4.26.2005
Dissonance
Okay, I'm addicted to this title Sue me. I couldn't think of anything better. But this is my rapidly-written-in-the-past-two-or-three-days longish short story. Comments are welcome. I used a lot of the same wording as Thomas Owens himself, because he put it in such a good way. I added a couple of paragraphs, some sentences here and there, but fairly often you can find stuff strait out of his journal. Some things are vague because he did not give me enough information. Oh well... Enough apologizing. Here 'tis.
Dissonance
Or the Tale of Thomas Owens
A Short story by Alyssa H.
I stepped cautiously over the watery ground. Had it been only earlier today that I was matching down the road, singing along happily with my companions? I can barely bring myself to look at my feet now. The bodies of buried men, covered only with a light layer of dirt, were beginning to be revealed once more, what with the rain and the people walking over them. I did not want to think about it.
We had arrived to relieve a detachment of the Liverpool Scottish, and we occupied a section of the trenches almost square-shaped in form. Three sides were facing a miniature salient of German troops, who had surrounded us more or less in the form of a horseshoe. Our post was evidently a key position in the line.
What an honor, I thought dryly.
It was dark. The sun had set, and the moon was not yet risen. My feet dragged in the mucky floor of the trench, making sickening sucking sounds whenever I moved them. Arms of the dead hung limply out of the walls as I passed. I tried my best not to touch them as I filed in.
The Scotties trailed past me, looking more dead than alive. Their white faces were startlingly bright, considering we had no light to speak of down here. They whispered greetings to us, thanks and encouragement. I patted one old fellow on the back when he said his prayers were with us. I put up a front of being more confident than I felt.
Then we settled down to the eternal vigil. The silence was that of the dead. Not a gun fired, not even a Verey light flared. The bloated trench rats squeaked now and again, but that only intensified the silence. It seemed as if the entire world were quiet, as if all the people were dead.
I shivered and went to see what I could help with. Such depressing thoughts would not help me withstand this trial. And I did not want to ponder them more. I did not want to think about what the Scots had been through down here…
James Thomas, a friend of mine, had a pack of cards set out on his knees. When I came in sight of him, he waved me over. Muttering a greeting, I sat with him. The silence was so complete, we barely dared to breathe.
Hours passed. I slept some, but not as much as I would have liked. Some time during the night the word was passed along that the patrols into No Man’s Land met against nothing, heard nothing, saw no one. One such man walked to me.
“Where’s the rum?” he whispered. His face was ghostly, and he was shaking a little.
“I don’t know,” was my reply. “Ask someone else.”
I rolled over, and heard his retreating, guppy footsteps.
I taught myself to not remain still, so that I could not brood. I used up my small journal writing letters to home, or to Lucy. I doubted they would ever be sent—I was terribly self-conscious about these sorts of things, and would rather my family know little of my torture—but it helped eat up time.
I had been drafted out here. Not that I minded it much. What with the parades, the speeches and such I thought this would be a grand and wonderful experience. I would come home a hero.
How little I knew. I would give anything now just to be home. Away from this mess.
For two days the silence continued, unnatural and nerve-racking. Soldiers who had been in the war years longer than I talked with bated breath of the horrors that were surely coming. I could not stand or sit still for long, and was often found pacing or shuffling cards. Anything to keep my mind off of this tension.
On the evening of the third day, as we shook our limbs and set guard and patrols moving, a whispered word went round that at “Stand to” this evening the Germans might attack in force.
We lined up along the trench. The rum was passed around, and I gulped down my ration. Everything in me literally ached for something to happen. Anything. Just not this silence. Not this unending, death-like silence…
But the sun went down and gloom came on. Not a sound had broken the solitude. I felt as if I should burst if I heard the wind rustling empty through No Man’s Land one more time.
As I walked back into the muddy depth of my prison, the soldiers around me whispered that surely it would be the next morning when the attack came. A whole twelve hours to wait. How could I manage that long?
The night was endless, almost as hard to bear as the silence. I could not sleep, not for the life of me. Apparently the others were having a hard time of it, too, for many were gathered about in huddled groups, playing cards or talking. I wanted to be with them, to hear voices familiar to me and forget our pledges, but I feared getting up. What should happen if I lost all hope of sleep by standing? Much as I hated laying here, cold and wet, I hated more the thought of staying up all night. At least here I could pretend there was hope of escaping.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I gave up on sleep and rose to join the men. Their whispers, though slightly comforting, were neigh torture to my ears. How I longed to hear confident, loud voices instead of these dry ones which scraped against my ears.
God help me, I couldn’t stand another minute!
But somehow I did. I must have slept at some point, for I recall opening my eyes to see the pale streaks of dawn reaching over the sky. A friend of mine, Barker was what we called him around here, was sleeping near me, and I shook him gently.
He had been watching the sky, and turned his head toward me wearily. His exhausted, dull eyes made my throat tighten.
“Barker, it’s almost time for Stand to.”
