Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  Lieutenant Robert Blackie, a tall raw-boned man from Oxford, glanced nervously at his watch for the fourth time in as many seconds. If his heart could possibly feel any heavier it would surely sink to his feet, making it impossible for him to walk.

  “God, give me courage, please,” he whispered. “Don’t let me fail in my duty.”

  He looked along the line of waiting men licking their lips after the liberal rum issue clotted like treacle in their stomachs. A few caught his eye, like injured children looking up at their mothers for a morsel of comfort. He tried his best to smile, but encountered difficulty forcing his lips back over his teeth. This was his first time in the trenches. Three weeks, he’d been told, was sufficient for men and officers to learn the rules of safety and the degree of danger in the trenches. After two months they would attain a peak of efficiency; after that, decline came rapidly. More than anything in the world he’d ever hoped for, he prayed that his brave men would fail to see his nervousness. Somehow he managed to brace his shoulders and he stood erect. Like those around him he struggled to ignore the fear coupled with nausea washing through his body, and turning his bones to rubber.

  “Steady, men, not long now, steady. Remember, walk, don’t run, or you’ll be blown up by our own creeping barrage. Take no prisoners unless you want to go on half rations to feed them. Kill the bastards,” he called, forcing the words from his mouth, and then whispered, “God, I’m busting for a piss.”

  Checking his watch, he gazed across the unknown terrain of No Man’s Land – he hadn’t expected to be ordered to attack in broad daylight.

  Damn stupid generals, he thought. Close their eyes, stick their fingers anywhere on a map and say, how about we attack there, chaps? Before brekkers of course, can’t have the Earl Grey going cold, can we?

  Whistle in one hand, pocket watch in the other, he watched the seconds of his life tick away through blood veined eyes. At precisely seven thirty he would put the whistle to his lips and lead his men over the top into battle. He fought to visualise the map he’d studied so thoroughly at headquarters. He could see it now as plain as day. The German trenches were eight hundred yards away over No Man’s Land, devoid of vegetation and cover. Bomb craters fifteen feet deep, filled with freezing mud and oozing thick fog-like ghostly spectres, waited to suck a man down to a horrible death. Row upon row of splintered trees blackened and stumped by continual shelling stood stark and threatening. After came rolls of thick barbed wire waiting to trap the advancing soldiers like flies in a spider’s web. Once entangled, soldiers screamed in agony and cut to shreds by a hail of machine-gun bullets. If God is all forgiving, why is there a hell? he wondered.

  “God, I hope this blasted whistle works,” he panicked, licking his lips with a dry tongue. “Can’t allow the men to see I’m on the damn verge of pissing my pants.”

  “Fix bayonets!” Sergeant Bull roared. “Prepare to deploy in extended order.”

  Men sniffed and wiped away the dribble running from their noses with their cuffs. The hollow clicking of bayonets being attached to rifles resounding along the line was like the sound of a thousand Spanish castanets. Cold and miserable, soaked and sick, and at the extreme limit of their fear, they waited. Some turned and shook the hand of the man standing next to them.

  “Blimey, luv a duck, this is a rum lark this is, ain’t it? All the best, mate.”

  If a vision of hell could be planted into a man’s mind this was it, and it was firmly embedded into the mind of Lieutenant Blackie. He knew German machine-gunners were waiting ready with their Maxims to mow them down like wheat beneath a harvester, the hot zinging bullets separating lumps of flesh and limbs from helpless bodies. If the Germans didn’t know already, they would when he blew the damn whistle warning them of his intentions.

  “Might as well send a bloody telegram,” he muttered.

  At precisely seven-thirty he put the whistle to his dry lips and blew. Men swallowed, crossed themselves and said one more silent prayer.

  “Advance!” Sergeant Bull roared.

  “Come on, men, follow me!” Lieutenant Blackie roared, brandishing his pistol. The German snipers would be watching for him; the only man not carrying a rifle is the officer-in-charge, making him their prime target. Without him the advancing men would be leaderless.

  Fear visited Thomas like an unseen aggressor and, pressing his chalk-white face against the dank-smelling sandbags, he peered though the slit. An enemy shell landed yards in front of him, a blinding flash and a great column of flame erupted into the sky hurling stinging sand and ripped sandbags into his face. He felt himself hurled down into the thick clinging mud. All around him the constant scrabbling and darting movements of rats moving in shifting swarms, like rippling black water, unnerved him. Any sudden display of faltering weakness and they would swarm over warm bodies, biting, nibbling and gorging on living flesh. Quickly scrambling to his feet he took up his position and rubbed the stinging sand from his eyes. From the disgorging trenches men slowly clambered, cowering and bent double, attempting to make themselves as inconspicuous to the enemy as possible. He shuddered as men lost their footing and slithered to the bottom of the trench and lay covered in soaking wet mud. Rats as large as dogs scampered over their faces. Those on the parapet first halted for a few long seconds and like statues waited until they were in alignment before starting forward.

