All recognisable characters belong to SM. x
Edward point of view
30th July 1917,
Passchendaele
"Fucking boot!" McCarthy shouted over the raw of our guns. He bent down and kicked his boot off; it flew and landed into a puddle. He headed me his gun and marched over the fetch it, he picked it up and poured the slush out of it, he shoved his foot into it and made a start at wrapping the ratty putty around his calf.
"You know I've worn bloody slippers that were more water proof than these shitty-" he growled but was cut off by sergeant Everson.
"McCarthy! To your station!" sergeant Everson shouted, his gruff voice sending Macarthy running to his place.
I just shook my head and reached for my flask, fumbling the lid off I took a swig from it. I nearly gagged when the bitter tasting freezing liquid screeched down my throat. Bitter wind scratched at my nose and ears, my fingertips were beyond numb, I had lost feeling in them weeks ago, I had lost feeling everywhere. Each week something goes.
We have been here for 10 days under the constant roar of our bombardment on the Germans. 10 fucking days and still no indication of when we are to go over.
A scream rang out from around the corner, I knew that scream, we all did. Another man dead, I didn't feel the grief or alarm I would have felt at the beginning of the war.
Death happens and you accept it.
It changes you seeing the dead, seeing how they died and knowing that you could be killed by the same gun. I could be talking to one chap one moment then within a heartbeat he would be on the ground a smoking bullet hole in his head and his brains would be one the toe of my boot. Just like that, no warning. You never get warnings now.
"Cheer up pretty boy, it might never appen!" McCarthy joked. Emmett McCarthy a farmer's son from Wolverhampton, was the only soldier I knew who not bothered by the war at all (except the state of his boots). He joked and laughed like he was at home and not in a trench a little more than 200 meters from the Germans. Nothing fazed him. Death was just an accepted possibility to him; it didn't scare him and more than he found his boots confortable.
" Well it's happening whatever he's thinking about. Came a disgruntled voice, I looked down to see private Whitlock sitting on a crate ankle deep in filth reading a tatty copy of the 'Wipers Times' .
His helmet was firmly stuck to his head, a small puff of smoke escaped from under the brim every now and again.
Private Whitlock was an odd bloke; he was an artist back in Blighty. And like a typical artist he was prone to mood swings in the extreme. Some days he was cheerfully optimistic then some days he looked as if he were about to turn his own riffle on himself, and every other time he looked like he was going to strangle McCarthy with his own bare hands. Like I said a typical artist.
This trench was home, its endless length some known some unknown to me is home and it probably will be for god knows how long. We were waiting as we have been doing for a long time, waiting for the whistle. The whistle will only ever be blown for 3 reasons, one being a gas attack, the second is if we are to go over the top, and finally the third reason would be to signal the end of the war, the end of all of this madness. The last one being a non-existent hope.
Just then a shell rocket overhead a little close to us for our liking, Whitlock put his paper on his lap and looked up at the hellish sky, "We've been standing here for weeks, and what for?" he shouted angrily but was then was silent for a moment, he was breathing deeply as if to calm himself, I opened my mouth to say something but was cut off "And don't you bloody say its keep our country safe!" his voice was full of his trade mark malice.
As much as I wanted to tell him shut his gob I knew he was right. Whilst we are here our home is under attack, in 1915 zeppelins attacked London without warning, in the same year the Germans set their war ship guns on the seaside towns of Scarborough, Whitby and Hartlepool.
"Lunch!" a voice shouted as they came round the corner of the trench. It was Peter with a large box full of sandwiches, he handed us each one then carried on his way.
"Korr blimey! Bacon sandwiches ...i think." McCarthy exclaimed looked somewhat puzzled. Whitlock took a hesitant sniff at his and scrunched up his nose in disgust.
McCarthy took a huge hunger fuelled bite then paused I aint eating this shit, it takes like- he suddenly doubled over and vomited into the sludge on the ground. I took a bite and as soon as the bacon touched my tongue I knew what was the matter- the bacon tasted of dead bodies.
We though the sandwiches over the trench "They can have them!" McCarthy shouted wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Death is our constant unwelcomed companion, but sometimes I feel like I welcomed it needed it. Death is the only easy escape from this hell. Death is easy but not peaceful. I have seen men go over the top only to fall down like apples from a tree, one after the after the other. They lie on the ground in crumpled disfigured heaps and left to rot and decay into the ground.
