by Sarah Webb
Charley had enlisted the very next day, determined to find his brother. And Mick had come with him, saying he was going that way anyhow.
Of course, they’d known next to nothing about the army, and how it worked. Charley was never given a chance to search for his brother, and was shipped straight to France after training. He shook his head at the memory, and tried to scrape more of the drying clay from his hands and arms.
Mick ducked his head as he came in through the timber-framed entrance of the dug-out. It was little more than a large hole in the ground, big enough to hold three or four men if they squeezed in. The walls and roof were shored up with planks of wood and bags of clay, just like the walls of the trenches themselves.
“Here you go,” Mick said. “You got chocolate. I gave the lads theirs.”
Charley scowled and rolled his eyes. They always showed each other what they got in their parcels from home, but Mick tended to open Charley’s post as if it were his own. Which was annoying, to say the least. And whenever anyone in the trench got chocolate, they shared it round. It was just what everyone did.
“That was nice of you,” Charley said grimly, “but I’d prefer to open my own post if you don’t mind.”
“How could you? You’re covered in muck!”
“It’s still my post. I hope you left me a decent piece of the chocolate!”
“Of course I did – you got the biggest bit!”
Mick held up the remains of the packet of Cadbury’s chocolate. There was a letter with it. Charley frowned, not recognising the handwriting. The envelope had been opened too.
“Mick!”
“I didn’t do that – it was open already. Your mother sent it in a parcel with the chocolate.”
“Is that all there was?”
“Yeah, it’s odd, isn’t it? She normally puts in more stuff than that. Are you going to read the letter?”
“My hands are filthy. Stick it in with my first-aid kit – that pocket’s still dry. I’ll read it later. On my own.”
“All right, don’t be so touchy. Are you going to eat your chocolate now?”
“No, I’ll keep that till later too. To have with my letter.”
A letter from home was a precious thing. Charley wanted to wait until he could read it in comfort … and in some peace and quiet. A letter and some chocolate was an experience to be savoured.
“What ‘later’, you eejit?” Mick asked in exasperation, putting the chocolate down on the wooden crate that served as a table in the dug-out. “We all ate ours right up! We go over the top in a few hours. There might not be a later.”
“That’s a fine way to talk. I’m not about to— Mick! MICK! Watch out!”
As Mick was placing the letter in the inside pocket of Charley’s jacket, a rat the size of a small cat jumped up on to the crate and grabbed the crumpled packet of chocolate. With a cry of horror, Charley lunged up from his seat, but the rat was already bolting out through the doorway. Mick swore loudly and scrambled out after it.
Still dressed in nothing but his long-johns underwear, Charley threw off the blanket, shoved his bare feet into his squelchy boots, and rushed out into the horrible, biting cold. The rat was making off along the trench with Mick sprinting after it, yelling at the men ahead to stop it. A chorus of shouts rose up as the alarm was raised.
“The rat, stop the rat!”
“What’s going on?”
“That rat’s got Charley’s chocolate!”
“The little maggot! Look! There it goes!”
“Kill it! Somebody shoot the bleedin’ thing!”
They all gave chase, swearing and cheering. The rat scampered over the mud while the soldiers stamped and slid around it. Planks had been used to cross the bigger, ice-encrusted puddles, but it was still hard work running through the mire that carpeted the trench. And the light fall of snow had been reduced to slush underfoot. There were few lights too, which made things even more difficult.
The men charged about, desperately trying to stop the rat, but it evaded them all. Charley whimpered in despair as the creature scampered up the stack of clay bags that supported a section of the eight-foot-high wall. It raced out through the barbed wire and disappeared into the darkness of no-man’s-land between the British trench and the German positions.
No one followed it out there. Not for a bit of chocolate. Not a chance.
“Sorry, Charley,” Mick said. “I’m really sorry. Sure you wouldn’t have wanted it anyway, would you? After it had been in the rat’s mouth?”
