The Angel of Mons - Chapter thirteen

Thirteen

All around was dark. George felt himself shiver as he struggled to lift his aching body over the parapet. His head was full of the sound of suffering. He could hear moaning and screaming coming from all around, somewhere close but out of site – out of reach.
He looked to his left, and saw the figure of a man who began to turn toward him. As he did so he exposed blood soaked tissue down the entire side of his face. The flesh had been torn off, leaving his jaw and teeth exposed, George could see the muscles in the face and sinew around the eye where the socket had been. The effect around the mouth was to provide the man with a macabre grin which never faded. It seemed to George that the injured man was completely unaware of his wounds. He looked at George and lifted himself onto the fire step, then onto a ladder and with gun in hand he disappeared into the night.
George was unable to move his body, but he swung his head around in time to see the faint figures of a group of faceless men heading toward him down the trench. They carried their weapons across there chests but George noticed a translucent air about them. It was as if he were able to see through them to the next man, to the man behind and the man behind that. They marched in time and in absolute silence.
Sweat began to run down George’s face, but still he shivered with cold.
He heard the sounds from the other side, the yelling and screaming the anxious hopeless weeping.
Suddenly George became aware of a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder, a weight laying down on him then squeezing tight. He could hear echoing voices but couldn’t see who was speaking nor could he understand the words.
All around he saw figures darting, crouched and running ducking down and falling. Nothing it would seem could stop them. They emerged from the walls and disappeared into the earth on the other side of the trench. Some ran into George, he flinched and awaited the pain of impact, but other than the deep dark thumping pain in his shoulder, he felt nothing of them.
Suddenly, George was on the top of a ladder. He was standing high above the parapet, looking down at the earth below.
Legions of half men half shadow marched beneath into the darkness, slowly and in time. The bombs around exploded in silence and cascaded broken metal and dirt, bursting the bodies of those within its lethal range, throwing up bones and blood which George could smell.
The zip zip zip of machine gun fire cut through the air and took down hundreds in front of his eyes. But George did not hear the screams of the many as he had in battle; he heard the moans of just a few. Echoing and rolling round muffled in his mind.
George’s hands gripped hard as a force raised the ladder high, before releasing it and letting it drop on a plunging dive toward the battle. George reached out long before he was about to strike the earth and grabbed at a piece of thin thread that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. It held his weight and cut into the palm of his hand as he hung high above the fires of war that burnt hot beneath him.
George felt the thread begin to slowly expand. This offered relief for a moment as it no longer cut into the flesh, but as it grew then his grip was stretched, he reached across with his left hand and held on with both arms rapped around the bulging rope until eventually it was so large, he could no longer hold it. His body plummeted toward the ground. His eyes bulged and he screamed as the earth, which was a mass of rotting stinking flesh covered with feasting rats, rushed toward him.
He lay on his back, panting, the pain in his shoulder intense. He could feel a cool cloth on his burning brow and a gentle hand on his neck. And in the gloom he saw a soft small face frowning and troubled, with dark rings around bright eyes, a high forehead and a gentle smile.
George heard a cry from near by and the hand moved away. He closed his stinging eyes and struggled to stay where he was, wondering for a moment if he were dead and this was how it was to be forever.

George could feel a soft light breeze tingling against the side of his face. The air was clean and fresh and his body felt warm and comfortable. His back ached a little, his eyes were heavy and his face felt relaxed and at ease. He raised his legs slightly and loosened the blankets which were wrapped tightly, in doing so, allowing the soft air to circulate around him.
His throat was dry and he was aware of a stinging thirst and ravenous hunger.
A gentle voice close to him slowly whispered, “So your back with us at last.” George opened his eyes. He could see the shapes of an ornate carved ceiling high above; he could see the light of the sun shining brightly on a distant wall. He could smell disinfectant and hear the sound of hushed voices echoing, and men snoring loudly. And he could see the small features of a young woman smiling at him; her eyes were bright blue, and a loose curl of blond hair hung from under her nurse’s cap. She slipped her hand under his head and lifted, holding a cup to his lips he sipped at the water. “You are in hospital, that’s Rouen Cathedral.” She looked out across the room and George slowly turned his head toward the open window. There were long white net curtains blowing in the breeze making ghostly figures, as they moved, they lifted long enough to give a clear view of the grand building, its grey spires pointing resolutely toward the heavens.
