The Angel of Mons - Chapter Eleven

Eleven

When George reached France he was told his unit had been moved down the line and he was issued with orders to meet up with them near Amiens at a place called Theipval.
What bizarre sport this business of war is, thought George as he made his way down a narrow lane passing sleeping soldiers, mountains of munitions rearing trotting horses and rows of artillery, the great barrels bowed as if resting after their exhausting labour.
He could hear the familiar sound of the front line in the distance. The crack of rifle and thud of cannon varied in tone by calibre and in volume by distance.
George passed a dressing station where doctors and nurses were sitting outside in the thin sunshine, the men smoking and drinking tea. Stretchers lay stacked to the side of a marquee and the bearers lay next to them. He passed a party of Chinese men who were digging large pits behind the line of the road.

“The bells of hell go ting a ling a ling.”

George had managed to almost convince himself that his meeting with Liz had never taken place. He had decided to say nothing to Peter. He had remembered how he had once seen a Captain uncover the body of a young soldier resting as if asleep under a blanket in the safety of a tiny niche carved into the wall of the trench. The Captain had been curious to find out why the Private was wearing no sock or boot on his right foot. It was only when he found a neat bullet whole in the top of his head that he realised. The boy had recieved bad news about his sweetheart who had wondered in his absence, and he could not live with the pain. George thought Peter was stronger than that, but the war had changed everyone in so many ways.
On arrival at HQ, George was informed that he had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant with immediate effect and was told to report to his battalion which was in reserve on a farm a mile from Amiens, one and a half miles from the front line. They were scheduled to move up the line forty eight hours later
When George arrived, he found Peter sitting by a shallow river, fishing. And George noticed he too had received a promotion. “Long service award,” they concluded. Peter told him that they had spent their time fixing the wire and digging new support trenches. He mentioned that he had spent a very long day guarding a mine which had been dug under the enemy line and he smiled as he gave George strict instructions never to be around when they were looking for volunteers to go underground.
Peter brought him upto date with the latest casualties. Those with nice little “Bligthties,” guaranteed to give them a few months away, those more seriously hurt, those dead, and worst of all, those missing. Those who most likely lay alone in no man’s land. None of the Oakley boys had been affected but Peter did mention that they were increasingly bored and anxious to have a go.
George was pleased to hear that there was no shortage of food in the area. They were able to buy eggs, and coffee as well as the usual rations of dried beef and plum jam in tins.
Peter looked tired and grey. His face was grazed and any sign of youth was squeezed out of him. When Peter asked if he had seen Liz, George simply replied that on the couple of occasions he had been in the village she had been away and so they had not met up there. George looked at his boots and held his breath until the Peter changed the subject. George had known Peter long enough to know that he was both surprised and disappointed that he had not seen her.
Peter caught no fish and as it grew dark he packed away his improvised rod and line and headed back to the billet passing a column of Royal Welch that was making its way back from the front, bedraggled, but alive, tired but in high spirits their tuneful voices deep and loud, officers and men together.
As they walked, a staff car sped passed running wide onto the mud as the driver avoided the singing soldiers. Suddenly the car veered to the left as the driver slammed on the brakes and it slid to a stop at the side of the road next to where Peter and George were standing.
They watched as a young thin, pock marked officer leapt from the car. He steadied himself as he slipped on the mud and then he paused to stick out his chin. He placed his cane under his right armpit and marched two steps forward. George thought he was in his early twenties. His boots were polished, his cheeks were red, and his frown was deep.
George noticed two other faces sticking out over the top of the folded canopy at the back of the muddy Rolls Royce. They were smiling and waving their arms as if instructing the young officer to advance. “Go on Bertie, if you feel that bloody strongly,” shouted one of them his voice slightly slurred.
The young officer pulled at the bottom of his jacket, raised his shoulders and pulled in his stomach as if he were trying to make himself appear taller and fitter than he really was. He frowned and his lip curled.
George’s eye was caught by the movement of a tall thin-faced captain, with a flattened nose who had broken from the ranks and was making his way directly toward the officer, gently pushing aside his comrades. The officer hadn’t seen him, and continued to look around the group like a school bully searching for the smallest child. “Who is in charge of this bloody rabble,” called the young officer, his voice clipped and plumy.
George saw that the flat noised man had increased his efforts to cross the column. He heard laughter from the staff car. “Go on Bertie you tell the bastards. Bloody shower.”