The lads turned and headed back to their dug-outs, some of them patting Charley’s back or squeezing his arm in sympathy. Mick pulled off his jacket and threw it over Charley’s shivering shoulders.
“Come on, mate,” he said. “You’ll catch your death coming out dressed like that. Let’s get you warm.”
“Ah, Mick,” Charley moaned, as he allowed his friend to lead him back down the trench. “My chocolate, Mick! The little devil stole my chocolate!”
“I know, mate. It was my fault.”
“You’re too right it was! If we make it through tomorrow, you’ll owe me some bloomin’ chocolate, Mick!”
“I know it. I’m so sorry, Charley.”
As he stood listening to the distant booms and thuds of their artillery shelling the German lines, Charley shifted his shoulders uncomfortably in his damp woollen tunic. His uniform was heavier and stiff from its soaking, and still not properly dry. He had his helmet on, but he wasn’t wearing his coat. It was too bulky, and it was still wet anyway. He couldn’t get warm. The weak morning sun was doing little to help. All of the men in his company were standing in lines near the ladders and steps that led out of the trench, waiting for the order to advance.
He wished he’d kept hold of his gloves – his fingers were sore from the terrible chill in the air. The rifle was cold and hard and heavy. Leaning it against the clay bags, he stuck his hands into his armpits to try and get some movement back in his fingers. At the sergeant’s order, all the men fixed bayonets, the familiar swarm of clicks carrying down the trench as they attached the long knives to the ends of the barrels of their Lee Enfield rifles. Charley readied his own weapon and stamped his feet in his damp boots, trying to work some warmth into his feet.
He was shivering. It could have just been the cold, or it could have been because of what was about to happen. Don’t think, he told himself. Don’t think. Don’t think. Thinking’ll just scare you. Just get out there and keep up with the lads. The artillery seemed to be further away now. That was how it would be. The shelling would creep forward over the German positions, and Charley and the others would get up out of the trench and follow the rain of bombs across the trail of devastation left behind.
He was weighed down with all the kit he had to carry on his webbing. Most of it was borrowed, because he’d lost so much when his dug-out was buried. There was a lot he had to bring with him, and it would slow him down, make it so hard to walk through the swamp out there.
His thoughts drifted to the letter tucked into the inner pocket of his tunic. It hadn’t occurred to him, but it could have been word about Will. Perhaps he should have read it, instead of keeping it for later. Mick could be right. There might not be a ‘later’.
“You’ll stay beside me, won’t you, Mick?” Charley asked in a tense voice.
“Of course I will, Charley. Sure, where else would I be?”
Then the lieutenant blew the whistle, and the sarge was the first up the ladder, leading the men out of the trench. Charley’s hands were shaking as he slung his rifle on to his shoulder and took hold of the ladder.
Don’t think. Get up that ladder. Just get out there and keep up with the lads.
And a moment later, he was over the top, head down, working his way carefully through the coiled lines of barbed wire into the murky hell of no-man’s-land. Smoke drifted over the landscape like a fog, making the place feel like something from a ghost story. There had been fields and woods here once. Now it
was churned-up earth and shattered tree stumps. Frosty, crusted earth, with troughs and shell craters full of icy water. Parts of it frozen solid, other parts treacherously soft. The snow made everything look black and white. With the heavy kit hanging off him, every footstep through the muddy snow took effort.
The men spread out, and soon Charley found it hard to see the others around him through the murk. The whistling and crashing of the artillery was still close enough to drown out most sounds, but he could hear the clatter of machine guns and the bee-like whine of bullets shooting past. Mick was close by, and they both staggered on through the muck, their fear climbing over them as they drew closer and closer to where they knew the first German trench would be.
They kept their heads down and kept walking, their rifles held in front of them. Shells started falling closer. They still couldn’t see much through the pall of smoke, but some of the explosions went off close enough for the two lads to feel the whump of the blasts through the air. This couldn’t be their own guns – it had to be German artillery, aimed at the advancing British forces.
