Slaughter Fields

by Thomas Wood

  It just so happened that the shell had landed directly in his dugout, and not in mine.

  I wondered if this was what Sergeant Needs had been on about when he said that to be an excellent soldier you had to let go of your hope. I was coming to the realisation that there was nothing you could do, nowhere you could hide that would guarantee your safety in this hellish war.

  For all I knew, the spoon wielding solider could have been a veteran of many of the empire’s campaigns, it was even possible that he had taught others on how to fight and survive in the trenches. But all it had taken was one shell.

  I began to feel slightly better as I reasoned with myself that it wasn’t because I was a terrible soldier that I may end up dead, but just down to a bad draw, being dealt a bad hand.

  I took a quick look around our dugout to scan the faces of the other members of my platoon. For the most part, I couldn’t make out who they were, apart from when they inhaled on their cigarette and I caught a glowing apparition of their scared, timid faces.

  None of them seemed to ooze the confidence that I had expected of a British soldier. When I had marched off to war, even when I had stridden into the trenches for my first experience of being on the frontline, I had been brimming with an assurance that had managed to convince me that I would be the best soldier that there had ever been, and one that was guaranteed to make it home safely.

  I was going to be different to everyone else. I was going to be careful, I was going to weigh up the risks of everything that I did and make sure that I made it through alive.

  But, as I looked at their forlorn expressions, it became apparent to me that, out of all of us, the one that was most likely to be killed was the one that was expecting to live. In amongst all the bombs and bullets, it was the one that was focused on getting home, and not on getting the job done, that would end up with a mouthful of dirt out in No Man’s Land.

  I began to see my cold, lifeless body out in No Man’s Land. A tall skinny figure that had been so weak physically that he had only just made it through his infantryman training, his face planted firmly into the mud caused by the never ending whizz bangs. As I did so, I finally began to prise some of my fingers from the element of hope that I still harboured in my heart.

  It would never be gone completely, I told myself, but I had loosened my grip on it all the same.

  “We’re all going to die here,” Etwell suddenly began to grumble, and I wondered if he realised that he was actually speaking out loud, and if he meant to be saying these things to himself or not.

  “The brass are utterly obsessed with death and watching things explode. There is no way that we’re going to make it through the next few days. Mark my words, they’ll have us marching on that village before too long…They’ve given the Hun enough time to set their guns up there perfectly. Have you noticed how it’s never straight away? We could have taken that village while they were all still in a confusion. But now? They’ll be dug in better than before, and they’ll be expecting us.”

  We all sat in a cold stone silence, as the dying embers of Etwell’s cigarette were tossed into a puddle of muddy rain water, that was now infused nicely with a decent helping of sticky blood.

  A Very light suddenly kicked off behind me, taking me by complete surprise. I knew I shouldn’t have done, but I couldn’t stop myself from peeking up over the back of the trench, onto the illuminated battlefield that we had advanced across nearly twenty-four hours before now.

  All I could see was a mixture of mud and bodies, some of the branches and wooden ornaments that scattered the land, still smouldering nicely, even after all this time. There was nothing there that had seemed worth taking, not even a nice row of flowers that had somehow managed to survive the onslaught, it was just mud.

  From here, I could quite easily see the well sandbagged parapet that had been our frontline the day before, not five hundred yards away from where I now stood.

  The rest of the division, as far as I was aware, had taken a right basting at the hands of the Germans; unprotected flesh, against the might of machine guns and well-aimed rifles. Five platoon had become so depleted that we had now amalgamated to form a single section, and I wondered if before too long, the whole division could be abbreviated into a single company, or maybe even worse.

  The Garhwalis, the Indian soldiers who had advanced on our flank, had also been decimated, cut to shreds by the waiting machine guns and I wondered if they were feeling how I was right now.

  We had taken less than five hundred yards of ground, which had consisted of nothing more than a barren landscape, torn apart by the never-ending ordnance that both sides had poured on it. The land was good for nothing, there would be no way that any kind of crop or cattle could make use of it for some time, so why had we taken it?

  We must have lost thousands of men, up and down the line, during the advance, and I couldn’t see for what reason we would have taken it. The Germans had been perched in their trench and we in ours, and we had been perfectly happy taking the odd pot shot at one another, maybe even killing a man here or there, but we had felt relatively safe.

  The Very light glared in the night sky, brighter than the sun ever could, and I avoided looking at it directly for quite some time. The groans of the wounded out in No Man’s Land had slowly died away as time had gone on, as they either passed away or simply gave up on their dreams of making it back home, or even the frontline.

  The bright landscape suddenly died out, as quickly as it emerged, as the Very light gave up, withering away before it struck the ground in a silence.

  It took me a few seconds to regain my vision, and before too long, I was staring at the ghoulish faces of the men of five platoon, all of them simultaneously striking their matches, to meet with the objects dangling from their mouths. I followed suit.

  Harris must have sensed that the mood was beyond desperate and began trying to make optimistic noises, humming a tune for two or three seconds, before coming to a stop.