Just as the flat nosed Captain was about to reach the officer, George stepped upto the car. “Sorry to trouble you sirs, but it looks like this wheel is in danger of coming off.”
The driver and the two remaining officers looked over at George. “See to it Jones,” squeaked a short fat officer who held a bottle of brandy in his chubby little hand, his hat all at a tilt.
When George looked back he saw the young officer lying on his back, seemingly unconscious, blood poring from his nose.
George smiled and began to whistle tunelessly, his hands in his trouser pockets. He could hear the sound of muffled laughter. Suddenly, the flat nosed Captain stood directly in front him, and held out his hand, “Captain Graves, much obliged,” he said, his expression unchanged.
“A pleasure sir,” said George with a polite nod.

Over the coming months the Oxfords and the Herts found themselves moving up and down the line, never really being able to settle into a routine. They seemed to be lucky enough to constantly find themselves in the zone next to the action. And whilst they had been on several small raids and had to fend off the occasional counter, they had never really been in the thick of it.
Another Christmas came and went. Never the same as the first, but there did always seem to a downturn in hostilities. Winter turned to spring and as March moved into April they were moved down the line only to find themselves back at Theipval.
The Oakley boys had heard word of a big show and were excitedly making ready. It always amazed George how they were able to maintain their level of enthusiasm in spite of everything. In spite of the boredom and the blood, the rats and the lice. When they weren’t at the front, they were involved in shifting shells and moving food.
One day they were called over to a farm near their front line position where they spent the day bundling, allocating and distributing thousands of ladders down a ten mile stretch on the front. He had overheard a conversation between two Welsh minors who had been digging a huge network of tunnels near Beaumont Hamel which they believed were to be packed with hundreds of tons of high explosive.
During June George noticed that members of the New Army as well as the more experienced soldiers were being rested. Their front line duty was reduced to two days and then they were given three days at ease, a day of which was real rest. They played football and cricket, drank in the bars and cafes. They noticed that their rations were improved, they were given fresh meat and vegetables.
In last week of June they were gathered in units and briefed on the plan that was designed to shift the attention of their enemy away from the Verdun and at last to provide them with the opportunity to breakthrough and win the war.
The following day, the Allied artillery opened up a bombardment which was scheduled to last for the best part of a week, its aim, to smash the enemy lines tearing their wire to shreds and leaving the German soldiers either dead or utterly demoralised.
It felt as if the earth itself were being shaken to its very core. The sky was filled with smoke and dust as far as the eye could see. After an hour George thought that surely nothing could be alive on the opposite lines. He could see no way that even a rat could survive such on onslaught. George and Peter lifted themselves to the edge of the trench, confident that no sniper would be in position. They watched as the posts and the wire were thrown like matches into the air. They watched the dry soil being tossed by the ton into the air leaving huge gaping craters, which in turn were filled as another massive explosion ripped into the heart of the earth just a few yards away.
When on the next day they were relieved, they were amazed that there was not even the slightest let up in the veracity of the barrage. The rhythm of the guns remained constant, pounding away without reply. That evening Peter and George found a spot on a small hill and looked down on the valley.
The German position was on a shallow ridge, but they couldn’t see the line. It was marked only by mushrooming explosions, which danced up and down in waves.
George took no pleasure from what he saw. In fact, he felt deeply ashamed. He had been on the receiving of German artillery and knew how every second survived could be the last. There were times when he wished it would stop and they could get on with their jobs.
There was no getting away from the sound of the guns. The pounding shook the ground two miles behind the line. He could hear it in his sleep, feel it in his soul. On day four they were back on the front line. They couldn’t sleep; any sort of conversation was a waist of time. The soil fell from the roofs of the dugouts and even the rats seemed unsettled as they scurried in and out of wholes eventually heading anxiously up the supply trenches.
On the last day of June, all the men who had been held in reserve, were brought to the support areas. Church services, barley audible in the roar of the guns were held and the men wrote letters to their families and sweethearts. That afternoon, Peter and George and the men of their Battalion lay half a mile from the front line stripped to their waists in glorious sunshine. They had become accustomed to the sound now and knew that every time a shell exploded then their chances of survival were improved. “Nothing could have lived through the first few hours less alone a week of it,” Peter said.
Their orders had been issued and they were to go the next morning at eight. The feeling among the men surprised George. They laughed and joked, drank tea and ate biscuits. Many of them wrote letters to home which were full of hope and excitement. They talked about making the break through and finishing the war once for and for all.
