For the 5 or so people who've reviewed/alerted me, thanks for giving this a chance. I hope you enjoy this chapter, see you same time next week!
** Thanks to evieeden for the last-minute beta job - she's a star. **
Chapter 2: Edge Of The Earth
By mid-1917, I've reached the rank of major, but Edward remains a lieutenant. It's not that he's a bad soldier or anything. I consider him a valued member of the company, but his talents lie elsewhere. When we were children he played the piano incessantly and had expensive lessons that his well-off parents paid for. Not being musical myself, it amazed me, and his skill with the instrument is such that he could be a composer if he wished. Killing is not his forté, but there's no shame in that. At the age of twenty-two I've become the youngest major in the regiment. For some reason, the men will just listen to me, and I seem to have a gift for leadership I never knew I had. Although, it doesn't exactly make me feel good to know that my own talents lie in being a soldier – a more eloquent name for someone who kills for a living.
One night, the other half of our regiment is called away on supply duty, Edward included, and I am responsible for the cohort that remains to guard the trench. In my new position, it seems strange to be his commanding officer. When we are on duty I must treat him the same as everyone else, but he is still my friend. I get talking to Daniels, a pleasant young lad on his first time here, as I come to relieve him after a twenty-hour watch in three feet of mud. It is easy to forget that we are all normal away from this living hell that is our duty. He tells me about his wife, Florence, and that they have a baby on the way. I congratulate him and we exchange a few pleasantries before he turns to leave to grab a few hours of scant sleep.
And then the shell hits, the echoing impact obliterating the wood beneath my feet. I am blown to the side, narrowly escaping the blast by inches. Slowly, I turn, afraid to see what the shell has left in its wake. Body parts everywhere protrude from the thick, foul mud and the terrible scent of burnt flesh hangs in the air. Two other men from my regiment, Smith and Parsons, come rushing through from the other part of the trench and shake their heads, appalled at the unfortunate Daniels' fate. But we must be businesslike nonetheless – the clean-up procedure is clear. We grab a bucket and shovels and start scooping up the various dismembered body parts. And when we are done, I bend over the shattered duck boards and vomit, retching long after the contents of my stomach have expelled themselves.
"Jesus, Whitlock, you're white as a sheet," Smith exclaims as he regards me, still unable to get up, my body covered in the mud and particles of a dead man. "Sir, I mean," he adds hastily, reminding me of the fact that despite his experience, he is my subordinate. He's an older, more seasoned soldier who fought in the Boer war and is used to such brutality. He hands me his handkerchief to wipe my mouth and I take it gratefully. My eyes close, but all I see is half of a face blown apart, one eye still open, a hand, an arm. It's all that is left of that laughing young man who had his life ahead of him.
For days afterwards, my hands shake and I flinch at the sound of every bombardment. My mind wanders, and I drift in and out of consciousness even in my waking hours, feeling as if my sanity is slowly slipping away. I know that I have to get a grip on myself, or one of my men will report me to the battalion doctor, sympathetic as they are. A diagnosis of neurasthenia would not only bring into my question my abilities as an officer, but would label me as "mad" and a danger to those around me. Although, maybe I am mad.
Sometimes when I lean on that familiar mud wall, the rifle poised in front of me, I laugh darkly to myself even while my hands tremble on the trigger. There is something terribly wrong when men are thought of as insane when they really are the sanest. What the average soldier endures out here – lack of sleep, constant shelling, disease, hunger, cold, and a constant threat of being called out to the front – is more than any human body should have to bear. Every man has his breaking point, and I pray that I have not reached mine.
I am sure that I am only days away from being reported, but no matter how hard I try, I continue to lose my grasp on reality. I dole out orders in a monosyllabic tone that I don't even recognise, and even though I see the men exchange significant looks with one another, I don't care. The day after that, Edward and some others return from their stint in the communication trench a few miles away. That same night, he finds me wandering near the top of the trench, right on the edge of no-man's land. At first I don't hear him. I'm pacing with a revolver in my hand, telling myself I'm looking for enemy soldiers.
"Jasper, what the hell are you doing?" he hisses, momentarily forgetting his inferior rank as he tries to bring me to my senses.
"Nothing. Just patrolling," I hear myself say, and a laugh comes out of the darkness.
