Bold, Brash and Brave Page 12

  Henry remained at his position for what seemed like hours before his stomach emitted loud rumbling noises to let him know he hadn’t eaten. He looked around when he heard voices, and saw two strange soldiers crawling towards him dragging a box. ‘Grub up, mate,’ said one, and when he opened the box, the other took over Henry’s post, occasionally returning fire.

  ‘Have the others eaten yet?’ he asked, as he took out a piece of bread and had a bite.

  ‘Yes, mate, you are the last one. By the way, was it your brother we took back to base camp?’

  ‘Yes it was. How is he getting on?’ asked Henry, then took a bite of ham. ‘This is good food,’ he thought. ‘I wonder if it’s to soften bad news.’

  ‘They’ve patched him up. He isn’t conscious yet, because he lost a load of blood. Oh, and the Lieutenant said to just stand fast for the moment, he will be up later,’ the soldier replied, resting back.

  ‘Well, go and inform them down there that they’d better look after our George, or I’ll get angry,’ Henry joked, his laughter interrupted when a shell exploded nearby and he ducked with the rest.

  ‘The medic said he should be dead. But anyway, he isn’t, so good luck to him,’ the soldier replied as he closed and secured the box lid. He and his mate told Henry they’d see him tomorrow before they shuffled down the trench.

  When he found out where his brothers had been deployed, Timothy began to get worried about them. He was still startled when he saw George’s name on the list of those seriously injured and due to be shipped back home, two days after George’s wounding. He didn’t have too long to dwell on it, however, as he was under a lot more pressure because the Major had begun to take leave of his senses. The devastation of the war and all the death he witnessed had begun to take its toll; he wept regularly because of the pressure, and then wiped his eyes before saluting an endless line of bodies waiting to be buried. Timothy had to sign things on his behalf and take care of the practical details.

  When he had the spare time, Timothy would venture into the temporary ambulance field and amble up and down the rows of semi-unconscious men, some of whom were screaming with pain while others moaned or mumbled prayers. He did eventually find George, and staring at his face, slowly knelt by his side. The loss of the leg was obvious; Timothy turned to the medic and asked, ‘Will he make it?’

  ‘No problem. Obviously, he would be a lot better off at home, but he will live,’ he replied, and turned away when he heard screams. Timothy followed him with his gaze, but this was alien territory to him, and after patting George on the chest, he quickly retreated.

  Back at his base, surveying his surroundings, Timothy suddenly decided that it would be better if he could get the Major some leave. He knew that the Brigadier was due to call soon for one of his pep-you-up-talks, and he decided to have a quiet word. Timothy also realised that he must get word to Henry to let him know about George’s condition, so he sat down and began to write him a letter.

  Henry was now up to his neck in muck and bullets. Seven more new privates had been ordered to join them; their return fire was still intermittent, but it let the enemy know that they were still there, and avoided wasting ammunition.

  During the night, the occasional red tracer zipped overhead. Early the next morning, everyone was suddenly woken when they heard shouting voices. Using a periscope, Henry stared when he saw two enemy soldiers leaning out of their trench and waving a white flag. Suspiciously, he shouted ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want our comrades’ bodies,’ one shouted. Henry spun around when one of the new soldiers crawled up by his side.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Henry asked, sliding his rifle upwards.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think it’s a trap? Let’s be fair though, in a couple more days those dead men will start rotting and smell horrendous.’

  Henry looked up towards the German side and shouted, ‘You have ten minutes, and then we open fire, starting from now.’

  Again using the periscope, Henry stared as four men in clean light-blue uniforms dashed down the hill. Two picked up one man, laying him on a stretcher, and then others did the same. When they’d reached the top, they returned for more. Ten minutes later, with their job done, a voice shouted, ‘Danke,’ and there came an almighty hail of bullets over their trench. Henry winked and shouted, ‘Back to normal by the look of it, so you’d better get back to your positions, lads.’

