A Cellist Soldier

by Robert J. Fanshawe

  “Oh don’t you know his name. And what’s your name mister cello player?” asked jack.

  “Marcus.”

  “Fuck me, Marcus and Henry and the nameless dead. Well let’s just call you Cello.

  Henry and Marcus looked at each other. “We don’t know the name of the one who was killed. We only met the other day,” Henry said.

  “Oh, but you two know each other well don’t you.”

  “Artists stick together. We don’t really know each other too well, just talked about our work.”

  “Work is it, work?!” Jack scoffed.

  “Yes work,” said Henry confidently.

  “Not real work though.”

  “It is artistic work. We use our brains and hands… But mostly our hearts.”

  “Doesn’t seem important now though does it?” asked Ben.

  “It’s very important to keep focused on what we do in the real world,” said Marcus.

  There was a moment’s silence as men shuffled about eating or drinking. But Jack continued to look at Marcus and Henry with open contempt. He sat back and lit a smoke. “Well you people better realise that you are in the real world here. It’s war and people get killed as you have just seen. So give up thoughts of your world. This is the only one now.” He sat back in a peaceful manner. “Now I’m gonna smoke and have a bit of drink, take a shit and sleep. That’s our world, until the Hun comes again eh Ben.”

  Ben nodded turning his face away. He had shaved and cleaned his rifle.

  Marcus looked like a boy, with blond hair and a face that hardly had hair on it. He ignored the face of jack but turned to the Corporal. “So what are we gonna do about that man in No Man’s Land then Corp, crying for help?”

  The Corporal shot a look at Jack. “Probably be dead by morning.” He sniffed, as if that was a reason for regret rather than indifference.

  “Probably another April Fool, what d’you think Ben?” Jack opened his mouth laughing in a cackle and coughing. His teeth were not good.

  “Well if we can’t hear him in the morning we’ll know that it was!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A patrol is planned

  They were awake for the dawn stand too. They were awake listening. It was not the time for talking. Private pain was beginning to creep into their hearts but it was out of reach of expression. Sleep had dulled the adrenalin of the night before last but now they had to go on living, though some wanted that more than others. They shuffled past each other with eyes down.

  Every man should be at his post for stand too. Every man should be alert with his weapon already cleaned and fully ready for action. They faced the enemy, standing along the trench taking care this time not to be seen, while NCOs and the Platoon Commander came behind them to inspect and question. Very little eye contact was made. No one could see what the other was thinking in these brief exchanges.

  As the Lieutenant and Sergeant stood outside the bunker surveying the backs of the men the crying came again so distinctly it could be heard by everyone. “Please… please… help.” It floated on the morning air, which was clear and quiet; like a voice in waiting. It came across more like an accusation than a plea.

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed the officer. “Who is that, do we know? Is he one of yours Corporal?”

  “No sir, all our casualties accounted for ’cept a couple of dead over the parapet.”

  “He sounds very close though.”

  “Don’t think he is sir, sound plays tricks, one moment he sounds close, the next a long way away. When there is no bombardment and no other sound, y’know.”

  The crying came again. This time it was just a desperate sort of sobbing which fell upon the listeners ears.

  “Well are you going to get him?” the Lieutenant asked sharply, obviously disturbed by the voice, twitching his head from side to side.

  The Corporal spoke. The others remained silent as if they had no knowledge of what was being spoken about. “Well sir, like I said we have no idea where he is; one moment he is close, then far away.”

  “Could be a stomach wound sir. So his head is close to the ground and you can’t get a proper direction on him,” volunteered the Sergeant.

  “Yes, you may be right. Well Corporal this is not good. He might be there for days.”

  “I don’t think so sir.”

  The all looked at one another. For an instant some eyes met. Questions of a deeper nature formed themselves in the echo of the darts. Perhaps he had been left out on purpose, forgotten deliberately. Who had the courage to go out and look for him after they had witnessed a patrol being slaughtered?

  War will always have its dirty underside.

  “Well we are not in the business of just leaving a man out there to die, especially one of our own. I want patrols out to find him, this evening please.”

  “Very good sir… Sir, is there any news about… the offensive.”

  “It’s delayed, apparently the French are in an awful mess, and it won’t involve us any way, all happening over there to the East. Our orders are to hold here… and wait.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Right, well we’d better be off… Don’t forget, tonight, get that chap back!”

  “Sir…we down to six men now you know,” said the Corporal.

  But the officer glared and left. They stood down. Single reinforcements were not always forthcoming. All extra men were needed for the push, not reserve units.

  “Get that chap back!” Jack mimicked the officer’s accent. “Apparently the French are in an awful mess.” Then he changed to a voice of bitterness; “that’s it, always blame some other fucker…one of the first rules of war.”

  “Right you men. I want someone looking for this man all day. Use the periscopes and get a bead on him as soon as you hear him again,” the Corporal ordered his men. His leadership was rejuvenated after his talk with the Platoon Commander and Sergeant.

  But Jack appeared to be heading for the bottle again. “Breakfast Ben?” He lifted it.

