In Memory
“Is it worth it? Why am I doing this? What is the point?” The young officer looked down at the mud that stuck to his thick, leather soled boots and felt the water seep through the leather only to get soaked up by his socks. He heard the ‘thwack’ of a water droplet hitting the taught fabric of his trousers, he hoped it was rain; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Resting his head in his hands he rocked gently on the damp fallen log, quietly rustling the foliage that had grown around one end of it. He could hear voices from the other side of the barn, the Sergeant organising the platoon, Corporals organising the sections. The Sergeants voice was hoarse and easily recognisable even at this distance as he spoke to the men, then he went quiet. The sound of a motorcycle engine approaching followed by a brief exchange of words before the cycle’s engine receded into the distance. The officer stood, shaking his head to clear it and putting on the soup dish shaped helmet. The Sergeant turned the corner and approached his platoon commander, “Sir, the platoon is ready and a despatch rider just delivered our orders.” He handed the officer an envelope, “thank you Sergeant,” opening the envelope he read the message and then stuffed it into a pocket, “we are to move into the village ahead, there are only three buildings and a recce unit cleared them yesterday but we are to move in and confirm that and then wait for the rest of the Company to meet us before moving on.” He produced a map from his leg pocket and went over the plan with the Sergeant before briefing the men.
The men moved slowly along the broad road, carefully watching the landscape as they walked to a position on the outskirts of the settlement. There they split into their three sections and each moved towards a building, the officer took his group towards the larger of the buildings, a semi-detached house with a lean-to barn against the near end wall. The group of eight men approached the barn, two men going inside to check it was clear as the others helped a short, stocky soldier onto the roof followed by the Lieutenant. The shorter man had been a thief by trade and a rascal by nature, but he was a master at getting through windows and could move almost silently. Soon the first men were on their way through the rooms clearing the top floor room by room.
“Sir!” A voice hissed from one of the rooms, “you can get into the loft through here and into the house next door.”
The Lieutenant indicated for the corporal to take five men to clear the lower floors whilst he took the remaining three through the loft, they found the small hatch and the first man lowered himself through, slipping, dropping noisily to the ground and ducking sideways into a small room that came off the landing. The others lowered themselves down more carefully and quietly but a sound from the room made them freeze, a scuffle and a crash, the officer stepped in with his pistol at the ready. The thief stood above the body of a German soldier and the remains of a mirror, the officer noticed the soldiers trousers still rumpled around his ankles and chucked as the thief whispered an apology. The pair left the toilet and the Lieutenant crouched on the stairs as the others checked the other rooms were clear.
“Hans, was passirt mit der?” The officer looked down the stairs at the figure coming towards him just as the young German soldier looked back up and stopped, staring aghast into the eyes of the man before him. They stood and stared in disbelief, the German had his rifle across his chest whilst the officer held the revolver tightly in his hand. The German brought his rifle down, the officer moved his pistol watching the muzzle of the rifle drop. Bang!
* * *
Laughter from the cinema, it must be a funny film, the laughter eases off but the film goes on. There is a lot of noise as with any action film, crashes, bangs, all the trappings of a box office blockbusting battle. Then the inevitable grand music, it is over, good and the hero have triumphed and people begin to walk away. A gaggle of kids, striped tracksuit trousers and peaked caps, black floppy flares and shirts with garish slogans, all bounce, stroll or scuff out of the auditorium. “That was so cool!”
“That bit in the town was shit!”
“That idiot on the stairs, he should have done something.”
“Fucking coward!”
Behind them a woman, “that first bit was terrible, all the blood, all those men, how could anyone live through anything like that?” Her husband looks across the foyer, his daughter approaches with the friend she had been with to watch a cartoon, “can we have ice cream please mummy?”
“Your dad will take you for some,’ the man and his daughter walk off, the woman turns to the old man behind her, once tall but age has taken its toll, he is still proud and with good reason. “Come on Dad, let’s go for a coffee,” she begins to walk to the nearby café, “did you like the film dad?” The old man stops for a second and looks fondly at his grand daughter, her dark hair bouncing as she bounds excitedly around with her friend, a tear begins to form in his eye to be swept away by a big, once strong, hand. “Was it really like that Dad?” His daughter leans over to look at the prices as she talks, “these are too expensive, what a waste.”
They do not understand - it was his war.
* * *
He lay on the bed, weak, tired, hardly there at all. We all watch, occasionally a lively conversation flaring up but mostly in relative quiet. Someone suggests a cup of tea, something we could all do with, the women go down stairs leaving we boys and my father to be with his father, Grandpas lads with our Grandpa. We start to laugh and joke, surreal in its way, some how it seemed right, a way to say goodbye, a way to give our permission for him to go. Then quiet, we listen to his breathing, his eyes half open. A voice, less than a whisper, we move closer to listen; “Are they alright? Are my men alright?” My Dad looks across at us, no one knows what to say, then Dad says it, “Yes, they are fine, they are all fine.’ We watch and wait and think.
