The day was warm, the sun bright, the morning peaceful. An hour before their allocated stint of sentry duty, Guy and Jack were sitting on the fire-step, cleaning their rifles. Nearby, men tried to snatch a few moments’ sleep. A corporal puffed on his pipe, his eyes blissfully closed.
‘I got a letter from Mary today,’ said Jack.
The sound of her name still made Guy wince. ‘Oh. How is she?’
‘She’s fine. Sends her love.’
‘I bet.’
‘She’s volunteered too, you know, a nurse, a VAD. She’ll be based at one of those base hospitals on the coast. Calais perhaps, or maybe Le Havre.’
‘Good for her. Aren’t you meant to be peeling carrots or something?’
‘Yeah, all right, I’m going. Still waiting on the potatoes. Reynolds should have been back by now. Look, here’s Robert’
‘Hello, chaps, lovely day,’ said Robert, sitting next to Guy on the fire-step.
‘Yep,’ said Jack, ‘but it’s the dugout and a peeler for me. See you.’
‘Hope this weather holds out till Saturday,’ said Robert, watching Jack leave. In two days the platoon was due a rest behind the lines. ‘Imagine – four days in the sun. Just think, we might even see sight of a bath.’
‘Oh for such luxury.’
From inside the dugout, Guy could hear their chatter and laughter. Jack had been out for six weeks. So far he seemed to be coping but much of their time had been spent behind the lines.
A small group of men passed, carrying planks of wood, each bidding Guy and Robert a good morning.
‘You seem to be doing very well over this girl malarkey.’
Guy sighed. ‘It’s this place, isn’t it? Sort of puts everything into a different perspective.’
‘I guess you’re right but I reckon I’d have killed the little bastard by now. Watch out, here comes Father Christmas.’
A private called Reynolds was struggling up the trench, a large sack slung over his shoulder.
‘Good God,’ said Guy, ‘how many potatoes has he got there?’
‘They’d better not be rotten like the last lot. Hey, you lot,’ Robert shouted to the men in the dugout, ‘potato man’s here.’
Jack and a friend by the name of Pickard popped out from the dugout. Jack’s sleeves were rolled up, his hands wet. ‘Reynolds,’ shouted Jack, ‘what took you so long?’
‘Sod off, Searight, you try lugging this lot a mile and a half in this heat.’
‘You got the easy bit, you don’t have to peel them, do you?’
‘Whoa,’ puffed Reynolds, sliding the sack off his back, letting it land with a thud. He pushed up his helmet and wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘I’m knackered. Any tea going?’ He looked up to the sky. In an instant his head was gone, blown to smithereens.
The eruption of noise froze their senses. ‘Fuck,’ came the cry. Reynolds’s body teetered, blood shooting from his neck like an overworked fountain, then buckled and collapsed in a heap. Men threw themselves against the trench wall. A second shell, a third and fourth, landed almost simultaneously all within close proximity. The earth shook. Then, a moment of stillness broken only by screams and cries, both close and afar. It lasted but a moment, and then the shells started falling afresh.
Guy and Robert pressed their faces against the mud, trying to disappear into the wall. Pickard had been hit, his tunic awash with blood, his arm clean away at the shoulder. He shrieked in agony and panic, his hand failing to stem the torrent of blood spurting from his stump. Clumps of earth and bits of metal fell onto Guy’s helmet. A ball of mud flew into his mouth. He choked but managed to spit it out. The corporal was dead, his neck severed, his head hanging awkwardly but incredibly the pipe remained in his mouth, the tobacco still smouldering.
Shells burst overhead, shards of metal whooshed down like a swarm of gigantic wasps, cutting and piercing anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed. A pack of rats appeared out of nowhere, screeching en masse as they ran down the trench at great speed, some instinct taking them away from the noise.
Guy realised he was shivering uncontrollably, his legs shaking as if possessed by a banshee, while beneath him, the earth trembled. Robert’s face, only inches from his, was blackened with dirt, his eyes squeezed shut. The noise, persisting and continual, assaulted Guy’s ears not as a sound but as a physical presence that he could touch, a tangible being enclosing him like a devil’s blanket. He tried to listen beyond the noise, trying to distinguish between one shell blast and another but all he heard was an unremitting roar. Beneath it, he could make out the cries and yells, sounds he never knew men were capable of. He hoped to God Jack was OK. His brother was wearing his helmet, not that it offered much by way of protection. Guy didn’t know where he was – there was no way of seeing beyond a few inches such was the density of smoke.
The earthen wall of the trench shifted. Robert and Guy glanced up and then at each other. They knew what was coming. A man on the other side of Robert, a man called Bishop, was quick and dived out of the way as the wall collapsed. For a moment, engulfed in blackness, Guy relished the fact that the noise of the barrage was now muffled. But the earth was heavy and wet. He felt the bile of panic in his throat. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut but still the mud found its way into his nostrils, beneath his eyelids. He couldn’t move his arms, which were pinned to his sides. His ears pounded. The muffled sounds were no more as the soil in his ears compacted. His heart thudded. But there was movement, a shift of earth. He could move his left arm. Desperately he clawed at the earth. What calmness he experienced was now replaced by terror. Nothing so frightening as hope. His fingernails broke as he clawed at the earth. He pushed but didn’t know whether he was pushing it in the right direction. His hand broke free and felt the air. He heard shouting. The soil moved again and he could move his entire arm. He tried to lift his head, swallowing small chunks of earth, his tongue coated with the stuff, cloying and suffocating. His arm was being pulled. His arm socket jarred but his head was freed from its grave. He took in huge gulps of air but, in the process, swallowed more mud. Unable to open his eyes, he rolled onto his front and vomited, his breath coming in violent bursts. Someone placed a bucket of water next to him. He still couldn’t hear but he knew the bombardment had stopped. He plunged his head into the bucket. The water washed over him and felt delicious.