As the sun set they ate their final meal and began to make their way up the support trench toward the front line. George and Peter ushered on the younger men trying to make sure they remained cheerful. The closer they got to the line the more difficult it was to hear one other over the relentless roar of the guns and massive explosions.
The sun set and the night sky was full of shells and the light of detonation and destruction, just in front of their position, down the line over the ridges to their right and their left as far as the eye could see.
Very occasionally the rhythm of the guns near them broke and there was a tiny pause. Then all that could be heard was the distant thunder of the guns up and down the line rumbling, menacing and loud.
That night very few of the men slept. George felt as though he would never need to sleep again. There was an air of excitement and anticipation; he felt a rush of energy every time he thought of the day ahead. He instructed those around him to clean their weapons, to polish their bayonets and to check the meagre rations they were to carry and to double check they had their field dressings.
At five thirty a.m. George instructed three of the younger soldiers to gather the blankets and take them back to the supply trench. Letters were collected and a Priest made his way slowly down the line flicking holy water across those assembled. George could see his lips move but could hear nothing of what he had to say his words lost in the din of war.
George looked at Peter who was checking his rifle. He thought briefly of all they had seen and done together. He thought of Liz and how she had betrayed him. He thought of what it would be like in Albury as the sun rose lazily over the pond and horses were brought down to drink in the tranquillity of an English summers morning.
He looked down the line at the Oakley boys. They were smiling and slapping one another on the back. Their fists were clenched; they were like caged animals that somehow knew that they were about to be set free. Each of them had beads of sweat running down their tanned faces. Chandler walked down the line as if he were examining his own private parade and as he did he shook the hand of each of them, nodding and smiling and raising his eyes to the top of the sand bags on the parapet. In turn they smiled at him and nodded back. George checked the strap under his chin pulling it clear releasing its sticky itchy burning contact with his skin for a moment. Up the line he could see a small gathering of officers. They were huddled together smoking; they checked their watches and whistles and made sure the ladders were in position and firm.
George could feel his heart beating in his ears. He looked at Peter who sat with his back to the ladder which would lead them over. He was staring into space, smoking and he too was smiling, rocking back and forth slightly. He too was ready to go thought George.
Their orders were strict. They were to proceed at walking pace across no mans land and were to secure each of the German lines. From there they were to proceed to the small town of Beaumont where they would reform and be issued with new orders. They did not expect any real resistance until after they had advanced through the town where it was expected the Germans were likely to have dug in to temporary shallow defences a couple of miles behind the bombardment. George and the others had no reason to doubt this. They had seen for themselves the ruthless power of the indiscriminate bombardment that had rained down on their unfortunate enemy for so many days and nights.
As zero hour approached the officers made their way down the line to check on the men. They frowned and pruned their thin moustaches. The muscles on the sides of their jaws twitched and strained and they referred constantly to their wristwatches counting down the remaining moments.
George’s eye was caught by a large brown rat which was perched at the back of the trench. It was sitting on its hind legs preening itself, apparently without a care in the world.
The bombardment grew in veracity. It whizzed and banged and smashed and thudded, land which was once the German line seemed to lift into the air and be scattered like the ashes of a corpse on the wind. A huge rumbling eruption shook beneath their feet and a massive tower of earth bulged heavy and slow into the morning sky as a mine about half a mile to the north was detonated.
And then, a screaming, ear bursting unsettling disconcerting, terrifying silence.
George looked to the sky, he could hear his heart beat and he thought, the hearts of all those around him. The sun was shining and the air was warm on his face, the silence hummed and above its din he was sure he could hear the sound of a bird singing in the distance.
The man in grey looked at the ceiling of his deep bunker and smiled as he stood and moved toward the heavy metal door that had sealed them safely for so long.
The word came down the line to make ready and George stood in line at the bottom of the nearest ladder behind Peter. He could feel the weight of the men behind him pushing to go forward. He leant on Peter who looked back at him his eyes sparkling his smile broad, his face slightly marked by the dust and sweat running down his temples. He looked as though he was at the end of a victorious sporting event, waiting patiently to collect his medal thought George.
And they waited. For what seemed a lifetime. A rumble of impatience rose among the ranks. George instructed those around him. “Be patient, we will go soon enough,” he called.
Shrill and piercing came the call of the whistles and the men began to move up the ladders.
