the shell hole and looked back towards their trench. The ground behind him was empty save for a scattering of bodies, stretched out on the ground as if they were enjoying a sunny day in the park.
He checked his watch. 'They should be behind us.'
The sergeant popped his head up. 'Nothing, sir.'
'We can't stay here. Have to go forward, Sergeant.'
'Yes, sir.' He roused the three men with a kick of his boot. 'You heard the officer.'
Captain Russell grabbed his rifle and pushed off with his leg against the muddy bottom. He felt a pain shoot up through his hip and he collapsed against the dirt.
The sergeant scrambled out of the shell hole with the men, standing upright for a second before collapsing backwards, a bullet in his face.
David stared at his sergeant, blood and bone lay splattered where a nose had once been. It was the face of a man who wouldn’t smile. Or joke. Or laugh. Or frown, any more.
Where were the others?
He scrambled up out of the shell hole, ignoring the pain in his leg. The three men who had been with him lay face down on the ground in front of the wire.
He staggered forward.
There were other men in front of him. Men he vaguely recognised, firing at the Germans.
A sharp blow to the side of his head, throwing him forwards. The earth rose up to meet him, wrapping him in its musty arms.
The darkness.
Blessed darkness.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Mark let the letter slip from his hands and fall back into the case.
Nobody said a word until old Mr Russell finally sighed, 'Look at the envelope.'
Mark sorted through the sheets of paper in the case and found the envelope. The same hand had written Rose's address on the cover, but this envelope was more creased and dirty than the others with a large brown stain in the corner.
'Turn it over,' said Mark's father.
Mark looked at the reverse side. 'There's something written there. It's faint and faded.' He held the envelope up to the light. 'I think it's German.'
'Give it to me,' said Jayne.
As if from memory, Mark's father raised his head and spoke. 'It says 'Gefunden auf einem Britischen Offizier. Feldlazarett 27.' I had it translated by a German friend. It simply means 'Found on a British Officer at Feldlazarett 27.' Look at the stamp and the postmark.'
Mark turned the envelope back to the front. The stamp on the cover was German. A light blue stamp with a Teutonic woman looking to the left. In the top corner, a large ‘20’ appeared, but printed across the bottom were the words '25 cents'. Beneath the image, 'Deutsche Reich' was etched in bold capitals. The postmark was in the same Teutonic typeface; 'Le Cateau. 11 July'.
'But that's ten days after he was supposed to have died. How could a dead man post a letter?'
Chapter Fifty-Five
Behind the German lines, the Somme. July 1, 1916.
David awoke. Above him the sky was a deep blue with clouds racing across it, chasing each other like lambs in a field. He was aware of an ache on the side of his head as if his helmet were on too tight and pressing down on the top of his ear. He tried to move his hand to adjust the helmet but his hand wouldn't move. He tried again but still the hand stayed where it was, the pain in his head increasing. Was he tied down?
A jolt beneath him lifted his body up in the air and dropped it down again. He was still staring up at the sky.
'Lie still there, old chap, not long now.'
Something blocked the light. A black shadow of a man, sharply rounded head showing he was still wearing his tin helmet. He tried to lift his shoulders up towards the man.
A hand pushed him down again, forcing him into the wood.
'Lie still, old man. We don't want Jerry to get excited, do we?'
The light changed behind the man's face. A cloud crossed the sun. The sky was white, too bright. He closed his eyes. The pain in his head, someone was inside his hat, pounding away with a shovel. He wanted to shout take the man out of my head, take him out. But he couldn't. He opened his eyes. Too bright. Too much light. Close them again. Keep them shut. Make the pain go away. Please make the pain go away.
The light was blocked again as the man with the tin hat leant forward to speak to him. ‘You’re behind their lines. The Germans found you wandering through their second trench, it's a wonder they didn't kill you.'
David tried to lift himself up again, but the hand pushed him down.
'Lie still, old chap. You've been hit. I'm taking you to a German casualty station. They'll look after you.'
David's body melted into the hard wood beneath him. The pain surged through his head again.
Make it stop. Make the pain stop.
Rose flashed through his mind; her smile just touching the edge of her lips. The softness of her mouth against his. The taste of her breath.
Make the pain go away. Please make the pain go away. His head felt like it was going to explode. A shell going off in his forehead.
Bang.
He passed out.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Behind the German lines, Feldlazarett 27. July 2, 1916.
Hauptmann Redel scanned the men lying in the bunks from the entrance to the hut. There were 12 soldiers waiting for an operation. He had neither the time nor the resources to save all of them. Once again, he faced a decision he hated; which of these men would he try to save, condemning the rest to die in the warm embrace of Mother Morphine.
For him, there was just one simple criterion; who had the best chance of survival.
Unlike most doctors, he didn't care if the patient lying in the bed wore khaki or field grey. If a man wasn't going to survive, there was no point in operating on him.
