the enemy trench line. Years of war have increased the accuracy of such weapons so luckily most shells land on or near their target. Jones and I took turns watching via a long makeshift periscope; barely more than two shards of mirror mounted on a pole. Explosion after explosion sent the earth raining into the air like fountains. Thompson sat low his hands jammed over his ears to block the thunderous sound. Such a bombardment is supposed to destroy their trenches and make them easy to take. But we all know from whispered experience that they, like us, dig deep, and retreat into tunnels and dugouts when a barrage starts. So we knew they would be there to greet us when we went over the top. As they always are.
The time ticked inevitably round and at seven-fifteen silence descended. I looked at my wristwatch; right on time. This war is run on clockwork. Everyone synchronising watches in both armies. We know their timings and they know ours. Any hint of surprise has long been ground into the unquestioning dirt. How can you surprise an enemy that can see your every move from the heights of a monumental wall?
For a minute or two there was no sound but the muffled breathing of nervous soldiers in masks and the muffled shouted orders to check weapons and clips. One has to cock one's head to the side to interpret what the Sergeants and Corporals shout beneath their masks.
Then a slight rumbling from the east; our left flank. I looked again with the periscope and could see the ungainly elongated shapes of the crawler tanks in the distance. Only three of them to support a thousand men. The tanks have an inelegant air about them. They creep like snails over the uneven ground, long wheelbases struggling slowly up and down craters. Tracks grinding and slipping in the mud. Their armour-plating is so thick it weighs them down. I cannot help but think that they are an ineffective weapon in this war, so often stuck in the mud or turrets blown sky high by a shell; like a broken jack in the box revealing itself for the very last time. I used to think it might be good to be an infantryman who can shelter behind a tank during an advance, but now I know to steer clear of them for they are nothing but a creeping target for shells or rocket-propelled grenades. It must be hellish to be stuck inside such a claustrophobic metal box, knowing you are in their sights.
Perhaps if there were more of them; hundreds, they might be able to make a breakthrough, but they are so easily destroyed that production back home cannot keep up. Steel in short supply. This goes for the Germans as well as us.
At seven thirty, right on the dot, a green flare was fired, streaking in an arc above the trench line, each set of eyes watching it's curving smoke trail with fear. The Sergeants sounded their football rattles, twisting their arms furiously, the clacking sound cutting and twisting down the trenches. The signals to go. They used to blow whistles back in the day, but you can't do that with a mask on.
With no words or ceremony we scrambled up the ladders. Thompson in front of me, Jones in front of him and Hendricks behind. Thompson struggled on the ladder, as I knew he would, his rifle and kit getting caught and I shoved him up as best I could as the cacophony of combat once again filled the air. Heavy machine guns rattled hard, their sound echoing the Sergeant's rattles but with a louder more definite edge that clips its way sharply into your ears. Maxims shook and spat their bullets at us, both from various slits in their Wall and from the trench ahead. Ominous tracer bullets zipped like manic fireflies in the mist above our heads, zooming past close from all directions. I could hear the thump and spat of bullets driving into the mud and sandbags around me as I scrambled over the lip.
Once out of the trench we ran as best we could, Enfields held at our waists, bayonets waving as we hobble in our big boots through the uneven mud. It is hard to run with so much kit and gas masks on. The mask is such that when you look forward, as you must when attempting to run, you cannot see your feet, so invariably men constantly trip and fall. Men falling and stumbling all around. Like top heavy skittles tumbling. You cannot tell if they have merely tripped over or if they have been hit. You simply try your best to keep running. I kept running.
When I could finally see their trench about ten yards away, I bent on one knee and fired a shot at the first Hun helmet I saw pop over the lip. The training and drills kicked in and I just did it by instinct. I saw the bullet pierce the metal with a sputter of blood and the grey coated soldier fell.
It is a hideous thing Esme. I have taken a life. For the first time in this war I know for sure that I have caused the death of another man. At the time I could not take it in, too much was happening around me, it was almost surreal. But since, when I think of it as I cannot help but do, I cannot bring myself to feel pride for my country or any satisfaction, I simply feel guilt and a certain numbness. I killed a man. It is a shameful, sinful thing. Plain and simple.
