The Angel of Mons - Chapter seven

Seven

George had always admired the strength of nature. Its power and ability to survive the harshest of winters, to soak up the cold, to sleep through the rain and the ice and the frost and to come through every year when the sun began to warm. First as tiny fragile buds and then as delicate but non the less hardy plants and flowers.
He afforded himself a smile as the sun rose in front of him and seemed to almost leave some of its gentle touch painted on the landscape. Glorious fields of poppies. Burning bright and red as far as he could see. It was as if they had appeared overnight. George ducked down beneath the parapet and took up a nearby periscope. His smile broadened and without looking he reached down and tapped Peter on the shoulder. He had been sleeping in a tiny hole scraped out of the side of the trench.
Peter stirred and without a word he lifted himself alongside George. They were close together. George smiled at Peter and pushed the periscope toward him. He looked through and George watched as his smile grew.
After Christmas the war had been resumed with the firing of a pistol and the occasional few rounds of artillery had cracked across the sky. Snipers had removed some careless heads and now and then they had ventured over the top to repair the wire defences and to map the gaps for the allies so when the time came, they could circumnavigate the tangle that lay ahead.
Other than that, the war had been a battle more about getting enough food, getting enough sleep and a fight against the ongoing tedium that comes with anti climax.
When they weren’t on duty, they were sleeping or gathering in the evenings at a small café which had been much extended with the addition of a huge marquee that had been set up against a broken wall. It was a short walk from where they slept in layered bunks five high in a barn. They shared their beds with the Warwickshire’s who they would pass at the same place near the supply trench every time one unit relieved another.
George really had no idea where they were except that occasionally when they were given twelve-hour passes they had made there way by cart to a small town.
There he saw for the first the first time how indiscriminate modern war could be. He saw the damage caused to the houses and cafes, to the streets. He also saw how resilient the people of France were. He saw how their homes and businesses could be smashed seemingly beyond repair, to the depths of despair and how within hours, they cleared up the pieces, opened for business and made their homes weather proof once more.
“It is very beautiful George,” whispered Peter smiling and handing back the periscope, “but I was asleep.”
George could hear the sounds of an army stirring from its slumber. Men burping and coughing. Down the line he could hear talking shouting and singing as the soldiers washed from buckets and shaved with the aid of tiny fragments of smashed mirror leant precariously in small niches carved into the white soil. The sound of billycans hollow and empty, then being scraped with metal spoons as the men ravenously ate their breakfasts.
George, Peter and the rest of the unit had been on watch overnight and confident that no officer was likely to appear they had taken it in turn to grab a few hours sleep. The air was damp, blowing a light breeze onto George’s face. But in spite of that he could feel warmth in the sun for the first time since they had arrived in France.
The sound of a lone shell whizzed across the morning sky and exploded half a mile to George’s left. He took another look across the tangled wire and carpet of red flowers and noticed that something had changed. Where before he had been able to see across to the German lines, now the view was cloudy. George wondered if condensation had formed on the periscope reflectors.
He pulled the scope down tried to look inside. He held it urgently to his face and looked down the line of the trench. It was clear. George’s eyes opened wide and he climbed back onto the observation step. He suddenly began to claw his way up the side of the trench, his feet slipping as they struggled to dig into the soil. Beneath Peter was disturbed as chalk fell onto him.
“What is it George?” He asked looking up, squinting as more soil fell onto his face.
George raised his head slowly over the top, his hands grabbing the loose surface. His eyes opened wider dtill and his mouth gaped, his whole body began to shake. Around fifty yards in front of him all George could see was a thick yellow cloud rolling along on the breeze. He looked to his left and then his right. The cloud was like a huge slow silent wave ten feet high heading straight toward them. George slid down wall back into the trench, his eyes were empty, he sat breathless and grabbed Peters arm.
“Gas attack,” he whispered between deep breaths.
They both sat for a moment before reacting with sudden movements. They tore at the straps of their small ration packs and ammunition carriers to reach inside their covering capes, their fingers grabbed and strained at the buckles on the bags on their sides. Peter and George were acting independently, but so practised were they in this procedure that they moved in perfect harmony. They took out their monstrous gas helmets and pulled them over their heads. It was only then that George paused. He lifted the hood back over his head and at the same time began reaching under his coat at the neck. His eyes were wide and he bit his lip, he could see Peter’s eyes through the round holes in his mask, he could see his head shaking and hear his muffled calls.
George took hold of a piece of string round his neck and began to pull it through his fingers.
“Leave it George, its too bloody late,” cried Peter, his eyes darting from George to the top of the trench. George kept pulling at the string running it round his neck inch by inch, pulling.