  “Anyway,” he said, sounding almost gleeful, “I’ve heard that they’re developing a new shell that can deal with the Hun’s barbed wire, even better than if we struck the factory making the stuff.”

  He looked around for our approval, clearly hoping that we would suddenly start jumping up and down, clapping and cheering at the news. But all he got was the gruff, depressive tones of Etwell.

  “Well, I hope they remember to fire them a few hundred yards further ahead now. Knowing our luck, we’ll get one straight on our noggins.”

  8

  We continued the monotonous cycle of smoking, taking watch and sleeping for what felt like days, but in reality, wasn’t anything more than a couple of hours. It was only just approaching six in the morning. I had been awake for over twenty-four hours.

  No one seemed to say anything, apart from the odd grunt at one another to take over on the fire step, or to take a peek over the top with a periscope that the sergeant had managed to nab from somewhere.

  We had been informed that sandbags were on their way to us soon, as well as a Vickers that we would be able to set up to better defend our section of the line. I imagined the top brass and the quartermasters sprinting around, trying to find anything and everything that we could use to consolidate our position somehow. We were all having the same thoughts, so it didn’t come as too much of a surprise when one of us sparked up a random conversation.

  “I tell you what would help to shore up our position here,” grumbled Beattie, his cigarette bobbing around furiously within the grips of his lips.

  “What’s that?”

  “All them brass hats up there, the ones that are meant to be commanding this horror show, give them a rifle each. It might do them some good to see what things are really like for us. Plus, I reckon there’s at least a few hundred of them up there, that could plug a gap in some of our losses. What do you reckon, Sergeant?”

  He turned his head to Needs, as he came off his imaginary soapbox.

  “I think,”
Needs began, “that someone who wants to become an NCO needs to switch his filter on. There’s a time and a place for saying certain things. The brass will be doing all they can.”

  I wondered for a moment if Needs actually believed in his own words, or if he was as dejected as the rest of us, merely trying to lift our spirits slightly in the face of everything that had happened.

  “Oh, my filter is well and truly on, Sarge. There’s plenty of voices in this old head of mine that don’t make it out into the open.”

  Beattie got a few nervous chuckles, but for the most part, they were short and polite, a blip of happiness before being dragged straight back down into the depression that was looming over all of us.

  “The engineers are beginning to build a connecting trench from our old frontline, lads. Trying to consolidate our position.”

  “What’s taken them so long to get started? Couldn’t work out which end to dig with their tools?” Beattie was on form all of a sudden and a few more, involuntary chuckles began to waft their way around the trench, from men that had nothing to be laughing about.

  But he was right, we had taken this trench by eight in the morning yesterday, and it was now five thirty in the morning the following day and they were only just getting started.

  In my heart, I knew why; the brass had been expecting some sort of a counter attack by now, one that would have quite easily overwhelmed our boys and forced them back over No Man’s Land. I wondered how much longer it would be before that was the case.

  I couldn’t help but imagine that by this time tomorrow, the Germans would be back in their trenches, and what was left of us, back in ours, hopefully so far behind the line that we would practically be back at home.

  Everyone had more or less silently agreed it as fact that, by this time next week, the Germans would be back in their trenches, thankful to the British troops who had merely improved the defences somewhat, without them having to lift a finger.

  The idea of a German counterattack was one that was weighing heavy on my mind, a burden pushing strongly on my back. I had been thinking, ever since we had settled in this trench, when the next occasion might arise that meant I would be able to prove myself to the other men, to stop them from thinking that I was weak.

  As I searched myself, I was fairly confident that I hadn’t let go of all of my hope, maybe just loosened my grip on it slightly. There was still a part of me that kept imagining home, continued to envisage what it was like and even what life would be like for me after the war had ended.

  I didn’t believe what Needs had said to me was the whole truth, I still maintained that a soldier still needed some hope, a reason to dodge the bullets and shells, and have something to look forward to, to aim for.

  But, I supposed as another Very light kicked off somewhere down the line, the only way that I could find out if my loosened grip was enough, would be to throw myself into another advance, towards the spitting machine guns and abusive rifle fire, which is exactly what Etwell was convinced was going to happen.

  “They’ll be getting their rations soon. Fighting on full bellies they’ll be. Bet they ain’t short on ammunition neither. Or men for that matter.”

  Etwell was a special kind of defeatist, a fatalist even. But what he was saying felt like the truth, everything that came from his mouth seemed to slot in with the facts that were all around us; the lack of rations, the depleted state of manpower and the way in which it had taken the brass so long to sort things like sandbags and machine guns out for our defences. It really did seem like everything and everyone wanted us dead. It was a hole of thinking that I could see absolutely no way out of, until maybe the war was definitely over.

  Just as Etwell finished the latest of his snippets of good news, Captain Tudor-Jones, one of the poshest men that I had ever met, suddenly made an appearance in the trench. Tudor-Jones was of a fine stature, a chiselled, clearly defined face that had matched his crystal-clear accent. It was almost like he hadn’t just been born into the aristocracy, but purpose-built for it.