George heard a cheer from the Oakley boys as they playfully pushed one another up and forward.
George realised suddenly how thirsty he was. He stepped onto the ladder and with his rifle slung over his shoulder he raised himself. The sun shone bright into his eyes as his head rose over the bags and as he stepped onto the parapet he took a moment to look up and down the line.
For as far as the eye could see, there were columns of men advancing slowly across no mans land. They looked like grains of sand poring through a multitude of distant hourglasses as they wove their way in line through the wire. And then once clear they spread out across the battlefield and in vast human waves, moved forward, at that moment seemingly unstoppable.
Within a few paces George reached their wire and he followed Peter through the tangle. He caught his left leg and cursed as his trousers tour slightly before the sharp metal teeth released their grasp.
A moment later he was surprised to hear the sound of machine gun fire coming from the enemy line about fifty yards to his right and when he looked across he could see some of the Welch Guards falling. The rest carried on unabated and George took comfort in the thought that it was probably an isolated incident. An act of brave defiance from a handful of men driven to the edge of insanity by the viscous bombardment.
The ground was uneven and George found himself stumbling slightly as he stepped over shell wholes, tree stumps and blackened corpses.
The occasional shell flew overhead and landed on what little must have remained of the German support trenches. George could see a very slight incline ahead of him. There were around four rows of men in front of him the front row perhaps fifty feet in advance of his position. Again he looked down the line and felt an overwhelming excitement, a swelling pride as he saw the rows crossing the French countryside with such ease.
He smiled and shook his head as he thought about the scraps they had been involved in, the raids on the enemy lines, lobbing grenades and running. They thought at the time they were useful in taking a few of the enemy and chipping away at their moral. Now, having witnessed the events of the last seven days he realised that the war would have gone on forever had they continued to play at it. He began to feel that everything they had done until then was almost a waist of time. And where he had been quick to criticise anyone over the rank of Captain, he was at that moment, one and half minutes after stepping off the ladder thinking that they were in positions of command because they could see the importance of the big plan, and were able to ensure that it was carried out.
On the other side, the man in grey laughed out loud when he saw the rows of smiling faces walking calmly toward him. He did not know for a moment where to start. He realised that his snipers rifle was not an adequate a weapon for the harvest he wanted to reap. Ahead, in an advanced position, he spotted a machine gun team of two men hurrying to set up. The machine gunner never new what hit him, but his friend was amazed when he saw that the bullet had entered from behind. He was however relieved when moments later the man in grey took up a position next to him, and pulled back the bolt in readiness to fire.
In the past, George had somehow expected to see men fall. But he was so sure of the plan, so confident that the artillery had done their job, that when the line in front of him tumbled like a row of rag dolls, his initial reaction was one of complete disbelief.
Then to both sides, he noticed men falling, they made neat diagonal lines on the ground as the machine guns worked there way down the advancing column. George called to his men to continue their advance, telling them above the din that there could not be many guns and any that did remain would soon be taken out by the advancing attack. But it didn’t stop, the raining of hot metal grew in intensity, George could hear bullets whizzing above his head and all around.
Ahead he could see what remained of a building, two low walls and some piles of bricks; he headed for that and called to the Oakley boys to follow him over. The bullets rained all around and now the neat columns of men who moments before had been advancing effortlessly and seemingly without a care in the world lay in the most part bleeding in the dust.
Around twenty of them assembled, breathless around the broken wall. There was no officer. George and Peter, being the most experienced among them assumed command. He looked back and could see more men coming over the top, some of them not even making it to the British wire. The guns swept across them blowing away limbs and removing heads. Now the ground behind them was a mass of broken bodies. He could see blood spurting from wounds in long arks, which became shorter as the hearts weakened and faded away.
“What the bloody hell do we do now?” called Peter through the din. George crawled along the wall and slowly looked round. He could see a machine gun placed quite openly around fifty yards ahead on top of the German line. To its left, another gun clattered away. Both were concentrating their fire hard on the areas directly ahead of them. George also noticed a few British troops laying in a shell whole looking back at him, pinned down.
“I can’t believe that the bastards survived that bombardment,” said George as he dragged himself back under the cover the wall. He described the scene ahead to Peter and they concluded that if they were to move in any direction then they had to take the guns. George leant back against the wall and watched helpless as more troops were cut down before they had even taken a few steps. Still they kept on coming. But where before they had stood tall and moved forward with ease now they were crouched and they darted from crater to crater, some laying down using their dead comrades as cover.
