Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  The world we live in now will also give way. It’s called a Kondratieff, The Russian social scientist Nikolai Kondratieff identified and described this period of change. About every fifty years or so, technology and social norms slowly morph into differentness as societal and scientific advances influence our world.

  The phone zombies of today, so ridiculous to people like me, will in their turn stare and despair at the attitudes and behaviour of their young, if they can leave the phones and social media long enough to actually produce any.

  In 1968 the visionary Arthur C Clarke published a short novel; The Lion of Comarre. He didn’t foresee the modern microtech but he did imagine a large all knowing computerised information centre, a kind of large physical internet. He saw around it a static human society where many people spent their lives wired up to virtual worlds within the machine. I think of that every time I have to dodge a mindless phone slave walking into everybody. Wake up, phone zombies, you have nothing to lose but your brains.

  I blame the blasted priest for provoking my growing obsession with ghosts and social disaster. I thought he had an interesting observation but trying to visualise the missing, departed and the never existed becomes a bit of a mugging of the mind. Multiverse options begin to creep in and I started to imagine all kinds of alternative timelines. What if this person lived instead of died or this other died instead of lived?

  My life has taught me to accept and adapt, to face facts stoically and work with what is, not what might have been or what I would have preferred. It can appear cold at times but if the alternative is this constant review of possibilities, well then, bring on the chill. How far do we go with this? If the first multicelled organism had floated up instead of down, would the dinosaurs still rule the Earth? You see, it’s nonsense but at the same time I kept finding myself looking for the missing.

  I decided that since I’d now joined the burglar community I should focus on committing my crime and buggering off as soon as possible.

  Displaying an embarrassing practical knowledge of housebreaking protocol, I went to the front door and pushed home the bolts. This would slow any owner or other legitimate caller at that point and give me more time to escape through the back garden. I made sure the rear door was open so that I could flee whippet-like, or more correctly lumbering bear-like, back to the garages. I closed the kitchen door to the downstairs corridor so that anybody entering from the rear would warn me by opening it.

  I made my way upstairs. I could not resist knocking off the wooden rose again, I don’t know why. Perhaps I just wanted to make some proprietary like gesture, the house still felt like home to me and I very slightly resented the fact that it now belonged to somebody else. I went up to what used to be my bedroom where there should have been a small hatch leading into the loft. It was not there; I hadn’t noticed that during the estate agent visit.

  I felt the ceiling at the place it should have been and realised it was plaster board. It was flush with the rest of the ceiling but when I felt elsewhere I could feel the more expected plaster and lathe. I just punched the plaster board and it made a hole. I shone the torch and could see the wooden hatch just behind it. I cleared the board and pushed the hatch open slightly. It was at this point I realised I didn’t have a ladder and hadn’t even considered how I would get into the loft, I wasn’t exactly sprightly.

  I searched around the house, and in the small cellar found an old high backed wooden dining chair, that would have to do. I wondered where it had come from, probably some owner between us and now had just dumped it there and forgotten about it. Standing on it I was able to push the hatch fully open. I’d expected the hatch to fall backwards the way it always used to. Instead it clicked onto some clever little catch that had been fitted after we left.

  By standing on the chair back I was able to ease myself fully into the loft. I then realised I’d left the torch on the floor by the chair and had to climb out again to retrieve it. Climbing in for the second time I knocked the chair over. Lithe cat burglar I wasn’t. I hoped the noise didn’t disturb anybody or make them realise somebody was in the empty house. I could get down again just by lowering myself; being tall and having respectable upper body strength can be an advantage sometimes, especially when lowering oneself through small hatches during a burglary.

  In the torchlight I could see that there were far fewer cobwebs than I’d expected. The space smelled clean and dry though unaired. It was empty and the grey slates of the roof were visible, all of the insulation was between the rafters at my feet and this place was built with the slates directly onto battens on an open roof. Slate is an excellent roofing material and I couldn’t see any dislodged in any place. Considering I might be the first person in here for many years, that was quite impressive.

  Mum’s letter said the journal was hidden in the front chimney stack. I’d expected to search around it for hidden compartments or loose bricks. That was not necessary, on a small brick shelf half way up the stack was a greasy looking cloth covering something book shaped. A quick glance inside revealed it was the journal. I was surprised that it had managed to just sit there undiscovered for so long. It was hard covered and appeared to have a sewn and muslin backed paper block. It was good quality and must have been very expensive. The paper was heavy sheeted and small print on the back cover promised it was long lasting ‘neutralised’ paper, made in the USA. I assume that meant acid free. The gold inlaid small print beneath that boast was in German, just the Berlin address of the shop selling it. Why German? Maybe grandad Jack found time to go shopping in the enemy city during the war to end all wars.

  I managed to extract myself from the loft, retreat to the rear door, recover my wad of paper from the lock and make a not exactly athletic return to the garages. I noticed an upstairs light was on in the house next door, I just hoped that the area retained its reluctance to call the police. Since the light went out as I watched and no police arrived, I assumed it did.