  At the farm, Mahala had lost some weight with all the running up and down now Florence had returned home. She was pleased that Florence’s relationship with her parents had been repaired, however; after all their past uncertainty and often violent history, they now had a house filled with love. After much nagging, Mrs Webster got her way, and together they decorated their house throughout. Mr Webster was still teetotal, and his employment at the mine was now as shift foreman. He had received a small pay-rise, which helped the family budget, and as trade at the railway improved weekly, Mrs Webster and Mavis were also happy in their work.

  Joseph’s main problem was that he had to work all the hours that God sent. Harold helped him as much as he could, but unfortunately some of the women on the farm asked to drop out, so they had to strip their activities down to the basics. They only reared what animals they needed for food, and any excess was immediately sold at the market. Their main drive was keeping the farm ticking over until the lads returned home.

  Joseph and Mahala were extremely proud of their granddaughter, who was growing up fast and taking everything in. The only time Joseph or Mahala were able to see her was on Sunday mornings while attending church. So, to give Florence a break, it was agreed that she would bring her up to the farm on Saturday mornings, and that they would meet up in church the next day then all would return to the farm for Sunday dinner.

  It was when all were seated around the table that the subject of christening Georgina was brought up, and instantly Harold stared at Joseph to gauge his reaction. To avoid any arguments, Florence quickly stood up, and after glancing around, stated, ‘Please, I want my daughter to be christened with George’s name, and I wish to call her Georgina Cotton.’

  With a big smile on his face, her dad said, ‘And good for you, lass.’

  Joseph glanced at Mahala, and asked ‘Is that alright with you?’

  With a big satisfied smile on her face, she responded ‘You know very well it is.’

  ‘Better get it all organised then,’ said Mrs Webster, and stared when Florence suddenly frowned.

  Florence let out a sob, and then blurted out, ‘If you will, please. It’s just that I wish George was here to see her,’ and quickly sat down.

  ‘Don’t we all, dear,’ whispered Mahala, and sighed.

  George remained unconscious as he was manhandled around France, and had now had reached the landing area where all the badly wounded men were parked on the beach, ready for the next boat home. Fresh water, stored in large earthenware pots, was passed around to those who required a drink, providing a little welcome relief; it was thirty-six hours before the next flat bottomed boat was due to arrive.

  Back in the trenches, Henry and the rest of his men began to take an almighty beating. Shelling was constant and seemed endless; the air was thick with smoke, soil and a foul stench. So far, they had managed to avoid casualties. Henry was in a daze as the soldier who usually guarded the entrance to their ditch crawled up beside him and tugged at his coat. Henry started and looked down, seeming surprised. ‘What’s up, mate?’

  ‘Grub up, pal,’ the soldier mouthed, pulled up next to him, and eventually opened a box.

  As if it was aware of meal times, the shelling began to recede, and Henry sighed before he ate a piece of bread. Seeing the soldier shaking his head, he asked, ‘Now what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing much except this bloody shelling,’ he replied, pulling a face of disgust.

  ‘I know what you mean, mate. Anyway, where are you from and what’s your name?’ asked Henry, taking out a piece of beef, raising his eyebrows
at its colour before he took a bite.

  ‘Lionel Walker from the Midlands,’ the soldier replied, and suddenly ducked when the shelling began. ‘I’d better get back quick,’ he shouted, and slapped Henry on the shoulder before he closed the lid to cover the food.

  Just before dark, Henry decided to go down the trench to see if the other men were alright. He was glad he did when he found that two were ready for absconding. As if unofficially taking over from George, Henry issued strict instructions to them, not only to maintain their position, but to look out and cover for each other, because he knew that the consequences of deserting their post would be fatal. Suddenly, he heard voices above. Using the periscope, Henry watched as six of the enemy, carrying rifles with bayonets fixed, stealthily made their way down the hill towards them.

  ‘Right, men, on my command, and rifles at the ready, stand up and fire at anything over the top of our trench. As soon as the enemy appeared to them all, Henry gave the order, and they all opened fire.

