“Smith…Charles Smith”
“Date Of Birth”
“13th of the 4th 1897”
“Thank you, please take the first door on your right for your medical, have a nice day” the woman reeled off mechanically.
Charles turned to look at his father. He smiled. But Charles brushed it off arrogantly and walked off head held high towards the medical room without bidding his father fair well, even though this was probably going to be his last sight of him for a long time.
“Goodbye, son,” whispered Alfred “I only doing what’s best for you, you’ll see…” A tear trickled down his aged cheek tumbling and settling on his battered over-coat evaporating symbolically like their father/son relationship into the perfumed air.
“You’ll be a better man for it…I know it” he pronounced limping back into the bustling high street.
Chapter 3: Training
Charles had past his medical with flying colours, as he had expected, and was then just a few hours prior to the medical ushered onto a large but crowded steam train, which was to transport him and his fellow comrades to their training destination.
Charles ambled clumsily through the claustrophobic carriages with the intention of finding himself anywhere to sit. The made his way to one of the very far end carriages, one of the less congested ones, and found himself a seat next to a rather large, bulky and harden faced individual dressed smartly and concisely in a dark green uniform. Charles by nature was, as I have already mentioned, a solitary figure and was greatly unsure when encountering new people. The stranger was the one to break the silence,
“How are we doing, are new to the Forces you seem rather nervous” bellowed the man, his chest sticking out in rather proud but also pompous manner.
“Yes it is sir, I’m Private Smith sir, Charles Smith,” he replied timidly to the man he suspected to be of great importance.
“Aaah, a new recruit I see, I am Sergeant John O’ Neill, although after this train journey you shall be referring to me solely I guess” he said following this comment with loud, hearty laughter. Charles managed a small, respecting chuckle.
The two men got talked throughout the entire journey and it would seem to any casual observer they had been the best of friends for many years.
“Goodbye Smith,” Sergeant called to Charles whilst collecting his large abundance of luggage, lifting it from the racks with hardly the slightest exertion, “I know you will represent your people’s Army and country well”
“Thank you” Charles managed to muster whilst trying to cover up his clear embarrassment from all the other sneering comrades.
Charles rose at the dot of five the next morning, not because he was punctual but because his was so nervous of making a complete and utter fool of himself after the great aspirations the Sergeant had for him.
He dressed with an unwanted spring in his movements and made his way cautiously to the yard, where it would be decided if he was a success or failure.
The new recruits first challenge, by the day’s standard, was quite an easy one.
“A five mile run to get your body’s adapted”
It did more than adapt their bodies because a small stipulation Sergeant had forgotten to mention mysteriously was that they were required to carry all their equipment simultaneously.
Charles considered himself to do quite well in their initial task finish fifth overall in a moderately impressive time of
“Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds, good going!”
Although following the run things whilst not going completely downhill did not keep to his original benchmark. Next was the assault course,
“Not bad, Smith, but didn’t cope to well with wall did we”
“No sir” came the disheartened response.
This was preceded by a whole body workout, slightly ironic for hadn’t the two previous activities worked their whole body’s
“Liked to seen a little more in the upper body department from you, Smith,” aimed the Sergeant at Charles
“My apologies, Sergeant” returned Charles’ breathless reply.
And last but not least was a weapons practice and this was probably the worst part of the entire day.
“What are you doing Smith, do you want to blow your own head off!”
Charles looked down at his rifle realising to his dismay that he was point the barrel at his own face. Charles could not manage a reply; only a rosy cheeked stare.
Charles clambered onto his top bunk that night feeling confused that his whole perception on his new life could deviate so dramatically, in such a short period of time. He had got off the train with fresh new ambitions of perhaps doing something worthwhile in these coming times, but as he prepared to sleep that night he wondered if all he was doing was simply embarrassing himself and his aspirations were simply juvenile.
Charles failed to sleep a wink that night thoughts of everything flooded his mind.
“You can’t go back now”.
