Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  Ablutions for the officers are not much better. I did once see some simple public school idiot of a lieutenant have his driver deliver him a tin bath. The fool placed it on the rear parapet, stole the brew water to warm it, stripped off and jumped in. He was warned but other than that we stayed silent; it’s best not to mock the backward sons of the elite.

  The Germans, who could clearly see him, were not so reticent. How they jeered, often in English. They howled with laughter when one of their snipers blew his head open. About a hundred of us replied with rapid rifle fire just to stop their filthy cackling.

  Remembering that particular murder made me feel slightly less evil about the shell-hole killing. This really was a war where anything goes and there are no rules, chivalric, moral or any other kind.

  The most horrible part was that it was too dangerous to recover the dead officer from the exposed parapet. He sat in that bath for nearly a week growing bloated and putrid, then a shell landed near him and he was pounded into the trench rear wall, tin bath as well. He’s not the only former comrade we see decorating our trench walls. We were all somewhat annoyed that we got sprayed by his rank innards.

  As the quieter period settles in there’s time to write letters, chat and think. How did I come to this? I question myself a lot now, this isn’t the glory of war I’d expected.

  When the country called I was glad to volunteer. Well, I say glad but it was either that or begin a lifetime of manual work at the local abattoir ’cos it was the only job available. Both mum and dad supported me, dad even offered to join up with me but he’d already been turned down because of his bad lungs, he could hardly breathe after decades working in a flour mill.

  The war had been going on for over a year but I was too young to enlist and I was worried it might be over by the time I was old enough. I lied about my age to get in, sixteen-year-olds are not supposed to be fighting. I’m a big strong lad and can easily pass for somebody older, I’ve even been in a pub or two so I must look at least twenty one. The recruiting office didn’t put any effort into finding out my real age, they just needed willing fighters.

  I was stuck into a London rifle regiment, created just for the war, beasted down at Salisbury training grounds for six weeks and then shipped to France. When we arrived in Calais the locals just ignored us, they’d seen thousands of us arrive by then and we were nothing new. They were friendly enough, though; the young mademoiselles, and quite a few of the older ones, happily returned a cheeky smile. I felt I would like it here. I didn’t see any young Frenchmen, they were off to war as well, I imagined. Just the pretty girls and the old left to run the town. I wondered if England looked like this to a visitor.

  I have to be honest, I’m not entirely sure where I am at the moment, in a battered trench somewhere in Northern France near Belgium, I think. The first engagement I was in sort of left me not caring where I was anymore, strange that.

  When we first got to France they entrained us almost immediately for a place called Neuve Chappelle. Apparently the Germans, not yet having properly fought us, had insulted us by not bothering to position too many men opposite our line. They’d pay for that. The fact that the place was a salient, our trenches into their lines, meant that a decent surprise attack would probably overwhelm them.

  A protruding salient is an exciting place to hold, what with fire coming from all directions. However, it’s great to attack from because you fan out in all directions and as they adapt firing angles when you get close they have trouble blasting at you without hitting their own trenches further along. They were in place on a ridge so we’d be attacking up hill. The attack would be large, involve thousands of troops and break the German entrenchment in that area.

  We were placed in the first reserve trenches, so we would be the second wave. Our briefing was the first indication I had of just how daft this war was. We were told that the first wave would walk toward the enemy (really they would, slowly and intimidatingly so that they looked good, even my, as yet, unbloodied self knew they’d get slaughtered). This lunacy would occur after the Germans had been stunned into inaction by out magnificent shell barrage. As the first wave secured the enemy trenches we, the second wave, would stroll (stroll? Bloody hell) towards and beyond the enemy trenches in order to neutralise the enemy reserve trenches. The third wave, behind us, would run at the charge (great, they get to run after we’ve done the work at a sodding snail’s pace) to mop up and capture survivors, if they had any (if we bloody had any).

  “Any questions?” asked the briefing officer.

