I led the other four forward. It was a very dark, overcast night with no stars. The only safe means of progress was a cautious crawl. Mud soaked our breeches and puttees and promised a wet uncomfortable night; at least it hadn’t rained, yet...
No-man’s land was pockmarked with numerous shell holes, many of which were flooded to a greater or lesser degree and was criss-crossed with barbed wire entanglements and piles of abandoned equipment. The remains of horses and men littered the ground.
The slow crawl reduced the risk of dropping into a shell hole or getting hung-up. Before setting out, I had used the trench periscope and in the fading light had identified a dry hole about fifty yards out which would be a perfect place for the post. In the darkness I missed it and had to cast about for anything deep and dry enough for the purpose.
My new mittens were already ruined, the barbed wire ensured that and they were soaked through and heavy. Still, worth a small comfort if I wrung them out.
We slid into a shallow depression and I placed the men in pairs, facing the German lines. I then positioned myself midway between the pairs.
Carefully, by feel, I emptied my rifle and recharged it with fresh, dry ammunition that I had stowed in an inside pocket of my uniform. The final act, to straighten the split-pins of two Mills bombs, so that the pins slid from the charging levers instantly.
The occasional riffle of wind blew in our faces. We could hear voices and laughter carried on the wind. The noise came from the nearest German trench and was accompanied by a ringing sound, rather like a cracked bell. A rumble of heavy artillery fire could also be heard from the south where the French manned similar lines to the British.
Time dragged slowly. My nose caught a scent which overlaid the stench of no-man’s land. During a recent assault the battalion had reached the German trenches and we had occupied them for some hours before a ferocious counter-attack had thrown us back to the start line. While searching a German dugout, I had noticed that it was permeated with a sour, vinegary smell, quite unlike the tea and tobacco scent of a British bunker.
That was the aroma which tickled my nostrils now. A German? Some Germans?
Close enough to taste. Clasping the lever firmly, I slid the safety-pin out of a Mills bomb and silently alerted my nearest comrade.
Curiously and even bizarrely, underlying the stench of the Germans, I could detect the sharp, sweet smell of lavender. And, carried on the wind, the unbelievable sound of a girlish giggle!
A star-shell burst into incandescence about a mile away. My heart lurched, twenty feet in front of our position five or six Germans stood in a bunch, their pickle haub helmets making them instantly recognisable. I released the lever, counted to three and tossed the bomb towards the enemy group. Simultaneously, my section opened fire, four shots sounding like one.
The blast of the grenade coincided with the death of the star-shell. The darkness was even more intense after the retinal flash of the explosion. We lay quietly, straining our eyes and ears for any evidence of movement. Suddenly, a shuddering, agonised groan broke the silence.
I waited for another illumination, but none occurred. The cloud lifted slightly, allowing some dim starlight. Still no movement, although the groaning continued. Interrogatory shouts from the German trenches. When the calls went unanswered. a machine gun fired, sweeping the area, but the fire was high.
Contemplating our options, I made a decision. “You and you go forward and drag that noisy bugger back here. We will try to get him to our lines, but be careful in case some other Jerry is playing dead.” The selected pair laid aside their rifles, drew their bayonets and crawled away towards the wounded German.
A British machine gun opened fire, probing for the muzzle flash of the German weapon. It was getting altogether too busy in the sector.
My men crawled back over the rim of the depression, dragging a German by his epaulets. “Had to clout him to keep him quiet, the others are all dead, got a nice pair of binoculars, hope they ain’t damaged.”
A reasonable start to what then proved to be a tiresome return journey. The Germans fired numerous flares in an effort to discover what had happened to their patrol. We continuously froze in our progress until it was safe to proceed. The captive’s uniform caught on every length of wire and splintered timber until we found a broken door to use as a sled.
To make the trip worse, every time Jerry fired his flares our lads responded with bursts of machine gun fire and it was no longer high.
We missed the entrance to our wire by a few yards, but the posted sentries heard our approach and came forward to guide us in.