“You’re nothing but a failure”
“Those ambitions are still achievable…”
Charles rolled over making the moth-eaten mattress groan like a bloated pig after consuming far too much swill and murmured, with his thoughts now focused, “I can…no I will do this, not for Mum, not for Dad. Not for Sergeant, not for my country but for me. No longer will I be a laughing-stock, I succeed if it is the last thing I do…”
In the weeks that followed Charles exerted himself and pushed himself to limits he had never been to before. Sweat pouring off him like a bucket of water spilt over a person’s head, he would run with searing pain engulfing his entire self as he shaved seconds off his personal best in the five mile excursion. He would spring over the rope walls nibble as cat darting after a mouse, scurrying through tunnels as agile as the chased mouse and hurtle through the gorse and under-growth as the hunter or hunted would.
During one particularly impressive display in late October the Sergeant made a memorable comment, in Charles’s mind, “Smith, you maybe the most improved new recruit I have ever seen”
His comrades began to give this young unknown increasing amount of kudos and respect for his gallant and courageous efforts. Nothing could be better; finally everything seemed to fit together and happen, but as the orangey-brown idyllic scenes of autumn cascaded into the rough unforgiving greys of winter, the mood of the camp did precede in unison.
One unremarkable but bitterly cold and ferociously blustery day the dread news made its way to 4th Platoon Prince Of Wales via a telegram. Yawning, Sergeant O’Neill tore the paper from the output tray, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand and read slowly, to make sure his mind took in all the information, the entire letter.
Exasperated, Sergeant dropped the paper to the floor and galloped his way down the hall to his quarters working the horrible news through his tired mind over and over making for certain he had not made some grievous misjudgement for if he had not his entire platoon’s mood would take a huge and grave turn.
At 0600 hours the entire platoon was lined up as per usual outside the mess hall awaiting the days tasks. Sergeant O’Neill paced up down the row looking up occasionally to give a menacing glare to private with a button undone or his collar out of place. All was as it should be, or so it seemed.
“I received a telegram this morning as I awoke” heralded Sergeant O’ Neill brightly. “Although not the usual cheery type I get from time to time.” He continued. “No this particular bliter was rather an unhappy one.” He stated with emphasis upon “unhappy”. “This one was from the Home Minister’s office,” he said without the bright tone but with a more grave tone. “We will be travelling to the Somme at 1800 hours exactly; you will have today to yourselves as this may be your last day as a freeman in a long time.” With that he marched back straight and shoulders square to his quarters and shut the door.
A stony and painful silence gripped the company. They were in disbelief. Stunned. Shocked and terrified.
After what seemed like an ice age they men split and made their separate ways to their billets most not to reappear until the sun had sank below the skyline.
Chapter 4: The Journey of Fear
The platoon emerged from their holdings at 1600 hours, heads hung low and with faces of zombies. They were all to well aware of the agony and destructive power of warfare in the modern age, for it had been publicised enough throughout the recent times. Tales of heartbreak and grief had swamped the airwaves since the day the Germans had set foot in France. Some had even lost relatives at this early stage in the proceedings and this could only have made the situation for them more unbearable.
Machine-like the men loaded rations and supplies into the heavy-duty vehicles that would transport them to their apparent misery. Little was said during the two hours preparation.
Sullen face meet sullen face as crates upon crates of ammo, supplies and artillery were loaded into the awaiting vehicles. Then at just before 1800 hours a harsh yell sliced through the nervous silence like a knife through butter.
“Men, be ready to leave in 5 minutes and no later.”
Charles was already prepared, as best he could, and had been for many hours prior. So, with nothing left better to do he clambered on hands and knees into the cage-like truck.
Charles pondered a lot of things during the journey through England. Through the low, damp marshlands of Norfolk to the gorse, barren landscape of the moors. Charles wondered were would he have been now if this “conscription malarkey” had never been. Would he still be at home living a secluded life with nothing-extraordinary happening? Or would he have accomplished his goals and be doing something he had dreamed of doing? The fact is he would never know.
Charles fumbled around in his pocket just as they had entered enemy territory a revealed a miniature, perfectly rounded gold locket. It was not his but his father’s, but that meant nothing to Charles. In a hate fuelled rage he had stolen the locket from his father’s room know how much it meant to him.
“This will teach him…the…the evil bastard!”