  It was all over in a flash. The enemy commander had taken the chance, hoping that they were not yet alert after their meal; unfortunately for him, the British men were on guard, and the six Germans were instantly killed. Henry used the periscope to check the area afterwards, and it suddenly sank in that the bodies laid in the sludge could have been them. Coming to his senses, he shouted, ‘Right, maintain your positions.’

  When the soldiers had resumed their positions, Henry instructed them to remain on alert until relieved. He returned to his own position and began to settle in for the night. He feared retribution from the enemy in the form of excessive shelling, but it was quite the reverse and very quiet, except for the taunts and usual abuse shouted by them.

  Suddenly waking from a three hour nap and realising it had done him good, Henry stretched, then grabbed his periscope to survey the area between them and the enemy. He still didn’t really understand warfare, and wished he was somewhere else, but when he glanced down the trench, he had to smile at seeing Horace, one of the new privates, nonchalantly relieving himself.

  Henry began to relax as he didn’t spot any activity, despite his careful surveying with the periscope. He thought about George’s condition, hoping very much that he was on his way home by now and that he was being well looked after. Then he grimaced, wondering how George would manage in the future with only one leg, and how it would affect his morale. He knew that their mother would be angry about his condition, but have to accept it. On the other hand, how would Florence take it? She could reject him, even finish with him, now that he couldn’t support her. Henry suddenly ducked when the shelling began again. He mouthed, ‘Where are they getting all their bloody ammo from?’

  ‘If that question was directed at me, I don’t know,’ snapped the Lieutenant, as he shuffled up to Henry’s side. Another large explosion nearby splattered them with soil, and they huddled together.

  ‘It’s a bloody wonder that all this doesn’t send our men mad,’ moaned Henry, and began to eye the hillside with his periscope.

  ‘Right, and listen. I believe it was your brother that was appointed corporal of this unit, and seeing as he isn’t here, I am now appointing you with that position. So listen to me. Early tomorrow morning we are going to charge up that hill and really give them something to think about,’ said the Lieutenant, smiling faintly.

  Henry glared, then gasped, ‘You must be joking?’

  ‘No, I am not. I have my orders, and they are that you go over the top at five in the morning, sharp.’

  ‘Are you coming with us?’ asked Henry, and stared meaningfully at him.

  ‘No. My orders are as follows. Blue platoon will arrive at four in the morning. They will take their positions, and when you make your assault, they will back you up,’ replied the Lieutenant. He opened his tunic pocket and took out a piece of paper, then gave it to Henry, saying, ‘Right, now I must be off. The guard will be here with your grub soon.’

  Henry reached out, took the paper, and staring into his eyes growled, ‘Before you go, I must say this, seeing as you have planned to murder us all. I have been trained not to disobey an order. However, there are some good men here by my side, and I can assure you that their deaths and mine will always be on your conscience.’

  The Lieutenant placed his hand on his gun-holster and staring back, snapped, ‘I will not hesitate to use this on anyone who doesn’t obey me.’

  ‘As usual, the insane law of superiority over-rules common sense,’ retorted Henry, and then the heavens opened and it began to rain heavily.

  Shortly after the Lieutenant left, the shelling began again. Henry tried to cover his back and shoulders with an unused piece of canvas while using the periscope, but he was splattered with soil, he realised that the shelling was getting much too close. It seemed to follow a pattern. The explosions continued up the trench, and when one shell landed very near to Henry, he stared, then everything went silent, and then black.

  At the distribution base, Timothy had made the necessary arrangements for the seriously injured troops to be transferred onto the next ship back to England which would beach on a full tide at ten o’clock that night. George was still unconscious, but as he occasionally moaned, the medics knew that it was a good sign.

  Most of the higher ranks had approved of Timothy while he had been in charge. They had come to know that he wouldn’t take any nonsense, and he was straightforward. He always did his job to the best of his ability, but on the other hand, Timothy was aware that his present occupation was on the bottom rung of the ladder or, as the now rapidly failing in health Major, often moaned, the shit end of the stick.