The prisoner was manhandled down the ladder and onto the fire step inside the trench. He was not in good shape, but he was all we had and the call went out for Connon to attend him while transport was arranged to take him to the aid station, captivity and interrogation.
For the next forty-eight hours, I and the section were on light duties, standing by on the fire step, observing no man’s land and the German trench line through the safety of periscopes. It was an unnaturally quiet period with little activity on either side, although to the south the big guns continued to rumble like distant thunder.
*
I had been in France now for three months and the only time I could remember having dry boots was six weeks before, when our Battalion had been taken out of the line to a rear area for rest and re-supply. For three days we had been de-loused, had hot showers and had slept on mattresses. The re-supply had included new boots, but breaking in new boots was tough and painful, so I had carefully dried and dubbined my original issue. I had retrieved the laces, but left the new boots under the bunk at the rest centre.
The march back to the line had taken twelve hours and was only memorable for the volume of rain that fell.
The reason for the rest and recuperation had become obvious. Within a week of re-occupying our trenches, the Battalion found itself advancing behind a creeping artillery barrage in an attempt to dislodge the Germans. Sheer determination and the barrage had taken us into the Jerry trenches in spite of the well protected Spandau machine gun bunkers which caused huge numbers of casualties.
Six hours later, the Germans reacted with their entire reserve. They eschewed artillery because of the damage it would cause to their own installations and the hand to hand fighting had been memorably vicious. Having run out of grenades and rifle ammunition my section had withdrawn under continuous fire from the recaptured Spandau posts. The front stabilised with no territorial gain, but numerous casualties in both armies.
Since that attack the fighting had been restricted to sniper and machine gun exchanges and the occasional night patrols. We were sure that the generals were thinking up some fresh awfulness for the Tommies to perform.
*
I sat on the fire step, watching the section take it in turns to man the observation post. My feet were now really painful and Connon’s ministrations were long forgotten. I contemplated taking off my boots, but was really concerned at what I might see.
The German artillery barrage erupted in no man’s land with no warning. It was the classic rolling barrage that crept closer and closer to the British trenches. This would normally be the precursor to an attack by the German troops, so I sent most of the section to the dugouts, retaining just a couple of men with me to watch for developments. The shells rained down causing the trench to collapse in places, then the explosions progressively moved on behind the line and toward the reserve areas.
“Stand to, stand to,” was called up and down the line. The troops evacuated the bunkers and manned the fire step in anticipation of a German assault. The trench flooded with men fixing bayonets and easing the pins in Mills bombs.
The shells were still falling behind the line when a football rattle clattered.
My skin crawled; the rattles are a warning of an impending gas attack. Across no-mans’ land, a dense cloud of yellow fog was being driven on the wind towards the British positions.
“GAS,
GAS,” came the shout and the rattles continued their din. I now knew that the curious bell-like sounds I had heard two nights before were gas cylinders being positioned and connected in anticipation of this attack.
Upending my haversack, I scrabbled for my gas hood and the liquid chemical I was supposed to soak it in. I pulled the stopper and tried to pour the fluid. The bottle was empty! It had leaked.
The first tendrils of poison crept over the edge of the trench wall. Some soldiers managed to put on their hoods; others were jamming the entrances to the dugouts in an effort to escape the danger. I knelt down on the floor of the trench and tried to control my shivers, I was terrified.
Without any warning, there was a loud pop. I opened my eyes. I seemed to be in a bubble, the noise of the explosions and the cries of the men were silenced. I could see the trench walls but they were shimmering and going in and out of focus. The lavender scent I had smelled days before was very strong!
“Hello.” A girl’s voice spoke into the silence. “Hello, my name is Alice.”
My head swam. Standing by me, a small girl, about eight or ten with a mane of blond corkscrew curls. She is amazingly clean and immaculate amongst the mud and debris of the trench. Dressed as if for church in a blue velvet frock with a muslin pinafore, white socks and patent leather shoes. How did her shoes remain so clean? Ah, her feet were about three inches above the mud, a nice trick!