Charley tried to think of nothing. He kept his head down and kept walking. Bullets cut the air around him. The shells exploded ever closer. Then he was stumbling through the stretches of barbed wire in front of the German trench. He crouched down, taking out his cutters. Mick held the tangled wire as Charley snipped his way through. It took time. The shells were deafening as they burst the earth around the two young soldiers, but the smoke was working in their favour. They couldn’t see the Germans, but the enemy couldn’t see them either.
“The machine guns are nowhere near us,” Mick shouted over the noise, wincing as dirt showered down on them from a nearby blast. “There must be none in this part of the trench!”
Charley nodded. They were finally through the last stretch of wire. With their rifles levelled before them, they jumped up and ran full tilt through the fug of smoke at the German trench, screaming like animals to try and unnerve the men they were coming to kill. Charley got there first, trying to stop before he went over the edge, but slipping in the snow-covered mud. He lost his helmet as he skidded on to his backside and slid feet-first over the lip of the trench.
It was a long drop, and he landed badly, overloaded with heavy kit. He cried out as his ankle twisted painfully, but was up in a crouch in an instant, rifle raised, aiming one way, then the other. Mick came crashing down beside him, cursing loudly. Moments later, he too was up on one knee, rifle at the ready.
The trench was empty. It seemed slightly quieter here too than it was up top. The explosions sounded further away, and the smoke gave the place a haunted feel. They waited there, back to back, their breath pluming in the cold air. They waited for the enemy soldiers they knew must be here. The protective walls were destroyed in places, but the trench had survived the bombardment remarkably well.
“This is a good trench,” Charley said, looking up at the walls. “Deeper than ours. Better supports too.”
“Aye,” Mick replied. “What’s goin’ on, Charley? Where is everybody?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t see any sign of the lads coming through the wire.”
“No sign of the Germans either. Here, we ’aven’t got lost, have we?”
“No. This is the place.”
They walked carefully along the trench, rifles still raised. Charley was limping on his injured ankle. There was no one here – no enemy, nor any of their own lads. It was much like their own trench, with dug-outs and reinforced walls. Scraps of uneaten food and empty tins lay around, as well as discarded equipment, as if the Germans had left in a hurry. There was the odd helmet or box of ammunition, a split boot and a tin opener. But no soldiers to defend the place.
They came to a part of the trench that had collapsed completely. They couldn’t see how much of it was damaged. They’d have to climb up and crawl to find the rest of the network. Up into the machine-gun fire and the exploding shells. They turned and went back the other way. Less than fifty yards in the other direction; that end had been destroyed too. The only way out was up on to the battlefield.
“So … we’ve taken the place we were supposed to take,” Mick exclaimed. “The Germans must have pulled back before we even got here, cos of the bombardment. What are we going to do now?”
“Shelling sounds like it’s easing up,” Charley said, rubbing his hand through his hair, wishing he hadn’t lost his helmet. “We should head out one end or the other, try and hook up with some of the other lads, wherever they are. I don’t want to be caught here on our own if the Germans come looking for their trench back.”
“Here, Charley, you’re bleeding. You’ve got blood on your head.”
Charley looked at his hand, and saw blood on it. He touched the cut on his scalp. It was long, but shallow. He’d probably scraped his head on some wire or something when he fell. Just another thing to add to his list of mishaps over the last day and night.
Taking his first-aid kit from the inner pocket of his tunic, he opened the tin box, pulled out one of the dressings and pressed the pad against the cut while Mick tied the bandage round his head. Charley put the box away in his pocket and buttoned up his tunic.
“Right then,” Mick said. “Let’s get going.”
They scrambled up the pile of frosted muck until they were out on the battlefield once more. There was still shelling going on, but it was quieter and more distant, and the machine-gun fire had thinned out. This time however, the pair didn’t walk. Keeping close to the ground, they began to crawl along the crater-strewn earth towards where they thought the rest of the trench was, fervently hoping their men had captured it.