Concealed in the locket was a picture of his mother as a young woman in her late twenties smiling face brimming with happiness, “a true sight she was to be sure” thought Charles longing for his mother, like a small terrified young soul on his first day of school. And on the opposite side was an intricate engraving of the words: Together Forever, and a date 05.08.1896 the day his mother and father had been married.
Charles knew this was not his property, but he had smuggled it away from his father on many occasions previous because he had some how pulled strength from it, enabling to dodge or face the obstacles life had thrown at him thus far. And Charles knew that going to war his going to be the biggest obstacle in his life yet.
Charles did nothing but stare and think hour upon hour, keeping an ear open for any disturbance or orders, but none came, and he drifted off into a stressed and uneasy slumber.
Charles awoke with a start crack his head on the solid steel wall of the truck.
“All men out, all men out!” the Sergeant bellowed whilst beginning to remove crates from the back of his truck.
Charles’s stomach dropped to his feet like a dead weight threw air.
“We’re here”
Charles fumbled to put his belongings away his stomach giving him grief like never before and clambered out of the van his legs numb and like lead. He got together his supplies, ammo, weapons and personal belongings, as did his comrades. Everyone was in the same boat, all thinking the same thing,
“Will I ever see my family again?”
“Will I get home alive?”
The truth was that 1 in 3 would not.
Chapter 5: The Western Front
Comrades marched in unity, solemn faced, dull eyed and terror stricken. They marched for what seemed like hours, through thick, heavy, wretched ground over bones and bullets over hillocks and craters.
The sun began to sink gracefully below the horizon and the darkness consumed the light. All of a sudden, a deafening scream similar to that of a damsel in distress pierce the heavy air and was followed by an earth-shattering explosion. They were nearing enemy lines.
“On hands and knees, now!” blasted Sergeant in desperation. Everyone plummeted to the ground and began to crawl painstakingly slowly towards a large mound earth that stood before them. The frontline.
You only had to glance for a split second at any of the men’s faces to see how petrified they all were. They were ashen white, large round eyes with huge black bags, chapped blue lips and a layer of sweat engulfing their faces.
After, about five minutes of terrified crawling they reached the trenches. They were unbelievable. Sludge knee deep filled with bullets, cigarette ends and all other manner of equipment. The was horrific the smell of blood, sick, smoke all blend together in some hellacious cocktail filled the air causing the men to cough and splutter like invalids. Rats scurried through the tunnels and passageways in the walls, hording everything and anything they could lay their vile little teeth on even human remains. It was a sight no one would want to remember, but one no one would ever forgot.
The men slid, literally, into the trenches with little hesitation into the miniature hells as they were almost like heaven compared to the land surrounding them and prepared to commence battle.
Violent sounds echoed through what was once peaceful rural air. Shells erupted into flames accompanied by ear-splitting bangs. Incendiary bombs shattered flinging shards of glass, metal and many more lethal items at neck-break speed towards the enemy. Machine guns roared into life spraying bullets ubiquitously striking down men right, left and centre.
Charles weapon of choice was a machine gun but as much as he wanted to help, he just couldn’t. His hands were cold and clammy with his own sweat mixed with the loathsome sludge of the trench. His mind swirled with thoughts and terror a bi-product perhaps of his inexperience, stress and sheer exhaustion. His face was drained and a sickly white with a yellow tinge.
“I can’t do it!” he screamed exasperated.
Sergeant O’Neill hearing the cry turned his attention away from the fight and ducked below the trench top and crawled on hands and knees cat like towards Charles.
“What’s wrong with you?” said John forcefully yet calmly.
“I…I…I just…I can’t do it!”
“Do what?” quizzed John patiently.
“Kill” Charles replied simply and sheepishly.
“I understand,” said John sympathetically. Charles looked up surprised. “I went through the same thing myself, but then I considered if I don’t kill them they’ll simply get rid of me.”
Charles was inspired. How could a man so important, so respectable, so great, have suffered such a trivial trauma?
“You’re right Sergeant…thank you…”
With that Sergeant crawled back to his post and picked his gun and took aim once more.
The newly invigorated Charles picked his gun purposefully and took aim himself and with a little hesitation pulled back the trigger.