Nodding a little, he clambered up. I helped him as I could, getting up myself.
We lined up, and the rum was passed around again. “Watch out, they’ll be coming now,” the man who handed me mine whispered. I felt a chill run down my back.
A watery sun peered through the mist surrounding us, and still no enemy appeared. No lark rose to greet the dawn. Not a gun hurled its load of venom. The silence was complete.
I sat down with my section of eight men. It seemed like all of them were younger than me now, though I knew a few were more than ten years my senior. But the way they looked at me, as I sat, made my heart ache. They were terrified. I was, too. However, I tried my best to cheer them, smiling and commenting on the cool morning.
Then I looked at our rations. Bread, bacon, and cheese. It was small enough, and God knew if we should ever get another. I felt nearly all my courage drain out. If I didn’t have to be so brave, I would have cried.
But my men were here, and they were watching me. Putting on a bold front, I asked, “Shall we cook the whole issue?”
A nodding chorus signified assent.
We lit the “Tommy” cooker, and made a good job of the cooking. The food was filling. Somehow, with a full stomach the world was not such a harsh place.
Suddenly a gun barked and a heavy explosion shook the trenches. I dropped my food in surprise, followed by fear. The frantic rats squeaked, scuttling past us. Shuddering, I grabbed my gun and sprang to attention, my men following suite.
The barrage had started. I sighed happily, close to glad the suspense was finally over. At least now I would be able to do something with my pent up energy.
The enemy was stationed about forty yards short of our line of trench. It could be assumed that they would creep to us after first smashing the barbwire scattered about that area.
Eager for action, I placed five men on the fire-step to shoot. One man was given a large gun, and I set two men to fill its containers as needed. Then I turned toward the enemy, waiting with a sort of calm assurance that whatever was coming, it would be no worse than the silence. At least now we were all in the open.
They inched closer. Now thirty yards off, now twenty. Bullets were whizzing everywhere. It was a hell of din and slaughter. The trench was crumbling slowly to pieces.
One of my men—whom I had eaten with not half an hour before—sank slowly to his knees. Blood was seeping through his uniform, near his abdomen. He did not cry out, just sat down quietly. It was the silence again, and it terrified me. Even though there were screams and shouts and hailing bullets around us—well over enough to dull out any sound he would make—his silence struck me to the bone.
For a moment, his green eyes glanced at mine, then he slid a hand over the wound, bent his head, and waited for the death that was crawling for him.
I was trembling. My rifle was shaking violently. I could not see beyond that hopeless look in his eyes.
Swallowing hard to rid myself of my fear—a vain attempt—I gripped my gun and stood like a statue on the crumbling fire-step. Don’t panic. Men who panic die. Just don’t panic…
The raining of gun-shot lifted again, and my enemies moved closer. The man with the wound moaned, hardly more than a breath. I took a brief second to glance at him, glad to see he had fixed his field bandage. The blood still oozed through it, staining his hand pressed as if to hold the life inside him. His groans, coming during the briefest lulls in the shelling, were as unnerving to me as my other men.
We were terrified of the pain. We were terrified of the death.
But we were helpless. Like ants whose hill was being smashed apart by a child. We could do nothing to stop it.
Miserable and shivering, I crouched with my men at the bottom of the trench. Someone pressed the rum bottle in my hands. I was more than glad to take a long swing of it before handing it on. I was grateful to feel it numbing me, making the horrors seem more bearable. A trickle of courage filled me, giving me a lurching contempt for danger. Rum did that to you. It made you die more or less decently; neither whining nor squealing, which is as it should be.
A moment later the machine gun to my right went up in the air. Its team of men went with it. I felt another rush of gratitude for the rum rush through me. It had been a direct hit. The shells were dropping practically on the very brink of my trench.
The worst had come.
I got face down in the slime, my men doing likewise. Boot and finger and knee were clutching and scraping for the smallest inch of cover. I hid my eyes, as I once did from childish terrors. The rum was no help now. Nothing could escape this.
My will had turned to water. I found myself whimpering and cursing at intervals, my men companions in my misery. It was so tense. The shooting, the guns, the death. If I moved I would be shot. I was going to die.
I am going to die.
I could almost literally see Death grinning at me. Prayers I had not spoken in years were suddenly tumbling forth from my lips. Men everywhere were being killed. Yet not a shell hit within a dozen yards of the entrenchment I crouched in. Still leaping forward, the barrage blundered over and beyond us.
I was too stunned to move. Vaguely I realized the dying man had breathed his last in the midst of the terror. His groans no longer coaxed my terror into its flame. Half dazed, I sent up a prayer of thanks.
I glanced at my watch a moment. At nine o’clock in the morning the attack started. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, at exactly eleven-thirty. It felt more like a year.
Summoning my strength, I got to my feet as the deadly stillness came on again. The silence. It was hard to concentrate with it pounding in my ears. But I knew there was another attack coming. The man would follow the machine.
I ran among the men, kicking them to their senses and trying to encourage them. There was only so much time. We had to hurry.
