He couldn’t wait.
Chapter 60
October 1917
Bill was shivering but it wasn’t only the cold that was making his limbs shake; he was sick with fear and exhaustion. The artillery bombardment from both sides was ceaseless, had been for the last forty-eight hours. The thunderous noise had long since deafened him to other sounds. He saw the mouths of the men around him moving, knew they were shouting sometimes. But he heard nothing only the booms of shells and crack of rifles. He’d thought the fiasco the bloody officers had called the Big Push was bad enough but this was a nightmare.
Six times they’d been stood to. Shoulder to shoulder with Reilly and Boardman, he felt their terror shudder through him, listened to Len’s rapid heavy breathing between the massive explosions. None of them spoke; there was nothing to say. Once, further along the trench, he heard a soldier praying and cursing obscenely at the same time until the officer barked at him to ‘shut the fuck up’. Bill was both relieved and angry. He realised he’d been repeating the man’s words. They’d been strangely comforting.
The shells were still dropping but they’d been stood down for an hour. No false alarms of German advancement. No real threat of one of them standing with bayonet at the ready on the broken parapet above.
A brown haze vibrated oddly over the battlefield, blending with the steady drizzle. At least the downpour that drenched them in the night had stopped but it was little comfort, his feet, sloshing around in muddy water, were wet through and hurting.
‘I’m going for a shit,’ he shouted. Bugger asking permission from whichever officer was supposed to be in charge. The two friends nodded, too worn out to speak.
Bill sat on his backside and, not trusting his painful feet, inched his way along the trench through the slime of mud, cursing that the makeshift latrines were so far from their position.
Around one corner he disturbed a clutch of rats feeding on something. He kicked out at them, his boot touching a gnawed human hand. Blackened bone stuck out where three of the fingers should have been. Elliot’s hand. He knew it was Elliot’s hand from the silver wedding ring, grotesque on the one whole finger. He’d copped it two days ago, in the first assault. They’d been ordered to drag what was left of him to the pit at the far end of the trench and shovel lime on top.
Icy sweat ran into Bill’s eyes. He rubbed his face against his shoulder, gulping. He hadn’t eaten in over a day yet still heaved as though his stomach was overfull. The hysteria built up inside him and he began to swear, at first silently, then out loud. Muttering the words he pushed himself to his feet and slid past the gruesome object, eyes averted. Keeping low, he stumbled a few more yards before turning into the short side trench dug into the ground. Leaving his rifle propped against the wooden boards outside the latrines and holding his breath against the stink he squatted to shit.
Hastily pulling up his trousers and fastening the buttons, he collected his rifle and, ducking down to make sure he was below the parapet, hurried back to the main trench.
The pack of rats was once more gnawing on Elliot’s hand.
Reluctant to go past them, Bill stopped, absentmindedly scratching the constant itch from the lice in the seams of his uniform.
‘Get back in line.’
The voice was high-pitched.
He ignored the order.
‘I said, get back in line or I shoot.’
Still scratching, Bill moved, not even looking to see who the command came from. He couldn’t tell who the damn officers were anymore, anyway. They’d lost Major Allen in the first month at Le Havre; silly sod had managed to get himself run down by a truck driven by a French farmer. Since then him, Boardman and Reilly had lost count of the men promoted to officer rank and then killed.
Out of sight of the man who’d yelled at him, Bill stopped again, closing his eyes.
The shelling stopped. It seemed eerily quiet. All he could hear was the low murmur of voices further along the line, someone coughing, a rattling of the corrugated sheets, fashioned into a shelter for the officers, the whining of the wind above him. Somewhere, in No Man’s Land, or was it in the Jerry’s ranks, there were pitiful screams every now and then.
Some poor sod dying alone.
‘You okay, mate?’ One of the men lined up glanced over his shoulder at Bill. He frowned, studied him.
Bill nodded. The thought struck him that the bloke might have been wondering if he’d lost his bottle.
Sometimes he wondered that himself.
‘Come on, yer bloody soft arse,’ he told himself, moving away from the man. ‘What the ’ell’s wrong with you?’ But he couldn’t prevent the huge sob that filled his throat.