  An older grizzled looking soldier put up his hand.

  “Yes…” said the officer.

  “I just wondered, sir. In the event that the enemy is not stunned, what should we do, what is our second action contingency if the first plan fails.”

  “It won’t,” said the officer cheerfully. “Just bash the Boche, that’s all.”

  Another older soldier vomited.

  The battle itself is a bit of a blur now. The barrage started and by the end of it I was half deaf. It culminated in what they called a creeping barrage, the idea being that the wall of shells slowly move forward, ripping up wire, as the troops follow behind the barrage up to the enemy. That didn’t work and the barrage stopped while the first wave was only half way across no man’s land.

  The Germans were not stunned. They piled out of their deep shelters and manned their machine guns. I heard the distinctive staccato sound of the damn things delivering their lethal hail. Thousands were mown down and nobody got anywhere near the enemy trench.

  Now, any sensible plan would have cancelled the second wave. Not here, not in this war, the second wave was ordered to go so off we set.

  “You may run,” instructed an officer. Oh I wanted to run alright but not towards the enemy.

  As we moved towards our launch ladders in the front trench, I thought that there were several stupid things about this plan. Not just the stupid plan itself, but the stupid considerations and stupid assumptions behind it; why was it so confidently believed that the Germans would all faint, unable to move as a result of our shelling? Why not shell their trenches directly, instead of using it to slow down our soldiers? Why? Why? Why did I join in this? And there’s one other thing but it’s subtle and I don’t think it’s occurred to anybody else. It was known that this would be a dangerous attack (no joking there) so the men in it were chosen especially for it. Not for our soldierly skills or brute toughness, we were all chosen because we are without children, married or unmarried alike.

  Now, this is less obvious but just as stupid as the other stupid things; I know that men with children have to get back to work for their kids’ upbringing but that’s a minority. They should be the ones first put in the danger line to improve the chances of those without children getting home and having some. If the war goes on like this, there’ll be empty villages in England in thirty years time.

  A not very robust looking officer blew a whistle and we started up the ladders. The scrawny officer observed us climbing and waved his revolver in encouragement.

  “Coming with us, boss,” grinned an inexplicably cheerful cockney as he climbed. He had a kind of distant look in his eyes. Not drunk but not entirely here with the horror either. He was sort of at peace in the peacelessness.

  “Right behind you, men,” replied the ashen faced and nervous officer.

  “Yes, that’s right, you slimy fucker,” said the soldier to my shock.

  As I emerged over the trench I heard a shot from just behind me. I looked back and to my astonishment the officer had shot a young soldier. The boy, about eighteen years old, lay in a foetal ball and was obviously dead.

  “He was a coward who would not attack,” explained the officer. He then put the revolver to his own head and shot himself.

  “Keep moving mate,” this from the same cheerful cockney, his arm on my shoulder. �
��Don’t mind him, he just couldn’t face it again. Keep moving and keep low. Don’t try to win the bloody war, just try to stay alive, good luck son.” With that he was gone.

  What was going on? This was my introduction to the sharp end of the Great War. I kept moving forward, aware that around me there were explosions and bullets plunking into the ground, sometimes somebody would twist and fall. I heard shouts of ‘Woolly Bear’ as overhead explosions created expanding circular black clouds that rained shrapnel down on us. Some of it plinked off my helmet but somehow I was uninjured and kept moving forward.

  I found myself at the German trench, already there was close up fighting in it. I stood for a few seconds then a shove in my back sent me tumbling into it. As I said, it’s a blur. I remember the funk and the sluggish fight that I was in. My limbs felt heavy and everything I did seemed so slow. I smashed, I hit, I bayoneted, I fired. Then it was quiet. Just us, the Germans gone, we had won, it would appear. The floor felt strange and I looked down to see I was walking on a carpet of bleeding and deformed dead, British and German.

  A Scot with a thick Glasgow accent thumped me on the back and grinned at me. “Well done, son. You’re a bloody killing demon, that’s what you are.” Then he was gone as well.