I have had to dig trenches only to discover that when my spade hits something odd it isn't earth its dead bodies. We should be heading back to the support trenches soon; it's only a matter of days.
You tend to forget that you are ankle deep in mud, water and other indescribable things; you tend to not think that you have just stepped over a corps of your neighbour to get to the ammunition bank. War does funny things to you, it changes you.
"You got a sweetheart at 'ome?" McCarthy asked as he lit a cigarette, Nosy git. Whitlock muttered shaking his head.
"Yes actually." I replied smiling, just the thought of her brightens me. But then my heart does a summersault, she's not at home though, she's here in this devil infested place. She's at a field hospital. "Oh aye, you gonna put a name to her then?" he pushed, I laughed.
"She is called Be-Isabella." I said, her name does the same thing it always has if not intensified.
What I wouldn't do to hold her in my arms, to burry my face in her hair and breathe in her scent, I could almost smell her unique strawberry smell. I wanted to feel her silken skin under my fingertips; actually come to think of it I want to be able to feel my fingertips.
I heard them both laughing at behind their hands like school girls, I felt a warm blush radiate from my cheeks. I could tell that loud jokes were seconds away from being said. "Oh arr you got a picture of the poor bugger?" McCarthy joked and wadded his way through the mud to stand by me. I punched him lightly in the shoulder then dug into my pocket for a mettle tin. I keep all of my special belongings in a tin so they are safe from all the crap I kept the tin from my mother sent me home made scones (you can probably guess who ate them).
With numb hands I took the lid off amidst the letters and odd photograph was a small stiff square wrapped in an old copy of the Wipers Times . I un-wrapped it carefully to reveal the immortalised face of Bella Swan.
My smile was returned by her sweet lips, eager eyes stared back at me, you could almost see the brown luxuriousness of them in the sepia picture. She was wearing the dress her mother had made her for her birthday; it was a beautiful forgets me not blue. And forget it I won't. "Well aint she a pretty penny!" McCarthy whistled looking over my shoulder. I nodded in agreement my heart tightening painfully. Whitlock came sludging over to use, "Here let me have a look." He said trying to hide his interest.
I showed him the picture he too whistled. I felt a swelling feeling of pride arise in me.
With a heavy heart I wrapped the picture back up and tucked it away in my tin. "What about you two, do you two insufferable idiots have lady loves? And if so, why?" I asked laughing and received two shoves on the shoulder.
McCarthy puffed out his chest and declared "Yes I most certainly do, and by god is she a looker!" me and Whitlock exchanged one look then doubled over in laughter.
McCarthy grumbled indignantly.
"Carry on." I told him restraining my laughter. He glared at us before carrying on.
"Her name is Rosalie hale and she is a goddess. Rose is the daughter of the post mistress, I have known her since we were young children, and I think I probably bullied her when we were younger because she was ever so cold towards me.
I used to go to the post office when I running a few jobs for me mother and she would be there. She worked behind the counter. To be perfectly honest I went to the post office even when I was meant to be. Well after a while she couldn t with stand my charm and agreed to let me court her."
He stopped abruptly, a sad glint taking over in his previously enthusiastic eyes. It was a look I was sure inhabited my own eyes.
"Go one mate." I encouraged,
he took a deep breath and carried on. "We courted for about a year, you know I can remember every single time I took her for a walk or took her for tea, I can even remember every single gift I gave her. She is an angel, because only an angel could love a bloke like me, Wellington boot covered in shit and all.
I remember the day I ask her to marry me, it was a lovely day in spring 1914, I borrowed a friends automobile because I knew Rose had an obsession with them and took us both for a spin in it around the village and into the countryside. We stopped by the canal and I ask her if she wanted to be my wife, she said yes... or words to that effect. We planned the wedding to be around Christmas, the war didn't bother us because we thought it would be over by then and I wouldn't have to go to war and fight. But fate is a bastard and had other plans. She's a nurse now and me a soldier."
A tear glistened on his muddy cheeks leaving a sad trial as it went.
"Wow we have a hidden romantic amongst us; I never knew he had it in him!" Whitlock exclaimed trying to lighten the mood like only he seemed to be able to do.
McCarthy let out a pitiful laugh and turned around picked up his rifle and set to work cleaning it his shoulders hunched and head down.
"What about you Whitlock?" I asked him. He stretched his arms then sighed heavily "She's called Alice; she works in a munitions factory in London." Was all he said, I could see that under all of the grime on his face he was blushing.