The barrage of the British artillery started again and, just a suddenly, ceased.
Bill hobbled back to stand between Boardman and Reilly.
‘Bloody feet are killing me,’ he moaned.
‘When was the last time you changed your socks?’ Boardman said, his eyes fixed on the box periscope which jutted above the parapet. ‘Can’t see any sign of movement.’ He glanced sideways at Bill with a look of concern. ‘Did you grease your feet this morning.’
‘Can’t bloody well even remember when it was morning, let alone the last time I used that stinking stuff.’
‘Whale oil,’ Boardman said. ‘It’s whale oil.’
‘Don’t give a fuck. It bloody stinks.’
‘How can you tell?’ This time Reilly spoke. ‘We all stink worse than any whale. I pity the poor fish in the sea. I bet whales are the equivalent to Evans.’
Despite the fear, they laughed quietly at the thought of the soldier who hadn’t washed from the first week they’d arrived at Ashford until the day, six months later, Major Allen had dragged him to the canal and thrown him in, fully clothed.
‘Christ, I’m scared.’ Boardman spoke out of the corner of his mouth, back to position in front of the periscope.
‘We’ll look after you, won’t we, Dennis?’ Bill gave Reilly a nudge. ‘You’ve got a wife and kid waiting for you in Blighty, Mr Boardman.’
‘Yeah, we’re the Three Musketeers, aren’t we?’
Bill hadn’t a clue what Reilly was talking about but it sounded okay so he answered, ‘Yeah, course we are.’
The cry went along the trenches. ‘Stand to.’ Somewhere, further along the trenches, the thin wail of bagpipes started up.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell,’ Bill muttered.
‘I’m going to shit myself,’ Boardman said.
‘Well, let us go first then,’ Reilly grinned, glancing at him. ‘We smell bad enough without a shower of shit falling on us.’
Bill chuckled, even though his own insides felt as though they were turning to water. ‘Stick with us, Len.’
‘Ready?’ Bill gripped the sandbags on the parapet, trying to get a hold on them. But they were slimy with rain and rotten with age and fell apart. ‘Blast!’ he grabbed hold of one of the wooden struts. ‘Ready?’ he asked again, hauling himself to the top.
Bayonets at the ready, the long line of men stumbled over the uneven ground behind the creeping barrage of artillery. Squinting into the smoke and dirt clouds thrown up by the bombardment, Bill tried not to look at the rotting corpses hanging on the barbed wire, the torn limbs all around them.
Crouched low, he was comforted by the closeness of his two mates.
Bullets flew all around them. Bill could hear Boardman screaming. ‘Oh God, oh God.’
‘Get down,’ he shouted, tugging on his mate’s arm.
‘Move forward.’ Bill couldn’t tell who was shouting the order but guessed it was a soddin’ toff given the posh voice. ‘Keep going.’
‘Sod off,’ Bill muttered. Bill tugged again. ‘Keep with me, lad, stay close to me.’
Len staggered. For a second he was in front of Bill. When he fell to his knees Bill stopped, unable to work out what had happened. His face was wet. Lowering his rifle he bent down to help Len to his feet. ‘S’okay, mate. Come on, get up,’ he shout
ed above the racket of shouts and screams and rat-tat of the Vickers in front of him. But something was wrong; he found Len’s shoulder but moving his hand along there was no head. Something warm dripped down the side of his head into his collar. Knowing, yet not wanting to know, he touched his face. His fingers moved over his skin, moved over lumps and splinters of bone. Of skull. Len Boardman had moved in front of him at the wrong time. Bill shut out the next thought: at the right time. The bullet should have hit him but his friend had taken it.
‘Reilly!’
But Reilly had moved forward with the rest of them. In the faint light of dawn he saw them; small, ghostly, silent figures stumbling away from him, falling to the ground. Men walking over the bodies of the blokes they’d lived alongside for the last two years. Friends they made, shared laughs and stories with, sworn together with at the fools of officers who set the rules and the punishments.
Mindlessly walking to their deaths.