  I was not me. I don’t remember leaving the enemy trench but somehow I was back in no man’s land. I was elated, I was disgusted, I was fearful, I wanted more, I wanted to be dead, I wanted to kill more, I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know anything. Then I was in our own trenches, I don’t know how.

  It would appear that in spite of our unexpected success, the staff command decided we couldn’t hold it. So after stealing everything we could, damaging what we were able to and planting a few booby traps, we left it for the Germans to reoccupy.

  From then on, the Germans never left the lines facing us undermanned. Now they’d fought us in a large engagement they had a bit more respect. I never saw either the cockney or the Scot again, I hope they both made it.

  I started to notice the thousand-yard stare in others, somebody said I had it. It’s a look that’s constantly searching for danger, trying to maximise both long range and peripheral vision. It’s the look of men in war.

  We were posted to the front-line trench while replacements were found for the destroyed first wave. It took about seven weeks to relieve us. In that time there was one half-hearted German assault, they dumped a few shells on us, moved some troops about a third of the way into no man’s land and then drew back. Not much else happened.

  We were sent to a camp just outside Paris for a rest. We were not allowed out of the camp although a few locals came to the camp with bread, cheese and wine for us. We licked our wounds and then moved to the location we’re in now. Here we’ve been, on and off, for over a year. So now, whoever you are reading this, you are right up to date, unless of course you’re reading this in a hundred years from now in which case I’m still right up to date and you will have to imagine you are. I’ll try to keep it as a journal and hope it’s not too confusing.

  My survival strategy now is not to worry about where the army send me, just use the creature I’ve found inside me to permit the real me to reach the end of this. I tried informing the army that I’m below the legal age to fight but the officer told me it didn’t matter. Besides, he said, I’d agreed to be the proper age when I enlisted, the army has a very idiosyncratic logic. He said I would reach the actual legal age, as oppose to the age I’d agreed, while I’m here so I might as well stay, thanks very much.

  Since I killed the schoolmaster, that’s how I think of him, we haven’t moved from this spot. The rumour is that we’ll be relieved soon, it’s been a long time now. We’ve started singing to the Germans at night and they reply in kind. A couple of them have good voices.

  They were singing last night and it went on for longer than usual, a suspicious sergeant told us to put up a flare. The flare lit up the no man’s land and there, close to our wire, were three Germans standing as if posing for a photograph.

  One of our men shouted at them to run back to their trenches. He was clumped around the head, not very hard, by the sergeant who gave the order to fire. I didn’t feel able to murder a sitting duck in cold blood; my inner blood thirsty lunatic needs the excitement of battle.

  Another lad had fewer qualms and shot the middle one. I saw his chest burst open but he just stood there for a while, turned and staggered a few steps before dropping down dead. The man to his left dived to the floor and seemed to be swallowed up by the dirt as he crawled quickly away. A few shots went his way but I don’t think he was hit.

  The third one must have been out of his mind with fear, or just stunningly brave which may well be the same thing. He lowered his rifle towards us, bayonet already fitted, and charged screaming. They’d obviously cut some of the wire because it didn’t slow him. Those of us not already firing brought up our rifles and frantically worked the bolts, he’d be here in seconds. Our own men a bit further along the line, observing but not involved, cheered and applauded him as he dashed at us. A fusillade of shots hit him when he was about ten feet from the edge of our trench. He just dropped face down, jerked about a bit and then stopped moving. Somebody put another round into his head.

  We discussed this lad and decided we didn’t want him bloating up and stinking, maybe even popping as they sometimes do, this close to our living (dying?) space. It’s not unusual for bits of soldiers to crop up out of the dirt, even from the trench side, but they’d normally already completed the most disgusting part of taking the dust to dust trip. We had to move or bury this lad. It had been bad enough living with daft-bath-bugger for a week, we didn’t want another malodourous trench mate.