Looking over the top of the crumbled trench as I woke the others, I saw the long grey lines sweeping along four hundred yards away. I called to the men to prepare, crouching down myself at the fire-step. The lines marched slowly, shoulder to shoulder, heavily weighted with picks, ammunition, and rations.
We began to shoot at them. It was madness. I shot as quickly as I could, as if I could fill the silence that still echoed it me with machine bullets. My men were doing the same. It should have been a horrid slaughter at the distance: the Germans seemed to huddle together like sheep as they lurched over No Man’s Land.
But there were thousands of them, and fear made our aim hurried and bad. We were firing in abandonment rather than by design. Terror made us continue to waste our ammunition.
Still the grey hordes advanced.
I was going to die. They had missed me the first time, but there was no escaping the second. I hardly realized I was shaking so hard I could barely load my gun.
A booming voice yelled at us—it was Sergeant Winnford. He was almost drowned out by the shooting, and God knew how his message got through my thick and terrified scull. “Retreat—back to support line—” His eye caught mine for a brief moment. “You, corporal! See them all out!”
He made for a gap in the trench. I struggled up, urging the men to follow while I myself made sure they were all getting out. A quick glance at Winnford revealed him to be almost to the opening—when suddenly something hit his head, creating a hole through which I could see the inside seeping out. He fell without a sound.
Stupefied, the others crept through and got clear, racing across the open land. The enemy was in full cry behind them.
I looked around to make certain all the survivors were out, and saw Barker. He was crawling out, struggling to stand. I howled at him to hurry, all ready moving away from the advancing enemies myself.
He was dead beat. I could see it when he looked at me.
“You, corporal, see them all out.” Those were Sergeant Winnford’s last words.
I could not leave him.
Racing to his side, I shouted, “Slip off you pack!” I was all ready slipping off mine. He obeyed, but he was ashen and panting. My gut told me he wasn’t going to make it.
Something stung my arm, just above the elbow. Startled, I looked down. Red liquid tricked from the tips of my fingers onto the ground.
Panic started to grapple for what little sense I had left. I was running. “Barker, Barker!” I screamed. “Hurry up, chum, for God’s sake!”
I might have saved my breath.
As I turned my head to him, he made a supreme effort to hasten. For a half second I was grateful—then I saw the bullet hit the back of his tin helmet and spurt out the front. He curled over in a heap. He was past aid.
I ran a dozen steps further, trying to erase my memories. Just run. Just run. Don’t panic. Something hit my other elbow, searing hot and smashing through it. My feet gave way. I spun to the ground, and found myself once more lying in slime. I thought my arm had gone.
Dully I thought that if this was death, I was numb, careless and content. This was a good way to die. I did not feel anything. Just hot…
The blackness came then, and I felt myself relaxing as the feet of my enemies ran past me. Terror was gone, and in its place was death.
***
Blurry light. It swam around me in circles, teasing me, taunting me. It danced behind my eyelids and dared me to open them. At last I could stand it no more, and obeyed.
My arm was still there, attached and lying beside me in a pool of blood. The world spun a moment when I saw it. My own blood.
A chill ran through me. Why hadn’t I died? Why wasn’t I still asleep? They had all died. Barker, Winnfold…
You have to stop the bleeding. You have to do something.
Laboriously, I pulled out my field dressing with my less injured arm. I could not bring myself to look at the blood strait on, so had to apply the bandage without looking. It was a messy business, and I was exhausted before the end.
I took a moment to rest, then pulled myself to my knees, and from there to my feet in a half-blind endeavor to get somewhere, to someone… I did not know why, or whom, or where. Some inner sense just told me I had to move.
I staggered up and saw with a sinking heart the second wave of the advancing Germans. Would they shoot me again as they passed? I was not far from them, not more than ten feet from the first line.
An officer, with revolver in hand, waved me through the ranks. They parted to make a road for me. I moved forward, certain that if I did not they would shoot me. On the second step my leg again gave way, and I fell into the barbwire. It pierced my hands and face.
Struggling up, I tried again. And again. It was no use. I could not hold onto my little strength long enough to get more than two steps before falling again. Vaguely I realized I was weeping. I was helpless. I could not stop falling, I could not stop this torture. The blood on my face ran and mixed with my salty tears.
The pain was horrible. Every fall was worse. Each time I was more and more tempted to just stay there and let them shoot me. But that inner sense pushed me on. I hated it. I hated everything. I just wanted the pain to stop.
I cannot say how far I walked. It was a nightmare. I passed a first-aid post in an old trench, but they waved me off despairingly. They had too many to see to. Stretcher bearers passed me. Between them they carried a pole, with a blanket slung to it. Inside was an agonized bundle of broken humans, blood dripping from the pendulous blanket. I might have been sick, but that I was too far gone myself to feel anything now, even the pain.
Eventually I could go no further. Too exhausted to even think about what I was doing, I simply collapsed into another portion of trench. The mud scraped against my back, but I did not care. Leaning on the wall I closed my eyes and wished this was over.