His corporal had already performed a preliminary triage, placing the most hopeless cases closest to the door so they would be easier to remove once they died.
He glanced across at the four bunks on his right. All except one were still and unmoving, their chests rising slightly as they clung onto life. The one in the corner was moaning, 'Mutti, Mutti,' in a thick Bavarian accent. Hauptmann Redel leant over his bunk and saw the white matter of the brain exposed through a broken and bloody skull.
The man would not live much longer. Hauptmann Redel wished he would at least go quietly. He gestured to his corporal to give the man more morphine. At least then, he might dream himself into the warmth of his mother's arms.
The Hauptmann closed his eyes. Two years of this. Two years of deciding who would live and who would die. How long could he continue?
He looked across at the next two bunks in the row. One was occupied by an English soldier. His corporal lifted the bloodstained blanket to reveal a smashed leg, the tibia hanging on, attached by a thick strand of skin. He could amputate but, looking at the man's face, he wouldn't survive the shock of the operation.
Redel reached into the man's top right pocket and took out his paybook. He opened it and saw the man's name and rank. Private Edward Hughes, a private in the Inniskilling Fusiliers. An Ulsterman it seemed. Well, this one certainly wouldn't be fighting for the unity of that woebegone country any more. He passed the paybook back to the corporal who added it to the pile in the box.
It had been Redel's concession to humanity, his one attempt to bring some common decency to this war. He collected the paybooks of the enlisted men and the notebooks of the officers, separating them into those who lived and those wh
o died. When the fighting died down, he would send the documents back with one of the walking wounded. At least then the relatives and sweethearts would know what happened to their loved ones.
Redel recognised the futility of his action in the middle of a war where thousands were buried beneath the chalk of Flanders. Or blown to smithereens by a mine. Or mown down with the industrial efficiency of a machine gun. But he did it anyway. Twice he had been reprimanded by his commanding officers. He carried on regardless.
He would not become less human even though he was surrounded by endless hours of inhumanity. A futile gesture, but one he insisted on carrying out.
The corporal touched his arm. Looking down at the wounded man's leg, Redel shook his head and the corporal threw the blanket over the body. The man moaned in response, a deep, dark moan from the bottom of some vast pit of pain.
'More morphine,' Redel instructed his corporal.
The German in the bed next to him was in slightly better shape; at least his eyes were open as he watched the doctor check his hand. A few mumbled words made little sense.
Redel ordered the corporal to prepare the man for amputation. At least it was the left arm, so the man wouldn't have to learn to write again. Unless, of course, he was left-handed.
Redel moved on to the next bed. An English officer, shivering despite the warmth of the Feldlazarett.
'Nicht bewegung,' he said gently, 'don't move.'
Redel pulled the blanket up over the man's shoulders, examining his face at the same time. A shell had blown off most of the left ear, exposing the skull beneath. The face and left eye had been pockmarked by shrapnel. He would never see again out of that particular eye.
The corporal drew his attention to another wound on the leg. Here, the man was lucky, the bullet had gone straight through the flesh without touching an artery.
But the face? The man had once been handsome, but now only extensive plastic surgery could return him to something similar to a human being.
He would have to remove the shrapnel piece by piece. There was no certainty the man would survive the operation. His persistent shivering meant shock had already set in.
Hauptmann Redel opened the top right flap of his uniform, removing the notebook, giving it to his corporal. He shook his head and ordered more morphine for this officer.
He stood up, ready to move onto the next bed. As he did, the officer grabbed him by the wrist and said, 'Rose? I miss you, Rose.'
Redel removed the hand and placed it back on the bunk. 'You are in a German Feldlazarett. You have been wounded. Just lie here and do not move. The corporal will give you something to ease the pain.'
The man grabbed his arm again. 'Tell Rose I love her.'
The man was obviously feverish, dreaming of some woman back in England he had once loved.
Hauptmann Redel tried to release the grip on his arm, but the man held on tight. The officer was gabbling now, the words making no sense. Redel tried to remove the man's arm, but still he clung on. He nodded at the corporal, who ran to get more morphine.
Redel sat down on the bunk next to the man, waiting for the corporal to return. The officer seemed to relax a little, becoming less agitated and reaching with his right arm into the inside pocket of his jacket.
In his hand he held a cheap brown envelope, obviously issued by the British Army.
The officer's hand was shaking as he passed the envelope over to the Hauptmann. On it was an address;
Rose Clarke,
Ward 5,
Wibbersley Hospital,
Flixton,
Manchester.
Was this the man's wife? From his time in England, Redel didn't recognise the name of the hospital, but he knew Manchester well enough; a grimy northern town where soot and smoke and dirt filled the air.
Was the man's wife a nurse?
The corporal came back with a syrette of morphine, ready to inject the man.
Redel stopped him. 'I've changed my mind, prepare this man for operation.'