  “No I’ll take first stint with Henry, get these periscopes set up.”

  “We can’t use the periscopes in that part of the trench.” Marcus indicated the place where the other Artists’ Rifleman had been killed by a sniper. No one dared use that piece of trench.

  It wasn’t long before they heard the crying again. Ben was looking through one of the periscopes. He saw a landscape of mud, in small spaces. The periscope magnified a small circular area which could then be moved and traversed; rushing over the ground then focusing on another little circle of mud. He heard the crying then looked through the periscope at the place where he had heard it and saw nothing. But the periphery of hidden undulations were magnified, leaving their contents to the imagination. Craters where there might be life, half submerged in a pool of water and blood, a soldier unable to move; a soldier like them, like those who had been remorselessly killed by them and by the enemy.

  But who was the killer when the adrenalin smashed your arm holding a sharp entrenching tool down onto a man’s neck; when you didn’t even think, before shooting? Ben brought the periscope close to the trench and surveyed the dead Germans. The ones he had killed. They were just lumps. He didn’t look for their faces.

  The crying became unbearable to listen to as the day wore on with soldiers’ tasks. So they didn’t speak about it, as if they weren’t listening to it.

  There had been a barrage, which had changed the face of the place where the periscope ranged and traversed.

  It was quiet; a quiet afternoon where men waited. They waited for an action, a promised action. They waited unseen by any periscope. Many were in underground bunkers, to the right, the east; waiting for a word, an order. To attack.

  Ben came back onto periscope duty later with Marcus, the Cellist.

  Ben tipped the periscope up towards the ridge. That’s where the enemy were. He worked along it carefully, noting some bits of wire. The Hun that had attacked them had crawled through their wire, under the c
over of the barrage. Some had been cut, leaving a repair job which so far had been unaddressed. The ridge ahead looked lifeless. Sometimes you knew where the Hun was. Sometimes you knew when a shell would come over.

  Something made him feel the Hun was not there.

  Looking through the periscope made him feel calm. Then he heard the crying, crying for a mother. Marcus had gone to get something to eat. “Why don’t you get back up here on the other periscope Marcus and look at this.” He wanted someone else to listen with him, not look. The sound touched a heart that he didn’t know was there any longer.

  Marcus was getting used to his periscope. He brushed a long lock of blond hair away from his face and tilted his helmet back as he put his eye to it and lifted the top over the parapet, where the mud was hard. It waved about a bit and then he knelt down on the fire step. He was tall with long hands, so he tried bracing the long barrel of the scope against the trench wall.

  Ben noticed something about his movement. A good footballer never puts a foot wrong or out of place. A fast runner runs gracefully, keeping his head still. “Do you mind if we call you Cello?” He asked.

  “No, of course not,” said the young man in a steady voice.

  “Not that we know anything about the cello.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  They surveyed the ground.

  “How did you come to join us as reinforcements?”

  “I don’t know. We were brought up to the logistic area and then told we were coming here, to the Worcesters.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Nothing…Except.”

  “Except what?”

  Marcus was looking. The crying came and he looked far to the right. His height made him look further over beyond where the Lewis had its zone of observation. He was suddenly still. Then he lifted one foot onto the step, in line with the other knee. “I think I see him.”

  “Where?” Ben showed excitement too.

  “Over beyond the Lewis gun. Who is over there anyway?”

  “You mean, who, from our side?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I think that is where they are waiting to do the attack.”

  “What are they waiting for?”

  “I don’t know. What can you see anyway?”

  “It’s confused. There is so much wire over there and its going downhill, not flat ground.”

  “Nowhere’s flat is it when you look through these things.”

  “No, but I can see something, looks like it may be a helmet.”

  “Is it moving?”

  “Not really.”

  The sun was beginning to drop behind them. Evening was coming. “Corp, you awake?” called Ben.

  A muffled grunt came from the bunker.

  “Bring a compass if you got one. We might have a bead on this voice.”

  “Coming.” The voice held exasperation not excitement, as if a sleep had been disturbed. But he did bring the compass and grimaced when he heard the moaning of the casualty. “You got him?” He asked Marcus, too casually.

  “Can’t tell, but it could be.”

  “Take a bearing then… You do know how to take a bearing don’t you?”

  “Yes I do.”

  Henry and Peter had taken up positions on the Lewis gun. “We have all been trained to take a bearing,” pointed out Henry.

  “And have you been trained to use those things, hanging around your neck?” asked the Corporal, pointing to the haversacks that held their gas respirators.

  “Oh yes,” replied Henry without conviction.

  “That’s good, coz we’ll probably need ’em tonight,” gloated Jack as he emerged from the bunker.

  “Yes, take a bearing and that’s where we are going, and we could meet some gas lying in those craters,” agreed the Corporal.

  “Hun could throw some more over at us as well,” said Jack.

  “Don’t know whether they still up there on that ridge,” said Ben. “It looks sort of empty.”