“Charlie Carter, I am your Guardian Angel,” she said.
“I didn’t know I had one,” I replied.
“Well, you do, but your case is very difficult,” Alice said. “This gas is awful stuff. It was easier when you men used swords and bows, gave us something to work with. Anyway, I have a solution and please try to be grateful, it is truly the best I can do.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“Not at all, it really is my pleasure,” said Alice.
There was another pop and the battlefield noise came back with a rush.
My skin burned and my eyes hurt abominably. I eased myself back against the wall of the trench and marvelled over what I had experienced. Breathing was incredibly difficult and painful.
“Carter.” It was Connon’s voice. “All of your section is dead. We will get you to the aid station as fast as we can. Don’t know how you survived, but we may have a serious problem with your eyes. Why are you smiling, old chap?”
At last I could take off these dammed boots! That was worth a smile.
The Marsh
by Rosamond Palmer
Local people referred to Combe Haven as ‘The Marsh.’ They valued it and cared for its natural beauty. Magnificent oaks and ancient hedgerows were destroyed to make way for the controversial Bexhill/Hastings link road.
Owl flew over the marsh and away from a distant high pitch whine. Owl knew that sound; it came from two-leggers who robbed trees of their branches. But two-leggers didn’t come here much. This place stayed safe.
A four-legged food scurried over the yellowish grass. Owl swooped down and clasped it in her beak, soared upwards and landed on Oak’s upper bough, her favourite lookout. She devoured the shrew and admired Oak’s magnificent branches. Whatever the weather, Oak remained strong and dependable.
The following day, Owl returned, stretched her wings and circled above Oak. Two-leggers had taken up residence in her tree. Noisy, inefficient and building ugly, square and impractical nests. Once the chicks started to move about, they would fall out. The two-leggers used strange flat materials, like blue sails and clutched silver spikes in their beaks, then banged the spikes into Oak by swinging their featherless wings. She compared their activities with the economy of a woodpecker’s.
It was the wrong time of year to build nests and they were the wrong shape. The eggs would roll off the platforms or the chicks would die of cold. This was her tree and she wished them gone.
The air filled with snow. It settled on the ground and topped the new nests and Oak’s branches. Food was scarce, tiny four-leggers stayed underground where Oak’s roots kept her sap safe. Owl puffed up her feathers and craned her neck. More two-leggers arrived. They made upside down nests on the ground, dug holes and lit fires. The snow melted, the mud softened, they churned it up and it stuck to everything.
Why don’t they leave? “Oak, wake up.”
Sometimes, visiting two-leggers sang to the new nesters, their song as sweet as a skylark’s, but most of the time their chatter was as flat and tuneless as a magpie’s. They didn’t seem to be doing harm and now moved about the branches with agility. Owl felt cold and hungry and wanted her tree back.
The next day, before sunrise, flocks of two-leggers arrived. The tree-nesters stayed put while two-leggers with yellow and orange plumage pulled down the ground nests and put up big fences. They took the ground-nesters away and erected small suns which turned night to day. Maybe these new two-leggers would get the nesters out of the trees and Oak would once again be hers.
The following day, lots of two-leggers, who climbed like spiders, fastened the nesters’ wings and lowered them to the ground. More two-leggers drove them away. At night, the small suns blazed and the remaining nesters slept. Owl sensed they were hungry because they too had not eaten.
The third day, the spider-climbers came back and took away the rest of the tree-nesters. They wrenched the nests apart and threw the pieces to the ground.
Owl had her tree back. “Oak, it is all right. They have gone. They made them go away.”
Different two-leggers climbed up the trees, machines hung from their middles. They perched on branches and pulled on vines attached to the machines. A throbbing filled the air, followed by a high pitched whine, sawdust flew.
“No. Oak no. Wake up Oak, wake up.”