“Armes kind,” a gentle, pitying whisper came close to my ear.
I looked up and found a sad-eyed, black-bearded man watching me. His dark brown eyes were like looking into a history of sorrows. He was old enough to have grandchildren. Gradually my mind translated what he had said into English: little child. I felt as if my heart would melt. Someone pitied me. Someone cared.
I wanted to sob.
The man moved closer to me, and with practiced hands stripped off my tunic, leather jerkin and cardigan. He took his own field dressing, using it to patch up the mess of my arm. His compassion stirred me, and I tried not to wince or cry when the pain shot through my dullness.
Here I was, a prisoner, receiving treatment from a man whose countrymen I had blazed at in hate but a while ago, and from whom I had suffered the shot in my elbow. Yet he was treating me like a son. He was as gentle to me as if I had been a dearly loved pet.
Truly the quality of mercy is not strained. I knew little of his tongue, and he none of mine, but he gave me a drink of warm coffee from a flask and cared for me.
If ever I had felt hate for the Germans, I was cured of it now. I had had my job to do, and he his. The responsibility was not ours and our fate was none of our choosing. I may die today, perhaps he tomorrow. But for a moment, just a moment, there was peace between us. And I was grateful for it.
But I could not stay here.
The English barrage had now started, tearing and rip-snorting along all the roads and communications. It was intended to hold up the reinforcements for the German attack, I suppose. For me there was the sickening necessity of walking through the menace of our own barrage; to risk death from my own men’s shells to get to some place of refuge.
Three others joined me. They also had staggered from the shambles of No Man’s Land. We supported each other with words and actions, bleeding together from our various woods along that pitiless road to the rear.
How we escaped the shelling, I know not. As we walked, a German transport wagon lumbered past us, the driver whipping the horses to a mad gallop. I watched him disappear into the distance, and for a moment wished I were with him. At least then I would not be walking.
Soon the road became greasy with blood, both that of animal and man. I passed several dead or dying horses along the road, among the splintered ruins of shafts and wheels. My heart aches for them in memory, but at the time I felt nothing.
Yet even as the horses fell, they were dragged to the side of the road. The Germans would whip out their knives and cut long strips of flesh from the steaming flanks. Heaps of intestines lay in the ditches. The smell was horrible.
At last a German unter-officer dashed out from behind a ruined house and took charge of our little, wandering band. He took us further down the road till we came to a large church, with the Red Cross flag flying from the tower. While my heart leapt with hope that soon I would be out of pain, it also sank. What should I do if they found it necessary to take my arm all together?
The German placed us at the back of a long line of injured men that stretched out of the church. He then left us. It seemed like a long wait, with the sounds of battle not far off. The pain was still there, throbbing gently as if asking to be thought about. I tried my best not to worry about it.
Gradually I got inside the church. May I never again see such a sight!
All along the nave improvised stretchers lay side by side and reached to the step leading to the choir and chancel. Up there a dozen surgeons in ghastly stained white overalls preformed operation after operation, amputation after amputation. The smell of chloroform and ether pervaded everything. The horrible rasping sound of the red-stained silver saws grated on my ears.
Attendants carried limbs away in tall baskets. Men died beside me before aid could get to them. Each had inexorably to wait his turn with the surgeons. Their white and drawn faces sweated as they toiled silently. No time for consultations. It was a doctor’s nightmare.
I wanted to scream. It was chaos. Slow, quiet, torturous chaos.
***
I stumbled out of the church and went to the nearby prisoners’ cage. I still had my arm. I was still whole. But I could not forget what I had seen.
A German sat me down to examine my papers, and letters, questioning me all the while. I could not think, much less answer in ways that made sense. However, he seemed satisfied by the end. He took my things and sent me away.
My dazed mind registered that it was night when I was taken out. That meant it had been twenty-four hours since I had “stood to” on the fire-step and awaited the coming attack. Now it was all over. But I could not find energy to react to these thoughts. I was so exhausted.
Swaying, I made my way among the ranks of draft prisoners. We were told to march in columns of four to the station where we would be taken away. The man next to me had a hurt leg, and I offered him my shoulder. We supported each other as we marched through a dream. I remember being placed in a truck.
It was pitch black. The truck bounced on even the slightest bump, and soon I could not tell up from down. Hail and rain poured on the roof, seeping in at times to wet us all. I was alternately freezing and sweating. The world was always swaying. I heard the man next to me, the one with the leg injury, muttering. He was speaking nonsense, or at least that was what I heard. It was hard to focus.
Sometime during the night he stopped muttering. I didn’t hear him again.
I tossed and turned. I could not stay still. I could not escape nightmares. I could not stay awake.
So it was that I came to Germany. I later leaned that the Army Lists posted me as “missing”.