  He held his breath – this couldn’t be real. But it was, it was war: spectacular, thrilling and unbearable. Like lemmings the human race rushed stupidly and needlessly to a death of no consequence, intent on only displaying a frivolous existence in a sea of blood and pulpiness of flesh. With their weapons at the port the soldiers pressed forward led by the magnificent Highlander’s pipers. The sound of skirling bagpipes echoed over the scarred countryside as though it had never been beautiful. When the second line started out, tears sprang from his young eyes at the futility of it all. The third line immediately followed by the fourth and the fifth by the sixth. Wide-eyed and unable to turn his eyes away from the carnage he lost his grip on logic as they were mowed down like slender stalks of wavering corn. Then, seized by anger his temper rose to the surface, pushing all other feelings aside as the cut of guilt reared its head. Shame tangled with his conscience. He cowered behind the cover and safety of sandbags gouged and split by huge swathes of shrapnel while men walked to a cruel death.

  “Why me, dear God, why me?” he cried.

  With a sob, he rolled over, squinted down the sights of his Lee Enfield and squeezed the trigger. The German helmet with a spike protruding from the top ricocheted from the German’s head in a scarlet fountain of blood. Working the bolt he rammed another bullet into the breech and watched as another German threw up his arms and disappeared from sight. Suddenly, he shook away the mantle of despair and felt elation buzzing through his body like a charge of electricity. Two shots, two dead, no one could do better. All around him German shells crashed and whizz-banged overhead. Bodies separated from limbs catapulted into the air, screaming with fright and pain. Shrapnel shells exploded above their heads sending out a deadly shower of metal balls, ripping into supple unresisting bodies. His sudden rush of elation rapidly reverted back to naked fear and he closed his eyes to stop the tears blinding him. His young mind became strangled and unable to comprehend the reason for the savage slaughter.

  He recalled that Mr Webster had once shown the class pictures of Roman soldiers. They carried shields and wore armour for protection against swords and arrows. The British soldiers carried no protection against bullets and exploding shells, and he didn’t understand why. Limbs and heads were blown from bodies and rolled grotesquely over the blood-red snow carpet of No Man’s Land. He blinked away the misty shroud of tears, squinted down the sights again and could see nothing. Men on the front line heard the screams from behind and faltered, then pressed forward, unseen in clouds of smoke. Their heads cocked to one side, their bodies coiled like springs and holding their breath, they waited for the bullet to end their l
ives. Then, at the roar of an order they started running from one shell crater to another hurling Mills bombs at the barbed wire. A few exploded, the remainder rolled to a stop, harmless, leaving men out in the open and exposed to the ever-present deadly chatter of the German machine-guns.

  With no regard or thought for his own safety, he climbed to the top lip of a bomb crater and scanned the German trenches. German machine-gunners’ helmets flew into the air as his bullets found their marks. When the gunners were replaced, they were treated with the same contempt. Squeeze the trigger and work the bolt, squeeze the trigger and work the bolt, squeeze the trigger. Thomas moved forward, never faltering, upright, calm and collected. He stared death in the face, nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye, and laid down his challenge, neither flinching nor giving ground. A sense of warmth enveloped his body and his vision cleared. Overhead the sky shone blue and cloudless. He smiled. Any moment a bullet, a piece of shrapnel, a burst of hot lead would rip him to pieces. Squeeze the trigger and work the bolt, squeeze the trigger and work the bolt. To die in the company of such brave men would be an honour and his atonement would be complete. Something grabbed at his ankle and he looked down at a man with one half of his face missing, exposing bare cheekbones and teeth. One pleading eye hung from the empty socket, and working his mouth in a silent protest he rolled over and disappeared into a bomb crater filled with liquid mud. A trail of dirty brown bursting bubbles marked his final resting place. Neil Letts watched Thomas from the safety of the trenches and a streak of cold sweat ran down his back. He pulled himself over the parapet and, raising his rifle to his shoulder, entered the field of death. Behind him, one by one, the remaining snipers followed suit.

  Advancing soldiers squared their shoulders and stood upright, cheering as the German gunners slowed under the deadly, accurate hail from the snipers. Suddenly, as though obeying a silent command, the attacking soldiers rose as one from the field of slaughter, dripping with mud and filth, and charged. Eyes glittered from grimy faces, lips pulled back into barbaric snarls revealing stained teeth, and bayonets flashed in the bright low winter sun like polished mirrors. Into the trenches they poured like interlopers of sanity, treating death as a passing fancy while seeking horrible retribution. Germans cowered and screamed in high-pitched pleas. Some fell to their knees holding pictures of their loved ones above their heads, seeking impossible mercy from the unforgiving as the bayonets flashed and slashed into their quivering flesh. Today humanity laid its soul bare. Today there would be no mercy, only the blood-letting of the bastards that came seeking war.

  “Remember, lads, no prisoners, kill the bastards. Think of those lying dead and dying behind you,” a voice screamed above the cacophony of death.

  “Aye, the only rations these bastards will get from me are six inches of cold steel,” another voice snarled.

