by Thomas Wood
“All well and happy, my son.”
Boots thudding over wooden floorboards suddenly penetrated my mind, and I listened cautiously as they began to make their way up the ladder into the attic. Panicking, I made for my rifle, expecting to see a German’s head poke up and take all of us prisoner.
Instead of the rough, war hardened face I had expected, I was greeted by an even rougher, dirtier set of facial features. Sergeant Greene’s face was bumpy, his left eye appeared bigger than his right and his mouth seemed to naturally curl downwards, so much so that, even when he smiled, it never made it past a straight, horizontal line.
His appearance was coarse, offensive even and yet, I had discovered he was one of the more likeable, and more respected NCOs in the company.
“Sorry gents. We’re falling back again. We won’t be able to hold out against another attack. CO wants everyone to form up outside in the next five minutes.”
His head disappeared down the hatch, just like the sun had started to do as it dipped below the horizon as we formed up in the village.
Dejected, and what felt like the fourth or fifth time in as many days, I found myself retreating, with no real destination.
14
It had surprised me how much damage two dive bombers were able to inflict on us as we continued our retreat. The company, of which there was about sixty of us remaining, managed to throw themselves in all directions, doing absolutely everything that they could just to get off the road, which would surely be the Stuka’s target.
It was a terrifyingly effective weapon, the Stuka, able to drop bombs down on us with incredible precision, due in no small part to the incredible bravery shown by the pilots to fly straight towards earth, only pulling up when it seemed impossible to recover.
It had only taken two bombs to wipe out at least thirty of our men and we had been forced to abandon those who lay screaming in a reservoir of their own blood as a result. Evans had turned into a quivering wreck at the sight of his Sergeant, Gordon Mallion with a large piece of shrapnel embedded in his neck and, despite Red’s attempt to stop the flow of blood, Mallion had died at the side of a road that was now stuffed full with more refugees and soldiers than I had ever cared to imagine.
After that attack, it had seemed that all order had gone out of the window, the patriotism that so many had signed up with had been completely wiped away and the sense of fighting for one another was almost non-existent, saved only for those few friends that we had known the longest. Naturally, Red and I stuck together like glue and Sergeant Greene decided to tag along also, but we took Charlie Evans under our wing as he seemed vulnerable, like he would be left to the dogs if he was to end up fending for himself. It was that and the fact that there was something about his face that reminded me of Clarkey, I was certain that Red could see it too and that was why the silent agreement had taken place to have him with us.
The discipline that we had become so accustomed to during the quiet days of the war, no longer seemed to be enforced, and I watched in horror as big, burly, career soldiers began to stagger out from cellars blind drunk, totally ignoring anything that a passing officer might happen to say. That was if the officers said anything, it seemed like every single one of them had given up and had fallen in with the other ranks to begin the retreating march that seemed to trudge as one, in a never-ending line to the horizon.
I had watched in horror as a Sergeant, from the Coldstream Guards, placed a revolver to the temple of his head and squeezed the trigger, sending blood and bits of brain in every direction imaginable, rather than being captured by the enemy. As I stared at his lifeless body, I had been fascinated by how pristine it had seemed, despite the amount of blood that I had seen exit his head, just a small scarlet stain was all that indicated that this poor fellow had met his maker.
I vowed to myself there and then, not to put myself down like a horse if it became apparent that I would be captured. I would be heartbroken, yes, but I would refuse to take the coward’s way out and blow my brains out in front of my own men, it had already had a disastrous effect on the Sergeant’s men and I couldn’t imagine it would do my three men the world of good if they were to see me do the same thing.
As the chaos continued and brawling at every road junction with the military police slowly became the norm, Red, Greene, Evans and I decided to slip off the beaten track slightly and try and make our own way to the sea without drawing the attention of dive bombers and low flying fighters. It would be easy enough, our last orders given to us by Captain Frost before he had been a victim of a strafing fighter had been to head north, to the coast and then head as far west as necessary before meeting up with the rest of our forces.
So that is what we intended to do, just on a much smaller scale, just four men, four rifles and a united sense of fear and dread.
We soon came to a wooded area and after a swift swig from our shared canteen of water, we entered it, fingers twitching around triggers and eyes darting around quicker than a petrified rabbit as someone approaches.
I moved my feet deliberately, like I was sneaking into the house without my parents hearing me, slowly putting the pressure down bit by bit to cut down on noise. My eyes were wide open, stinging from tiredness, but flitting around checking out every little movement and speck of light. My ears were primed and ready, twitching at every little sound that was foreign to me.
Greene raised a hand and dropped to his knee. Like an obedient dog, I did the same.
Slowly raising his index finger to his ear, he signalled us to listen, and I tilted my head in the direction in which he pointed. At first nothing but then, carried along by the breeze, I could just about make out the faint murmuring of voices.