Lance-Corporal Thomas A. Owen. Attested November 1916; called up February 1917. Service in France and Belgium, chiefly on sections of the Ypres Salient, 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, 1st Division. Wounded and taken prisoner near Festubert, April 18th, 1918. Thence to Schleswig. In hospital for 6 months, then discharged for labour at Munster Prisoner of War Camp, till Armistice. Repatriated December 2nd, 1918.
Dissonance
Or the Tale of Thomas Owens
A Short story by Alyssa H.
I stepped cautiously over the watery ground. Had it been only earlier today that I was matching down the road, singing along happily with my companions? I can barely bring myself to look at my feet now. The bodies of buried men, covered only with a light layer of dirt, were beginning to be revealed once more, what with the rain and the people walking over them. I did not want to think about it.
We had arrived to relieve a detachment of the Liverpool Scottish, and we occupied a section of the trenches almost square-shaped in form. Three sides were facing a miniature salient of German troops, who had surrounded us more or less in the form of a horseshoe. Our post was evidently a key position in the line.
What an honor, I thought dryly.
It was dark. The sun had set, and the moon was not yet risen. My feet dragged in the mucky floor of the trench, making sickening sucking sounds whenever I moved them. Arms of the dead hung limply out of the walls as I passed. I tried my best not to touch them as I filed in.
The Scotties trailed past me, looking more dead than alive. Their white faces were startlingly bright, considering we had no light to speak of down here. They whispered greetings to us, thanks and encouragement. I patted one old fellow on the back when he said his prayers were with us. I put up a front of being more confident than I felt.
Then we settled down to the eternal vigil. The silence was that of the dead. Not a gun fired, not even a Verey light flared. The bloated trench rats squeaked now and again, but that only intensified the silence. It seemed as if the entire world were quiet, as if all the people were dead.
I shivered and went to see what I could help with. Such depressing thoughts would not help me withstand this trial. And I did not want to ponder them more. I did not want to think about what the Scots had been through down here…
James Thomas, a friend of mine, had a pack of cards set out on his knees. When I came in sight of him, he waved me over. Muttering a greeting, I sat with him. The silence was so complete, we barely dared to breathe.
Hours passed. I slept some, but not as much as I would have liked. Some time during the night the word was passed along that the patrols into No Man’s Land met against nothing, heard nothing, saw no one. One such man walked to me.
“Where’s the rum?” he whispered. His face was ghostly, and he was shaking a little.
“I don’t know,” was my reply. “Ask someone else.”
I rolled over, and heard his retreating, guppy footsteps.
I taught myself to not remain still, so that I could not brood. I used up my small journal writing letters to home, or to Lucy. I doubted they would ever be sent—I was terribly self-conscious about these sorts of things, and would rather my family know little of my torture—but it helped eat up time.
I had been drafted out here. Not that I minded it much. What with the parades, the speeches and such I thought this would be a grand and wonderful experience. I would come home a hero.
How little I knew. I would give anything now just to be home. Away from this mess.
For two days the silence continued, unnatural and nerve-racking. Soldiers who had been in the war years longer than I talked with bated breath of the horrors that were surely coming. I could not stand or sit still for long, and was often found pacing or shuffling cards. Anything to keep my mind off of this tension.
On the evening of the third day, as we shook our limbs and set guard and patrols moving, a whispered word went round that at “Stand to” this evening the Germans might attack in force.
We lined up along the trench. The rum was passed around, and I gulped down my ration. Everything in me literally ached for something to happen. Anything. Just not this silence. Not this unending, death-like silence…
But the sun went down and gloom came on. Not a sound had broken the solitude. I felt as if I should burst if I heard the wind rustling empty through No Man’s Land one more time.
As I walked back into the muddy depth of my prison, the soldiers around me whispered that surely it would be the next morning when the attack came. A whole twelve hours to wait. How could I manage that long?
The night was endless, almost as hard to bear as the silence. I could not sleep, not for the life of me. Apparently the others were having a hard time of it, too, for many were gathered about in huddled groups, playing cards or talking. I wanted to be with them, to hear voices familiar to me and forget our pledges, but I feared getting up. What should happen if I lost all hope of sleep by standing? Much as I hated laying here, cold and wet, I hated more the thought of staying up all night. At least here I could pretend there was hope of escaping.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I gave up on sleep and rose to join the men. Their whispers, though slightly comforting, were neigh torture to my ears. How I longed to hear confident, loud voices instead of these dry ones which scraped against my ears.
God help me, I couldn’t stand another minute!
But somehow I did. I must have slept at some point, for I recall opening my eyes to see the pale streaks of dawn reaching over the sky. A friend of mine, Barker was what we called him around here, was sleeping near me, and I shook him gently.
He had been watching the sky, and turned his head toward me wearily. His exhausted, dull eyes made my throat tighten.
“Barker, it’s almost time for Stand to.”
Nodding a little, he clambered up. I helped him as I could, getting up myself.
We lined up, and the rum was passed around again. “Watch out, they’ll be coming now,” the man who handed me mine whispered. I felt a chill run down my back.
