This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  Behind him, Guy hears the sound of someone scrambling into the trench. Guy quickly turns around ready to shoot. It’s Robert. ‘Didn’t you hear the whistle?’ shouts Robert. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Robert pulls himself up the trench wall and lies flat on the parapet. He offers his hand to Guy and helps pull him out of the German trench. Guy looks around; the men are making their way back. He follows suit, casting his eyes each way, every sense straining to warn him of potential danger. Together they walk back, too exhausted to run. Around them, the British machine gunners continue to provide covering fire. He’s half way back across the interminable stretch of no-man’s-land, the British trench just one hundred and fifty or so yards ahead. Like an oasis looming in the distance, sanctuary and safety beckons. He’s almost there; he’s laughing, the next batch of conkers will be the best yet.

  But then a searing pain explodes in the back of his leg. He falls onto his haunches; his mind shuts down, rendered useless with pain. His eyes glaze over. He wants to lift himself up, but his body is sapped of energy. Something tells him to lie flat. He allows himself to succumb and falls limply into a shallow indentation in the ground. The slight crater is full of rank, slimy water. Guy’s face is briefly submerged in it; he takes in a mouthful of the vile liquid and spits it out. The pain pounds. He can’t move. He remembers the corpse who waited for the rescue that never came. The fear that had been driven away by the adrenaline returns in abundance. He clutches his leg. Sticky, warm blood pours out between his fingers and mingles into the dark, filthy water. He sinks slowly into the mud, the water swilling around him. He knows he could drown in this. But like a drunkard his head is swimming, he doesn’t care any more. Suddenly the prospect of death seems almost inviting. It beckons him like a temptress, enticing him, luring him with promises of silence, of freedom from the pain and fear. And sure enough, as if answering his prayer, everything goes quiet, the pain is no more, the fear is snuffed out. There is nothing left but silence.

  An eternal silence.

  Chapter 10: The Strand

  Sometimes being a spectator can be more stressful than taking part, like a parent watching a child competing in a football match. For the competitor, the physical exertion takes away the nerves, the stress and the fear. But the partisan onlooker is encumbered with anxiety for the duration of the ordeal. They mirror every action, kick every ball, jump every jump, urging the ball forward as if they could influence its direction by the intensity of their mental energy. Every miss-kick is a personal embarrassment, every goal a reflected triumph. And so it was for Jack, in the Strand trench, watching from the sidelines. He managed to get hold of a periscope and, through it, watched the progress of the raid. He tried to keep Guy in view. He saw him advance and he saw him throw himself onto the ground, but that was it. After that it was too difficult to see anything, smoke and confusion clouded his view. The noise was intense. The individuals that went out had already merged into a homogeneous mass. Some had already fallen, but Jack had no way of knowing whether Guy was one of them. He did see some of the men disappear into the German trench but it was too far away to make any sense of what was happening. He gave up on the periscope and stamped up and down the trench. Someone spoke to him, but he was too self-absorbed to notice. He lit a cigarette and immediately threw it away. He felt useless by his inability to help, disabled by his lack of knowledge. The minutes ticked by. Fifteen minutes they’d said, surely time was up. He lit another cigarette and had taken a few puffs when he heard someone say the whistle had blown. Full time. He wanted to look through the periscope again, but a chap called Gregory had taken his place. The noise was as intense as ever. He could no longer tell what was coming from where.

  The first couple of men from the raiding party returned, scrambling back into the safety of the Strand, their faces, beneath the coatings of mud and camouflage, a mixture of exhilaration, exhaustion and relief. Others soon followed; each of them helped down by their comrades. More arrived including Lieutenant Lafferty, but Guy wasn’t amongst them. Jack’s anxiety reached a state of panic as he searched the faces. Where was he? The next batch brought in a couple of captured Germans, pushed into the arms of British soldiers pointing their menacing rifles at them. How strange it was to be in such close contact with the enemy, their alien uniforms incongruous in the British trench. The trench was a mass of activity. The lieutenant ordered his returning men to report to The Savoy. Gregory, still with the periscope, reported: ‘Only a few more now.’ Jack’s heartbeat quickened. Three more slid into safety, but still no Guy, but one of them was Robert. Jack pushed his way towards him.