What language they spoke I had no idea, neither did Sergeant Greene. For a moment, I thought that they might have been the voices of the dead, they were that faint but began to sound like they were in my mind. I suddenly found myself thinking of Clarke, of Major Perkins and all the other voices that I had felt responsible for. Slowly, rifle raised, Greene purposefully pushed off on the ball of his foot remaining stooped, working his way slowly towards the noise.
He motioned us to fall in behind him, a trusting dependency that we would all have his back and one that I was keen not to betray.
We didn’t breathe. Our mouths were wide open, desperate to hear another voice, a British voice. My hearing was obscured by my heart thumping, forcing its way out of my ears, making them burn intensely.
The ground was damp, which helped to mask our noise as best as possible. I tried to avoid standing on twigs and snapping them, but my eyes were required elsewhere, peeled and staring directly in front.
Checking in between all the trees I could see nothing, it was almost calming and peaceful to my soul and I began to reminisce about all the Sunday strolls I would take in the forests littered around Kent, getting myself lost in order to sharpen my navigational skills.
My eyes swept the landscape, taking in the gaps in between each of the trees, the sunlight making the greens even more vibrant than before. Then, suddenly, a figure. I raised my rifle and squinted but by the time I was in a decent enough firing position, he wasn’t there.
I held my position for a few moments longer before concluding it must have been a trick of the light and I pushed the figure to the back of my mind, hoping more than anything that the others hadn’t seen me react so sharply to something that wasn’t there.
I moved off again, always checking in between the branches and leaves for the first sign of where the ghoulish voices were coming from.
The voices grew louder, but I still couldn’t quite make out the language, the hushed tones jumbled up like a secret code by the slight breeze and the interruptions of tree trunks.
The sun peaked out from behind the clouds once again. Great streams of light burst through the leafy canopy above, blinding me temporarily from time to time and leaving sun spots lingering in my eyes.
Then again, I saw him. Clearer this time. A blonde
figure stood in between two trees staring at me, like a ghost. I froze. So, did he.
I dropped to my knee and raised my weapon, finger already on the trigger ready to squeeze off a round. Just as I took up first pressure on the trigger he turned and ran, out of my vision. I began to give chase to see if I could take the shot before he made it back to his camp.
I charged past Sergeant Greene, who gave no audible protest to my stampede. He may have given chase after me, I did not know. My mind was like a sprinter focused only on the finish line.
I had charged thirty yards before the whoosh of mortars began to fill my ears. They slammed into the trees launching deadly splinters in all directions. The ground was pock marked with shell holes all around and I threw myself in the nearest one I could see.
I pulled my head into the centre of my body and tilted my helmet forward to protect myself from the splinters as best I could.
I chanced opening my eyes for a second. My knees filled most of my vision but in the periphery, I could see what looked like a pair of boots.
Sharply, I looked up.
Sitting there, staring at me with vibrant green eyes sat a middle-aged man with ever so slightly greying hair. The grey hair was of no concern to me. The grey uniform however was.
I fumbled with my rifle pulling the bolt back and trying in earnest to replace it, before realising there were no rounds in the breech. Scrabbling for my ammo pouch I pulled out a clip, my hands shook so terribly that I could not load them correctly.
I took myself back to basic training, loading a clip in the rifle before pushing the bolt home. Taking the rifle up into the aim position, before composing myself, sorting my breathing out and squeezing the trigger gently until a round was ejected. Warm liquid splattered my face as a round pierced his flesh, a soft thud as he slumped to the ground served as the indicator to open my clenched eyes.
But none of it had happened. I continued to mess around with the clip, each time my hand missing the breech as another mortar punched its mark into the landscape.
I looked up at the grey man. He had no weapon pointed at me. No rifle in the ready position and no side arm pushed into my skull.
He looked at me and shrugged.
I completed loading my rifle and replaced the bolt. I caressed the trigger for a moment, looking at the distress on the grey man’s face as he thought he’d made a fatal error.
I pushed the safety catch on firmly with my thumb.
Resting my rifle by my side I lay back slightly to lean on the side of the hole.
I’d almost forgotten that we were being shelled.
I looked at him, he at me. His face was thin, not quite gaunt but he could do with eating a little more. His eyes had collected large bags underneath and they were red and bloodshot.
After a minute or two the shelling died down slightly, but still enough to justify us staying put.
He reached inside his tunic and instinctively my hand reached out for my rifle. He raised his free hand in submission while his other hand reappeared. He held in his hand a small bundle of paper, wrapped loosely in a dirtied length of string. He untied it and removing the top piece of paper, handed it to me with a bloodied hand.
A woman sat, proudly, on a stool, a small child, prouder still, sat staring up at his mother, smiling toothlessly.
“Meine Frau,” he instinctively ducked as a mortar interrupted him, “und meinen Sohn,” he smiled.
His smile was warm, infectious.
He produced another photograph. Two older people, a couple sat together smiling out towards the camera on a park bench, just as proud as the subjects of the previous photo.
“Meine Mutter und Vater,” his voice faded away behind the explosions.
“Beide starben wenige Tage vor meiner Abreise,” I looked up from the photo, a smile on my face.
