The Picadilly Ghost

I said to Nobby Clark, I said to him, that there trench, I said, is haunted. He laughed at me did old Nobby untill Freeman came along and said "Charlie's right, tha knows, Picadilly Circus is haunted. I've seen 'im, as large as life and twice as ugly." Well,, that did it. Nobby wouldn't go down Picadilly alone for love nor money. Poor sod'd have to ask someone to go wi' him when he went to collect the rum ration. We allus sent Nobby, he havin' signed The Pledge like. Poor lad never minded goin'. If anythin' it gave him summat to do. Bein' on stand-to or keepin' watch alone can be bloody-well boring.

Our particular stretch of the line is usually quiet but when night comes it's a real Brocks Benefit and no mistake. Young 'uns in't line for the fust time just stand there and gawp as them rockets goes up and reach their apogee (as our Mister Blackwell says) and then they burst ower us like giant flowers. You darn't move, not even to blink your eye; caught like rabbits in a lamp's light you are. Then you hope and pray that there's no daft bugger out there in No-Man's-Land. Some nervy little Jerry'll rattle off a few rounds from his Maxim and then it's quiet again. Mister Blackwell, our platoon officer, will do his historic bit and walk amongst lads and pat one or two on't shoulder like; usually little Jimmy Back'ouse, who'll cringe, and Tommy Simpson, who'll smirk, and then there'll be another whoosh as two more flares go on up. Freeman's a bit doolally and he stands right up on the firestep: doesn't move a muscle, just stands there lit up like a bloody Christmas tree while the flare splutters out and hits the ground.

Some sod'll start cryin' in their sleep until the sergeant gives 'em a kick up the arse and then they'll have to set-to: fetch and carry, go ower t'top and replace brokken wire or screw in a few more iron pickets. Night's the time we worl: little invisible insects scurryin' amongst rats and rubbish puttin' things reet.

To get to the latrines you have to go to Marble Arch and turn right, away from the Front, and walk for about twenty yards down Pall Mall until you catch the smell. You'll know when you're there. Usually there'll be two blokes detailed to carry away the shit buckets but, sometimes, when there's there's a bit of a hate goin' on and the whiz-bangs land a little too close for comfort, the slop buckets get forgotten.

From the latrines it's only a matter of a few yards to the start o' Picadilly and the way 'ome. It's a wide trench; links us to the outside world and along it travel all our necessities: food and drink and reinforcements. Back the other way go the wounded and the tired and the shell-shocked.

Mister Blackwell calls me to the Company dug-out. He wants me to act as the Company runner. Great, I get to miss the stand-to and all the other irksome little duties, and if the message ain't that important I can go out into the blue for a while; find some nice little barn with half a wall standin' and have a bit of shut-eye. Not tonight though. There's been a call from t' Red Tabs for a silent death patrol to go out and have a go at a Jerry observation post. There's already a bit of a distraction laid on: by the "Hows" over to our right. It'll be just enough to make Jarry keep his head down says Captain Samuels but I think it's a bloody waste o' time. Jerry won't fall for that. He'll smell a rat and strafe us good and proper. But I'm only the runner so what do I know? I'm to go to Battalion HQ and change the time of the end of the strafe.

Outside, back into the night, Freeman is still standing like bloody Patience on a monument, humming a tune to his-self. I set off down the trench and get to Marble Arch. Somewhere ahead of me and to my right I can hear the muffled crump and see a flash of light caught on the underside of a cloud. There's another and another and another. Over to my left, in Hun-land, there are even louder crumps as the shells hit home. Fairey lights go up and light the ground like it was day; machineguns spray No-Man's-Land and you've got to feel sorry for the poor bastards chosen for the silent death squad. I saw them briefly, having a last fag before slithering over the parapet. Blackened faces and balaclavas, some even had crawling patches on their knees. They're really just a collection of kids; fearful-looking white eyes aminst black faces but not much like a Minstrel troupe on the end-of-the-pier show.

I'm down Pall Mall now and Jerry is lobbin' big stuff back. The ground shakes and soil's dislodged from the trench side. I could have told 'em that Jerry would bracket the area; any fool would know that. Just for good measure they're putting over shrapnel and I can hear the marble-sized balls scythin' into the grass and rattlin' along the trench floor. One pings off my helmet and I crouch down on the floor for a while. No time to have a funk I tell myself and carry on. I can hear one of the lads heaving his guts out in the latrine as I pass.

Down Picadilly as it twists and turns its way towards the rear. Overhead there's another shrapnel shell exploding. I'm into a funk hole before you can say Jack Robinson: face into the soil and my back expectin' to be hit at any moment. The storm of little shrapnel balls ebbs away and I'm back on my feet and runnin' down the trench again. There's a strong smell of expended cordite and the view ahead is blurred by smoke. I'm prepared for the trench to be hit again but decide against climbin' out and runnin' along the top. With all this bloody shrapnel it'd be madnes to be so exposed. I plunge into the smoke. It clogs my nostrils and I cough. Spittin' out phlegm I carry on. Ahead of me there's a mist. "Alright mate" I say to myself: "Keep runnin' on gobshite, just keep runnin'.... into the mist and bugger the consequences...."

There's a whoosh of burning hot air and I'm flyin'. There's no top nor bottom, no sky, no stars and no earth; just me up in the air spinnin' like a bloody top, Then I'm fallin' down; down and down and the earth is comin' at me like a bloody brewer's dray... but I'm fallin' onto summat... it's not the trench... it's not soil... or a wooden duckboard. No! It's another bloody man! I'm goin' to land on another poor bugger. Poor sod! If he's not dead already he will be when I land on him. I cry out and he hears me... well, I think he does. His eyes open and he's lookin' straight at me. Bugger, I land right on him. I scream this time but the other bloke says nowt. Bloody hell, I say. The poor sod's face is nowt but a pair of eyes but I know those eyes... They're mine!