As he watched, George noticed a rhythm about the firing. He noticed that the gun would sweep back and forth and that every three swipes, it would pause for ten or fifteen seconds, to cool down or reload. He beckoned Chandler and issued his instructions. Chandler nodded and crawled back to the far side of the wall in turn carefully passing on the order as he made his way down the line, sweat poring from his furrowed brow.
George could have gone on two occasions, but something seemed to stop him at the last moment. He paused like a child anxious to jump from the branch of a tree. Afraid. He took a deep breath as he counted the sweeps for the third time. As the gun spat across their position he felt the bullets as they clipped the top of the wall showering them with dust. He could see the deadly rain as it moved across the line. The wasted bullets into the wall had spared ten or fifteen men who had advanced cautiously inadvertently protected by its shadow.
George looked down the line at Chandler who like the others held his rifle tight against his chest, they nodded at each other and Chandler winked and smiled.
“Now,” called George above the din and as he did they all stood and without taking a moment to aim they fired. George saw the machine gunner and his loader spot them and make a desperate attempt to swing the heavy weapon back. Too late it was their turn to feel the force of a bullet. The chalk around them erupted and sent small stones flying into their faces. George was not sure whether they had scored a direct hit, but the two operators fell back holding their faces in their hands. “Forward,” called Chandler and they emerged from behind the wall bent low but advancing fast. One of them hurled a grenade into the trench, which threw the tangled body of a sniper onto the parapet. George kept a close eye on the gun to his left but soon realised it was too busy picking off easy targets in its line of site to notice their advance.
They tumbled into the German front line; some of the men making sure the enemy were dead by stabbing them deep with the silver glinting bayonets. George turned to the left and headed down the trench. In front was a blast wall and his mind went back to his first action and how he had been on the receiving end of the attack that time.
Like stalking animals they gathered, their faces furrowed and frowning, covered with sweat and spattered with the blood of friend and foe as well as the grey dust of the land.
Peter took a grenade and reaching round the corner he released it. They stood, their eyes flashing around looking up and to the left searching every inch around them for fear that the tiny bomb would be returned. Then on the very instant of the explosion they rushed round the corner, bayonets extended. The grenade had exploded just behind a machine gun nest killing two soldiers out right, and wounding the gun assistant, the gunner stood with his hands above his head resting against the wall of the trench, his eyes bulging looking as though they could pop from his face, his body was trembling, he was mumbling and pushing himself back into the soil. George ran him through, twisted the blade and looked on at the scene of his own making, his face completely unemotional, cold and detached as he watched the man die in front of him. Peter leant over a wounded man who was lying on his chest, his legs smashed, and with one arm hanging loosely from his torn grey tunic. Peter finished him with a shot to the back of the head.
Within seconds, dozens of English, Welsh and few Newfoundlanders poured over the parapet and regrouped in the German line. George took a moment to look back and noticed that the men seemed to be advancing with comparative ease once more. He then looked toward the German support line and saw dozens of men in grey clambering back, some struggling in teams up a slight incline, desperately trying to keep hold of their valued weapons, others carrying ammunition and rifles.
For a moment, George hoped that they had done it and afforded himself a brief smile. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. He accepted a cigarette from Peter and smoked it with the look of a man who was laying in the sun on a green meadow having just gathered his sheep.
When George looked at the faces of those arriving over the top he realised that he and those around him had been lucky. Most were ashen as if drained of their blood, while many were covered with the blood of their dead friends, the red contrasting vividly with their own complexions, giving them the appearance of tragic clowns painted in a macabre make up. Some had wounds that in the panic and chaos of the battle they had not even noticed. All down the line they pulled together and tried to help one anther. Patching and encouraging. Motivating and comforting.
And then it began again. Reformed and stronger than ever the relentless chatter of the German guns swept across them, cutting through the advancing lines once more. Instead of lowering themselves into the trench, men dived for cover and bodies tumbled, their lives taken in an instant as they took a final leap toward what would have been for a moment at least, comparative safety. George looked down at his boots, felt the burning sun on his neck and prayed to God that it would end. Just stop and they could all go home to the safety of their farms and the warmth of their loved ones.