  ‘Robert! Robert, have you seen Guy?’

  Robert’s voice was breathless. ‘He got hit; he’s out there. He’s close, about a hundred yards, I couldn’t stop.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Robert pushed Gregory off the periscope. He scanned the terrain he’d just escaped from. ‘There!’ he said. He passed the periscope to Jack. ‘Look. Can you see him?’

  At first, Jack could not. But there, a slim view of a crumpled figure caught his eye. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The lieutenant interrupted. ‘Well done, Chadwick. Debrief at the Savoy please.’

  Robert saluted. ‘Sir.’ As he turned to leave, he said to Jack, ‘Look, old man, if he’s alive, the stretcher-bearers will pick him up. I’ll see you later.’ Jack nodded and watched as Robert disappeared down the trench.

  Sure enough, the stretcher-bearers had arrived, each with an armband bearing the letters SB. But there were only four of them. Jack watched as they climbed out of the trench armed with the two stretchers between them and paired off into no-man’s-land to try and bring in some of the wounded. The guns fell silent; for once, the stretcher-bearers were allowed to work relatively undisturbed. And with the silence, Jack could hear the sound of the wounded men crying and pleading, trying to attract the attention of the stretcher-bearers. It was a pitiful sound, for the chances of rescue were slim; for what could two stretchers do, but carry in a fraction? Robert’s assertion that Guy would be picked up had been optimistic; it was too much of a lottery. Jack held onto the periscope and watched the stretcher-bearers at work. He saw them move towards Guy, but stop to investigate another casualty. But they left him where he lay. He was either already dead or too much of a lost cause to be worth the effort. Then they moved away from Guy, further out to Jack’s right. As far as Jack could see, Guy had made no attempt to wave an arm or try and attract their attention. He was dead, Jack knew it.

  The fading light ended all further rescue attempts. The stretcher-bearers carried their wounded back along the lines to the first port of treatment, the Regimental Aid Post. With the night came the nocturnal routine of work. Tonight Jack had been detailed to trench maintenance, which meant filling sandbags and repairing damaged trench walls. He had an hour before work commenced. There were rumours that thunder had been forecast for the night. Jack shivered at the thought; how he hated thunderstorms. It was then he heard him. He wasn’t sure at first and almost ignored it. But then he heard it again. He strained to catch, if not the words, then at least the sound of the voice. It was difficult to tell, for it wasn’t an ordinary voice, but the pleading desperation of a wounded, frightened man. Even the slightest of wounds could prove fatal if the wretched soul was left unattended, exposed to the elements and without water for hours, if not days, on end. But yes, he still couldn’t make out the words, but that was Guy. He was alive, perhaps only just, but he was still there, still hanging on! Jack’s immediate relief was soon tempered by the thought Guy needed rescuing. He didn’t know what to do. If he approached an officer or a NCO, he’d be told to leave him be, even if it meant death. They’d say no point risking two casualties for the sake of one. But this wasn’t just a casualty – this was his brother. The older brother who’d always looked out for him, the brother strong enough to take the blame, the brother who beat up Albert Carr. He had to do something and he was prepared to die in the effor
t, for he knew that death was preferable to doing nothing. How could he face his parents if he knew that he’d listened to Guy die just yards away and had done nothing?

  He had the advantage of the dark and he had almost an hour before Sergeant Wilkins would be harassing them into work. He saw Gregory and asked him to help pull Guy in. Gregory pulled nervously on a button; he was too concerned about breaking orders, operating without permission. Jack understood. He too would have been reluctant. He realised this would have to be a solo effort and he felt almost relieved – he wanted to go alone. This was a Searight saga, why involve anyone else? His moment had come. This is what would redefine him for evermore in the eyes of those who knew him, especially his father. Jack, the little brother; Jack teased and bullied at school; little Jack who needed his older brother’s protection. Whether he died in the attempt or not, all that was about to change.