  Somebody made contact with the Germans and invited them to come and get him. They decided this was just a bit too close to us and said we should take him to them, not on your nelly. We agreed a short local cease fire and two boys went up to him, while the rest of us kept our guns firmly pointed at the enemy lines. I could see the German guns pointing back. Then a strange thing; before dragging the lad to the trench for disposal, the boys stood to attention and saluted the corpse. As they did so I saw the German guns lower and I knew there would be no fight today.

  A few hours later a tin came crashing into our trench, goodness knows how they managed that, and we all dived for whatever cover we could find. Nothing happened so somebody opened the tin. In it was cake, a lovely sweet but slightly crunchy sponge type thing, an icing covered taste sensation. With it was a note with just one word written on it; ‘Danke’.

  Great. We have just been briefed by a visiting staff officer, they only visit when it’s quiet. We are to be relocated further north. He has briefed us about another hard push to recover some useless little Belgium town that has been destroyed anyway and has swapped hands a few time. The idea was that we would occupy a ridge in front of the town while others took ridges on other sides. Then a hard push from another regiment would take the town itself. Nobody seemed to know why we needed this town, apparently it’s important.

  “This is it, men. Here we end the Hun once and for all.” The annoying prat sported a huge bushy moustache, tobacco stained and greying. He looked like he’d stepped out of the ‘needs you’ poster. He went on to tell us that he was sorry, we couldn’t be replaced yet because our experience was required. He promised that as soon as we’d won we’d be relieved and be given time to read, write, study and reflect.

  “Time to sleep, drink, shit and fuck,” somebody whispered behind me. It made me giggle. Then he continued, “if there’s any of us left.”

  They’ve just issued our extra ammunition and battle pack. It includes a tin of corned beef, a small metal flask of whiskey and a French letter. What do they think we intend to do to the Germans? Come here, Fritz my sweetie, have a nice drink with your meal and brace yourself for a hard British push.

  That
last entry was about two weeks ago. That was one terrible and, as usual, pointless carnage field.

  We were told to wait at the trench ladders for the whistle to go over the top. We were instructed to walk line abreast because the creeping shell barrage would protect us. I’ve seen how well that works before.

  Then a surprise. I knew there had been mine works under no man’s land towards the enemy lines. I thought it was to undermine their trenches and maybe get at their dugouts. The Germans sometimes infiltrate the mines and there’s blind claustrophobic hand to hand, thank God I’m not down there. Now we found out what they’d been doing as unbelievably monstrous explosions erupted under the German lines. It was incredible, volcano like blasts flew upwards, millions of tons of soil. The blast, even for those of us sheltered in this trench, burst some ear drums and shook sense out of everybody. There followed a few seconds silence.

  Then our shelling started, about thirty feet in front of our trench. Our wire had been cut last night, the enemy wire would be cut by the shells. That’s the plan anyway. I glanced at our officer. He held a whistle to his mouth and looked at a wrist watch. It’s funny, before the war wristwatches were only for women, really. Now it’s considered manly to wear one, it suggests tough trench fighting.

  The officer, I didn’t know him, looked a bit young but determined. He blew his whistle and up we went. I was about the fourth up. We formed line abreast and started to walk. At this point the dirt from the huge explosions started to rain down on us, I saw one lad felled by a large rock. The shell barrage crept effectively, unusually, but a couple of our men were taken down by shrapnel. That’s the problem with shells; they just don’t know who they belong to.

  We trudged forward, rifles with bayonets held at port arms. To my left was the young brown haired officer. He actually grinned at me. To my right was a man I knew by sight, a big chap who I know lives not far from me. He winked at me and mouthed something, I couldn’t hear what. We trudged on for what seemed like hours but could only have been a minute or so. Then the creeping barrage stopped. Most of the attacking line was still standing. There’d been no enemy fire and only a few dozen of us had been hurt by our own shells or the falling dirt and rocks.