Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  Moving closer, he stood next to Stan and tapped his shoulder.

  “Hello, Stan,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Stan jerked at the touch and swung round.

  “Bloody hell, General No Names here. What’s the matter with you, got a splinter stuck up your arse, or is your bloody halo too tight?” he said, not bothering to disguise the sneer.

  Horace attempted to laugh at Stan’s remark, but the sound came in a series of rapid hisses like a man pumping up a flat bicycle tyre, and the agony spread like a swarm of ants across the area where his face had once been.

  “Settle down, lad, we’re nearly done,” Stan said, pushing the spoon of porridge into a blackened hole where once a mouth had been.

  Seconds stretched into minutes and Thomas felt unsure how to express his intentions. Then, knowing Stan, he decided on the direct approach.

  “I owe you an apology for the way I treated you in front of the men. I’m sorry, I know better now and I want you back with the Rifles,” Thomas said quietly.

  Stan continued to give his full attention to Horace. He hadn’t expected anything like this to occur after the argument in the trenches. He felt the tilt of anger and wanted to hurl a tirade of foul obscenities at his tormentor to repay him for the misery and abject fear he’d suffered in the bottom of some stinking rat-infested trench. At the same time the words were a like a gift from heaven and he wanted to hug Thomas close and accept the offer of peace with an open heart. But that would be too easy. First, there must be dalliance, a show of unbridled bravado to pretend he needed time to mull over the offer. Damn it, he must first have his revenge, it was only fair, and make sure Thomas felt worse than he already did.

  The nerve-racking days and shivering nights spent waiting to go over the top had taken its toll and made him more nervous than ever before. His trembling hands had become even more difficult to conceal from others and his self-control battled with a delirium clouding his mind and making him lightheaded until he thought he would faint with fright. Even worse were his constant flickering eyebrows, the sign of a man tottering on the edge of an abyss waiting to fall into a place so dark that he could never expect to return to normality as he once knew it.

  Aware that he’d reached the zenith of his fear, he frequently froze at the thought of what he might do next. Perhaps he would run snivelling like a coward while his comrades were ripped to shreds by machine-gunfire and bursting shrapnel shells. All the waiting and thinking in drizzling rain had eaten away his mind the way gangrene devours a rotting wound, unstoppable and all-consuming until, in the end, life ceases. Those who inhabited the trenches day after day called it bomb fever. Whereas with the snipers, things happened fast: hit-and-run raids, night patrols, face-to-face combat with teeth bared, all these he could handle. He liked Thomas, he always had done, from him drew a kind of strength that no one else had ever been able to give him, yet he didn’t know the reason why.

  “I’ll have to think about it, I’ve got a lady to think of now. We might be getting married soon. We’re waiting to hear from HQ for permission.”

  Nonchalantly Thomas shrugged to hide his disappointment. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in believing Stan might be more than happy to return to his friends.

  “Yes, I understand. Maybe you are better off in the trenches. Good luck,” he said in a low voice.

  It was a cruel barb and he knew it the moment the words fell from his mouth, though he didn’t understand the real reason he had said them – perhaps it was Stan’s offhand manner. He knew Stan suffered with fright at the thought of running scared, more than death or mutilation. Perhaps their time had passed, like rippling water over a bed of stones in a shallow stream, and it was too late to continue as friends.

  When he stepped outside the rain had ceased and the moon hung large and full in the dark late night sky. He drew in a deep breath to rid the smell of disinfectant from his lungs. His journey had been in vain and his optimism replaced by a deep sadness he might live to regret within the confines of his shortened life. Under the cloak of darkness his feet found the lurking puddles overjoyed to suck his feet down into the clinging mud and soak his feet to the skin. He shrugged. He had tried his hardest to right the wrong and with all the willpower he could muster he forged ahead through the darkness and allowed indifference to fill his mind.

  When he reached the farmhouse he intended to ask Moses to draft him a letter, using posh words, making his parents sole beneficiaries to his stake in the flock of sheep. If he did not return within six months of the war ending, the flock and all profits would be theirs. It wasn’t much, but under the circumstances it was the best he could do. If one thing was certain it was that Archie would never allow him to lead a normal life, perhaps even if he had the misfortune to survive the war. He’d spent most nights wracking his brain for the best road to take, knowing deep down it would finally be a darkened road of Archie’s choosing.