  It was now almost fully light and I would walk back to the hotel, get my things and return home. Steve Aitchsmith, master burglar and veteran fool chalked up another small success. Special forces missed out by not finding me. “Who dares whines,” I mumbled to myself as I walked, trying to rub the pain out of the small of my back.

  On the train back to the south coast I received a text from Dave.

  < Position > it stated.

  < Sitting > I replied.

  < Dick. Me trying to be circumcised >

  < Really? >

  < Circumspect. stupid spell cheque… how wented it >

  < Done … got it …… will fone when read >

  < Okee dokee m8tee. Cu soon Sassoon platoon>

  “What?” I muttered to myself. He needs training in modern tech, for sure.

  < Don’t try txt speak… you useless at it … both too old … speak soon >

  < I look forwardly…. wellies done >.

  I’d so far resisted the temptation to read the journal. I wanted to be settled and comfortable to read it and so set aside an evening to do so. I completed all of the usual mundane boring household chores then reviewed the ant situation.

  You can’t keep a good ant down, they seemed to have recovered and were threatening the conservatory once again. Not quite the invasive force they had been but still slipping indoors and the nest, if anything, seemed busier.

  Time for genocide as advised by the Roman Catholic Church representative for drinking, swearing and doing things good. I felt the ants deserved a fresh tin, not one just recovered from my shed where it stored old nails for no sensible reason. I fed on some tinned spaghetti and then cleaned and dried the tin. I spent some time removing all of the label. I don’t really know why, maybe I didn’t want the ants to read it and realise the trap.

  I observed the nest for a while and identified several entrances in use. I blocked some of them with stones then placed the upended tin ov
er the entrance I judged to be in the sunniest spot. Now we’d see. It was now late afternoon so I opened a bottle of wine, split a packet of chocolate covered peanuts and settled into an armchair to read.

  I removed the greasy cloth that wrapped the book. As I opened it at the first page a flimsy, thin sheet of paper fell out. On it was a typed poem based on the famous In Flanders Fields. No name was attached to it but given its location I assumed it was Jack’s. I read it slowly then placed it safely onto the coffee table. He must have added this to the book later, there was no date so I could not be sure. I took a pen and added his name below it. That gave me a little thrill, I was doing something with Jack.

  The rest of the journal was written by hand. Sometimes in ink and often in pencil. Some was a bit faded but not too much; It had not seen much light since it was left on the brick ledge where incredibly it remained until I recovered it.

  ***

  The Journal of John ‘Jack’ Adams

  27th May 1916.

  I wish I knew the man’s name. I could have found it on his identity tags but I was in such a blue funk I just wanted to get out of the shell hole.

  I sort of slid into it while we were retreating from another failed attack. If we keep throwing hundreds forward and come back with a mere third of them, I don’t know how long this can last. As I passed the huge shell hole I just lost my footing, the muddy side slid away and down I went. At first I was afraid I’d end up in the vile bubbling black liquid mud in the middle of it, horrible stuff that sucks you down like a descent into some terrible airless hell. It even smells of sulphur. The bubbles? That’s the men and animals already reposing in that slimy mud grave. They give off gasses as they decompose, sometimes it ignites and a ghostly whooshing blue flame erupts out of the hole. We call it ‘Wilhelm-O’-the Wisp’.

  I managed not to join the drowned and I just lay there for a few seconds. Then I heard a German voice. He was about forty or so, an officer, short and stout with a silly little moustache. His grimy uniform suggested he’d been in this hole for a while. His pistol was still in its belt holder and he held his hands out in front of him as if to calm me down while he spoke softly.

  I couldn’t understand him. For some reason I got the idea he was a school master, just the way he crouched slightly and focussed on me. Maybe he was, maybe he saw me as a boy who shouldn’t be here. Whatever the truth, he was trying to keep me calm.

  I did a terrible thing. My smelly (SMLE or short magazine Lee-Enfield rifle, to you) was still in my hands, the long bayonet muddied and already bloodied from the assault. I stuck it deep into his gut. He made a kind of ‘umph’ sound and fell to his knees. I pulled it out and stuck it into his chest. He didn’t move, just gurgled. Then a tear slid out of his eye and he died in front of me then slumped in a heap as I removed the bayonet by pushing him off with my foot.

  I felt like a criminal. Did I really need to do this? What was the tear? Was he weeping for himself or his family? Was he weeping for me? Was he trying to help me? No, I told myself, he’s a sodding German pig and not a person. He deserved to die, the pig. Hunpigs exist to die, that is their purpose.

  Did he see me as a silly boy playing grown up games? I showed him. I searched him. I was looking for cigarettes, food, money, anything I could use. I don’t smoke, mum never let me in spite of the doctor’s recommendation that it was good for me, but I can use them to buy things from the other men. I found a small bar of chocolate and this note book, which was blank and unused. I tucked them both in my tunic pocket and scrambled out of the hole. Part of me wanted to cry as I did so but I knew I had to be tougher than that. For Christ’s sake, I’ve killed about twenty men since I got here. I don’t know why this one bothered me more than the others.

