The problem with war is that it tends to brutalise everyone involved, even those who are fighting for the best of motives
Personal Writing : Fiction JAMES MARSHALL 21/11/00
"The problem with war is that it tends to brutalise everyone involved, even those who are fighting for the best of motives."
"I hear one coming sir!"
"Get down boys." I shouted above the din of the whizz-bangs. It was like a shower of mud and water as they exploded nearby in no-mans land. Then I saw one tracking across the sky like clay pigeon out of a trap. It was going was going to come down right on Old-Johnny's head, and sure enough, it did. It was an awful mess. I could see the sky light up around me as the shells crashed down to earth, only getting a moment of darkness in between explosions.
I tried to settle down for the night on a ledge above the clay of the Somme, but for some reason I couldn't. I decided to write a letter to my sweetheart, to pass the time. I needed no light of my own, as the frequent explosions provided enough. "Dear Mable," I started, "We lost 60,000 today, and the Hun are getting closer. Old Johnny went down this time. Our platoon is shrinking more and more each day. There are more new face than old now. How's young Tommy. Tell him I'll be back in blighty by Christmas. Hope you are well, love Wilfred." I am going to give it to a runner as soon as possible, but I doubt it will reach blighty.
When I woke up, it was raining bullets again. I could see Gibson through my sleep-encrusted eyes. I shouted to him, "Gibson, what's for breakfast?"
"I dunno, but you better eat it lying on your back, because the shells are screeching overhead." And then, he just went into deep thought.
I walked along the trench for a bit to stretch my legs. I was hoping for a bit of fresh air, but the chance would be a fine thing in this war. The air smelled of death, rotting corpses, and all mixed together with a mud ...
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When I woke up, it was raining bullets again. I could see Gibson through my sleep-encrusted eyes. I shouted to him, "Gibson, what's for breakfast?"
"I dunno, but you better eat it lying on your back, because the shells are screeching overhead." And then, he just went into deep thought.
I walked along the trench for a bit to stretch my legs. I was hoping for a bit of fresh air, but the chance would be a fine thing in this war. The air smelled of death, rotting corpses, and all mixed together with a mud and blood cocktail. Smoke made your eyes sting, the mustard gas made your throat dry, and the cold muddy water made your whole body numb and dirty. So in the end nearly all your senses were completely shot. I carried on walking with my back hunched, so that the Jerry snipers couldn't get a shot at me.
I walked past corpses in the mud. Most of the soldiers had been looted, with boots missing and socks gone. Some bodies had no arms, but I doubt that was the looters, although I wouldn't put it past them. Some people have no respect for the dead. I even saw somebody hanging his jacket on a dead mans foot that was sticking out of the wall of the trench.
The Hun were still shooting at us. It was never ending. Every second of the day was filled by somebody letting a shell or bullet loose. But then, the fire stopped. Something was brewing. The Germans don't stop shooting for nothing. It had happened once before I recall. Everything stopped, and then we heard the dreaded whistling noise. It was a whole flock of bombs flying across the sky, as though they were in formation. Luckily they missed that time.
Then, I heard that familiar whistle again. It seemed to last for an age, torturing the ears. I could see one coming towards me. I froze. I knew I wouldn't get away. I closed my eyes, preparing for the explosion. "THUD...HISS."
"Gas! Gas! Quick boys!" I shouted to them all, whilst I was fumbling with my clumsy helmet. "Get your bloody masks on." But some did not make it. They drowned under a green sea, their lung being intoxicated by the deadly mustard gas. I waded out of the mist, my head hung low by the heavy mask, but also the death of my comrades.
I went to sleep at about 0200 hours that night, as I had been on watch for the rest of that night. I could not help thinking about my buddies who had died, guttering, choking, drowning.
I woke at 0600 hours. I could hear some of the men conversing. I got up, stretched, (being careful not to reach too high), and walked over.
"What's all the noise about lads?"
"Nothing sir."
"Tell me, or I'll get you court-martialed Jones."
"O.K. A load of young ones have been posted with us today, all on conscription
"So?"
"Well, er, we were having a little bet on who would bite the dust first sir."
"O.K. Put me down a penny on, er," I scanned the list of names, looking at the odds, "Wright." I liked to have a laugh with the lads. It helps boost moral.
The guns had been at it all night by the looks of things. There were bodies everywhere. I don't know how I managed to sleep through it. Some bodies I could recognise, some you couldn't due to sheer mutilation.
The guns suddenly stopped again. We all braced ourselves for the sound of the deadly projectiles flying our way. But they didn't come. There was silence again. In one way, I was glad of the silence, but in another way I wasn't, because I didn't know what was going to be on the end of it. Some soldiers dared to pop their heads over the top of the trench. In the end I gave into curiosity and also looked over. That's when I saw the Germans also peering over the edge also, somewhat in terror. It was quite bizarre. Then the thought suddenly hit me. They were coming over the top. "Get ready lads. This is it." They rose up out of their trench, and charged. "Aim...FIRE...Aim...FIRE." They were mown down in waves, one after another. It was a gruesome affair. Then I saw one coming close to our trench, his goal. I could not bear to bring myself to shoot him, as he was so close. He suddenly zigzagged off to the left, away from me, and dived into our trench. He was alone. He looked around for some support, but there was none. He got pounced upon immediately, and then slaughtered like a lamb. That kind of warfare isn't heroic; it's just plain murder. The problem with war is that it tends to brutalise everyone involved, even those who are fighting for the best of motives.
Based on the First World War poems of : DULCE ET DECORUM EST (WILFRED OWEN)
BREAKFAST (WILFRED GIBSON)