  “Hey, lad,” Stan Banks shouted through the darkness, “you wouldn’t consider being my best man would you? Someone told me it’s a job for silly buggers and I thought you would be perfect.”

  Thomas met Mary Sanderson, Stan’s fiancée. She was pert with rosy red cheeks, and quick witted, which would suit Stan. She worked tirelessly as a sister in the hospital and came from Fleetwood in Lancashire where she worked as a midwife. To their great surprise, and against all hope, two days later they were granted permission to marry in a small chapel untouched by the war eleven miles from the allied lines. HQ, in their infinite wisdom, thought it might be good for the morale of the men to see some sign of normality for once instead of the terror of continual fighting. After the wedding, both parties would return to their respective places of duty; a honeymoon out of the question. After that, their life together during the time spent at war would consist of brief encounters only.

  When the news of the wedding broke, a wave of nostalgia filled the air and each soldier from the battalion not on duty promised to make every effort to attend. Uniforms were scraped and cleaned of mud, boots polished as best they could and buttons made to shine fit for parade inspection. Word quickly travelled down the lines that a soldier was marrying a nurse, salutes were fired from the field guns and gifts of food and small tokens were brought on horseback by the men of the Household Cavalry. The Rifle Company formed a guard of honour outside the church, and when Stan became overcome with emotion they snatched his hat from his head and jumped on it, sending him into a rage.

  “You silly little bugger,” Leslie Hill chided. “Stop your daft piping and kiss the girl, or I’ll take her back to the trenches with me and you’ll never see her again.”

  The downside was Thomas’s dismal and uninspiring speech, and stuttering and mumbling he was booed and told to sit down. When he adamantly refused to take a drink, swearing he was teetotal, they poured cheap wine down his throat forcibly until he was hardly able to stand. Aggressive with drink, he foolishly picked a fight with Leslie Hill, who dropped him with one punch and left him to sleep it off. The next day all was forgotten. Thomas was happy that he and Stan were reunited as friends once more. He still hadn’t asked Moses to draft the letter to his parents, but he would do so today. Moses would know what to say. He always did.

  By the fire Moses focused his attention on Thomas sitting with his feet in a bowl of hot mustard water and sniffing every few seconds. He smiled when Thomas sneezed.

  “So, the scourge of the Western Front has caught a cold,” he laughed, pushing away the pencil and paper. “Sign at the bottom and it’s ready to go, and don’t forget not to sign your real name.”

  “Thank you, Moses,” Thomas answered in a nasal drone, blowing his nose on a piece of rag torn from an old khaki army shirt.

  “You are more than welcome, my good man. Anyway, what’s so special about this farm?”

  “Ah, you have to see it, Moses,” he began. “It’s set between the rolling hills of the Yorkshire Moors. You can see for miles on a clear day. The farmhouse is roomy with a large o
pen fire to toast you bright pink in the winter. A large kitchen with a black cooking range big enough to cook for the battalion, and in the cold room sides of meat hang from hooks in the ceiling and choice cuts lie on a slab. They were a celebration to eat with boiled potatoes and dark green fresh cabbage reared from my ma’s garden at the back.”

  Moses smiled a sad smile at the enthusiastic description and for a passing moment felt a brief pang of envy tangled with sorrow. Before him stood a boy whose young life would never run the gamut of boyhood or relish in the pranks of other boys of the same age. Prematurely pushed into adulthood by a series of events beyond the control of his juvenile mind, he still remained too young to be a man and yet too old to be a boy. For a moment Moses looked at him steadily, like he’d never looked at him before, and with a resigned sigh he tossed another log onto the fire and watched the sparks fly.

  “You mustn’t stay too long, you’ll catch a cold yourself,” Thomas droned.

  Moses was prevented from answering by the sound of Atlas Blunder and Leslie Hill crashing through the farmhouse door like two rampaging bulls, sending Thomas’s bowl of hot water slithering across the floor. Thomas dried his feet and pulled on a clean pair of socks, aware that with Atlas in the vicinity there would be no point in refilling the bowl.

