All Men are Casualties

by Thomas Wood

  But none of this was down to the fact that I was in love. I had had a girlfriend once it was true, I even based my tales of love on her, but it was all a grand illusion. The fact of the matter was I could barely remember what she looked like.

  I had no one. How could I?

  The clouds rolled over the light of the moon once more, and as they did so, a chill came over me. I knew I wasn’t gaining any warmth from the glare of the moon, but the sudden, haunting darkness that swept over that tiny village, filled my soul with a penetrating cold.

  How could I allow someone to learn all about me, my likes and dislikes, my bad habits, my fears and my dreams?

  How could I let someone develop feelings for me, learn to love the unlovable parts of me only for it all to be ripped away when I never came home?

  Or worse, how could I let someone fall in love with me, only for me to return a completely different person? My father had changed. Physically and mentally. How could I subject someone to what my mother goes through daily, happily reminiscing of days gone by before being struck by a moment of intense despair at the thought of what I had changed into.

  I had isolated myself to protect the poor soul who might end up with me.

  As I whipped my helmet off and ran my hands through the greasy mess that was my hair, I realised how much of a cynic I had become.

  Charlie had often told me about Christine. But I hadn’t cared. I wasn’t even sure that he was in love. I had begun to convince myself that love didn’t actually exist. How could love exist in a world where men can so easily cut each other down with a machine gun? Or nonchalantly toss a grenade into a room where dozens of men may be sleeping? Or launch a loaded Sten gun towards a man with the sole intention of killing him? How could love exist in a world where burning men alive with a flamethrower is just considered another necessity of war? It couldn’t.

  Len had spoken to me about his life, every aspect of his upbringing, revealed to a near-stranger. But I hadn’t listened, I hadn’t wanted to. Charlie had been the only person I had connected to, the only one who saw through the window into my mind and understood.

  I sighed heavily as I despaired of the person I was becoming. It seemed that nothing could prevent war from changing a person, no matter how hard he tried.

  I stopped my train of thought from continuing anymore, I was becoming suicidal. A dangerous place for a man to be in, especially in the middle of a war.

  I let the Bren fall to its side gently as I shuffled around in my pocket. Pulling a packet out, I inspected it. The orange wrapping paper glowed in the night sky, its large lettering filling my vision. I’d completely forgotten about it. I was particularly proud of this one, I had stolen it from the back of an American military police jeep in town. It had just been sitting there, staring at me. It would have melted otherwise. Afterwards I thought about how lucky I had been not to be caught, and from then on it had been my charm. It had worked up until this point.

  Amongst other things, Company Sergeant-Major Baker had been a big influence on us all, but he had taught me in particular how to keep my head up but, more importantly, how to keep everyone else’s head up. He was a good man, a professional soldier, an experienced one and a man that was gracious enough to impart his knowledge to us in a desperate attempt to keep us alive.

  “Always carry a treat with you; whiskey, chocolate…anything that you can get your hands on to put a smile on someone’s face.”

  I kicked Charlie gently, trying to avoid his leg. I hoped it would uplift both of us, as we waited for the Germans to return.

  Slowly, he turned his head towards me, his eyes filled with tears, bloodshot.

  “Here you are, take it,” my voice sounded almost alien to me, my throat was dry and I crackled rather than spoke.

  He looked at it for a moment, probably deliberating whether it would be worth it considering it had melted and solidified a good four or five times over. I thrust it towards him, beckoning him to take it. A few seconds more of staring, and he grabbed it.

  Sporadically, he offered me a few pieces, which I took. The misshapen chocolate tasted wonderful, but it had been so long since I had had some that it seemed foreign to me.

  “You’re getting your colour back in you mate,” I said cheerily, trying to coax him and me out of the cycle of thought. There was no way I could determine the colour of his face, his camo cream had seen to that, but as he scoffed at my poor encouragement, he snapped himself out of the trance he had been in.