His face was mournful, sad. I sensed that his last remark had not been a happy one, and since I spoke no German to console him, pulled out the photograph I possessed.
Strangely his face lit up as I introduced him to my family members, as though he recognised them. The warm glow of his smile returned, it was almost comforting.
This was not how the enemy was meant to be. They were assassins, cold-blooded killers, murderers. The grey man was gentle, kind, he had emotions.
The mortars slowly petered out.
He stared at me unblinking. He stretched out a muddied and bloodied hand. I took it, and gripping tightly we shook. He handed my photo back to me and I returned his.
I pulled my body up out of the bed of soil I had made myself comfortable in over the last few minutes. My eyes stung, with each blink came an overwhelming effort to reopen them again. My mouth felt dirtier than a cesspit, a layer of fuzz had settled over my teeth, forcing me to cut short an inspection with my tongue.
I retrieved my rifle and with one last look I turned, leaving the grey man behind.
“Bitte,” I turned again. His arm outstretched, he pointed to the opposite direction to which I’d begun to walk.
I smiled and began to head in the direction he had pointed.
A low growl penetrated the silence. The growl grew into a scream. A scream of agony.
I raised my rifle and walking briskly I made my way over to the noise.
A boot appeared, attached to a leg, which belonged to the body of Sergeant Greene. His face was screwed up, like an infant craving food.
I caught sight of blood. The ground around his right leg had been splashed red. An ever-growing pool of scarlet spread its way across the soil, seeping into the thirsty ground.
A large splinter protruded from the top of his leg, creating a gaping wound you could peer into.
Red appeared and began to observe his patient. I knelt on the opposite side and placing my hand on the Sergeant’s chest, reassured him, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on his ashen face.
Grunts and groans escaped from his mouth as he tried to suppress his pain in an attempt to save us all.
“I’m going to have to remove it, it’s still bleeding too much with this thing in there.”
“Just do it, Holloway,” rasped the sergeant wincing.
With almost no warning, Red pulled sharply on the wooden dart, removing it clear in one try.
Just as I noticed Evans standing away from us keeping watch, a great fountain of blood shot up in the air from Greene’s leg. With every heartbeat more, blood was cascaded into the air like a demented water feature.
“The artery,” I repositioned myself before thrusting my hand inside the wound and scrabbled round trying to find the fleshy snake that was supplying his leg with blood.
A rustle of leaves crunched behind me as another body joined the fight to save Nick Greene. The Grey man. He pulled my hand out from the wound and replaced it with his own. He pulled down on the artery hard, and yanking some scissors from his first aid kit, begun twisting the artery around the scissors as a grotesque tourniquet.
Nick had fallen silent. His face was pale and clammy. His eyes were closed. I shifted my body around the grey man and began slapping Sergeant Greene’s face, smearing him in his own blood.
I didn’t get a response.
I shoved two fingers hard into the side of his neck. Nothing.
Desperately I forced my ear over his nose and mouth. No breathing.
I looked up at the Grey man who began pulling off his overcoat. He placed it over Sergeant Greene before turning and jogging away.
I rested my bloodstained hands on my knees and sat on the heels of my boots. I peeled off the overcoat for a moment and tugged at the identity discs around the corpse’s neck, while Red rummaged inside the tunic to pull out a wad of letters.
None of us said a word as we left the Sergeant where he fell, we simply manoeuvred our way further into the forest, nervously.
As daylight turned to dusk, I found myself propped up against a large tree, resisting the urge to sleep. I was in desperate need of rest. My helmet felt heavy on my head and my socks were so stained with
sweat that my feet had begun to itch.
My eyes stung furiously as I closed them, and I felt water seeping out from the corner of my eyes clearing the dirt from them. I began to feel an overwhelming sense of dread and depression as I drifted off to sleep.
We’d only made it a few miles before one of us had bitten the dust. It just had to be the most experienced of us all. Sergeant Nicholas Greene had served in the last few months of the Great War as a boy soldier before being posted to India and Palestine. He then re-enlisted in the Army at the outbreak of war.
We would have to move again soon. How many miles would we be able to cover before another of us was picked off? Three miles? Ten?
I was in a constant state of tension, a nervous wreck.
It was dark when I tugged on Evans’ pack to take my turn on stag. He looked exhausted. Dark bags had formed around his eyes, which I could barely see in the light as they appeared to have sunk back further into his skull.
A muttered “Thanks” made me self-conscious of the state my breath.
My dejected and downcast thoughts continued until the end of my stag some three hours later. It’s easy enough to push depressing thoughts out of the forefront of your mind when you have something to do, but war is a waiting game. And we were waiting to be captured.
Red began to stir, kicking Evans awake. Joining me Evans began busying himself with replacing his helmet, which always seemed too big for him. In his uniform, Charlie Evans looked like a timid boy on his first day at school, his mother buying clothes extra-large, so she didn’t have to buy more in a years’ time.
As Charlie took a swig from his canteen, Red’s eyes slowly opened, and he let out an unnecessarily loud yawn.