The hysteria was fighting to get out in one long scream.
‘Move forward.’ Bill felt the prod of a pistol in his back. ‘Move forward or I shoot.’
‘Fuck off!’ He swung around and stabbed.
For a moment he was face to face to the officer. With the boy. It went through his mind, a fleeting recognition that the lad was probably no older than seventeen. Shouldn’t have even been there, should have been home with his family. But it was too late. His bayonet had sliced through the officer’s throat.
Bill stared at the crumpled figure sprawled at his feet. So this was how the nightmare would end, in front of a firing squad. He looked around. Someone must have seen.
But the soldiers moved past him, faces set, intent on getting to the Jerries before they got them.
Bill turned and walked with them. He didn’t feel the crunch of bone under his boot when he stood on what was left of Len’s head.
Chapter 61
Crouched in the trench, Bill wrapped his arms around himself and rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. He kept the rhythm going trying to blank out his mind. The shaking deep inside him wouldn’t stop. He could hear his teeth coming together in one continuous tapping. And he was so bloody cold. As soon as he closed his eyes the images came back: of the lines of shadowy men, half-hidden by the smoke and dirt, the flashes of explosions, Boardman’s wide-eyed terror just before they climbed out of the trench. The face of the lad, the officer, he’d killed. It was the shock he tried to tell himself. But he knew it was really in anger. Anger because the officer didn’t bloody care that his mate had fallen, anger because he didn’t know anymore why they were fighting over a bit of land. Anger at the faceless sods that had sent them to this god-forsaken place as artillery fodder.
He rocked faster, needing to block out the rage, the frustration. The fear.
For the last two days, since they’d been on the support line, he’d tried not to sleep. And yet he wanted oblivion. It hadn’t been the first time they’d marched, unthinking, into No Man’s Land. But it was the first time he’d lost a mate. The moment of Boardman’s death, those seconds of realisation of what had happened, of what he’d then done, terrified him. Someone must have seen what happened.
He stopped rocking. Listened. Someone was sobbing. No-one told him to shut up. Bill looked along the trench. Most of the men were too weary to even raise their heads. Some stared back at him with empty eyes. Perhaps his were just the same. All were leaning against the sandbags, arms dangling by their side, rifles propped next to them.
Past them he could see the signaller in the telephone dugout. He seemed to be asleep, helmet over his eyes. If the NCO or the captain came through the bloke would be in trouble.
Bill held his head in his hands. With a bit of luck they would be in the support line for another two days. Four days was what they were supposed to have in support. So far it had never been a full four days before they were called to the front line again.
A rat pushed an empty tin along the wooden duckboard. Bill straightened his leg in a half-hearted attempt to kick out at it. It studied him with black bead eyes until it resumed its task and moved past him.
Further along on a man stamped on the rodent. Bill watched with blank eyes. The disgusting mess was added to the mire.
Bill fumbled in his jacket chest pocket and brought out the now tattered piece of paper he’d carried so proudly in his pay book, when he left Ashford to cheering and the brass band playing Tipperary. And then again in Manchester, when the old blokes clapped and waved pint pots outside the pubs as the battalion marched past. They must have fought their own wars. But nothing like this.
His reading wasn’t up to much but he could read this. Kitchener’s message was a joke. Telling each soldier to be ‘courteous, considerate and kind’ to local people and allied soldiers, and to avoid ‘the temptations both in wine and women’ was stupid.
What chance had they had of wine and women? And they’d been ignored by the French, chivvied from pillar to post over the months. None of them knew where the hell they were anymore. Every trench, every road they were forced to march along, every piece of ground they defended against the Germans, looked the same. It took them all their time to make sure they weren’t all bloody killed. Courteous, considerate and kind my arse, he thought, fighting back angry tears. Fuckin’ manners went out the fuckin’ window. And the only kindness any of them could afford was to watch the backs of the men they were stood next to.
And a fine bloody job he’d just done of that. He thumped the side of his head. It didn’t make him feel any better. He did it again. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
He chucked the paper onto the ground. A rat pounced, carrying it away.