  He heaved himself to his knees and leant out over the sandbags, towards the cross roads. Leaning his head on top of his hands, he sighed. It felt good to have him back, he had always been at my side, in training, evenings out, meal times, whenever I turned, he would always be within a few yards.

  “You know I err…I err…” he struggled to get his thoughts out into words for a moment and seemed to give up.

  “I erm…I missed you when I was back there you know. I was praying that you’d be alright.” Never once did his gaze defer from staring straight ahead, and I was secretly glad that it didn’t.

  I let a few seconds pass. It felt good to know that someone else here was worried about me. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I had felt.

  “I think now you’ve lost your chocolate, you’re going to need all the prayers you can get,” he scoffed. He’d liked that one very much, his jokes always got the biggest laugh from himself.

  “How long before you reckon they’ll be back,” I croaked.

  I’d said the wrong thing. He shuffled nervously on the spot before tucking his chin back down into his chest.

  We were enveloped in calm once again. It seemed like no one was moving, no one was talking, no one was smoking even. We were all on edge. Hours must have passed and with each minute the uneasiness grew. I could feel the rubber band being stretched and stretched, all of us perched on it, waiting for it to snap, pinging back and whipping us all.

  “Maybe they aren’t coming back,” Charlie wistfully said after what felt like an hour or two. I supressed another yawn and blinked hard to rid myself of the water it built up in my eyes. I wanted desperately to try and get to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, the gaping wound in the back of Len’s head filled my vision, the incessant tapping consuming my ears, stopping only for the roar of the Pole.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  His voice trailed off at the end, as if even he didn’t believe what he was saying, trying to make himself sound less stupid. We both knew he was wrong, no matter how much we wanted to believe it, we knew that—

  Suddenly, the noise of rising weapons and cocking handles sounded in unison as the faint patter of running footsteps echoed through the plaza. I realigned the Bren with my shoulder, made sure it was cocked, and buried my head on the butt of the weapon, ready to fire. Simultaneously, I felt Charlie do the same, his chest exuding an element of confidence for the first time. I heard him steady himself with his breathing, and as the Bren rose and fell sharply with my chest, I decided to do the same.

  I surveyed the darkness, waiting for a figure, or figures, to appear from the abyss, but all I could hear was the faint footsteps. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to reset them, as if that would help as I strained. As I opened them, I made out a figure, vague at first, but before too long the outline became more defined, more focused. I waited for another outline to join the first, followed by another figure and another, as a multitude of men made their way towards us. But the second figure never appeared.

  Glancing to my right, I double checked that I had all my spare magazines resting loyally on the top of the sandbags. Our job now was to defend, and to do that, I needed to be spitting out rounds faster than they could spit them back at us. Three magazines sat waiting to do their duty on top of the wall.

  Gently, I placed the first pad of my index finger on the trigger, breathing out slowly, I gradually increased the pressure, bringing it close to the point where I would feel it suddenly jolt, as the first round was ejected. I brought
the gun sight up so that it was pointing at where I thought the figure’s chest should be, and I stared intently as the final fuzzy edges of the figure began to clear. Slowly, I squeezed the trigger some more, bringing it closer to my chest, just a bit more pressure, one final—

  “Don’t shoot!” came an urgent cry, “It’s Johnson!” Almost dropping the Bren to the floor, I made sure my finger was as far away from the trigger as possible. I sucked in vast quantities of air as I calmed myself from almost murdering one of my own.

  The terrified figure came surging forward and passed us at a lightning speed. He wore no webbing, no helmet and carried no weapon. The speed he was travelling at showed how light he was compared to the rest of us. His footsteps began to recede as Johnson charged onwards, powered by his sense of purpose.

  I suddenly felt very self-conscious about how tight my own webbing was. Surely the perils of the chocolate hadn’t taken hold around my waistline already? I pulled at the buckle and loosened it by a notch or two, all the while trying to get some cool air around my body, to rid myself of the sweat.