  “For God’s sake, why don’t you two learn to enter a room in a proper manner?” Moses sighed.

  “Sorry, your lordship,” Atlas said sarcastically, snorting through his large hooked nose before turning to Thomas. “I think we’ve found a new man to take over Harry Hardiker’s section – bloody great shot he is, and he plays a whistle set to make you cry.”

  “It’s not a whistle, it’s a flute,” Leslie Hill said.

  “Well it looks like a whistle to me,” Atlas snapped.

  “Aye, a bloody trombone looks like a whistle to you.”

  Any answer to the remark was lost in the sudden crescendo of guns as the allied barrage sent the ground beneath them shaking and trembling. Outside the sky became frozen red with a curtain of gun flashes from the artillery, and once again the countryside became a well of death. Thomas hurried to get dressed and made his way to the trenches. Stan Banks had already taken the liberty of re-forming Harry Hardiker’s old section and with a full complement of snipers ready, he waited for orders.

  “Stay in the trenches until you are told otherwise,” Sergeant Bull ordered the men.

  The next day Thomas met Leslie Walsh, the man both Leslie and Atlas had recommended taking over number three section. Born and bred in Liverpool, he had trained as a musician and played in an orchestra in Bromley. He possessed an easy way of moving, which seemed to re-assure those around him. He neither hurried nor slouched. Moses said it was his musical training that gave him a rhythm in life. Whenever he played the Londonderry Air the haunting tunes rose above No Man’s Land and men listened wet eyed, oblivious to the death-spewing guns and the fate that awaited them. When Thomas mentioned that Stan had already formed a section, he smiled readily and said he would be available if ever needed.

  “When the war is over and we are all dead, do you think people will remember us?” Atlas said, unbuttoning his top tunic button and staring down the trench.

  “Doubt it lad,” Stan answered plunging his trembling hands deep into his pockets. “We’re here as punishment, though only God knows what for.”

  Crouched in the trench Moses raised his head and glanced at the boy bent next to him. He looked no older than eighteen. He noticed his slender hands and long tapered fingers, almost like a woman’s. No longer able to bear the incessant guns the boy dropped his rifle and cowered to the ground with his hands pressed tight over his ears to keep out the noise. His head twitched from side-to-side as though his neck was made from rubber, and foam slobbered from his mouth. His legs kicked and jerked and he could no longer stand unaided. Sprawling in the bottom of the trench he clawed violently at the filthy mud like he was trying to dig his way to another world.

  “Come on, my friend, not long now, it will soon be over,” Moses shouted, pulling the boy to his feet.

  The boy lost all control of his senses and, hunched like an old woman. He tried to stand. As the sound of mortars and bombs magnified and the twitching increased, his eyes rolled, leaving only the whites visible, and saliva dribbled from his mouth. Men turned to stare with empty eyes and shivered. They had seen it before. The boy fell head first back into the filth of the trench, mumbling and pleading to be shot. Moses stood unmoved and looked up for support. No one cared. This was a battle of survival and only the strongest would survive. The words shell-shock had replaced bomb fever, yet either, mistaken for cowardice, had taken many brave men where maybe a bullet would have served a better end. Sergeant Bull, true to form bobbed up from nowhere and hefted the twitching boy onto his shoulder.

  “Come on, lad, this is no place for you today,” he said, and making his way down the trench he pushed him into the recess full of spare ammunition.

  “Give him here,” Apple said, sitting the boy in a corner. “Okay, Sergeant, I’ll keep an eye on the poor little sod.”

  At ten minutes past three in the morning on a Thursday in June, Moses and three-hundred-thousand men fought against the odds to hold their sanity intact under a pale moon. The shelled countryside now totally unrecognisable turned into a churned ocean of viscid mud. Some men dropped to their knees mumbling a distorted prayer, others lost control of their organs and stood petrified in the stench of their own excrement. The piercing screams of terrified horses brought tears to hardened eyes, causing men to drop their weapons and clamp their hands over their ears. This wasn’t a war. No one knew what it was. There were never the words.