George learnt that he had been found late on the evening of the First of July by a group of stretcher bearers who were being helped by Chinese labourers. He was told they were making their last run, exhausted from collecting the dead, and having found so few wounded they were about to take a rest when they found George and carried him into the dressing station.
His wounds had been difficult to clean and he was told that the doctors thought that it was unlikely that he would survive. He lay, in and out of consciousness for several days before the fever broke and eventually he awoke.
George was strapped around the shoulder and the chest. He learnt that he had been hit twice, once in the chest, the bullet having smashed through a rib had somehow managed to miss any vital organs. The second shot, probably sustained while he was lying unconscious had entered the top of his shoulder breaking several bones.
When he first woke the pain continued to thud away in him with little relief. But as the days past he became more used to it. After three days he was able, with help to stand and to make his way to the toilet or to the window where he and some of the other recovering men would sit on wicker chairs and smoke. And when he looked across the crowded ward, he began to realise that he was one of the lucky ones. The large room, once the drawing room of a Grand town house was so packed that only thin strips of dusty wooden floor could be seen through the rows of tiny beds which were barley big enough to hold a child. The nurses would hold trays high above their heads and shuffle sideways like hamstrung ballerinas to get to the patients.
They worked tirelessly. And as George watched them, he thought for the first time in months about Liz and wondered how she was, whether she knew about Peter and whether the child had arrived.
By the beginning of August, George was well enough to take short walks around the grounds. One day he wondered out of a large ornate iron gate wearing slippers and a dressing gown. He strolled down the street through the crowds to a busy little market square where he was given a cup of coffee by a waiter in a small bar. George sat and watched the world revolve around him. He watched the women and the children as they walked among the stalls buying vegetables and live chickens. He watched the old men in the bar drinking strong coffee and Pernod. He was unaware of the glances from the local people unused to seeing a man sitting outside a bar drinking coffee in clothes more suited to sleep.
George was happy to lose touch with the war. He was aware that the fighting was fierce and that the promised breakthrough remained allusive. On a still summer nights he could hear the thunder of the guns rumbling far away on the battlefields. And he felt so tired of it. When he was awake he felt alone and deserted, when he was asleep he was haunted by the memories of his friends, the horror he had witnessed and the terror he had created.
During the third week of August he awoke to the sound of frantic activity. Men were being examined by the doctors who impatiently issued orders to the nursing staff. A young tall doctor with a thin moustache sidled over to George’s bed and looked at his notes.
“Any pain, or fever?”
“Not for a week or two really, some aching but nothing..”
“Any sharp stabbing pain like the skin is tearing or burning?”
“Not for some time now sir,” replied George who frowned at the young doctor
“Move him on,” he said abruptly, “your going home, the war is over for you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
It had never occurred to him that this might happen. He had always expected one way or another to be there at the end. He had heard of men who had stuck an arm over the parapet to try to have a hand shot off, even of men prepared to inflict the wound on themselves in a bid to take a “blighty,” a wound that would get them home. But he had never thought he would be sent home alive while there was still fighting to be done.
His dressing was changed and George was issued with the blue uniform of a wounded soldier. Five hours later he stood on the stern of a rusting old ship as it made steam away from Bolougne on its short voyage to Dover.
George was taken to a grand old country house near Amersham to converless.
He sat in the gardens by a large lake watching a tiny feather float bob up and down as small fish toyed with his bate. He met other men and although they spoke little of their front line experience they knew enough about one another to realise that they had all lost dear friends during recent months.
George was surprised when his commission promoting him to the rank of Captain arrived and with it, orders to report to a training camp near Southampton where he was to act as a special adviser to the New Army, giving them the benefit of his experience on the front line. He was to report at the beginning of October having been permitted three weeks home leave.

George noticed a large thread bare union flag hanging across the front of the Greyhound as he turned the corner and walked slowly passed the pond.