  Johnson had made it to the far end of the bridge by the time I had finished adjusting my webbing.

  “What do you reckon is happening?” queried Charlie. He didn’t need an answer, he knew what was happening. When a messenger charges over to the most superior officer on the ground in the middle of a war, it doesn’t exactly mean it’s good news.

  There wasn’t even time to issue a ‘Stand To’ order, the light squeal of tank tracks as they trundled their way down the street was already wafting to our ears. Johnson had done well to not be seen by them, and also outrun them.

  A few men with heavier weaponry, PIAT guns and anti-tank grenades changed where they were positioned, so they were able to look down the road more clearly.

  “Hold fire chaps,” came a cry, “lure them onto the bridge if necessary”.

  The reassuring tones of the major did nothing to stop the trembling in my hand. The heavier guns were all well and good, but they often misfired, weren’t powerful enough and were operated by teenagers who had never fired one in anger before. We were to let them onto the bridge, and from there, they would occupy our killing zone. No one would survive the onslaught of the fireworks that would ensue. Except perhaps a twenty-five tonne, twenty-three-foot-long tank with two machine guns and a three-inch self-propelled gun.

  Reluctantly, Charlie replaced his helmet, after he’d had a good old scratch at his scalp and sluggishly raised his weapon too. It was as if he was on another training exercise, and he’d just been woken to take his turn on watch.

  If the tank made it to where we were, Charlie and I were next to useless with our weapons. We’d have to wait for the big boys to do their bit and wait till our opportunity arose. Tanks worried me. Not because of their great barrels that you saw before the rest of it, not even because of what happened to Dad, but because we had been trained to fight hand to hand with their occupants. Boarding them like deranged pirates and take them on, man versus man.

  A corporal ran about, visiting every sandbag pit, slit trench and wherever else men sought cover.

  He skidded into us.

  “Heads down. Don’t let them see you,” he’d barely finished his sentence before he was charging across to another Bren on the opposite side of the crossroads to us.

  I pulled the Bren off the sandbags and slumped down the other side of the wall. I kept the butt tucked firmly into my shoulder, ready to swing over at the drop of a hat and rain red hot bullets down on the enemy. All feelings of guilt and conscience seemed to subside as anger and aggression took over.

  Why were we hiding? They knew exactly where we were. Why would we take the bridge and leave? Why would we let them play hide and seek with us? What was to stop them from driving within range of the bridge and blast everything that offered any kind of cover into oblivion? Why weren’t we standing up to fight?

  The tank was getting closer. The scurrying footsteps of the corporal got more and more infrequent before they slowed to a complete stop. The only sound now was the tank tracks. Everything else was drowned out by its horrifying squeal.

  I wanted desperately to peep over the top and take a look at what was going on, but I knew I couldn’t. I was too scared anyway.

  Whatever was about to happen, whether it be hordes of men accompanying the steel beast, or one of the PIAT guns heroically taking out the tank, it would all be played out through my hearing.

  Sergeant-Major Baker had often imparted advice to me about how to survive, he had told me to identify my dark place, the point at which I felt like I couldn’t go on any further and to prepare myself to push through it, that would be what kept me alive. Until this point, I had never experienced as dark a place as this, but now I was there, I could see no way out, I couldn’t push through it.

  My eyes were now obsolete. I clamped them shut, keeping them closed till the stinging stopped. I pulled my knees tight into my chest and rested my chin on them, like a child sulking. My legs began to bounce up and down, I tried to consciously control the quiver, but as the tank grew closer, I realised it was the ground that shook, and not me. I felt almost relieved with myself.

  The tracks got closer, the low monotonous rumbling of the engine, hammering my ears. I took slow, deep breaths and tried to clear my mind.

  I made a very conscious effort to prevent myself from emptying my bowels all over the floor.