Peter beckoned George toward what looked the entrance to a small foxhole, a simple shelter that had somehow helped its trembling occupants to survive the terrible barrage. He hesitantly stepped through the narrow entrance keeping his rifle trained on the darkness directly ahead of him, a bullet loaded in its chamber. He had expected the tunnel to end abruptly a few feet in, but it continued. Peter found an oil lamp and led the way to some steps, which dropped away deep into the dark cold earth. At the bottom of the flight they found a heavy iron door, reinforced with large rounded grey rivets. The door was partially open and they slipped through as slowly and quietly as possible. George could smell the earth, he could smell the stench left by men and human waste, cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage. He could feel a stream of sweat running down his back.
As soon as they entered it became obvious how so many Germans had survived. And more than that they realised what a disciplined and well-organised foe they faced. Any thoughts of them simply packing up and going home were at that moment dispelled forever in George’s mind.
The underground chamber disappeared beyond the shadows thrown by the weak light. As they stepped forward, the sound of their boots echoed far into the darkness. They could see rows of bunk beds, tins of food, bottles of water, books, chess sets and playing cards. There were small piles of discarded cigarette ends swept lazily to the side of the chamber and cups and plates laid on long narrow tables. The place had the feel of a huge subterranean ‘Mary Celeste,’ but this time there was no mystery as to the whereabouts of the occupiers.
No wonder they where there to greet the advance thought George, they had slept and smoked and eaten and waited for their moment. They must have been dry and warm, and most of all they were safe. And as soon as the guns stopped, up they popped to carry out their simple slaughter.
Chandler called to them and George and Peter headed back into the sunlight, the sound of the battle ringing load once more, the sun high and hot on their backs. The trench was full to bursting. Men were drinking and smoking, some were looking for friends and calling out. Some had arrived carrying comrades only to find out that a stray bullet or piece of flying shrapnel had finished them off.
A young Captain was making his way down the line. He was the first officer George and Peter had seen since weaving through the wire on the British side. Many had lead from the front, blowing their whistles with Pistols drawn and had been the first targets of the well trained snipers who had obviously been briefed to concentrate their fire on them.
As Captain Pearson moved down the line he repeated the order to the men to stand at ease. Two paces behind walked his sergeant, Rillstone.
Rillstone had a reputation for being fierce determined and fair. He and Pearson were from the same town and had known one another from childhood in spite of their very different upbringings.
As they progressed, Rillstone pulled out anybody above the rank of Private and beckoned them to follow him and Pearson. They marched another forty yards during which time they gathered a group of around thirty Sergeants and Corporals.
Pearson stood on an upturned crate being careful to make sure his head did not break the line of the top of the trench.
“The village of Fricourt is half a mile over the ridge to the east. Our orders are to take the town, and secure it,” he shouted, clipping each word, speaking slowly in an attempt to ensure he was heard and understood. Rillstone stood at his side nodding, his dark eyes alert and flashing seemed to be measuring the response of those around him. “We will gather here for a further ten minutes and then we will begin to advance on the next line of German defences. I have sent back a party of good men to request artillery support. If that happens, all well and good. If not, we must go on anyway.
“There is word that the Frogs have broken through to the south and that they are advancing unhindered.” He paused again to gather his breath. George looked at Rillstone who was still nodding obediently, this time with increased vigour.
Pearson took a deep breath and continued, “I know I am right when I say that we will not be upstaged by the bloody frogs, and that I can rely on your support to show them that when it comes to it, we will keep our end up.” Rillstone nodded and smiled and looked over his shoulder at Pearson. “Get your men ready and listen for my signal,” he said holding up his silver whistle which glistened in the sun.
George and Peter moved back down the line issuing the order to prepare to advance. He noticed how the men looked grey and tired their eyes were empty and distant. Some were scribbling notes, others were praying, many were smoking quietly gazing deeply into their thoughts.
Peter busied himself moving ladders across the trench ready for the off.
The battle ragged around them and all the time men were jumping and falling into the trench. It was getting packed with breathless blood covered soldiers who’s eyes betrayed the horror of what they had experienced. Even the Oakley boys were quiet. They remained focused on what they were about to do but the spring had been taken from their step and the smiles were wiped from their young faces.
George took a look at his watch. He frowned and held it to his ear. Could it really be that less than two hours had passed since they walked with such apparent ease across the dusty white soil. How many lives he wondered had been taken in those few minutes.
George opened his wallet and touched the tiny chain of daisies with the tip of his finger, as if he were desperately trying to reach another place, another time, as if he were checking to see that the flowers were still there, questioning for a moment whether they had ever existed at all.