"You know for an artist you don't elaborate much." I laughed; he just shrugged "I'll tell you more tomorrow." He answered before readjusting his tunic.
McCarthy turned to me and said "Oi pretty boy, you heard about that Yorkshire lad crawly I think his name was-" Whitlock cut him off "You mean the coward Crawley?" he spat the man's name as if burnt his mouth.
"C'mon mate, do you really have to be so harsh on the bugger?" McCarthy said trying to defend the man. Whitlock just grunted, swore then lit a cigarette. I was instantly intrigued.
"Who were you talking about?" I whispered, he looked up at me then turned around to look at Whitlock who was facing the other way and appeared to be busy.
"Well." He started his voice low.
"You know when we were in Ypres in spring, well it seemed that this lad called Crawley lost his nerves and scarpered. They hadn't noticed we were missing till the morning." He laughed then before continuing.
"Stupid sod didn't get far, officer Everson and the other bastards caught him not three miles away from Ypres. Well as you could imagine they weren't best amused, from what I hear he was screaming all the way back to Ypres." He stopped and took a long drag of his muddy cigarette.
A sickening feeling of anticipation gnawed at my empty stomach, I was gripped by his story. And I felt no shame.
"The big wigs had him done for desertion and cowardice. There was no saving the poor bugger. They shot him two days later behind the town hall in Popperinge."
There was a sad finality in his voice. I felt sick to my stomach, we were supposed to be killing the enemy and here we were shooting each other. We have blood on our hands and it s not just the enemies any more.
It was then that Whitlock spoke up "He was part of the Essex regiment at the battle of the Somme. They were virtually whipped out. Crawley hadn't been the same since." His voice was neutral.
I had heard of the extinction of the Essex s everyone had, they were practically all gone in a matter of hours. The Canadian Newfoundlanders were also destroyed that morning. It could be us soon.
"At least we have the tanks ay, they do and half scare the shit out the Germans. You really should see their faces." McCarthy said trying to lighten the mood Whitlock had forced on us.
"They had bloody tanks at the Somme and look what happened to them. The useless pieces of crap broke down." Whitlock commented. McCarthy kept quiet.
Suddenly loud agonised groans sent us leaning against the side of the trench as two stretcher bearers marched hastily past us; a soldier lay crippled on the canvas between them, his foot haphazardly bound with a crimson bandage. He's shot himself in the foot. "Coward." Whitlock murmured.
Me and McCarthy just shook our heads in a mixture of pity and disbelief. The sky had darkened but it was still ablaze with the whistling of shells and the resulting explosions. We all settle in a place to rest, Whitlock on his crate and McCarthy leaning against the wall.
"Fucking boots." I heard McCarthy grumble before sighing heavily. I settled onto the duck bored shelf and leant my head onto a sodden hard sand bag. Closing my eyes I conjured up the image of Bella and tried to drown out the roar and hysteria of the bombing with the sound of her laugh.
I tried to think of her in a white dress, standing for me at the end of the isle of the little parish church, I tried to imagine the way the stain glass windows would reflect onto her porcelain skin. I will write to her tomorrow, I already know what to say to her. I willed sleep to get me and soon.
"Men, your attention please!" opening my eyes I saw sergeant Everson walk towards us the other men from around the corner gathered with us. I sat up and tried to look presentable.
I could tell by the look on his face what he was going to say.
Tension as tight as violin string encased us all.
"At 3:50 tomorrow morning we go over. Prepare your selves." With that he bowed his head and walked away.
The air froze.
Thank you for reading I hope you all enjoyed it. Please please please Here is a few notes to answer any questions you might have .
The Wipers Times was a newspaper written at the front for the front, it was produced by soldiers in the 12th battalion Sherwood Foresters in France. It was full of British humour (which meant some of it was good and some of it was shockingly bad) it was a bit of entertainment for the troops to keep moral up. The battle of the Somme was in July 1916, it consisted of a 7 day bombardment by the allies onto the German held trenches. It was more or less a failure, the British bombardment failed to cut the Germans barbed wire and to kill the troops there. When the allies went over the top they were mown down by German machine guns. As I mention the Essex regiment and the Canadian Newfoundlanders regiment were practically wiped out. Over 19,000 died in that battle alone. It was named the worst day in British history.
If you have any questions please feel free to ask