  Despite what could have made him a natural target for the likes of us, he was well respected and liked by the vast majority in the company, apart from one or two, like Etwell, who seemed like he would hate his own mother had he known her.

  “Good morning, boys,” he announced chipperly, as if he was about to tell us that the war was over, and we could pack our bags to leave.

  “Hello, Sir,” came the altogether less enthusiastic reply.

  “Got some news for you all. Good and bad. Good news is reinforcements are on their way up here as we speak, first battalion of the Grenadier guards if I remember correctly. They’ll take over the central sector of this line, which means we’ll be pushed further over to the left flank, mixing in with some of the other battalions who are already there.” He looked at us for some kind of reaction, which he didn’t get, apart from one or two cigarettes glowing away in the gloom.

  “The bad news?” It was the question that was on all of our lips, but only Harris had mustered up enough courage to ask and find out what it was.

  Captain Tudor-Jones wasted no time at all in relaying the news to us. “We’re going over, again. We’re taking the village that the Germans fell back on yesterday. The village itself is built around a series of crossroads. The plan is that we advance until we get to the first set of crossroads, whereupon we will break away to the left of the advance, to try and flank the Germans. RFC boys reckon that there’s a machine gun holed up in the ruins of the church there. From up in the skies they reckon it could be the difference between success and failure. It is our job to take it. We will essentially be the protecting force for the rest of the division.

  “Either we’ll take the machine gun ourselves, or at the very least, draw its fire away from the rest of the division.”

  “So, we’re just the worm at the end of the rod, sir?” Beattie was matter of fact and blunt, with no emotion in his voice whatsoever, not even a hint of the continuous sarcasm he normally harboured.

  “To put it bluntly, yes. But you’re good men, excellent soldiers. If there’s any platoon in the whole of the division that will succeed, it will be you chaps.”

  Beattie suddenly thrust a packet of cigarettes under the nose of the Captain, who obligingly took one, as he awaited the inevitable barrage of questions that would soon be heading his way.

  “Thank you, private,” the Captain said, as I watched Beattie almost wince in pain at the failure to identify him as the acting lance corporal title that he was so proud of. The rest of us sniggered and stared at the ground, as Beattie went about lighting the cigarette for the Captain.

  “Sir,” chimed in Harris, as soon as he had calmed down from the hilarity that was Beattie’s sudden demotion, “why are they sending us at all? We’re not exactly at our full strength.”

  “I know, I know. But you lot form the bulk of the advance, the core around which we can put faith in. I’ll make sure you get some rations to you as soon as possible, get your strength back up a bit.”

  I couldn’t quite tell if he was trying to be funny or not, but either way I supposed that we would have to be grateful for the meagre rations he would source for us, even though a tin of condensed milk would find it more difficult to fire a rifle than an eighteen-year-old replacement.

  Silently, we all seemed to accept what the captain was saying, an element of pride even slipping in that we seemed to be trusted by the officers who were again sending us into battle.

  “Sir, the other thing is we can’t…well…we don’t have a CO, Sir,” I wondered whether Harris was somehow trying to get out of the advance, by throwing up as many obstacles to our effectiveness as was possible. Part of me thought that the captain would soon be arresting Doug for desertion, before he’d even managed to escape the trenches.

  “Of course you do,” Tudor-Jones scoffed, his face lighting up with glee that someone had brought the issue up. “You’ve got the sergeant here. He’s your new CO…Well until you get a replacem
ent to relieve you of your command, sergeant.”

  Sergeant Needs nodded knowingly to the captain, as if he had been here a thousand times before already. The truth of the matter was that Needs had effectively taken command of the platoon even when Fairweather was still alive, as he nurtured both the new recruits sent to the frontline in the form of Bob Sargent and me, as well as the inexperienced, young and naïve officer who was his senior in rank only.

  There seemed to be a mutual appreciation of one another between the captain and Sergeant Needs, and I got the distinct impression that they had known each other for a while, and that they could depend on one another to do their respective duties. I wanted to ask both of them what they had experienced together, to glean at least a shrapnel of wisdom on being a good soldier, but I refrained.

  “One other thing, sir,” my voice, crackled and weak as I tried desperately to clear it, to sound as grown up and manly as was possible. “Why are we waiting? We could have carried on straight after the advance yesterday, now all we’ve done is give them time to organise themselves.”

  The captain seemed impressed at my question, not least because I was an eighteen-year-old volunteer who seemed to be thinking tactically. For a moment, I saw myself as a general, who would outmanoeuvre and outwit the enemy each and every time we went into battle. Maybe one day, I thought.

  “Good question, private…”

  “Ellis, sir.”

  “Private Ellis. The reason is so that our friends over in the Field Artillery are able to resupply their guns, to support our advance. That way, they can deliver an almighty barrage which means there will be practically nothing left of the Boche by the time we get there. We wouldn’t want to go in without the big guns, would we?”

  “Oh, absolutely not sir,” Beattie began to blurt, the sarcasm in his voice undeniable. “I’ve always wondered how something that can make so much noise can be so ineffective.”