  Hand-to-hand battles broke out. Men fought like animals, kicking and biting off fingers trying to strangle them. No holds barred, only survival mattered. Thomas cringed and shrank at the sound of screams and shrieks. His legs refused to function and he stood stiff and frightened. The enemy broke and ran screaming to escape the carnage, only to be brought down by a hail of bullets in the back. Lungs filled with smoke and cordite coughed and gasped as bare hands choked the life from wriggling bodies. Others twitched and jerked under the savage blows of rifle butts smashing into faces, sending splintered bones piercing the brain and a quick death. Then silence, broken only by the sound of a sea of rasping breath – the blood lust was over. Men glanced down at themselves to check if they were still alive, unable to believe they were capable of the slaughter piled up around them.

  Thomas sank to his knees and looked down at his muddy blood-spattered uniform. He felt numb and cheated. He was still alive. It wasn’t fair, why wasn’t he dead? Why hadn’t he died a hero’s death in the face of the enemy? Overhead, small wispy clouds glided serenely over the blue sky. Larks dived and swooped. He felt angry and denied of that which was his, and in a fit of temper he hurled his rifle to the ground. A burning determination entered his body, maybe next time he would finish the job himself.

  “Private Elkin, pick up your rifle and fall in for roll-call, there’s a good lad,” Sergeant Bull called gently. Now was the time for Sergeant Bull to pull on the velvet glove, to temper cold fear with warm compassion. With red eyes he watched the men feeling as a father would towards his troubled children and pondered how he might wipe away the horror locked in their hearts. He knew how they felt, but who would ease his mind?

  Thomas stood in line and, with his head bowed, listened in silence.

  Each time Sergeant Bull called out a name twice and received no answer, in a quiet voice he repeated the same question.

  “Anybody know anything?”

  No one answered, and Thomas clenched his fists tight until they became numb. Some sobbed openly and unashamedly. Others stared mutely, still unsure whether they themselves were dead or alive. Those men, seventy per cent of the battalion, who never answered roll-call that day, would never stand in line again. Not in this world.

  Victory belonged to the living, as empty as a tin of used beans rusting on a rubbish tip, and the cruel face of fate had spared them to die another day. How many died that day he didn’t know, but he knew it amounted to tens of thousands. When he saw Stan Banks talking to Leslie Hill he wanted to go to them, to talk, even argue, anything to loosen the image of what he’d just witnessed from his mind. Banks turned and held his gaze with an expressionless face; the tenuousness of their past alliance exposed once again. He gave a small nod and turned away.

  The wounded were brought in by stretcher-bearers, assisted by soldiers, on stretchers rigged from two poles and greatcoats. Brave men were buried where they fell that day. Thomas helped plunge their rifles bayonet first into the ground, their helmets, balancing on the upturned butt, glinting, as a solitary reminder of where the brave warrior fell. Remains of men past recognition were shovelled into empty sandbags and taken away to be buried in unmarked graves for the rats to feast on. Tonight, for a brief time, the living would thank God for their lives and celebrate with watered-down, over-proofed rum.

  “Christ all bloody mighty,” Ollie Love muttered angrily, spitting out blood from a mouth wound. “Bloody Fritz jabbed me in the gob with his rifle just as my bayonet slid between his ribs. Cruel buggers these Germans. They ought to be more careful where they stick their bloody weapons. Come on, lad, let’s get a brew on.”

  “Aye, I’m up for that,” Thomas grunted.

  Love loaded a fresh belt of ammunition into his Lewis gun and began firing until the water-cooled barrel heated the water enough for a lukewarm brew. Men drifted over in dejected groups and sat silently over Dixie’s set on Tommy cookers. Hunched down with the mess tins in their hands they waited for God’s gift to soldiers: a hot tin of tea and a couple of drags from a dog-eared cigarette pulled from behind the ear to settle the mind and still the nerves. Some men ripped off their blood-covered tunics and set them on fire.

  “Do you know something?” Trigger Timpson said between slurping his tea and pulling on a crushed cigarette. “You never see a bloody officer when the killing starts. You can hear the buggers yelling orders, but you never gets to see one, strange that.”

  “Aye, they sling their bloody hooks quick enough when trouble starts, the poncy bastards,” Love said, sticking a grubby finger into his hooked nose and inspecting the proceeds.

  “They piss off to the generals and report how they captured the trenches single-handed,” someone laughed.

  “Those up there? The bloody useless generals who cower miles behind the lines, flicking particles of dust from their polished boots and toasting their hard-fought victory with fine porter and awarding themselves medals,” Love moaned. “Bloody Haig never took the time to visit the front, bloody coward. Lest the sight of the wounded affect my judgement’, that’s what he said, eh, can you bloody believe it?”

  Then, suddenly silence. The banter ceased. Men sat in a calm s
tillness and stared at the twinkling flames heating the petrol can of water, their minds forging hushed pictures of fallen comrades. No man mentioned names or expressed sorrow, that wasn’t the way it was done. Slowly, the adrenaline of battle faded and the unwelcome coldness burrowed its way deep into the marrow of tired bones. Thomas shivered, still uncertain if what had occurred only moments ago really had happened. He closed his eyes. It was a bad dream, a nightmare. He tried to visualise his actions and his memory stalled, like an engine without fuel.

  Lieutenant Blackie survived the day, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper and darker than ever before. Alone in his dugout, with a single lighted candle for company he recalled something he once read.