"Don't give me that," he says, in tones harsher than I've ever heard from him before. "You're trying to get yourself shot. You know what they tell us. It's classed as risk-taking behaviour. Do you want to end up in the fucking loony bin?"
"Thanks for thinking I'm mad," I mutter, still not moving despite his painful grip on my upper arm.
"I'm telling you this for your own good," he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I get back and I find everything's gone to shit. The men have been talking amongst themselves, they think their commanding officer's lost the plot."
"I haven't!" I say, rather more angrily than I intend. "I'm just tired."
"They told me what happened. Look, I know you had a man's guts all over you, but if you don't get a grip, you'll end up having some sadistic doctor zapping you with electrodes in one of those shell-shock treatment places. Or worse, they'll claim you were entirely sane and you'll be court-martialled and shot by a firing squad."
I sigh, knowing he's right but unwilling to even admit to my best friend how much I was affected by a simple shell attack. It happens all the time. Perhaps my case was a particularly horrific one, but all the same, nothing that other soldiers haven't suffered. At least I'm alive, unlike poor Daniels.
"Please don't tell anyone about this," I say finally, stepping down to plant my feet firmly on the grooved wood.
"You know I won't, Sir."
He salutes me, and I return it. "At ease, lieutenant."
...
A few days later, we find a moment to talk in the dugout while he writes yet another letter to Bella. I idly watch his pen form words on the page, the ink occasionally forming blots on his fingers. He looks up with a heavy sigh.
"I worry she'll forget me, you know," he says quietly, his eyes tightening at the corners. "I write every week, but due to our communication problems, she doesn't always receive them."
"I know I only met her the once, but Bella doesn't seem like one of those flighty girls. She trusts you, and she knows you'll come back and marry her."
"We plan to do it the next time they let me out of this hell-hole," he tells me with a sigh. "I'm sick of staring at four walls that are nothing but mud."
"At least you're not on sanitation duty, like Evans. The poor bloke's stuck burying the contents of the latrines for the next month."
"Now that's a shit job," Edward says very seriously, before he looks at me, his mouth twitching. As I burst out laughing, he echoes it, and for a moment we laugh and laugh till our sides ache. It's a remarkable aspect of humanity that even in the worst situations, one can always find something amusing.
"When do you think orders will come through? I think we're going to be pulled back to the reserves soon."
"That'll give your nerves a rest." I know he doesn't mean it that way, but the memory of my near-breakdown is still sharp, and it irritates me. I don't like him bringing up my one moment of weakness.
"You might want to talk about nerves," I mutter. "Worrying about whether your girl's shacked up with some other man. I would say that it's really the least of your worries, given that the only available men back home are children, the old, and conchies. I can't see Bella going off with one of those, can you? That would rather bring into disrepute her supposed pride at making the weapons for our boys."
"Look, shut it, alright," Edward replies in harsh tones, but I can see he's smiling. "I wasn't worried about that. And you know, she isn't proud. But it's the best-paid thing out there and she does it so that her family can put food on the table. You know her mother's sick."
"I know. But look, that girl is absolutely head over heels for you. Trust me on that one, I could see it. Lord knows why, you're such an annoying, moaney bastard."
He punches my arm, and I shove him back, knowing that I've cheered him up. He turns back to his letter, and I fish through my pack for the tattered notebook I sometimes write my thoughts in. It helps me to sort through the days, and lets me remind myself that one day there will be an end to this.
"What do you think you'll do when we get out of here?" Edward says softly, laying his pen down as he finishes the letter.
I look up from the page I'm on, pausing the scrawl of my own pen. "What, when the war's over?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I don't know. Probably go and be a civil servant at Whitehall or something. You know that Mum was always keen on me 'getting on' in the world, as she liked to say. I think that also includes marrying some posh girl."
He smiled. "I don't know what job I'd do. Maybe I'll go into business for myself. But I tell you, there's nothing I'd like more now than seeing Bella again." I took in his serene, calm expression, a look you so rarely saw out here, and for a moment I felt the cold sting of jealousy. I envied him, perhaps for Bella herself, but more for having someone awaiting his return. I received word earlier this year that my mother died of pneumonia that set in suddenly, and now there's nobody in my home town to go back to.
Thanks for reading, and please review as it would be great to know your thoughts. I've tried to get inside the head of a WWI soldier as best I could, and it would be great to see what you made of it. The next chapter will be up next Sunday/Monday as usual. xxx