They’d gone about fifteen yards when, on impulse, Charley checked his tunic, suddenly remembering his letter.
It was gone. His heart thumped against his chest.
“Mick!” he called quietly. “Mick, hang on! Mick! Hold on there, I’ve lost my letter!”
Mick looked back, frustration on his face, but he turned round too and followed Charley as he started back towards the trench they’d just left. A letter from home was a precious thing. Charley knew what had happened. It had been in the pocket with his first-aid kit. When he’d pulled out the kit, the letter must have come out with it and fallen to the ground. He reached the trench and slid down the ramp of earth, looking around until he saw the pale rectangle of the envelope in the mud.
“Got it!” he shouted, spinning to look up at his friend who was rising from a crouch to walk down the pile of earth into the trench.
Just at that moment, there came that hated whistling sound and all hell erupted. A barrage of shells exploded across the ground in quick succession. Mick was thrown forward into the trench, landing face down in the mud. Charley shoved the letter into a pocket and rushed forward, but Mick was already lifting himself up. He was hurt, there was blood on the back of his right leg. Charley hauled him into a dug-out, shielding him as best he could with his own body.
“Well, this … is … is a f-f-f-fine state … state of affairs!” Mick groaned through clenched teeth.
He went to say something else, but drew in a sharp breath as the pain in his leg shut him up. Charley tore open the fabric of his friend’s trousers to examine the wound. Instead of a single large one, he saw a dozen smaller shrapnel wounds down the back of Mick’s thigh. None of them were too serious on their own, but together they’d lose a lot of blood, and the first-aid dressings he and Mick had wouldn’t cover them all. Still, he bound them up as best he could, then held his friend against him as they tried to bear the pounding explosions that shook the earth around them.
Mick’s face was pale, but he was still conscious. The explosions began to move away from the trench, chewing up the earth of no-man’s-land. Charley raised his head to check the wounds again. They were still bleeding. Charley swore under his breath. Mick needed proper medical help. If the wound didn’t kill him, infection or just the freezing cold would finish him before long. But there was nowhere they could go. The onl
y help lay back in the British trenches. He’d have to carry his friend on a bad ankle, through the jaws of the bombardment.
“Read the … the letter,” Mick said, shivering.
“What?”
“It saved our lives, Charley. We’d have been up there in the open when those shells landed, if you hadn’t dropped that letter. You saved us, you eejit. Read the letter. It’s not like we can go anywhere, can we? What else have we got to pass the time?”
Charley sighed and wiped his hands clean as best he could. Then he pulled the envelope out. It was dirty and crumpled now. He looked again at the handwriting, but couldn’t identify it. Opening the envelope, he drew out the letter. It was short, written on a single sheet of paper. He frowned when he looked at the name and address written on the top. It only took moments to read the first few lines to himself, and a sob escaped from his throat.
“Charley? What is it, lad? Read it out, for God’s sake!”
Charley held his hand out in front of Mick, who clutched it in his own.
“It’s from an Oberleutnant Karl Ehrlichmann,” Charley began. “At an address in Hamburg, Germany. It says: “Dear Mrs Burn, I hope you will forgive me for being the bearer of bad news, and for taking so long to deliver it. I am terribly sorry to inform you that your son, William, died in action on the first of July, 1916. As you will learn from reading this, I knew your son only briefly, but I am the only person who can pass on his last words, and so I must.
“I was serving on the front line on that day, and was caught in no-man’s-land during a heavy bombardment. I was injured, and took cover in a large bomb crater and found William there. He had been badly wounded. He was an enemy, but we were also two men, human beings together, frightened and facing death, and so I treated his wounds as best I could. We talked as we waited for the shells to stop falling. He told me about you, and about his younger brother Charley.