“George,” exclaimed Peter who grabbed his friends arm and pointed up at the first fingers of the deadly smoke as they clawed thin above their heads and reached across the trench. George looked up, he could feel the whistle in his fingers, but it was too late, he quickly pulled his mask down and tucked it into his clothing around his neck. A fraction of a second later George heard the sound of other whistles down the line.
Peter reached across and put his arm around George’s shoulder and they sat in the bottom of the trench, huddled together as the filthy smoke pored over the parapet flooding the ground and forming deadly pools of thick poisonous mist.
Peter held George tight, “there was nothing you could do, it was on top of us before we knew it,” he said, shouting to make himself heard through the thick canvas of his mask.
George looked dolefully out of his mask and nodded to his friend. He then looked at the ground, his eyes empty, staring, his head slowly shaking.
The yellow fog filled the trench as water would fill a ditch.
George held his breath for as long as he could as the mist covered his head. Eventually he inhaled, long and fearful, his heart pounding. He felt shut in, trapped, he had constant urges to rip off the mask and although Peter was there with him he felt alone.
Suddenly something caught his eye and his body jumped.
George was not sure what it was he was looking at at first, but then he realised. Coming out of the mist, crawling on all fours like a wretched animal was one of the men from the Essex. He was moaning loudly, his body was twitching and he was tearing at his clothes. His eyes were deep red, and liquid, not tears, but thick puss like fluid was running in long strands from all around them. He was coughing and retching, green bile running from the sides of his mouth, his gas mask was hanging half out of its pouch around the back of his waist.
The soldier coughed again and blood poured from his mouth.
George and Peter froze for a moment and then went to the man; they grabbed his mask and began to try to put it over his head. He struggled, fought and kicked, all the time moaning and coughing up blood. Then he stopped. He lay still his eyes open and full of fear.
George felt a terrible anger. He looked at the dead man in front of him and wondered if his mother had felt anything at the moment of the death of her son. A part of her, taken so cruelly, in such a cowardly way. George thought that fate had guided this young man, every decision he ever made drew him one step further to being in that trench at that time, to die on that spot, in front of George and Peter.
George looked behind the body at the blood and vomit, the marks he had made in the soil, the last marks made by this living creature.
They could hear the terrible sounds of death as the fog engulfed the front line, the support trenches and the supply lines catching men unaware as they woke or dressed, shaved or ate their breakfasts.
Suddenly a cracking wizz bang roared overhead exploding just a few yards away throwing debris over George and Peter, another explosion followed and then another and another, pounding booming and breaking all around.
George and Peter huddled on the ground and tried to push their bodies into the soil. A further series of explosions thumped near them and up the line.
Captain Harrison appeared out of the mist accompanied by a dozen or so other ranks. George couldn’t make out who they were with their masks on, but when one off them tapped him on the shoulder he knew it was Sid.
“Get ready, we think they are going to come at us,” said Captain Harrison to George as he reached into his holster and pulled out his Smith and Wesson side arm.
The roaring sound of explosions forced them to lay low, only the Captain taking the chance to raise the scope, looking for a moment and then ducking down again as a further shower of hot rocks was blown over them.
So this was it thought George, at last. This was what they were here for. He looked again at the dead man that lay in front of him, at his staring eyes, and his fixed pained expression. George wrapped his finger around the trigger of his rifle. He looked around him at the others at Peter and at Sid and David two down on his left, their eyes were fixed. They no longer ducked their heads at the sound of the nearby explosions but seemed to accept that this was how it was and that they were lucky to be alive even now. Peter looked out of his mask at George. He nodded at his friend and reached out, their hands touched, Sid reached across and all three of them sat for a moment as the shells burst and whistled cracked and slashed all around, their fingers entwined, George noticed that David sat alone, in prayer.
And then as suddenly as it had begun, the raining pounding explosions stopped. There was a deep heavy haunting silence, which was broken only occasionally by the sound of men crying out, muffled by their masks, injured by the intense barrage.
On the other side, the man in grey lifted himself onto the top of his trench and ran as fast as his pounding heart would carry him. He kicked at the poppies beneath his feat, dragging them from the earth stamping them into the soil. He felt as though he could run forever. In front he could see the thick fog moving across the enemy line and the distant plumes of smoke rising form the shells that whizzed their merry tune over his head. And as he ran he screamed, as loud as he could until he thought his ears might burst and bleed.
Captain Harrison slowly raised himself to the top and looked out. He gestured to the others to stand and as they did, over the din of his own laboured breathing and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, George could hear the fearful noise of anger, hate and determination roaring across no mans land.