He saw Pearson and Rillstone stand up around thirty yards away. They looked down the line and beckoned the men around them to stand. Pearson and Rillstone shook hands and smiled at each other.
For a moment it seemed almost as if the firing had stopped. There was a lull as the advancing men had taken cover or been hacked down.
Pearson licked his lips and held the whistle above his head. George double checked that there was a bullet in the chamber of his rifle and quickly checked his bayonet was firmly in place.
As the whistle blew, the men screamed a deep roar, they hurried up the ladders and stepped onto the parapet in a wave around one hundred yards wide. George put his head down and began to run up the hill, he counted the paces as he ran. Suddenly, he notice to right that men were beginning to fall as a gun cut across the line, hot metal cut through them, blowing wholes in them, thumping through chests and cracking heads open. They were like a row of dominoes as they fell, closer and closer. Pearson was hit in the throat by a sniper and Rillstone stopped to help him. Seeing his friend was dead his face full of rage he ran forward for another ten passes until he too was cut down, this time by the explosion of a mortar.
The spitting gun cut through the Oakley boys throwing them over dazed confused horribly wounded or dead.
George felt his body lift from the ground under the strength of a huge unseen force. He was turned sent spinning by a massive weight on his shoulder. He felt numb, but no pain. His own limbs were failing to respond to his commands. He was desperately trying to stay on his feet but his body was having none of it. It turned and stumbled. The ground came rushing toward him. His hands let go his rifle and his eyes lost focus.
He hit the earth and managed one last conscious look, and there next to him, was Peter’s empty face, his eyes were open, his expression calm, his sole gone forever.

George had never felt so cold. His entire body was frozen to the bone. He could see the stars above glinting he could see the moon shining and felt as though he was floating. His shoulder was stiff and ached as if its life had been sucked away and it had been replaced by a cold heavy weight. He could hear the sound of small arms fire and machine gun clattering in the distance, broken by an occasional explosion of mortar or grenade.
George was lying flat on his back, he tried to move but still his body refused to obey him. He could feel a weight on his legs but was unable to lift himself to see what it was or too begin to remove it.
A bright flair on the horizon lit the night sky and George allowed his head to turn to the left. His features tightened and tears filled his eyes. Peter lay unmoved a foot away from him, his face unchanged, barely recognisable, but unmistakably Peter. The flair faded and as it did, so too did the clarity of the haunting image that lay next to him.
As he became more lucid, George tried to think what could have happened to him. The sound of the fighting was now to his left, but as he fell he knew he had been turned. He began to wonder if there had been a counter attack which had swept over him while he had been unconscious. He began to fear that perhaps he was lying behind enemy lines at mercy of his foe.
Afraid to cry out, George lay as still as could, unaware of the fact that he was slipping in and out of consciousness.
His body stiffened and his eyes danced in their sockets as he suddenly became aware of the sound of voices. He was unable to understand what they were saying. They were distant, but calm. There was no sound of fighting or anger. He could hear them coming quite close, and then fading as if they were going away again. He was unable to determine whether it was the sound of two men or many. But every time he heard them it seemed that they were getting a little nearer.
George felt the weight from his legs lift and he turned his head.
“Bloody hell sarg you nearly gave me a ruddy heart attack,” cried the deep voice of a man who stood over him, silhouetted against the stars “Sir,” he yelled, “I’ve got a live one sir,” he called over his right shoulder.
George stretched a weary smile at him and fell asleep.
George dreamt he was in a church. To his left stood a young woman with a beautiful dark haired boy child. Georges brother and his mother, Liz and an infant. To his right stood Peter smiling, the Oakley boys waving and laughing and for as far as he could see, row upon row of men he had known, men he had seen and men had wanted to know.
Behind him George could feel the touch of a hand on his shoulder, the hand made him feel safe and took away the pain, it cooled his hot brow and warmed his shivering body.
A light shone in his eyes and voices echoed. He heard the occasional cry and listened as it was calmed. He could hear the sound of prayer all around. The sound of young voices talking and laughing, the sound of gentle weeping and people moving.
But in his mind in this calm he could see so many empty faces, he could feel their pain and couldn’t help wondering why they had to be taken before they had had a chance to play in the fields to laugh at the cows and horses to watch their children grow and to hold them tight and soothe away the pain of a graze on the knee or a knock on the head, to wipe away their tears and keep them safe when they dreamt of the dead in the dead of the night.