  The engine grew to a crescendo and stopped. He’d reached the crossroads. The idling engine haunted me for what felt like forever.

  Any second now a high velocity round would penetrate the sandbags and throw me across the bridge. I would become a ravished corpse, limbs lying several feet from the rest of me as I gasped out my last few, pitiful breaths.

  At least I would die alongside Charlie. I glanced at him. I wish I hadn’t. He began shuffling to his feet, eyes fixed directly in front of him like a madman.

  I felt for my lucky chocolate bar.

  Part II

  1

  6th June 1944

  01.37 hours

  My mind couldn’t seem to focus with the intense burning sensation that filled my eyes while I rested them. Great droplets of water rushed to flood them before bursting their banks and seeping out of the corner of my eyelids. I tried to move my arms up to press my fingers onto my eyelids to rub them clear, but my arms were too heavy to result in any sort of action.

  My vision was hazy as I blinked furiously, trying to return it back to normal.

  The sky was still an inky, midnight blue colour when I finally found the energy to unclamp my eyelids. It seemed calm, a few wispy clouds hung limply in the sky, pushed gently by the breeze as I followed one cloud before I could see it no longer.

  My eyelids felt heavy and cumbersome, almost like the wire cutters had done, and they threatened to close again as I lost control of them completely.

  I was given a new energy as a shooting star zipped across the sky, coming from the bottom of my vision and shot out of my view. Lying on my back, I watched with excitement and amusement as another one pinged across the night sky, followed by another and another. I laughed and cheered as I watched the astrological phenomenon unfold before my very eyes.

  “George!” I found myself calling, “George! Come and look at this!” My little brother had always been fascinated by the stars, the two of us spending hours flat on our backs staring at the sky as he taught me what each one was called. He was intelligent, my little brother, one of those children who picked up everything immediately. He was destined for some great things. He was always smiling, his smile having to fight against the slightly chubby face that he possessed. His cheeks burned an intense red colour, never changing, with his eyes set against them, the deepest blue you had ever seen. He was, in the eyes of everyone who met him, perfect. And, it was true, he was certainly destined for greatness. If he hadn’t been killed.

  My yells were cut short as I realised I was moving, dragged backwards as my back began g
rating against cold steel. I cranked my neck back as far as I could, to see what force was heaving me away from the show put on for me by the stars.

  I caught a glimpse up a pair of nostrils, before he turned his head down to me, grimacing and grunting. When he realised I had seen his face, the grimacing turned to grinning and the grunting ceased.

  “You’re alright mate, keep your eyes up here, keep them here.”

  “Keep your eyes up here,” could only mean one thing; my lower body was a mess. I couldn’t feel any pain, no resistance in my lower body to suggest I was injured, the only pain I was experiencing was courtesy of this man, as he tugged me around by my webbing, cutting furiously into my armpits.

  My face must have reflected the pure horror that I anticipated, as he started joking with me.

  “Oh, I’m not that ugly am I mate? I’m trying to ‘elp!”

  Somehow, I resisted the childlike urge to take a glance down at my legs and kept my focus solely on my rescuer.

  The medics that had accompanied us on our landing were a good bunch of guys, they had all seen combat before and seemed to know exactly what they were talking about. But being dragged around by one of them was never a particularly good sign.

  The hairs of his nostrils filled my attention once again as he returned to putting in all his effort in yanking me around. They flicked around wildly as he sighed aggressively with each sudden, painful, pull.

  I tried to kick my legs and buck around in protest but only achieved in throwing my shoulders around wildly, like a captured animal. I felt pathetic, once again I had become someone else’s responsibility, someone else’s burden. First, Company Sergeant-Major Baker, Charlie, then Len, followed by my mysterious, murderous saviour. Now, it was the medic. I could not fend for myself.

  “Woah mate, woah, we’re nearly in cover,” he continued to try and calm me, but only succeeded in infuriating me more, treating me like some kind of wounded horse.