*
Guy sat on a new mound of earth, still shivering, shocked, still catching his breath. He surveyed the scene: a shell nearby had left a hole big enough to accommodate a haystack. All around, among the fresh heaps of earth and puddles of blood, were shreds of uniform, pieces of flesh, the odd helmet, most of them buckled, a bayonet, twisted, a shovel without a handle. Smoke lingered menacingly.
Robert came and sat next to him, slapping him on the knee. Neither could talk. They nodded. Robert’s eyes were raw red, accentuated by his mud-caked face. Everywhere the sound of men in pain, men crying, men dying. Nearby lay bits of Private Bishop; where the rest of him was, no one would ever know. Ten feet away, Albert Jarrett sat upright, his hands cradling his intestines. His eyes seemed to be laughing. Guy inspected his fingers, throbbing and black, and grimaced at the lack of fingernails. He spat more dirt from his mouth. Someone screamed, the noise soon disintegrating to sobbing.
‘Where’s my brother?’ panted Guy.
‘Over there.’ Guy followed the direction of Robert’s pointing finger. Through the smoke Guy could make out the vision of a man huddled in a ball, not far from Jarrett. Robert nodded, yes, that’s your brother.
It took a couple of efforts for Guy to stand. His legs felt like jelly. He staggered over to Jack, across the ripped-up ground, stumbling over a body. A hand momentarily gripped his ankle. It was Jarrett, the goo of his stomach piled neatly on his lap. He muttered something. Guy wanted to ignore him. Jarrett beckoned him to lean over. The stench made Guy want to puke. ‘What? What is it, Jarrett?’
‘Shoot me. Please, I can’t bear it.’
‘Help will come.’
Jarrett shook his head; he couldn’t speak any more. His eyes lolled around. Guy left him. As he approached his brother, he realised Jack was whimpering, his words unintelligible. He’d curled up on the ground, his knees tucked up beneath him, his arms covering his head, his whole body shivering. Next to him, lay a helmet. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Guy, ‘what’s happened to you?’ He sunk to the ground next to him. ‘Jack, it’s me,’ he whispered, trying to bend down low enough so that his brother could see him. ‘Can you hear me? Jack? You can come out now, it’s OK, it’s stopped.’
Jack removed one hand from behind his head, then the other. He looked at Guy; he was crying. He tried to speak but, wheezing heavily, couldn’t catch his breath.
Guy rubbed his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s finished now, you’re OK. God, look at you. This wasn’t meant to happen, not to you, not to Jack.’
Jack attempted to sit up but his knees jarred. Slowly, still trembling, he stretched himself out. As he righted himself, Guy noticed a couple of stretcher bearers arrive on the scene, their stretcher slack between them. They looked around, trying to decide where to start first. He pointed them in the direction of Jarrett.
Jack cursed as the life returned to his joints.
‘You all right, Jack?’
Jack fought to speak between breaths. ‘Guy...’
‘Don’t talk.’ There was no blood on his tunic, nor his trousers. He felt up and down Jack’s legs, his arms, seeing if anything’s broken. ‘You’re not hurt?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Good. I think you’re OK.’
The stretcher bearers had ignored Jarrett – he was too far gone to be salvageable. Guy watched them as they bore another to the First Aid post. With their heavy cargo, they struggled to maintain their balance over the bumpy ground.
‘That was hell, wasn’t it?’ said Guy. ‘I never knew sound could be so loud.’ His brother wasn’t listening. ‘Jack, you OK? Jack – speak to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said –’
‘No.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘I mean, I’m sorry.’ The words came slowly. ‘So – fucking – sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No. It’s not. It’s not fine. You’re my brother. You mean more to me than anything in the world.’
‘You don’t have to say it.’
‘No, I have to, I want to. It’s just... you’ve always been there for me. Haven’t you? And then I did that to you.’
‘It’s OK now.’ Guy put his arm round his brother’s shaking shoulders.
‘You were out here, with all this shit, and me? What was I doing? Playing the dandy. What an idiot. She never meant that much to me. How could I have done that to you? Guy, I’m sorry.’
He stroked Jack’s mud-streaked hair. ‘It’s OK.’
‘You’re my big brother. And I did that to you. I’m sorry, I’m...’ The words faded into tears as he let his head droop into his brother’s neck.
The smoke swirled, the only sound was of cries and pitiful groans. Jarrett’s eyes were open but he was dead, finally out of his misery. Robert sat further down the trench, coughing as he tried to smoke a cigarette. A rat scurried past with its ugly naked tail. Guy felt unable to move. His limbs felt heavy, his body sagged with exhaustion. He realised how thirsty he was, the taste of mud still at the back of his throat, the feeling of the stuff on his tongue. He tried to shout for Robert but he lacked the strength even to raise his voice and was too comatose to get to his feet. Jack had fallen asleep, his head on Guy’s shoulder. Guy rested his head on Jack’s and yawned. A deep, deep yawn.