It was late afternoon and he had walked from the station at Tring across the stubble fields the few miles to Albury. He approached his homeland with mixed emotion. He had left there with his friends, his heart full of hope and adventure, with the feeling that he was about to make his mark on history and with the strict belief that he would return victorious. Instead he marched alone through cut straw, which snapped as it collapsed under the weight of his body, his heart was heavy with the loss, and his mind was full of the pain and suffering that he had witnessed.
George knew he would have to face the parent’s friends and family of those he left behind and wondered whether they would resent him for surviving when their sacrifice was so great.
He walked straight through the village and up the hill and having reached the top he put down his heavy kit bag, wiped the rim of his new Captains cap with his handkerchief and looked across the land that stretched out below all the way to the reddening sunset.
He could see the stubble of the fields burning on the horizon and great plumes of smoke moving across the thin red light. He could see the miles of trees just showing the earliest signs of their preparation for winter. He could smell the earth and hear the sound of the birds in the trees and the rabbits scratching in the ground. And whilst he wondered at its beauty, he was also aware of the price that had been paid for this land. Paid in the blood of his generation and suddenly its beauty faded and was lost to him.
George felt that at although only twenty, he had seen about as much of the world as he wanted to. So much that he held dear to him, that he believed and that should still be with him was gone. George feared what the future held.

Over the two weeks that followed his mother fussed around him and allowed her guard down occasionally showing the love and tenderness she felt for him and Graham. Graham was a young man and on a number of occasions they made their way down the leafy paths to the village where they sat outside the pub, spoke of art, politics, the war and the loss of their father.
Meeting with Peter’s parents was a difficult thing to do, but non-the less, George was duty bound. He noticed how much Mr Jackson had changed. His shy but happy character had withdrawn and so too had the strength from his body. His once towering height seemed reduced and shoulders were rounded, his face dry with deep dark lines formed around bloodshot eyes, that never seemed to blink. Peter’s mother wiped away a tear as George described their sons final moments as having been happy and determined. He told them of his bravery and how the end was quick and without suffering. It was nearly dark when he George left. They shook hands and Mr Jackson walked to the gate with him. He thanked George and explained that he felt reassured by his words.
“Do you know, it was a beautiful day, I remember it. The sun was shining when I woke and not a cloud covered its path all day. It being a Saturday, I took the cart to the pond with the horses and washed them. At around the time, you know, the time, I was sitting outside the Greyhound with an ale.” He paused, leant on the gate and looked down, his eyes were empty. He gently shook his head. “I wish to God I’d been there with him. Been there instead of him.” George put his hand on Mr Jackson’s shoulder and the old man looked up at him, a sad smile stretching his lips. “Still,” he said “we’ve young Peter, he’s got the look of his mother, but I can see some of his father in him.” George smiled and nodded.
That night George took the chain of pansies, which he had carried for so long in his wallet, and held it on his palm. He examined every preserved detail of each flower. He thought about crushing it to dust, but could not. Instead he returned to the pocket of his wallet. To where it belonged.
She was more beautiful than ever. Her hair seemed to have taken on the golden richness of autumn and her eyes were rich dark mysterious pools, with little emotion evident.
George looked awkwardly toward the window as she gently squeezed his arm and kissed him, like butterfly wings on the cheek. As she stepped back she looked into his eyes and then lowered her head before looking away.
“A boy?” Asked George, coughing to clear his throat.
Liz held out her hand and lead George through the tiny cottage to the kitchen and up the stairs. She gently slowly raised the latch on the door and pushed it open. Liz walked across the creaking floor on the tips of her toes, pulling George into the darkened little bedroom.
He watched her move. She seemed to float with the grace of a prowling tigress. He could smell her natural sweet perfume as he walked in her wake.
George could see the smooth round face of the sleeping infant. He had his hands held in tiny fists which rested, one on each cheek. He stared at his mouse like tight shut eyes and listened to his light breathing.
He could feel that Liz was watching him. He looked at her, smiled and nodded. She smiled back and put her arms around his neck and held him.
George held his breath and stood rigged, his right hand squeezing the side of the cot, his left flailing, wanting to reach around her waist, but hesitating and hanging in the air.
When she released him, he noticed she was crying. He gently touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers and ran his thumb along her eyebrow. She smiled at him through the tears, took his hand in hers and gently kissed the palm.