The German stood at the other end of the battlefield crumpled unceremoniously into an inert heap never to resurface.
Charles did not know what to feel. One side of him told him what he had just done was wrong and unforgivable, whilst the other said it was only self defence he would have killed you, given the chance.
Charles took the second’s opinion and raised his gun to the air once more looking to pick off another of the enemy.
Within about two hours of hard merciless, petrify battle Charles had killed ten German soldiers, and could not be happier. Although his body was telling him to stop as it was exhausted, his mind was active as ever, much like the effect of caffeine.
Charles had discovered something he liked and something he was good at: fighting.
But as his pocket watch struck 2300 hours his bubble was burst, quickly and painfully
“Men in ten minutes be ready to go over the top, were going in for the kill.”
That familiar and detested silence fell upon the men.
“Going over the top. That’s…that’s suicidal” one man managed to whisper in a terrified tone.
Sergeant O’Neill chose to over-look that remark and then prepared himself for “going over the top”. Charles was flabbergasted at his Sergeant’s routine for going over the top. It consisted simply of preparing all his equipment, downing a bottle of rum and taking a quick smoke of his pipe.
“Our own leader is almost trying to drug himself senseless before leading his troops into battle,” Charles thought to himself “What is the world coming to!”
But then he looked around and the majority of his comrades were doing the exact same thing. Then it dawned on Charles, “They must be doing this because they don’t want to be scared when going over the top…good grief…”
Charles after recovering from the initial shock proceeded to do the same, but this did not take his fears away, it only enhanced them. Charles looked around the battle scene as he downed his bottle of spirit a fellow comrade had given him. Bullets sped through the heavy night air like flocks of birds migrating in the autumn, explosions echoed in his ears similar to those you hear every November 5th but only more shocking and intense and men lay strewn like pieces of litter after a concert, all individually completely insignificant but together a picture of sheer terror. Was this all worth it or were they just all pawns in a massive political game of chess?
“It’s time!” Sergeant O’Neill shouted as convincingly as possible but anyone could detect the trepidation in his voice. This could be the end.
A collective click filled the air as the men removed the safety on their weapons, quite ironic really as the word “safety” would be forgotten not just on their weapons but completely. Then a cry filled the air and simultaneously the men scrambled and piled over the top of the trench running heads lowered weapons directly into the enemy.
Charles ran focused on staying alive, leaping fences of barbed wire like a champion racehorse, but some of his mates were not so lucky. They became entangled, impaled and ensnared into the thick, steel ropes struggling like a hostage bound to a wall. They fidgeted trying to free themselves but this only made their predicament worse and with their final gasp of breath they let out blood-curdling scream before collapsing motionless, never to reawaken.
Charles powered on through the minefields miraculously avoiding the mines with clever footwork but mostly sheer luck. Charles glanced momentarily behind him to witness one of his friends be sent soaring into the air and ripped to pieces and flump like a ten tonne weight to the ground. He quickly wiped this from his mind and turned around and looked directly forward. He was within thirty feet or so of the Nazi frontline. Erratically, Charles pulled his machine gun from his holster and seemingly fearlessly brandished his weapon getting focus upon an unaware opponent. Pulling back the trigger he let out a reel of three bullets directly at the chest cavity of the German. The bullets connected sending the man crashing down to the ground, most definitely dead. Guilt flooded over Charles in the form of a clammy cold sweat and his unwanted partner returned, fear.
Charles couldn’t bring himself to move. He stock still, an easy target for any alerted sniper. Sergeant O’Neill caught the sight of Charles out of the corner of his eye and screamed and him, “Retreat!”
Charles still didn’t move. He couldn’t. Sergeant O’ Neill took matters into his own hands he flew across the ground focused directly upon Charles, still stationery. He leapt full body facing the enemy in front of Charles taking two straight shots to the chest. He had no chance. He slammed to the floor and the impact stunned Charles into retreat. Turning his back on his Sergeant completely unaware of his act of bravery and sped back towards his trench. He dived head long to safety and curled up automatically and whimpered like baby crying for its mother.
Is this what war is about? Is this what is called honouring your country? Don’t we ever learn?