A watery sun peered through the mist surrounding us, and still no enemy appeared. No lark rose to greet the dawn. Not a gun hurled its load of venom. The silence was complete.
I sat down with my section of eight men. It seemed like all of them were younger than me now, though I knew a few were more than ten years my senior. But the way they looked at me, as I sat, made my heart ache. They were terrified. I was, too. However, I tried my best to cheer them, smiling and commenting on the cool morning.
Then I looked at our rations. Bread, bacon, and cheese. It was small enough, and God knew if we should ever get another. I felt nearly all my courage drain out. If I didn’t have to be so brave, I would have cried.
But my men were here, and they were watching me. Putting on a bold front, I asked, “Shall we cook the whole issue?”
A nodding chorus signified assent.
We lit the “Tommy” cooker, and made a good job of the cooking. The food was filling. Somehow, with a full stomach the world was not such a harsh place.
Suddenly a gun barked and a heavy explosion shook the trenches. I dropped my food in surprise, followed by fear. The frantic rats squeaked, scuttling past us. Shuddering, I grabbed my gun and sprang to attention, my men following suite.
The barrage had started. I sighed happily, close to glad the suspense was finally over. At least now I would be able to do something with my pent up energy.
The enemy was stationed about forty yards short of our line of trench. It could be assumed that they would creep to us after first smashing the barbwire scattered about that area.
Eager for action, I placed five men on the fire-step to shoot. One man was given a large gun, and I set two men to fill its containers as needed. Then I turned toward the enemy, waiting with a sort of calm assurance that whatever was coming, it would be no worse than the silence. At least now we were all in the open.
They inched closer. Now thirty yards off, now twenty. Bullets were whizzing everywhere. It was a hell of din and slaughter. The trench was crumbling slowly to pieces.
One of my men—whom I had eaten with not half an hour before—sank slowly to his knees. Blood was seeping through his uniform, near his abdomen. He did not cry out, just sat down quietly. It was the silence again, and it terrified me. Even though there were screams and shouts and hailing bullets around us—well over enough to dull out any sound he would make—his silence struck me to the bone.
For a moment, his green eyes glanced at mine, then he slid a hand over the wound, bent his head, and waited for the death that was crawling for him.
I was trembling. My rifle was shaking violently. I could not see beyond that hopeless look in his eyes.
Swallowing hard to rid myself of my fear—a vain attempt—I gripped my gun and stood like a statue on the crumbling fire-step. Don’t panic. Men who panic die. Just don’t panic…
The raining of gun-shot lifted again, and my enemies moved closer. The man with the wound moaned, hardly more than a breath. I took a brief second to glance at him, glad to see he had fixed his field bandage. The blood still oozed through it, staining his hand pressed as if to hold the life inside him. His groans, coming during the briefest lulls in the shelling, were as unnerving to me as my other men.
We were terrified of the pain. We were terrified of the death.
But we were helpless. Like ants whose hill was being smashed apart by a child. We could do nothing to stop it.
Miserable and shivering, I crouched with my men at the bottom of the trench. Someone pressed the rum bottle in my hands. I was more than glad to take a long swing of it before handing it on. I was grateful to feel it numbing me, making the horrors seem more bearable. A trickle of courage filled me, giving me a lurching contempt for danger. Rum did that to you. It made you die more or less decently; neither whining nor squealing, which is as it should be.
A moment later the machine gun to my right went up in the air. Its team of men went with it. I felt another rush of gratitude for the rum rush through me. It had been a direct hit. The shells were dropping practically on the very brink of my trench.
The worst had come.
I got face down in the slime, my men doing likewise. Boot and finger and knee were clutching and scraping for the smallest inch of cover. I hid my eyes, as I once did from childish terrors. The rum was no help now. Nothing could escape this.
My will had turned to water. I found myself whimpering and cursing at intervals, my men companions in my misery. It was so tense. The shooting, the guns, the death. If I moved I would be shot. I was going to die.
I am going to die.
I could almost literally see Death grinning at me. Prayers I had not spoken in years were suddenly tumbling forth from my lips. Men everywhere were being killed. Yet not a shell hit within a dozen yards of the entrenchment I crouched in. Still leaping forward, the barrage blundered over and beyond us.
I was too stunned to move. Vaguely I realized the dying man had breathed his last in the midst of the terror. His groans no longer coaxed my terror into its flame. Half dazed, I sent up a prayer of thanks.
I glanced at my watch a moment. At nine o’clock in the morning the attack started. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, at exactly eleven-thirty. It felt more like a year.
Summoning my strength, I got to my feet as the deadly stillness came on again. The silence. It was hard to concentrate with it pounding in my ears. But I knew there was another attack coming. The man would follow the machine.
I ran among the men, kicking them to their senses and trying to encourage them. There was only so much time. We had to hurry.
Looking over the top of the crumbled trench as I woke the others, I saw the long grey lines sweeping along four hundred yards away. I called to the men to prepare, crouching down myself at the fire-step. The lines marched slowly, shoulder to shoulder, heavily weighted with picks, ammunition, and rations.