These two-leggers sliced off Oaks boughs until she stood tall and bare. Her branches lay about her roots.
Owl circled above. “Oak, you can grow more branches. I’ve seen trees do it before.”
The two-leggers descended on vines. They cut into her trunk.
“No, this can’t be, no.”
They attacked her from sun up-side and sun-down side. All the two-leggers except one turned their backs on her and strutted away. He cut into her again, stopped and waited. A cracking split the air and she toppled. Oak lay on the ground, stripped of her dignity and her future.
*
John tugged at the jacket zip and thrust his fingers into cold damp gloves. He inhaled in his last warm breath and stumbled into the frozen night. The next breath hurt and the outbreath turned to miniscule crystals that glinted in the beam of his torch. It was bitter. He knew if he stopped walking, swinging his arms against his chest, he would freeze solid. Stig would eventually get off his arse and find him frozen, like a carcass of meat.
John crunched along the haul road.
Stig had warned him. “Keep your eyes open for protesters. It’s the anniversary of the oaks coming down. They may cause trouble.”
He swept the torch beam full circle. An icy blast buffeted his head and pain pierced his ears. The ground felt hard as iron. Three days now, the heavy plant machinery had stood redundant and they were behind schedule. Still, good news for him, it spun the job out. Bloody protesters. They wouldn’t be out tonight. They wouldn’t want to freeze their bollocks off in this!
Something rustled, like the wind sweeping through trees in full leaf. No trees here. He crunched towards a JCB, its long arm dormant, covered in frost, the base of the bucket trapped in a frozen puddle. That wasn’t right. Was someone playing silly buggers? That digger wasn’t in that position earlier. Its bucket was off the ground. A barn owl screeched, swooped overhead, soared upwards, circled and landed on the roof of the cab.
John made a wide arc with the beam of his torch and picked out the greyish trail of the haul road stretching to the frozen flood water in the valley and along the hill to Upper Wilting. Dead still, just the throb of the generator. He glanced at his watch, five minutes past two. He’d walk to Decoy Pond, then go back and make a hot
chocolate and stick some more whisky in it.
He slid and tramped along the uneven surface. The cold rose up through his steel-capped boots.
A second digger stood lifeless like some extinct dinosaur. Not a sound. The generator had stopped. No light from the security cabin. He expected Stig to stumble out through the door swearing and flashing his torch. Lazy bastard must have fallen asleep.
John pulled the radio attached to his jacket up to his mouth and pressed ‘speak’. “Stig, you there, mate?”
A low static crackled back. “Stig, wake up. Stig mate, are you there?”
He’d have to head back, see what was happening. He stumbled and steadied himself with the flat of his hand on the arm of the digger. His head spun. It was the cold that did that, not the whisky. The whisky helped, he needed another slug. He took a few hollow breaths and swept the torchlight over the surrounding ground. He pushed away from the digger, but his gloved hand stuck fast. John rested the torch on the side of the digger’s bucket. The beam shone out into the vast blackness. In near dark, he yanked at the glove. It stayed stuck.
“Bugger.”
He tried peeling the fingers away one by one, but gained no leverage. Christ it was like those bloody protesters who glued themselves together. John needed to get back, check on Stig. Still no sounds or signs from the cabin. He slid his hand out of the trapped glove. The suspended glove reminded him of a policeman ordering a motorist to stop. John’s fingers smarted and he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. With his gloved hand, he yanked the stuck glove up, down, side to side. Oh sod it! He’d have to leave it there.
John attempted radio contact, but again no response, just that static. He picked up the torch. Its beam rose upwards and picked out a circling owl. He followed its flight. It stopped as if suspended, fluttering the tips of its snowy white feathers. John trudged back to the cabin, flashing the torch from side to side.
The owl screeched. He spun round in the direction of the sound and spotted the owl perched on the digger. Its head rotated like something out of the film, The Exorcist. He wished he had his rifle with him. He’d take a pot at it. That would be something to show the wife.
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