  “That’s what they hoping for, to get the attack going.” The Corporal sucked on his pipe. “You got that bearing yet, Mister Cello?”

  “Yes I got it.”

  “And what is the bearing?”

  “Its around zero three zero degrees.”

  “Right that’s our direction then,” said the Corporal decisively.

  But he seemed to be speaking in a vacuum, nobody moved. Nobody showed an enthusiasm for the decision. Then Jack said, “Why don’t those people over that side send a patrol out? Why does it have to be us? With only six men how can we do it and hold this trench.”

  “We’re nearest.”

  “Are we? Where is everybody else. In fact, where is everybody?”

  “There are a lot of people in the logistic area, just hanging around,” said Henry, looking back from his position at the Lewis.

  “Seems like everybody’s waiting for something,” said Ben.

  “We’re not waiting, we’re acting.” The Corporal tried again to change the mindset. But he had no help, no Old Man to come down from the battalion headquarters; bring the men together and encourage them to get behind the cause.

  They were uncertain if there was a cause now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An instant of change

  They waited for last light. Then they waited some more. The patrol was to include: Henry, Cello who had taken the bearing, Jack, Ben and the Corporal. They had to stop the crying, the unbearable sound. They wanted to get to its source, just get there. Then they would know what to do.

  Eventually deep into the night after some reinforcements from another platoon had finally, wordlessly arrived to hold the trench, with Peter; and they had heard that word of their patrol had gone out to neighbouring sub-units; they set off. Leaving the trench system was like leaving home, cutting off. They moved in single file, feeling their way to and then through the gap in the wire in front of their trenches. Each man became an island of privacy; in the dark, alone, struggling to see the man in front, ignoring the man behind.

  No one had visited to update them, or wish them good luck; something the Old Man might have done. In fact under him they would have already been out dominating No Man’s Land. Now they didn’t know what was out there, in front of them or behind, to the side. They were going alone.

  Ben held suspicions that the Hun had departed. There was less night activity than usual which might have added weight to this feeling.

  But the crying came intermittently, in between the night noises. Everyone thought that he must be dying. Nobody voiced that. They just struggled on hopelessly, around huge moon bright puddles, over shallow craters, avoiding large ones.

  Every mission has a mental possibility for each man; success, failure, hope, disaster, even under the worst of circumstances. So did this one. No one questioned it outwardly. But mentally it seemed like a defeat. Why did they have to go? There would have been no victory in the bravado of waiting for the death of the casualty but just going was in a way an admission of failure, though it was an action. Jack even voiced the remote possibility that somehow this was a Hun trick, using some kind of electric loud speaker left in No Man’s Land.

  If that was the case, they had to do something, take action, to smash whatever machinery was the cause. It had been April the first, which added to the notion that they were all fools.

  Any snagged equipment as they slid out of their trench and moved along the bearing, was yanked in an exasperated way. The only words were curses. There was noise, but nobody cared. There was light from flares, nobody cared. The Hun might have been there, in his place, listening, waiting for another lunge at them. Did anybody care about that? Death was a bayonet thrust or a desperate chop with an entrenching tool away. The new recruits brought no new life. They had brought the death of one of their own to continue the jinx of the previous night. Deaths were often the responsibility of those who had died. Sympathy was not part of action on the battlefield.

  They move
d through wire, old trenches and debris. The Corporal had the compass and blundered on in front without turning or stopping, which lost those behind him. Every soldier in No Man’s Land at night without a sense of purpose was lost, as though at sea in a very small boat.

  Finally they did stop, the Corporal stopped to listen. They seemed to have gone some distance. They went into a circle just as some guns opened up.

  “That’s Hun Five-Nines isn’t it?” whispered Ben.

  “Why you whispering? Probably gas, so we best get these fucking things ready.” Jack dragged his gas mask haversack round to the front of his body with difficulty as it always got tangled up with all the other equipment that hung on them. He turned to the men of the Artist’s Rifles. “Can you get these on at all?”

  “Yes we can,” said Henry, a little too hastily. But they didn’t move to secure their gas masks.

  A light show started with flares and booms and then, adding to the sense of loneliness, explosions close by; too close.

  Preparations for gas had been a training aspect of 1917; the third year of the war, along with new masks which actually could be worn more than once.

  “Can’t hear that fucker any more, can anybody?” asked the Corporal.

  “Can’t hear nothing except them guns.” Ben looked at the faces of the others, flashing on and off in the explosions and flares.

  Someone panicked and pulled his gas mask out with a yell as an explosion seemed to come too close. They all reacted then, fumbling and cursing like snarling animals.

  Finally they had them on and crouched like a pack of newly met aliens, afraid to look at each other and afraid to turn away. The loneliness of having the gas masks on was like being in solitary confinement. That’s how men described it. They just sat on the ground and waited.

  Time diminished the bombardment. Perhaps it was just an exploratory one.

  Someone had to do something.

  The Corporal eventually gingerly removed his mask. Slowly they all followed. Usually it took several minutes in the breeze for gas to dissipate. It had been more than that.