A host of Heinkels flew overhead, dropping bombs on the village and the other neighbouring villages as it went. She woke with a sudden start and, after listening for a minute to the chaos from the skies, gave a cry of horror. She hauled herself up painfully from the chair and started as fast as she could towards the back door, but stopped after less than a metre clutching her side in unbearable pain. She turned and looked at the mantelpiece, locking eyes with her beaming son in his crisp uniform, shining grey eyes and neat, brill-creamed hair. With renewed determination, she reached out, clutched the picture in her hand, and turned towards the door again. But as she did so she heard a loud whistle and the sound of people screaming and then all of a sudden, she heard nothing. She saw nothing. The metallic taste of blood stung her lips and tongue as she lay in the debris, which had only a minute ago been her cosy little cottage, was now transformed into dust and rubble. Still she saw and felt nothing, but somewhere she heard the faint squeal of shells and explosion after explosion after explosion. She heard nothing more, and her mutilated, bloody hand closed painfully around a still smiling Thomas.
* * * * *
The shells whistled overhead, deafening explosions sounded all around and the endless rain poured down unrelentingly. A young man, about twenty-one sat on a bed in the corner. His hair was unkempt and his face dirty with blood and earth. He sat staring across the wet, muddy trench at a boy who lay on a damp blanket in a tight ball, muttering to himself. The man’s forehead creased into a frown, he felt as though something inside of him was missing, something that was so important that without it he no longer felt human. Presently, an elderly man, a sergeant, approached him.
“Sir?” Nothing. “Sir?” Still nothing. “Lieutenant Brooke, Sir?!”
The man started, “Hmm? Yes, report!” he surveyed the old man with unblinking grey eyes.
“Sir the second battalion’s almost been wiped out. The men are frightened and that damn kid over there is doing nought to add to their confidence.” The elder man glared over at the shaking teenager. Then, taking a seat next to his lieutenant, added in a mutter: “What’s wrong with the lad? We’re just as bad off as he is sir, why can’t he just learn to take it like a man?!”
“Because he isn’t one!” yelled Brooke jumping up and towering over his second in command. The other men in the trench all stopped what they had been doing and stared at the two men, the young boy continued to whimper pathetically. Brooke glared around at his battalion and continued in a far quieter voice, his tone venomous. “Can’t you see what’s going on here, you fool?! That boy is scared out of his mind at the mere thought of going over the top! And do you know why? Hmm? It is because as soon as we do go over the top every man and boy here will either be shot or blown to smithereens, and if any man tries to stop it, he’ll be court-marshalled and bally-well shot! So if you can take that for what it is and still keep a stiff upper lip about you then you are a braver man than I and than any man I’ve ever met before.” With that, Brooke took one final glance around the trench and stormed out into the night. The men, who had in fact been listening intently to everything their commanding officer had said, now sat in complete misery staring at the dank walls of the trench.
Brooke stood outside of his trench now, leaning against the outside wall and smoking a cigarette. He inhaled and breathed out slowly, his eyes brimmed with tears as he stared up at the black sky, which every so often lit up with white light from an explosion somewhere. He closed his eyes and he willed away the tears, but rather than disappearing as he had hoped, they rolled down his dirty, pale cheeks and stung his rough lips. He watched indifferently as men went back and forth carrying stretchers laden with moaning men with horrific injuries. Once they came by carrying a young boy who Brooke thought could not have been any older than eighteen, he was covered in blood and had taken a serious blow to the head as he was blown back by a shell landing nearby. He was still and unmoving as the stretcher-bearers hurried him back to the infirmary barracks. Finally, a sergeant named Truman tentatively approached him.
“Sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”, he replied wearily.
“Sir, Private Atkinson is hysterical sir, he’s frightening the other men and Sergeant Williams can’t control him. Williams says can you please come, Sir?”
Brooke sighed. A deep long sigh. “Yes all right, tell him I’m coming.”
When the two men entered the trench all the men in the first battalion looked up with faces as dark as storm clouds and expressions which could melt a heart of stone. Brooke nodded at them as he strode past but they had no effect on him anymore. He marched straight up to where Atkinson and Williams were and sat down beside Atkinson. The boy lay shaking and muttering, he was hugging himself and rocking back and forth with his eyes tightly shut. As Brooke sat down next to him his muttering became louder and louder until he was almost shouting it.
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” He kept saying it over and over again. Tears streamed down his face and his movements became more and more rigid. Brooke looked at Williams and then around the trench. Twenty faces stared back at him, watching his every move. He shivered.
“Atkinson? Atkinson, do you hear me?” Atkinson nodded and continued muttering.
Brooke noticed a large red mark across the young boy’s right cheek. “Did you do this?” he snapped at Williams. Williams shook his head. Brooke’s sharp grey eyes bore into him; he nodded and looked away. Brooke glared at him then, slowly with all the gentleness of a mother caring for her child, reached out and lifted the shaking Atkinson up to lean against him. The boy buried his head in his commanding officer’s shoulder and grasped at his shirt, sobbing.
“Atkinson...” he said, then continuing in a kind but stern voice. “David, control yourself. David, we are all scared, but we must not let our emotions overcome us. Do you hear me?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now, when you go home to your mother, you will meet a nice young girl whom you love very dearly and you will go on to spend the rest of your life with her. However, to do that you must first get through this. Now, you will survive this, but you have to try. Will you do that for me? Will you do that for your mother?”
“Yes, Sir.”
* * * * *
As the train pulled into the country station a man, around twenty-three years old stepped casually off and onto the platform. He breathed in deeply and looked around him; everywhere he looked he saw smiling faces and happy families. Dark memories of war clouded his mind; he shook them away and started at a brisk walk towards the town.
He sat in the cool church watching the young couple stood at the altar beaming at each other. He listened to the vicar as he droned on,
“Do you David Atkinson take Anna Phillips...?”
“You see Thomas old chap? Life goes on..” Brooke thought to himself.