Dark 17: We are the lads

The shell landed nearby into the muddy crater that was created by its predecessor, but the impact threw up the sodden ground and whatever that was in there. A mangled limb dropped on my tin hat and then down my spine to the muddy trenches. I kicked at it towards the muddy area where the others will step over it in the next few hours, and eventually, it gets buried. No 0ne care to asked whose limbs it was anyway. There are others more in the place we called home far from London.  Ironically, someone named it Park Lane for we have the privilege to be the nearest to the krauts at about five hundred feet away. We are so close that we could call out each name across the divide or sang songs that will irk either side. That was the place the officers called the trench at Somme.

The trench was my home for the last few months. Unlike the officers who had the comfort of a sheltered dugout with the tea served at late afternoon, I had to lean over my weary bones on the dugout there, sleeping while seated and my knees hunched close to my chest while bombs rained on us like the torrents of rain or be splattered by the mud. I had on my tin hat regardless of the time or weather; it may be my only protection from an exploding bomb or the sniper bullet that reached me across the no-man’s land. I prayed for the direct hit by the bomb; I have seen the aftermath, you are part of the mud and if they do find any part of you, they will probably tag it with the wrong names. I had done it many times when asked to identify the remains. I can’t remember all the blokes that could had been there; everyone ran for cover in the bombardment so I put on my stern expression and quote a name. That name will be conveyed to the next of kin and be blessed you ain’t register as missing in action to kill in action.

“Sarge, Frank got it in the face.” I heard the conscript call. Darn, Frank was one of my pals in this war, from the training school to this land they had named the Somme somewhere in France. I cared not for the place for where I was raised from, the sun was hardly seen with most of my family and friends spending time in the coal mines at Newcastle. Frank was my rival with me on the local girl, Wendy but she spurned us for a London blighter. That moment made me and Frank best of pals and then joined the Army to fight the krauts.

And he is now dead.

I have no time to mourn Frank’s death. He was my pal but my platoon was also mine. I have twelve lads with me and of the five were new from the conscripts. I had to learn their name fast from the mad Cockney to the unbelievable Cornish who still thinks the krauts are Romans that needed to stop in their invasion. The faster I remember their names was to know whom I will call on for sentry or worse the nightly patrols into the No-Man’s land. We normally do it with five men; three veterans and two freshies crawling into the crater designed land, looking for mines or grabbed a prisoner. Trust me, the second was tougher for no one wanted to on their chest hugging the land when the alert goes out. The first salvo will be the machine guns that sprayed in the general direction by the gunners and then the tossing of grenades. Most times, you may survive the guns and then lose a limb on the grenades. Of course, we fight back with our line returning fire towards the krauts. That made it worse for we could not retreat without being shot front or back. The whispered words were then; if you see the krauts, you crawled away. It’s a rule we all adhered to. Officers or conscripts.

Back to my twelve lads. They were the surviving numbers with me in the trench; I lost count of the dead and those sent back to Blighty. I did say I remember names but once they are dead or send home to Blighty, I tend to forget them. That way I won’t get remorse on the lads I sent to their death.

Darn, Army to be in then.

“Sarge, Frank…” I looked over at the South Londoner’s lad named Barney. He was with me for two months then. He was a British terrier in the fights; running with the back bent lowered when we climb over the top to do our endless charge across the barbed wires and craters that lined up the no-man’s land. Barney was one of those lucky ones; never a nick in the fight, and when the bulge call for the retreat, he was scampering just as fast to come back. I wondered if he ever fired a shot or as in his words, ‘I want to be near to use my bayonet to kill’.

“I hear you, Barney. Set him down and called the bearers. They will give him a decent burial at the rear.” I replied to the Londoner. I could tell the others were all staring at me on my inhuman approach. I chose to ignore them and turned my sight to the no-man’s land which was under heavy bombardment by the artilleries. It meant only one other thing.

We are going over the top again.

The strategy outlined here by the top brass based on the set rules of war tactics were to bomb them
krauts out and then send the infantry which was my platoon to snatch the victory. It would had worked in the briefing chamber where the officers were discussing the battle plan while sipping tea, we were the actual lads doing the fighting. I had no concern of it for I had then went over the top more than ten times, and retreated with my limbs intact. I did get shot twice but the wounds were good for the field dressing and will give me a rouse talks at the pubs when the war do end.

“Sarge, we are doing it again. Get the men up and ready.” I heard the Lieutenant Carlson. He could had been a fine officer if he had taken the front row in the fight but he was always three lines behind with the flankers blowing hard on his whistle to get us moving. I preferred the whistle was alike to the football game and we all stopped on the sound of it. We were not when the whistle blown.

“I wished he had fought hard like us instead of blowing that whistle on every call.” I looked at Barney and then my thoughts went back my lads. They had died on taking orders from these officers.

“Barney, you will do as you are told. No one …. Disobey an order in my platoon.” We climbed up the steps on the trench sides and then ran into the hail of bullets to step over the blown limbs or the occasional lad that did make it over the wires, and gave us the stepping board to jump. We will charge while hollering bloody murder or whatever that we think the krauts will take offence and leave. That was the foolish thought for the krauts will stayed behind their guns or their gunners will be serving us the bullets at us. For those of us who made it to the enemy trench, we probably holler hoarse then and we levelled the rifle with the bayonet at the krauts. We done it many times during training poking the long bag of sands but out here, our sand bags are real enemy with the same intention as ourselves.

I made it to the other trench and shoved my bayonet into the kraut’s face. It was ugly but that was only the beginning of another day of murderous rampage. I pulled out the bayonet and turned the rifle around to club the next kraut who was charging at me with the shovel in the right hand. My blow broke the charge and I followed through with the bayonet. I took a breather to catch my lads who had survived the charge and had joined me in the gruesome battle. They were battling the krauts as their life depended on it. I saw two of the conscripts went down in the hail of bullets but the mad Cornish had return fire on the shooter. It was chaos and we were winning.

Then the evitable happened.

The whistle blower was doing it again.

It was calling for the retreat.

I searched for the Lieutenant and saw the skunk was running back to the line. He was not at the
trench where we were fighting but he heard the withdrawal call and reinforced it with his own whistling.

“Sarge, how come we are retreating?” Barney asked.

“I don’t know. But we are going back. We follow orders.” With that call, I was soon retreating with
the lads and saw the Lieutenant struggling with his pants caught in the barbed wire in the No-Man’s land. I strode over and check on the officer.

“It’s the wire.” Lieutenant Carlson was frantic with his words. “Can you cut it?”

I reached for the wire cutter and was to do the task when the krauts artillery returned fire. I paused at my effort and took to run.

“Sergeant, you can’t …” I heard the officer despite the dropping bombs. I turned to look and then did the unforgivable act. I levelled my rifle and shot the Lieutenant in the face.

“Sorry, Sir. It was the lads who made me do it. You are not the officer they wanted. ” I took off on the run towards the trench and barely made it. I found myself leaning on the muddy wall with the lads. Barney turned to me and said.

“Sorry about the Lieutenant. I saw you tried to help but there was little you do then.” I nodded at Barney. It was then the Captain stepped up towards me.

“I think Lieutenant deserved a commendation. He was brave to be the last to return.” The Captain looked at me. “Do you agree?”

I nodded. After all, the Lieutenant was with the others now. I will be thanked by the lads when I go over the next round and the next. We do look out for each other. I just sent them an officer when I could. We need the officers to know what it feels to lose their own too. That’s why I remained the Non-commissioned officer despite the battles I was in.