'But Hauptmann, his injuries…?'
'You have your orders, Corporal'
The officer watched as Redel placed the letter in his pocket. 'Tell Rose, I love her,' he mumbled again, before his head fell backwards onto the blood-soaked pillow.
The man would probably not survive the operation, but Redel would try. Perhaps this woman would keep him alive.
Even in the midst of war, there has to be hope. We all need hope.
'Let's move on, Corporal, we have a lot of men to see today.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And make sure those documents are returned to the British.'
'Yes, sir.'
Redel recognised the reluctance in the corporal's voice. It was a waste of time, but the corporal would do as he had been instructed.
Another shell landed in the field next to the hospital, rattling the sides of the Feldlazarett.
'It seems the British would prefer us not to save their men.'
'I hoped they would stop shelling us, sir. We have the Red Cross on the roof.'
As he waited for the next shell to explode, Redel had just one hope; the killing would stop soon.
He had seen enough death.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Behind the German lines, Feldlazarett 27. July 3, 1916.
When he awoke, there were voices in his head but he couldn't understand what they were saying. The sounds were sharp and guttural and long, as if they would never end. He was lifted up and dumped on a low bench. The light was gone, a browner, softer glow now.
A hand patting his arm. 'They'll look after you. I have to go now, old chap. Boche are taking me away. Look after yourself.'
The voice faded away. Did he know him? Where was he? What was he doing here?
The khaki was rough beneath his fingers, covered in mud and dirt and still damp from the blood. He felt his fingers slide along his leg. He could move. He could feel.
His hand lifted as if by magic and he saw it and the five fingers wriggling in the brown light. They were caressing the light, stroking it to make it brighter.
A harsh voice. 'Nicht bewegen.' Another hand came in and forced his down to his side. 'Nicht bewegen,' the harsh voice repeated. 'Listen, English, you in Feldlazarett, you understand. Doctor see you soon. Don't move.' The voice was German. Why was the voice German?
And then he remembered what he had been told in his dream. Was he really behind German lines?
David listened to the sounds around him. A harsh cough. A groan on his left. Farther away, the soft crump of shells exploding. Closer, somebody whispering words beneath his breath. David strained to hear. 'Mutti, Mutti, Mutti,' over and over again.
A figure standing in front of him, black against the soft light. Was it Rose? He grabbed her hand.
'You are in a German Feldlazeratt.' A voice, a cultured voice. 'You have been wounded.'
Hands moving towards his head. A sharp pain lancing into his eye. A breath of cold wind over his head. Why was his head so cold? Another stab of pain. Why was the man hurting him? He tried to scream but no sounds came from his mouth.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
Stop the pain.
The man sat up again, his face shadowed in the light. David could see the uniform, bluish grey, not English, not Khaki.
Another stab of pain through his eye.
'You have been shot through the head, Captain. We will operate soon. The Feldwebel will collect your belongings. Your notebook will be sent back when we exchange prisoners.'
A shell landed nearby, rattling the roof. David could see motes of dust floating in the air, trapped in the glare of a beam of light.
The cultured voice continued, 'I do wish you British would not shell a hospital. It is against the rules of war. In the meantime, lie still, until we are ready to remove the fragments from your head.'
David felt a pair of hands come in and search the inside of his jacket. Don't take my notebook. Take the letter. Send it to Rose.
'Nicht
bewegen.' The harsh voice again.
And then he was alone, with only the groans and the moans and the man on the stretcher next to him muttering 'Mutti, Mutti, Mutti,’ over and over again.
A plane flew over. At least, he thought it was a plane. The sound was a single engine, the pitch of the motor rising and falling, followed by the soft crump of artillery shells landing in the distance.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was dark. The man on the stretcher next to him was silent now. No more muttered words. On the other side, somebody was moaning with pain, a constant drone-like sound.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
David wanted to shout out, order the man to be quiet, but his mouth was dry, the tongue swollen and solid, sticking to the roof of his mouth. Water, please give me water.
Another man was crying in the far corner like the sobs of a child who has lost his favourite toy.
Shut up. Shut up.
And there was Rose, floating between the beds, offering cups of water to the injured. His father was standing next to her. Why was his father standing next to her? Was he helping Rose?
The sobs of the man grew louder and more plaintive.
Stop crying, stop crying.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Rose was gone and his father was no longer there.
The pain stabbed between his eyes and he felt cold. So cold. Why is it so cold? Give me a blanket. Cover me over. I have to stay warm for Rose and the baby. I have to see her again. Hold her in my arms. Feel the weight of her body against mine.
And then the smell of her hair wafted across him.
She was here.
It was her smell, the fresh just-washed smell of her blonde hair. He loved the aroma. Like a morning in early spring when all was well with the world, the birds were singing and life was pushing its way through the cruel soil.
He inhaled again. But the smell of her hair was gone.