  *

  It began raining. The stars were invisible. Jack managed to commandeer a flask in which he poured some water. Together with a bottle of rum and some biscuits, he stuffed it all into his tunic pocket. He removed his tin helmet, fearing the noise it would make if he dropped it and put on instead a woollen hat. He smudged burnt cork over his face and hands and lastly pulled on a pair of socks with the toes cut off, over his knees. Hoping he had everything he needed, Jack was ready to leave when he heard a voice call out his name.

  ‘Oi, Searight, where d’you think you’re going, man?’ It was Sergeant Wilkins walking along beside Lieutenant Lafferty. How small but how wide the sergeant seemed in comparison to the tall, thin lieutenant. Both men wore greaseproof capes against the rain.

  Jack decided he had no option but to tell the truth. ‘I’ve gotta go, Sarge, my brother’s dying out there.’

  ‘What, and have two Searights killed instead of one. Leave him, if he’s still alive, the stretcher-bearers will pick him up in the morning.’

  ‘And is that what you’d do if it was your brother out there?’

  ‘Why, you little... how dare you –’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ the lieutenant interrupted. ‘I think young Searight has a point.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Do you know where your brother is, Private?’

  ‘Yes, sir; he’s about a hundred yards out.’

  The lieutenant pondered Jack’s answer. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you won’t be able to pull him in by yourself, especially in this rain.’ He hit upon an idea. ‘Sergeant, you’ve been out on a number of night patrols, perhaps you’d be good enough to go out with Searight here, and give him the benefit of your experience.’

  Wilkins glared disbelievingly at the lieutenant.

  ‘Well, Sergeant, what are you waiting for?’

  Wilkins tried to object. ‘But he’s probably dead already, sir.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Jack. ‘I heard him – just a few minutes ago.’

  ‘There you are, Sergeant, you shouldn’t have too many problems; you’ll be too far away for Jerry to bother you. Come on then, get on with it.’

  Jack was delighted, he’d got one over on the sergeant, and it was worth it just to see the look on his little squat face. Five minutes later, the sergeant was ready and the password for re-entry into the trench agreed – cuckoo. The lieutenant nodded his approval and wished them both luck. Sergeant Wilkins placed a ladder against the trench wall and Jack climbed up, the sergeant behind him. The two men crawled beneath the wire entanglements and out into the dark expanse of terrain between the enemy lines and theirs. The cold night air was silent except for the soft patter of rain. In a reversal of roles, Jack led the way. They crept forward on their bellies over the sodden mud until they found a small crater to roll into. Jack could sense the sergeant’s silent rage at being shown-up by Lieutenant Lafferty in front of him. But he didn’t care, it wasn’t his problem; all he wanted to do was to find his brother. It all seemed so dark out there. He blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness.

  The sergeant nudged him. ‘I’ll fuckin’ get you for this,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s up, Sarge, lost your nerve?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about my nerve, Searight,’ he said, carelessly raising his voice. He checked himself, inched closer to Jack and spoke again in a whisper. ‘But if you ever speak to me in front of an officer like that again, I swear I’ll crush you, you understand, I’ll bloody crush you.’ Something moved near them; there was a German lying just a few yards away. Jack steadied his rifle, his eyes, his ears acutely alert. He peered down the barrel. Perhaps it was just the breeze or perhaps the German was still alive. Then, with a sudden dash, two huge rats scuttled out from beneath the corpse and disappeared into the rainy darkness.

  But where was Guy? His voice had fallen silent. Jack had an idea of where his brother was, but he knew how easy it was to lose oneself out here. He had heard the stories of men who’d become so confused, they’d walked straight into the German lines, thinking it was theirs. He tried to call out Guy’s name, as loud as he dared, but little more than a whisper. No response. The sergeant hit him in the arm. ‘Keep your bloody voice down, you fool.’