We cannot understand – that was his war.
* * *
A line of men struggled along the crowded trench, green and brown, bulky and bumpy, each unique in all his uniformity. They moved slowly, weapons clonking on the wooden supports or thudding against the sandbagged parapet. A yelp and a splat as a man slipped over in the mud, much to the amusement of his comrades, a hissed curse from a Sergeant ended the fuss and the men move on through the quiet dark, the noise of their movement a sign to anyone who had been around long enough to recognise it that a new unit was making its way to the front. Positions were reached and the men began to settle in, sentries took positions and men crawled into funk holes to get some sleep. Soldier’s shuffled around, new sentries were posted and the odd flare went up. “Hey! Mush! Get up mate, it’s your turn.” A soldier woke one of his comrades who slowly crawled from his shelter and fidgeted with his uniform, scratching at his arm as he picked up his rifle and moved to his post. There he sat for a moment at looked around in the dim moonlight.
The sun was beginning to rise, the same soldier remained on duty, leaning against the front wall of the trench he looked at the mist covered rounds to the rear. He could see a shattered tree, looking like a jagged fist holding a cluster of toothpicks. He could see what looked like a sack dumped on the mound, as the light improved he could make out colours, green, brown, red, then pockets and the remains of an arm. His relief arrived. The rest of the men were up, not awake necessarily but up. The stand-to orders had been given and men took up their positions. A noise, a pencil line across the sky. The explosion hurled men across the trench and ‘Mush’ found himself hurled into a water filled hole in the wall, the morning ‘hate’ had begun. Mud and sandbags flew through the air, splinters and shrapnel cracked against wood and metal. He could no long hear the explosions as he lay, curled up with his head by his knees mumbling the words to a song, ‘when we’re bombed, we’re high as we can be, ‘cos you can’t stop the bombing from old higher Germany!’ Someone was beneath him, holding his leg as the trench shook, then he couldn’t see or even breathe. There was no more shaking and things settled but ‘Mush’ still panicked, burrowing through the earth with his hands until his head and torso were free. Then the tugging at his leg, he grabbed a helmet, shouting for help and digging furiously towards his buried feet. The tugging stopped as he reached the hand, he held it in his own and felt it tighten its grip slightly. He dug further, a shoulder, a head, a chest, he dragged a body from the thick muddy earth and shook the figure by his shoulders, the boy coughed and opened his eyes.
The pair were sent back to a dressing station, both had wounds and shook uncontrollably. They held each other up as they walked, an officer accosting them and asking where they were going. They explained and showed him their authorisation, he too had a wounded man, a prisoner who needed to go back to the dressing station. The three men moved along a road, arm in arm, holding each other up. Someone said something in front of them, a man with a camera, they looked up. Click!
* * *
The program on the television ends, the news has just described a tragic murder in graphic detail but people carry on regardless. A family sit watching, a man, his wife and his elderly father. The men hold drinks, sipping them as they watch, the older main rises and walks to the kitchen, where he finishes his drink and returns to the living room. ‘Good night, I am going to go to bed and read for a while.’ The son watches the opening credits for a moment and then follows his father. HE stands at the bottom of the stairs, “The Great War is on, it is about Albert, you were there weren’t you?” the older man continues up the stairs, “you should watch it.” The older man stops and looks down at his son, “Don’t you think I see it every night?”
* * *
End Note
This is dedicated to three men in roughly equal measure: My Great Uncle Tom Holloway DFC, died on Monday October 27th 2003, Stirling pilot and the reason I wrote this. My Grandpa, he inspired me in so many ways and in part this story has been about him. Finally my Great Grandfather Melhuish, I never met him but he is the other half of the story. It has been mostly fiction but is based on real incidents. My Grandpa did shoot a German coming down a staircase though by all accounts in real life it was a ‘him or me’ situation and I am sure he did not wind up in the house in the way I have described. That is the problem with the truth; it hardly ever fits the message one wants to purvey. My Great Grandfather was buried alive, he did dig himself and another out and he both he and my Grandfather did later make the statements I have recorded in relation to their wars though not under quite the same circumstances in either case. As a final note, some of my description is sketchy at best, I have tried my hardest but if you do not understand why I have not quite ‘made it’ you have probably missed my point totally.
[ 08. November 2003, 04:17 PM: Message edited by: Stefan ]