  The Messines Ridge heaved and belched as nineteen huge mines erupted in the tunnels. Moses stared in disbelief and horror as the deepest hell spewed its worst in front of his very eyes. One million pounds of ammonal in nineteen of the twenty-four mines erupted under the German lines. The ground shook men off balance, sending them staggering with broken legs and falling screaming in pain to the ground. Hundreds of tons of earth plumed into the sky, leaving pillars of black earth and crimson fire hanging like huge thunderclouds blotting out the moon. The savage blast rent the countryside apart, altering the landscape forever. Ten thousand Germans were atomised, thousands died without a mark on their bodies with ruptured spleens and kidneys from the shockwaves, and others were buried alive or blown to oblivion. Moses blinked and looked around for his men.

  “Steady, steady,” he called, as men turned away to avoid looking at the senseless destruction and carnage.

  “Serve the bastard’s right. If they have an ounce of sense it will be the last bloody war the Germans ever start, I’ll bet my balls on that,” a shaking voice called.

  Two-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-six artillery guns went into action and the creeping barrage began. Nine infantry divisions surged forward, some so precipitately that they were injured from the falling debris hurled into the sky by the exploding mines. Moses ordered his men forward; and they went forward as though they were hypnotised by some unknown superior will. Thomas, Stan and Leslie watched from further down the line. German soldiers, dazed by the ferocity of the explosion, walked round in a state of shock, gibbering and mumbling and surrendering by the thousand. The German survivors, too numerous for men to be spared to escort them to captivity, were rounded up by New Zealanders and forced to hand over their braces. When the buttons were removed from their trousers, they were sent back to the allied lines busy preserving their modesty.

  “Get your snipers down the slope, and knock out the machine-gunners before our lads are ripped to shreds,” Sergeant Bull ordered Thomas.

  The towns of Messines and Wytschaete were captured and the allies advanced down the slope capturing German concrete pillboxes as they went. German counter-attacks were repulsed, leaving nearly twenty-five-thousand allied soldiers dead or wounded. The Messines salient disappeared forever. It had been a great victory but never magnificent. Mose
s wiped the grime from his face, sighed and re-joined the stream of men passing through the trench. The bloody third battle for Ypres had begun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the days that followed the snipers were kept together and despatched when and where they were needed, Sergeant Bull often put his life on the line and refused to allow them to be used just to make up numbers and plug gaps. Thomas sniffed and ate a tasteless hunk of cheese in a warm wooden bunker vacated by the retreating Germans. Moses screwed the top back onto his water bottle and watched him through tired eyes. On impulse he decided he wanted to know what lurked in Thomas’s mind confronted by so much appalling danger and confusion, why should he ignore the threat to his own existence. The impression of memories left by past battles had heightened his grip for self-preservation, and he had no intention of allowing Thomas to bring about his early death.

  “What are your intentions?” Moses asked him bluntly, making certain no one overheard his remark. “Are you contemplating suicide, or can you be relied upon?”

  The suddenness of the question took Thomas by surprise.

  “What’s it to you?” he said, looking up and frowning.

  “Because if you endanger my life, or anyone else’s in the pursuit of ending your own, I can guarantee I’ll save you the trouble and put a bullet in you myself. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  For a long moment they locked eyes, tension crackling in the air as possibilities and motives tumbled in their minds. Thomas rubbed his face with his hands and pushed back his hair. A man didn’t go around making threats unless he had something to hide. Never before had Moses spoken to him in that manner and he was eager to know why.

  “Are you afraid of dying?” Moses asked.

  “No more than any other man.”

  “I am, the thought haunts me day and night.”

  Moses stretched his fingers and balled his hands and remained silent, then turned and shuffled away to re-join his section. Thomas watched unable to find the reason for Moses threatening attitude. Again and again his heart had always wanted to cling to life, Moses knew that. Yet deep down he knew it was futile to try and escape from Archie’s clutches. Even from beyond the grave Archie controlled his mind and appeared at will to force him into which road he should take. At times he actually believed he’d lost the power to be afraid. He’d made provisions for his parents, happy in the knowledge they believed Archie was the true hero. He had no problem with that. In fact, after a time he’d come to derive a great deal of pleasure from the thought.