When he looked across, George could see hundreds of Grey dressed masked men running, weaving through the wire, rifles held at the hip, bayonets glinting in the occasional shaft of sunlight that broke through the smoke and the gas.
“Wait for my signal,” called the Captain, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. George raised his weapon to his cheek and fixed it on a small group of men, which he thought to be most forward in the attack. He felt the end of his trigger finger begin to go numb. He wished he could take off the mask, and breathe the air. He could feel Sid to his left and Peter to his right as they settled into their firing positions and waited.
George felt his heart beat slowing and felt a strange calm as the sound of a machine gun spat a line of deadly hot metal across the advancing line, cutting them down, leaving them hanging on the wire, their faces empty their souls departed.
Chatter as it may, the machine gun was unable to cut down the entire advance, and with grim determination the grey men leapt wire, ducked into craters and reappeared for moments as they advanced across the divide.
One man in grey remained calm as those around him fell, they would never get him he thought. He knew when he was to die, and it would not be at the hands of his enemy. Not on this day.
George looked up the line and noticed that to his left, an advanced party had reached a line of craters and was proceeding to hurl stick grenades into the British line. The small muffled explosions were followed by the sound of screams as the fragments tour through flesh, ripped masks and left men vulnerable to the deadly fog of war which still surrounded them.
George was fortunate. The ground in front of his position was relatively flat, there were no huge craters and so it seemed there was nowhere to take cover within throwing range. Some tried, but the grenades fell short and George was surprised how small the explosions seemed to be in open country.
The Captain issued the order for the first five men at either end of the flanks to take up positions to protect the unit from attack from the flanks. That included George, Peter, David and Sid as well as another man from the Essex.
All around, George could hear the sounds of combat, explosions from grenades and the constant erratic crack of small arms and rifle fire. He could not see much, he looked down the line of the trench toward a ninety degree turn, designed to break the force of a blast, and to offer a defined area to defend when under attack. Occasionally he would turn his body so that he could see what was happening behind. The unit stood on the fire step keeping their heads as low as possible but still looking out as far as they could. He saw dirt and dust thrown into the air and heard the whistling of bullets as they spun away wasted. Forty yards down the line directly behind George the other five defended the right side of their position.
“Fire,” called the Captain, and as the men at the front of the trench discharged their weapons. George turned his body and looked straight ahead toward the corner, as he did he spotted a man in grey fifteen feet ahead about to drop into the trench on the other side of the blast wall. Without thinking, George turned his weapon and fired from the hip.
The man in grey continued his descent and George had no idea whether he had hit his target.
Behind him, George could here the intensity of the firing had increased. For the first few rounds, the shots seemed synchronised, as each man fired, reloaded and fired again at the same speed, but as time went bye and they took a little longer to select their targets, the firing became erratic.
George leant against the side of the trench his rifle ready his eyes trained on the white wall of soil that was supported by the occasional wooden stake. He took a sharp intake of breath when he first saw the a silver of a bayonet appear, he instinctively crouched and as he was lowering himself, a soldier in grey appeared from around the corner, George fired and so did the others, each round hitting their target with a terrible force. One shot virtually blew his arm off at the shoulder; another struck him in the chest and ripped through him, blowing tissue and torn organs against the side of the trench. The other hit the side of his face, ripping into the gas mask and blowing bone and brain tissue in a thick mist into the air like a fine red spray. The body was thrown back hit the wall and fell to the ground, twitching for a moment before becoming still.
They were reloading when the second man appeared. Peter stepped forward, the soldier fired, incredibly, the bullet missed him by inches, disappearing into the wall of the trench. Peter ran his bayonet into the man’s chest, twisting and turning it to ensure maximum damage. Peter was still removing the blade when a third man came round the corner, this time George shot him in the chest and he fell to the ground his arms crossed over the wound.
Behind, George could tell that the firing had slowed down, he heard the occasional pop down the line and the chatter of the machine guns was faltering and spasmodic. He looked round and noticed that two of his comrades lay on the trench floor, both had massive head injuries their faces smashed and their masks ripped open by the bone blown from the back of their skulls. Another man sat on the observation step; he had been hit on the shoulder and was being treated by an orderly.
George could hear his own breathing and felt even more suffocated than before. His eyes darted around and his body turned as he scanned the area, his rifle ready his eyes alert. The man he had shot in the chest was sitting, on the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him, his back against some wooden stakes. His eyes were empty and his body was shaking and twitching. He was reaching into his clothing as if trying to take something from his pocket. George noticed thick dark blood was oozing from him forced out by his heart, as it struggled to keep him alive.