  Timothy was relieved when the badly injured men, including George, were clumsily loaded onto a ship to return home. Little did he know that the shell which exploded next to Henry had rendered him unconscious. Luckily for Henry’s remaining men, another platoon had been sent to cover their assault up the hill, but like their predecessors, they came upon a dismaying sight.

  Only Horace could still walk out of the trench unaided. He seemed to be in a dream, however, and barely paid attention to Henry trembling and moaning as he was laid out on a stretcher. As they carried on further down the line towards the hospital area, Henry became worse, and in the end, his bearers, who were clueless about his condition, had to stop and tie him to the stretcher as he foamed at the mouth and trembled violently.

  They reached the first lot of medics who assessed wounds and limbs, deciding whether the injured had irreparable injuries or were close to death. If this was the case, the seriously injured were left until they died, as was the case if they couldn’t stop the blood loss. When the Sergeant saw Henry clasped to his stretcher, unconscious and still foaming at the mouth, he thought it was an epileptic fit and that Henry might come out of it, and ordered him to be put with the light casualties.

  The stretcher-bearers followed orders, and left Henry lying on a narrow board that kept him above the sludge, still trussed up. While he continued having convulsions, the medics ignored him and continued with their duties, which were obviously colossal. Nearly three hours had passed before anyone with any medical knowledge examined Henry, and by this time his convulsions had stopped and he was lying peacefully.

  Suddenly Henry opened his eyes, and tried to push off the soldier he saw crouching over him. ‘Don’t worry, mate, just relax. You are suffering from concussion. You lay quiet and I’ll get someone to bring you a drink.’

  Henry didn’t reply, just watched him stand up and set off. Staring up at the clouds in the sky, he mumbled, ‘I thought I was dead, but must not be yet.’

  When the orderly returned, he began to undo the restraining straps, allowing Henry to sit up. He held a mug of water to Henry’s lips, staring as he gulped it down. Henry took the mug from him and finished off the water, passing it back and asking for more. As he finished his second drink, the orderly informed him, ‘An officer came to see you a few hours ago, but he didn’t say much.’

  Henry smirked, thinking it
was their Lieutenant, with a guilty conscience. ‘Tall and thin was he?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, he’s billeted with that loopy Major; mind you, we don’t see much of him. Anyway, you look much better now, fancy some grub?’

  ‘Yes, mate, and pile the plate high, I haven’t had a decent meal for days… Hey, something’s just dawned on me, isn’t it quiet here?’ asked Henry, and laid back, surveying the horizon.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, mate. It’s only because they are exchanging casualties and bodies. The shelling will start again soon,’ the orderly replied, and slapping him on the shoulder, stood up. ‘Back in a tick, mate.’

  ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pud, mate,’ shouted Henry, and grinned.

  ‘More like gruel for you Yorkies,’ was the reply.

  Chapter 19

  When George had fully regained consciousness, he was halfway across the English Channel, feeling very weak and in great pain. He was still unaware that he had lost a leg; his main concern was that not having eaten and the rolling of the ship made him feel sick. He was checked by a medic, who smiled to see him conscious. Kneeling by his side, the medic said, ‘Now then, mate, so glad you are back with us.’

  ‘Where the fuck am I?’ moaned George. His head swam with pain, and the motion of the ship made him begin to wretch, then heave. He suddenly turned his head to one side and spewed out a mass of yellow liquid.

  ‘Get it up, mate, it’s better out than in,’ quipped the medic, standing up. He began to swill the deck with a bucket, aiming the vomit away from the other casualties and towards a sluice outlet. When he’d mopped up, he noticed that George was drowsing, so he continued his rounds and occasionally, if required, tended other casualties.

  George repeatedly blinked to focus, trying to watch him, but became concerned by the fact that he couldn’t feel his right foot. Trying to scratch it with his left, and not finding it, he shouted, ‘Oi mate, give us a minute if you will?’ when he saw the medic approaching.