  Airbursts were still exploding overhead, splatter plunking the mud and dirt with their nasty twisted shrapnel, and the pop pop pop pop pop from the German machine gun crews as they cut an arc across the ground. I dashed for our trenches. I made sure I was still clutching my smelly; returning without it was a real problem, I’d known even brave men get accused of cowardice for losing their rifle. I knew of one incident where a Canadian had fought hand to hand in enemy trenches to allow his mates to retreat, his last act was to wedge his rifle across the mouth of a dugout to slow the Germans rushing out of it and then fall back himself. He was shot for cowardice because he returned without his weapon.

  As I lay panting in our own lines I continued to wonder why this one was affecting me like this. Perhaps because it was close up this time. Up until now I’ve fired at Germans, I know I’ve hit a few but you never really know what happens after that. You see them fall or stagger away. You’re fairly certain you did it, but you never know. I’ve stuck my bayonet in a couple as well, I’ve even smashed a few with trenching tools or stamped on their faces but in the heat and fear of the fight you just move on before somebody does it to you. This time I saw his eyes as his soul left him. This time it was a man not just a German. I can’t think like this, it can get me killed.

  It’s the following day and I’ve made a decision. I’m going to use this book to write about my life in this war. I’ve decided not to put dates in it, just write down what I’m thinking. I will be a different person at the end of all this. I’m a different person every day. Part of me knows this is not a normal life and yet another part of me, the part that frightens me, enjoys this bloody nightmare. I have to record all of this in order to remind myself who I am. I need the monster inside to enable me to survive this. I don’t want to keep the monster when it’s over. I will apologise to the souls of the men I kill when it’s safe to do so. I hope that God will forgive me.

  Not many of us were religious when we got here. Now even the most devout atheist talks to God. I don’t think God’s very impressed.

  It all went quiet for a while, it always did. It takes a factory at home a full nine hour shift to create about two hundred and fifty shells. With double shifts that’s about five hundred a day for each factory. During an assault we fire them at about seven a minute for each big gun and they are in five blocks of twenty or more guns at this location. We can use the shells a lot quicker than Blighty can make them. We’re firing more than a day’s output from one factory in less than a minute.

  There will now be a few days of sniping, just to make each side keep their heads down, there will be small reconnaissance groups trying to gain information and if possible snatch somebody from the other side’s trench, and of course the occasional lone shell thrown over just to remind everybody there’s a war on.

  Once in a while each side’s reconnaissance groups meet up in no man’s land, normally in the dead of night. Sometimes they have a nasty little hand to hand fight. More often than most people realise, they just ignore each other. I’ve heard that once or twice they’ve traded cigarettes and stuff but nobody would be stupid enough to own up to that.

  At night, if there’s any unusual noise out in no man’s land then some fool will launch a phosphorous flare and light up the place like daylight. Anybody moving about in between the combatants’ trenches at that point is in deep trouble. Not too many soldiers get caught up on the wire. If they do get caught up and can’t be rescued then at some point in the next few hours somebody will shoot them, often their own side if they’re wounded and suffering. Just once in a blue moon somebody is caught on the wire for days because nobody has a clear shot without taking a risk.

  When that happens they can moan pathetically for days, it’s the most awful and depressing sound. Normally, we, or the other side, order a few shells, claiming we’re trying to cut the wire with the blast, just to end the poor bastard’s misery. It’s a kind of soldierly gentleman’s agreement; anybody on the wire has to be granted a mercy blow to end the suffering. In this part of the line we’ve fallen into an agreement with the Krauts. If either of us plan to drop a few mercy shells we wave a pair of long johns on a stick just to warn the other sid
e, it avoids misunderstandings. Normally we’re in the front trench for about eight or more weeks and various kinds of local agreements are not uncommon.

  War activities in the quiet times include delousing as far as possible by using skin burning potash water as well as running candle flame along the seams of clothing to kill the eggs, washing as best we can and trying to find a safe moment to shit. Shitting’s not normally a major priority because the rations really constipate you up. The problem is, this means that later you need to find a semi-private spot to squat over the latrine bucket to strain and groan the monster in your bowel out into the world. The laughter and mickey-taking comments of the blokes nearby don’t help. Peeing’s different but has dangers of its own; the bucket can’t be left in one place for too long because the enemy notice its location and try to lob a few small bombs over at the right time, like early morning.

  A lot of the men pee on their boots. It helps to keep the leather supple and kill fungus inside. New lads in the trenches often make the mistake of untying their boots and taking them off. This should never be done. Once the feet swell into the boot they should be left alone or it’s impossible to get them back on. Of course, wearing them permanently leads to trench foot as the skin rots away. Pissing on them helps reduce that.

  Food gets dragged in from the reserve trenches just behind the front. There’s an almost constant brew going on so we have lots of tea with as much sugar as we can find.

  Ablutions for the men are an ongoing opportunistic affair that doesn’t do much to get you clean or tidied. Our smell must be appalling but fortunately we’re spared it because of the overpowering stink of rotting flesh. You can get used to anything.