“I thought I had lost you forever George,” she whispered.
He smiled and slowly shook his head.
“He never knew,” said George as he moved from away from her. Liz looked at the baby and then up at George. She nodded at him and then shook her head.
When the child awoke, Liz fed him and changed him, wrapped him in a warm shawl and they all went for a walk across the lane and into the woods. It was so quiet thought George. It was impossible for him to believe that just a hundred or so miles away the guns were roaring and lives were being taken as casually as at a duck shoot. It put him in mind of a puzzle his father used to set for him at Christmas as they sat staring into the flames of the drawing room fire.
“If a tree falls in a Forrest, and there is no living creature within a mile of it, does it still make a sound?”
George pushed the pram and Liz held his arm. He felt complete. To the casual observer, they would like any other young family out enjoying the early autumn evening.
How he wished the war would end and everything could once again return to normal. A world where men laboured to make things, not struggled night and day to kill and destroy. Where they grew the crops and spread the seed. A world where children knew their fathers as an everyday presence and comfort, not a stranger in Khaki who stays a few days and goes away again, perhaps never to return.
George wrote every week to Liz when he arrived at the training camp near Portsmouth. He looked forward to hearing from her and she was able to capture the essence of the village he knew and loved so well. She told him about baby Peter and how quickly he was growing. She wrote about his first smile and the first time he lifted himself up and grinned from his cot.
Training to George was like manufacturing. The raw recruits came in one end and the finished soldier emerged from the other. Some were strong and well made; others were weak and vulnerable. But George knew when it came down to a show, it would make little difference. The bullet of a sniper, the roar of a deep mine, the smashing of a whiz-bang or the slashing cutting of a machine did not discriminate. If it was your time, then it was your time.
George had been there for two months and was sitting in the mess alone as usual, smoking. He was finding it difficult to get used to his new status and did not find it easy to mix the other officers. He too was undergoing training for his knew role in life and was under constant supervision.
He hid behind a newspaper which he didn’t read, he was tired of the news from France, and found most of the correspondence impossible to believe. To his surprise. George became aware of someone walking toward him and then sitting next to him. George looked around the room and noticed that there were plenty of empty tables and he wondered why he had decided to sit so close. He did not have to wonder for very long.
“You know, I’m sure we’ve met before,” said the man.
George slowly lowered the paper and looked across the table. He too was a captain; he had dark hair and dark eyes, a square handsome jaw and a generous smile. There was something familiar about his face, thought George.
“Graves,” he said, “Robert.” George shuffled forward awkwardly, he untidily folding the newspaper, they shook hands and George introduced himself.
George felt instantly at ease speaking to Robert, and they talked in detail about their many experiences. As the conversation continued, they discovered that they shared so many experiences. They quickly established that they had been very close together at he front although Robert had missed the first of July.
George was interested by Robert who spoke with a flow, with the rhythm of a man who liked to speak. He was able to describe so much in great detail using so few words.
George and Robert became close friends over the months which followed. He taught George how to box and unearthed in him an interest in sport which he had never realised he’d had.
They would spend hours talking of their experiences and discussing their hopes for the future, “what they would do when it was all over.”
When they were working, a healthy rivalry existed between them. Robert had taught George the importance of drill. And so they would both spend many hours more than any other instructors marching their young charges around the ground. Checking and re checking the presentation of their equipment.
They mixed in the mess on a social basis as a matter of course but shared little of themselves with the others. And were happiest in their own company drinking dreaming and sometimes simply sitting in silence. It took some getting used to, but by the spring of 1917, George realised that it was possible to come to terms with the fact that his life was not in danger and that there was every chance that he would wake in the morning with no casualties to report.
But inside he and Robert shared a nagging doubt. George knew that as long as the war continued and despite the cruel blows it had exercised on him, it was still part of his life. He knew that one day he would wake and marching around a parade ground would not be enough.
In the autumn of 1917 Robert announced that he had put in a request to be transferred and that he was on his way back to France. Two months later George read that he had died as a result of his wounds fighting near St Quentin.
The next day, George underwent a medical and having been declared fit he packed his bag and began his journey back to the front line.