We began to shoot at them. It was madness. I shot as quickly as I could, as if I could fill the silence that still echoed it me with machine bullets. My men were doing the same. It should have been a horrid slaughter at the distance: the Germans seemed to huddle together like sheep as they lurched over No Man’s Land.
But there were thousands of them, and fear made our aim hurried and bad. We were firing in abandonment rather than by design. Terror made us continue to waste our ammunition.
Still the grey hordes advanced.
I was going to die. They had missed me the first time, but there was no escaping the second. I hardly realized I was shaking so hard I could barely load my gun.
A booming voice yelled at us—it was Sergeant Winnford. He was almost drowned out by the shooting, and God knew how his message got through my thick and terrified scull. “Retreat—back to support line—” His eye caught mine for a brief moment. “You, corporal! See them all out!”
He made for a gap in the trench. I struggled up, urging the men to follow while I myself made sure they were all getting out. A quick glance at Winnford revealed him to be almost to the opening—when suddenly something hit his head, creating a hole through which I could see the inside seeping out. He fell without a sound.
Stupefied, the others crept through and got clear, racing across the open land. The enemy was in full cry behind them.
I looked around to make certain all the survivors were out, and saw Barker. He was crawling out, struggling to stand. I howled at him to hurry, all ready moving away from the advancing enemies myself.
He was dead beat. I could see it when he looked at me.
“You, corporal, see them all out.” Those were Sergeant Winnford’s last words.
I could not leave him.
Racing to his side, I shouted, “Slip off you pack!” I was all ready slipping off mine. He obeyed, but he was ashen and panting. My gut told me he wasn’t going to make it.
Something stung my arm, just above the elbow. Startled, I looked down. Red liquid tricked from the tips of my fingers onto the ground.
Panic started to grapple for what little sense I had left. I was running. “Barker, Barker!” I screamed. “Hurry up, chum, for God’s sake!”
I might have saved my breath.
As I turned my head to him, he made a supreme effort to hasten. For a half second I was grateful—then I saw the bullet hit the back of his tin helmet and spurt out the front. He curled over in a heap. He was past aid.
I ran a dozen steps further, trying to erase my memories. Just run. Just run. Don’t panic. Something hit my other elbow, searing hot and smashing through it. My feet gave way. I spun to the ground, and found myself once more lying in slime. I thought my arm had gone.
Dully I thought that if this was death, I was numb, careless and content. This was a good way to die. I did not feel anything. Just hot…
The blackness came then, and I felt myself relaxing as the feet of my enemies ran past me. Terror was gone, and in its place was death.
***
Blurry light. It swam around me in circles, teasing me, taunting me. It danced behind my eyelids and dared me to open them. At last I could stand it no more, and obeyed.
My arm was still there, attached and lying beside me in a pool of blood. The world spun a moment when I saw it. My own blood.
A chill ran through me. Why hadn’t I died? Why wasn’t I still asleep? They had all died. Barker, Winnfold…
You have to stop the bleeding. You have to do something.
Laboriously, I pulled out my field dressing with my less injured arm. I could not bring myself to look at the blood strait on, so had to apply the bandage without looking. It was a messy business, and I was exhausted before the end.
I took a moment to rest, then pulled myself to my knees, and from there to my feet in a half-blind endeavor to get somewhere, to someone… I did not know why, or whom, or where. Some inner sense just told me I had to move.
I staggered up and saw with a sinking heart the second wave of the advancing Germans. Would they shoot me again as they passed? I was not far from them, not more than ten feet from the first line.
An officer, with revolver in hand, waved me through the ranks. They parted to make a road for me. I moved forward, certain that if I did not they would shoot me. On the second step my leg again gave way, and I fell into the barbwire. It pierced my hands and face.
Struggling up, I tried again. And again. It was no use. I could not hold onto my little strength long enough to get more than two steps before falling again. Vaguely I realized I was weeping. I was helpless. I could not stop falling, I could not stop this torture. The blood on my face ran and mixed with my salty tears.
The pain was horrible. Every fall was worse. Each time I was more and more tempted to just stay there and let them shoot me. But that inner sense pushed me on. I hated it. I hated everything. I just wanted the pain to stop.
I cannot say how far I walked. It was a nightmare. I passed a first-aid post in an old trench, but they waved me off despairingly. They had too many to see to. Stretcher bearers passed me. Between them they carried a pole, with a blanket slung to it. Inside was an agonized bundle of broken humans, blood dripping from the pendulous blanket. I might have been sick, but that I was too far gone myself to feel anything now, even the pain.
Eventually I could go no further. Too exhausted to even think about what I was doing, I simply collapsed into another portion of trench. The mud scraped against my back, but I did not care. Leaning on the wall I closed my eyes and wished this was over.
“Armes kind,” a gentle, pitying whisper came close to my ear.