As soon as I had done this horrendous thing a volley of gas grenades fired from one of their rear trenches began to pop all around us. Puffs of white mist bursting everywhere. Automatically I tried to run forward; to reach their trench as this was our objective. I am not a particularly brave man; it is simply that experience told me to run. Any man who runs back, in a cowardly fashion, can be shot for desertion or dereliction of duty. Of course this rarely happens that they would waste a life like that, although I have been told it happens. It is more likely that you would be put on the most dangerous of concrete duty, with not much hope of return, if you are deemed to show cowardice.
I stood to run forward and Thompson appeared, stumbling next to me. He sank to his knees in the mud, dropping his rifle. The soldier immediately next to him was hit, blood spurting high from a wound in his neck. It rained down on us, covering Thompson's gas mask. I grabbed Thompson by his equipment straps and tried to haul him to his feet. But his body went limp as his gloved hand was rubbing the blood from goggles of his mask. He was moaning and couldn't see. The blood just smeared around the glass. I desperately tried to pull him up again but stumbled myself and fell on my back, flailing like an upturned tortoise.
Then he did it. He lay there on his side and ripped off his mask. I was stricken; nothing I could do to stop him. His mad staring eyes looking skyward as his panting breath took in the gas. Very quickly his body began to shake, and froth appeared from his mouth as the toxic poison melted and burned his lungs inside of him.
It was too late, he was as good as dead, so I took one last look at his spasming body; the pain and panic in his wide eyes. His fearful eyes are burned into my memory, as if the gas had burned me too.
I struggled up and ran on. I ran past the last of the three crawler tanks. This metal snail had so very nearly made it but now it was burning; its tracks shed and turret popped. Flames and bodies spilling out of its belly like a miniature volcano vomiting fiery death.
At the lip of the German trench those that had made it this far stood in a haphazard line and fired down upon the scurrying masked Germans below. A few dropped grenades. I just stood there panting. I could see the grey coats regrouping in the rear trench fifty yards further on. I could hear their desperate shouting; harsh unintelligible German words of panic and orders. I was rooted to the spot.
Someone thumped my arm, miraculously it was Hendricks. He was gesturing skywards; pointing at the red flare that was the signal to retreat. I don't really remember running back across those fifty yards of hell, through the din of gunfire and the screams of the unmasked dying. Somehow I made it back to our trench, as did Hendricks and Jones. Hundreds of others didn't. I don't know the true casualty figures, they are always tight-lipped about that, but it must have been less than half of us that marched back through the Wall. No idea if we achieved the objective, whatever that might have been. What was the point?
Once back to our side of the Wall, the three of us just sat in silence. I looked at their dirty tired faces. There isn't much to say after an experience like that. I didn't even need to tell them about Thompson. They knew he was gone. I didn't tell them how he died, there was no point.
Now as I think about it I wonder if Thompson had meant to do it. Meant to kill himself I mean. I did
n't even get a chance to search his body for his letter.
Perhaps next time there is a lull and the night teams crawl out into the mud to retrieve bodies and collect any precious kit left behind, they will find him and send his letter home to his family. I know that they try to collect any rifles and ammunition first, but they also collect the masks, boots and uniforms if they can. Such equipment is passed onto new soldiers like hand-me-downs. The Germans do it too and ridiculously both sides often cease firing for a while such grizzly collections are made. Hendricks says he once had to do such a duty at Verdun, and jokes about how he shared a cigarette right in the middle of no-man's land with a young German doing the same as him.
I suppose whether Thompson meant to do it or not matters little. I like to think that that poor pathetic skinny boy is at peace now. No more night terrors or all-consuming fear for him. I am not sure what I think about God or heaven or hell or any such matters. If there is a hell then it is surely here in this space between the Walls.
Like us all I do not know what happens after death. But even if it is simply an eternal unknowing sleep then there is a peace and