The shooting stopped and all was quiet. Suddenly, the Captain called for them to advance and without hesitation, George and the others scrambled up the wall and over the top for the first time in anger.
When he stepped forward toward the wire, George could not believe what he could see. To his left and to his right, through the gas and smoke were hundreds possibly thousands of men in green, running weaving, diving for cover.
By now the man in grey had ripped his bayonet from the chest of frightened young soldier, and turned ahead of his colleagues, running with all his strength back toward his own line.
A deafening roar shot over their heads from behind and the German line was hit hard by a wall of artillery fire. George smiled inside his mask. Once they were clear of the wire around the trench, they were able to make good progress across the divide. Another volley of artillery went over once again striking down on the enemy positions with a ruthless force.
George could hear a thick buzzing in his ears; his lungs were burning as he gasped to take energy from the stale air inside his mask. He could feel sweat running down his face and under his clothes.
The Captain lead from the front occasionally turning and calling on his men to keep up. He ducked down and let them reform, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos of war. A few shots from the German trenches cracked over their heads and to their left a sole remaining machine gun chattered at some of the Essex, cutting them down, finishing them, wounding them beyond repair or sending them home, either way their job done, their war fought.
The captain jumped into a large crater about thirty yards from the German line and took stock of casualties. George saw Peter and nodded, Sid and David were there too. He thought perhaps that around twenty had left with their group, of which sixteen were gathered in the shell whole.
The man in grey had taken up a position on the firing step and was looking back toward the British lines. He saw a group of men ahead of him but was frustrated as they ducked into a shell hole just before he had been able to level his rifle at a young captain who led them.
“I’m thinking about taking off my mask, it seems clear to me,” yelled the Captain. He placed his pistol in its holster and untucked the canvass collar from inside his jacket he lifted the hood slowly and with his eyes closed he took a thin tentative breath. He opened his eyes and smiled, took a long deep breath and lay back on the side of the crater enjoying the simple process of breathing as never before. The rest of the men quickly followed his example and within a few seconds they were all clear of the claustrophobic hoods, able to see and hear again, able to communicate once more without the need to shout at one another.
Captain Harrison took hold of his pistol once more, nodded and smiled at those around him. Perspiration ran down his face and his hair was matted. He took another deep breath, and his eyes glinted in the sunlight. He reached into his jacket and took out his cap. Making sure everyone was ready he stepped proudly out of the crater like a young man leading his team onto the playing fields. Harrison took two steps then his body buckled and fell limp to the ground, a bullet having slammed into his skull just under his nose.
The man in grey smiled, a clean kill he thought.
George stepped over Harrison and looked down the line. He saw another officer leading forward to his right and without hesitation lead their group over to his command. George had met Captain Newel several times during training he was a little under average height at around five foot five, thin with tiny features and a thin red moustache. George knew him to be slightly timid, but completely committed. Newel and the fifteen men with him had been progressing well but had just come within range of a German machine gun. They ducked down in shell wholes and regained themselves as bullets cracked all around. One of the unit had taken a shot in the lower leg and George noticed it hung loose just below the knee, although the bleeding was not to bad it was obvious that the bone was shattered. They had lost around five during their short advance, two dead, the others left for the medics to clear up.
Newel admitted to the men that he had no orders. He had led them over, because the other units down the line had countered. They had no target and no idea when to stop advancing. It was then that he decided to send back two volunteers to establish contact and bring back instructions.
George caught Peter’s eye, they nodded at one another and raised their arms.
Looking back at the British lines George could see no evidence of more troops advancing in support of their position. He crawled to the top of the shell hole and scrambled over the top into another smaller shallow crater. He kept his head low and his body as flat as possible. Peter arrived next to him shortly afterwards. They made their way on their bellies through the tangled wire aware of the sound of sniper and machine gun bullets cracking and whistling above their heads. George tried as best as he could to steer a straight track so that they would be able to find the others on their return.
Eventually they reached a deep crater and breathless, they both rolled in and were able to sit against the side of the hole safe from the deadly view of the enemy snipers.
As George sat back, he stared blankly into the sky; he saw the sun behind the clouds struggling to break through. Along the edge of their shelter, he saw a line of deep red poppies, dancing carelessly in the breeze. He looked at Peter who lay next to him, his eyes closed, his face covered in mud, his skin pale. He noticed Peter had grazed the side of his face and a thin red line of blood had been diluted by the sweat that ran from his temples.
“We should put our masks back on,” said Peter without opening his eyes, “it might not have cleared.”