I looked up and found a sad-eyed, black-bearded man watching me. His dark brown eyes were like looking into a history of sorrows. He was old enough to have grandchildren. Gradually my mind translated what he had said into English: little child. I felt as if my heart would melt. Someone pitied me. Someone cared.
I wanted to sob.
The man moved closer to me, and with practiced hands stripped off my tunic, leather jerkin and cardigan. He took his own field dressing, using it to patch up the mess of my arm. His compassion stirred me, and I tried not to wince or cry when the pain shot through my dullness.
Here I was, a prisoner, receiving treatment from a man whose countrymen I had blazed at in hate but a while ago, and from whom I had suffered the shot in my elbow. Yet he was treating me like a son. He was as gentle to me as if I had been a dearly loved pet.
Truly the quality of mercy is not strained. I knew little of his tongue, and he none of mine, but he gave me a drink of warm coffee from a flask and cared for me.
If ever I had felt hate for the Germans, I was cured of it now. I had had my job to do, and he his. The responsibility was not ours and our fate was none of our choosing. I may die today, perhaps he tomorrow. But for a moment, just a moment, there was peace between us. And I was grateful for it.
But I could not stay here.
The English barrage had now started, tearing and rip-snorting along all the roads and communications. It was intended to hold up the reinforcements for the German attack, I suppose. For me there was the sickening necessity of walking through the menace of our own barrage; to risk death from my own men’s shells to get to some place of refuge.
Three others joined me. They also had staggered from the shambles of No Man’s Land. We supported each other with words and actions, bleeding together from our various woods along that pitiless road to the rear.
How we escaped the shelling, I know not. As we walked, a German transport wagon lumbered past us, the driver whipping the horses to a mad gallop. I watched him disappear into the distance, and for a moment wished I were with him. At least then I would not be walking.
Soon the road became greasy with blood, both that of animal and man. I passed several dead or dying horses along the road, among the splintered ruins of shafts and wheels. My heart aches for them in memory, but at the time I felt nothing.
Yet even as the horses fell, they were dragged to the side of the road. The Germans would whip out their knives and cut long strips of flesh from the steaming flanks. Heaps of intestines lay in the ditches. The smell was horrible.
At last a German unter-officer dashed out from behind a ruined house and took charge of our little, wandering band. He took us further down the road till we came to a large church, with the Red Cross flag flying from the tower. While my heart leapt with hope that soon I would be out of pain, it also sank. What should I do if they found it necessary to take my arm all together?
The German placed us at the back of a long line of injured men that stretched out of the church. He then left us. It seemed like a long wait, with the sounds of battle not far off. The pain was still there, throbbing gently as if asking to be thought about. I tried my best not to worry about it.
Gradually I got inside the church. May I never again see such a sight!
All along the nave improvised stretchers lay side by side and reached to the step leading to the choir and chancel. Up there a dozen surgeons in ghastly stained white overalls preformed operation after operation, amputation after amputation. The smell of chloroform and ether pervaded everything. The horrible rasping sound of the red-stained silver saws grated on my ears.
Attendants carried limbs away in tall baskets. Men died beside me before aid could get to them. Each had inexorably to wait his turn with the surgeons. Their white and drawn faces sweated as they toiled silently. No time for consultations. It was a doctor’s nightmare.
I wanted to scream. It was chaos. Slow, quiet, torturous chaos.
***
I stumbled out of the church and went to the nearby prisoners’ cage. I still had my arm. I was still whole. But I could not forget what I had seen.
A German sat me down to examine my papers, and letters, questioning me all the while. I could not think, much less answer in ways that made sense. However, he seemed satisfied by the end. He took my things and sent me away.
My dazed mind registered that it was night when I was taken out. That meant it had been twenty-four hours since I had “stood to” on the fire-step and awaited the coming attack. Now it was all over. But I could not find energy to react to these thoughts. I was so exhausted.
Swaying, I made my way among the ranks of draft prisoners. We were told to march in columns of four to the station where we would be taken away. The man next to me had a hurt leg, and I offered him my shoulder. We supported each other as we marched through a dream. I remember being placed in a truck.
It was pitch black. The truck bounced on even the slightest bump, and soon I could not tell up from down. Hail and rain poured on the roof, seeping in at times to wet us all. I was alternately freezing and sweating. The world was always swaying. I heard the man next to me, the one with the leg injury, muttering. He was speaking nonsense, or at least that was what I heard. It was hard to focus.
Sometime during the night he stopped muttering. I didn’t hear him again.
I tossed and turned. I could not stay still. I could not escape nightmares. I could not stay awake.
So it was that I came to Germany. I later leaned that the Army Lists posted me as “missing”.
Lance-Corporal Thomas A. Owen. Attested November 1916; called up February 1917. Service in France and Belgium, chiefly on sections of the Ypres Salient, 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, 1st Division. Wounded and taken prisoner near Festubert, April 18th, 1918. Thence to Schleswig. In hospital for 6 months, then discharged for labour at Munster Prisoner of War Camp, till Armistice. Repatriated December 2nd, 1918.
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