‘Here.’ Reilly aimed a kick at the rodent as it scampered past him. He held out a packet in his hand. ‘Biscuits. And don’t break your teeth on them.’
‘Naw.’ Bill flapped him away. ‘Can’t bloody eat.’
‘Baccy then?’
‘Thanks.’ Bill took the tin from him and opened it. He rolled the tobacco between his thumb and his palm, concentrating on the action. Pushing away the images. Although he much preferred a cigarette he liked the feel of the pipe. There was comfort in the way he could clench it between his teeth.
‘It wasn’t your fault, you know.’ Reilly sat at the side of him. ‘Boardman getting it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was.’ Bill packed the bowl of the pipe. It was something he’d have to live with. That and killing the young lad. He’d stopped thinking of him as an officer days ago. It was that last look of surprise in the lad’s eyes that he wouldn’t forget. But he couldn’t tell Reilly about that. He couldn’t tell anyone.
Reilly rested his head against the sandbags, helmet tilted over his eyes, the rifle between his thighs. He tapped a rhythm on the barrel, a definite sign of his impatience. ‘Bloody hell, Howarth, we all knew what we were getting into.’
‘Did we ’ell.’ He fought against blurting everything out. He couldn’t trust, wouldn’t trust anyone with what had happened after Len copped it. But he blamed himself.
Reilly leaned forward, pushed his helmet up. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘But we knew we were going to war.’
‘And so ’ere we are.’ Bill sucked on the pipe, taking the comforting warmth of the tobacco smoke into his lungs. ‘Here we fuckin’ are.’
Chapter 62
It was their last day in the support line. By rights they should have been going back to the nearest village for four days’ rest in the bombed out buildings. Looking forward to some warm grub and decent sleep in the makeshift quarters. But they’d been told they’d be needed on the front line again in the morning, until the next battalion could be mustered.
Bill slept fitfully waiting for the call. He jumped when Reilly’s boot nudged him. ‘What the hell…’
‘Come on, I’ve volunteered us to go and have a squint at the Jerries,’ Reilly said, his tone grim. ‘All this hanging around is getting to me.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, shift yourse
lf.’ He scrambled over the parapet on his belly, looking over his shoulder at Bill. ‘Let’s see if we can bag a couple of the bastards. Revenge for Len.’
‘Shit, Reilly, wait on.’ Still trying to clear his head, Bill followed. They crawled through the zigzag path of barbed wire entanglements, avoiding the bodies, slowly navigating around the water-filled shell craters. Every now and then clouds masked a half moon. The intermittent glimmer made crossing No Man’s Land easier. Staying still in the light, moving on in the darkness.
Reilly passed the listening post without acknowledging the two infantrymen crouched down in the small trench. Bill grunted a low greeting.
‘Okay, lads?’
‘Bloody freezing,’ was the whispered reply. ‘And wet through.’
Bill didn’t envy them; he’d done a few stints in the ‘saps’ and it was bloody scary, perched out in No Man’s Land with no protection but bayonetted rifles.
He soon realised he had no choice but to crawl over the corpses covered in flies and maggots. The foul smell brought back the night he and Sid had moved Sid’s father’s body at Blossom Farm. Christ, he’d hoped never to smell that stench again and here he was knee deep in it day after day.
The moon was hidden for a moment. Reaching out to go on he put his hand down into the middle of a stomach. Slimy guts spilled out between his fingers in a flurry of flies. He gagged, hearing Reilly quietly cursing as he too retched and heaved.
‘You okay, Reilly?’ Bill gulped. He used his elbows to drag himself towards his friend. ‘This is bloody awful. We could go back? Say we saw nothing?’
‘No.’ Reilly’s voice was strange; dogged. ‘Come on, let’s see what those bloody Krauts are doing.’ He lifted up on hands and knees and scuttled forward.
‘Get down, yer daft bugger. They’ll see you.’ And me, Bill added to himself. What the hell was Reilly thinking? At this rate he’d get them both killed. Fear mingled with irritation. ‘And slow down as well. D’yer want us both to finish up like these poor sods?’
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