They rested for a few short minutes before continuing their perilous journey, ducking and diving from one makeshift shelter to the next, their boots slipping on the loose soil and tripping on the tangled wire. They saw the dead of both sides, some horribly distorted and tangled, barely recognisable as once having been human, broken bundles of bones and torn organs, ripped and hopeless, difficult to imagine as once breathing eating laughing people. And some, who looked as perfect as the day they were born. No visible wounds, faces frozen in time, eyes and mouths open as if stuck in the middle of asking a question.
Where they could they offered comfort. One man whose lower body had been blown away was lying, his head, shoulders and upper torso in a shell hole, the rest of him no where to be seen. George didn’t understand what was keeping him alive. They gave him a cigarette and told him that they would send help. “Thanks lads,” he replied, smiling a broad toothless smile, his eyes wide, “I’ll just hang on here then.”
They knew when they started to pass German dead that they were nearly back to the British lines. To his left George noticed a large number of soldiers that had made their way back. They were pouring over the parapet dropping back, exhausted but happy to have reached the relative safety of the front line trench. George and Peter ran, bent over double and weaved their way through familiar tangles of wire, which were littered with German dead and wounded. They could see the faces of their comrades looking nervously over the bags. Peter grabbed George’s arm and nodded toward the British position, a raised arm was guiding them in.
When they dropped breathless into the trench, they were told they could remove their masks.
All around was calm activity. Sandbags were being replaced and the dead and wounded were being lifted and taken down the supply trenches. After the chaos of the battle everything seemed so ordered, almost serene.
A tall pigeon-chested sergeant major bustled his way through the workers and grabbed Peter by the arm. “Where the bloody hell have you two been?” He screamed the veins on his temples and his neck pulsing blue, his eyes bulging, spittle flying with every furious word. Peter took off his mask and drew a long slow deep breath. He smiled and fixed a stare at the sergeant who instinctively stepped back and glanced to his right before looking back into Peter’s eyes. “Killing the enemy sergeant, we’ve been killing the enemy,” said Peter, slowly, quietly.
George stepped forward. “We were sent back for orders Sergeant,” he said between deep breaths. The sergeant was staring at Peter and seemed not to notice George at all. Eventually he turned to George and fixed him with an icy glare.
“Orders? What do you mean orders?” He yelled.
“We got to within a few yards of the German positions, but were pinned down.”
“We?” said the sergeant once again looking back at Peter, and then to George. His expression changed, a frown marking deep lines across forehead. “Are you telling me, there are still some of our men out there?” He said raising his eyes to the top of the trench. George nodded; the sergeant looked at Peter who slowly nodded too.
George explained that they had been sent back to establish whether they should continue the advance or withdraw. As he spoke George noticed a slight tick seemed to affect the sergeants right eye. When he next spoke the sergeants tone was changed, he was quiet, almost resigned. “Where are they and how many are there?”
“About twenty or thirty yards from the German line, some are wounded.”
“Regiment?”
George looked at the sergeants cap badge before replying, “Some of yours, but mostly Hertfordshire’s.”
The sergeant gritted his teeth and looked to the ground. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large silver watch. “Fuck it,” he mumbled through his teeth.
The sergeant turned, stood tall on the tips of his toes and as he looked back toward the support lines a thunderous roared in a cacophony of various calibre explosions and the sound of lethal shells boomed and whizzed overhead. George felt Peter grab his arm. They both scrambled as high as they dare up the side of the trench and watched thick plumes of smoke, black, full of mud dust, bones and bodies rising high into the spring sky. The barrage roared for a full ten minutes.
When George turned once more, the sergeant was gone. The bodies were still being cleared and men around were beginning to settle down. Some had grabbed a mug of tea, most were smoking. A group of four men had gathered around an up turned barrel. They pulled small pieces of paper from their pockets and began to read the names written on them. And then they debated whether the named men were dead injured or still alive. Once in agreement, they began to tally up their scores.
From no mans land George could hear the sound of suffering, pain and the agony of so many sons as they came to terms with dying, broken and alone amongst poppies, and the wire, their life’s blood seeping into the soil of France.

That night George dreamt he was in a church with his back to the altar. He could feel a hand on his shoulder, which seemed somehow to give him strength, to comfort, calm and to protect him. To his left were his friends and family and many people he had never seen before. To his right, the pews were mostly empty except for two figures that sat with there arms outstretched. They were smiling and nodding, they were dressed in the clothes of humble farmers and looked comfortable, at ease, at home. When George looked into their smiling eyes, he realised they were Sid and David.