  They inched ahead, moving slowly over the mud, crawling imperceptibly forward. The smell of death accompanied them; the very earth seemed infected with the putrid, rank stench of human decay. With their nerves taut and senses strained, every hint of sound took on a sinister edge, every object a menacing shape. In the darkness, inanimate objects seemed to come to life: a rusted revolver, a discarded helmet, a loose strand of barbed wire. Jack paused and whispered Guy’s name again. Still no reply. He began to fear he’d gone too far forward or too far to the left. He crawled towards the right, keeping parallel to the trench. His hand felt something. He recoiled at the cold, soft touch. It was a blackened hand, the wrist still clad in khaki, a ring on the smallest finger. Wilkins saw it too. ‘I’ll ’ave that,’ he said picking up the hand and pulling off the golden band. With the ring safely tucked away in his tunic pocket, he threw the hand away.

  ‘That could’ve come in handy, Sarge.’

  ‘Was that meant to be a joke, Searight?’

  For a moment, Jack thought he heard a groan. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to call back, for what if it wasn’t Guy? He couldn’t face the prospect of purposely leaving a man out here to die. He moved forward another few inches. Another groan, but too indistinguishable to be sure. He whispered hoarsely, ‘Guy?’ Silence. Should he call again? But then came the uncertain, frail reply.

  ‘Jack? Jack, is that... you?’

  Jack’s heartbeat quickened. ‘Hold on, man.’ He crawled quickly forward, almost unable to contain the excitement of finding his brother. A few more yards and he was there. His brother’s face, almost unrecognisable under the dried mud, smiled at him. Jack clasped his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Guy?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just my leg, looks worse than it is.’ Jack peered down, but it was too dark to see anything.

  Wilkins caught up, grimacing with every movement. ‘Can he move?’

  Guy replied. ‘Just, but it’s bloody agony,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve lost a lot of blood. I put a dressing on, but it didn’t stick ’cause I couldn’t move my leg out of the water. I passed out for a while.’

  They heard the dreaded, familiar hissing sound as a Very light went up, illuminating no-man’s-land in a blaze of multicoloured light. ‘Keep still,’ whispered the sergeant as the three men lay motionless, feigning death. Beneath the whirling light, Jack saw a man lying nearby. At first, he assumed the soldier was dead, but he caught the agonised eyes blinking, staring at him through the drizzle. The man was still alive, but those tortured eyes knew he was beyond help; it was only a matter of time. The flare faded away and extinguished, and the dying man disappeared into the returning darkness.

  ‘Here, let me pull you out a bit.’ Jack moved himself around, put his hands under Guy’s armpits, and pulled. He saw Guy flinch and bite his fist with the pain. Jack got to work quickly. He gave Guy the water, which his brother gulped down, and a couple of bis
cuits, followed by a tot of rum. While Guy consumed Jack’s emergency rations, Wilkins undid the pouch on the inside of his tunic and produced a bandage, field dressing and a bottle of iodine. He swabbed the wound with Lysol, then applied a gauze dipped in iodine. He then quickly applied the dressing and bandage.

  ‘Right,’ said Wilkins, ‘he can’t crawl, he can’t walk, we’re going to have to carry him. With any luck the Bosch won’t want to risk a full blown scrap just to pluck us off.’

  Guy tried to intervene. ‘But –’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Jack, ‘but what choice do we have. It’s only what, less than a hundred yards.’ He nodded to Wilkins. ‘Right, you ready? Let’s go.’ Jack knelt and helped steady his brother as Guy heaved himself up. Bracing himself between Jack and the sergeant, Guy stood up.

  The walk back was long and hard. Despite the wet and the dark, Jack knew they were horribly vulnerable standing bolt upright in no-man’s-land. Every step he feared would be his final stride, every breath his last. Guy’s leg dragged; he felt so damn heavy. They were almost there, only a few yards to go. Jack called out, ‘Cuckoo.’ He could see men from his section waiting to bring them in. Their arms reached up, someone half climbed out and helped pull Guy in. Jack breathed heavily, thankful to have been relieved of Guy’s full weight pressing down on him. His knees trembled as he slid down the trench wall. Sergeant Wilkins slithered in after him. They sat on the fire-step, breathing furiously, trying to catch their breaths, while Guy was carried off to the nearest Aid-Post. Jack laughed; he’d done it! He’d stepped into the jaws of the sleeping lion and had returned unscathed. Perhaps he’d done it more for himself than Guy and for a few moments, his exhaustion was forgotten in the exhilaration of what he had done.