The Morning After

The Morning After
Just another day in the War of all Wars. Here we are, stuck in a foreign land, miles away from our families and loved ones, servants of a Nation bent on stopping the spread of The Hun. The rain, seemingly incessant, runs down the back of my neck – but I’ve been soaking wet for days, so hardly feel it’s’ cold passage. It will keep the battlefield a quagmire, sapping our energy if we need to move, adding to the daily depression that is war. It’s that horrible wet rain as well; do you know what I mean? An intrusive precipitation that seems to soak into your very pores, clings to your eyelashes, and seems to chill the very marrow of your bones. Not like a healthy downpour – this is sneaky, pervasive somehow. I hate it! To be fair though, apart from the rainfall, today seems somehow different. This, the morning after we came under the heaviest, most prolonged fire that we had experienced to date in our little corner of France, there’s just been silence. We had thought - expected - that yesterday’s heavy action heralded the onset of a major offensive; the prolonged and vicious barrage no doubt designed to demoralise and weaken us. Yet, so far this morning, there has been nothing - no artillery, no rifle fire, not even the insect like buzzing of a spotter-plane. As a norm the sounds of war are ever present; you tend to ignore them for the most part. Of course there are some that a part of the old grey-matter is always on the alert for: the cocking of a rifle, a cough from a closer direction than you anticipated, or a too-loud whispered instruction. I was so used to the daily crack and whizz of rifle fire, along with the almost palpable thumping of large-calibre weapons, that this morning’s lack of activity made me decidedly uneasy. For a moment I almost wanted the snipers to open up, or for a skirmishing party to try their luck; I’d have felt more comfortable in the routine of facing the opposition and being able to answer their none-too accurate fire with well-sighted rounds from my trusty Lee Enfield 303. I was irritated that the enemy had broken away from the norm, then a possible explanation dawned on me – today was the 25th, Christmas Day in the mud!
Perhaps this was a gesture on their part, some sort of hiatus in hostilities so that we – and they – could celebrate His Son’s birthday in respectful peace. But did they even acknowledge Christmas? I must admit, I know next to nothing about the people we are fighting. Do they have a religion? Strange lot these foreign chappies. Why don’t they just go back home to their families? These Krauts are, according to our fresh-faced young officer, merely holding us in our present position until their advancing Main Brigade arrives to send us packing. It is all set to be a mighty show-down, but our resolve won’t falter. We know that we are in the right and that this spread of Fascist evil has to be stopped. Yes, we are afraid; it is a man soon dead who lets bravado over-rule his basic instinct of self-preservation. We know though, that on that day we will stand shoulder to shoulder with our brothers-in-arms, to present a united, defiant, front against this force of evil. They presume themselves unstoppable; think they’ll send us packing. Huh! They will find out that we British can only be pushed so far – then the Bulldog bites back!
With the chevrons of a Sergeants rank on the sleeves of my khaki tunic, it would be up to me to ensure that the squaddies under my command didn’t weaken in the face of any onslaught. They were good lads, all of them. I’d nurtured them from raw recruits, whimpering at the sound of shell fire, into a formidable band of battle-hardened men – courageous, proud and confident. I had lost only two of our troop during this God-forsaken conflict; Archie Harris got himself entangled in a section of barbed-wire and Smudger Smith – more brawn than brains – had stayed with him trying to get him free. We tried to encourage them from the trenches, willed them to be free and safe. They were easy marks for the unseen sniper. Under the cover of darkness we recovered the bodies then stood caps in hand, tears making tracks down muddied faces, as the Chaplain spoke words of comfort. Some grown men are not afraid to cry. It was like losing a brother. That’s what we are really, brothers. We look out for each other the way kin do. There for one another. Sharing a snout and a quiet word of encouragement in difficult times; engaging in a bit of horse-play and friendly banter when the mood is lighter. Yes, we bicker and snap sometimes – families do – but when needed we are brothers together, sharing the good and bad.
The mud underneath my ammo box oozes out as I shift position, making an obscene sucking sound. I glance down in time to see a shell casing of gleaming brass eaten up by the slime. There’ll be a fortune in scrap metal at the end of this little lot I shouldn’t wonder. What is it they say, ‘Where there’s muck there’s brass’? There’s certainly a lot of brass in this muck! My stomach’s rumble intruded into my musings.
“Corporal Asher!” I project my voice in a loud whisper to attract my junior’s attention, and then watch as he slithers towards me in a half-crouch.
“What’s up Sarge?”
“I’m bleedin’ starvin’, that’s what’s up! Straighten yer uniform, put yer hat on right, and nip up to the mess tent smartish. See where our breakfast’s got to.” He turned to go but I grabbed his arm to stop his escape, “Take young Galloway with you and see what extras you can nick while the cooks aren’t looking!” He gave a wide toothy grin, wedged the forage cap onto his head, and slid back the way he’d come. If there was anything to be had he’d find a way of liberating it for the troop. He’d been around, knew the score. While I waited, I took my ‘baccy tin from the breast pocket of my battledress blouse, and rolled the first fag of the day. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs and leant my head back against the wall of the trench while I savoured the taste. I’d stuck a photo of my girl, Betty, to the inside of the lid, but didn’t need to look at it to see her image. When I closed my eyes it was her face I saw – little button-nose, cheeky eyes and kissable lips. Wonder what she’s up to while I’m away? Haven’t heard from her for a while, but that’s not unusual; the post out here is like the London Busses, you get nothing for ages then three letters will turn up together! She’s working in the munitions factory at Woolwich; hard work, but she’s not afraid of a bit of graft, my Betty. She writes a lovely letter too; full of the little things that mean so much to me. I don’t just mean the ‘love you, miss you’ stuff; news about the family, the street, the people, friends and places I’ve had to leave behind.
My thoughts of home are disturbed by the faint sounds of singing. Although the tune’s familiar, the words are just gibberish. I risk raising my head above the earthen parapet, my soldier’s eyes scanning for any possible threat, and then I listen more attentively to the refrain. It’s “Silent Night!” I’m sure it is! It sounds bloody strange in a foreign tongue. More voices have joined in, their rendition now swelling and rolling over No-Man’s-Land to serenade us. Closing my eyes, I try to block out the guttural words by mentally singing the correct lyrics. It’s quite soothing really – a marked improvement on the usual cacophony of noise that I have to endure! Just as the tune ended I hear a squishy footfall approaching and, turning, see Asher and Galloway struggling towards me half-carrying, half-dragging, a hessian sack.
“Brekkie in about half an hour, but while they weren’t lookin’ we nicked this!” Corporal Asher looked very pleased with himself. I leant towards his loot but couldn’t detect what it contained. It smelt earthy – but that was probably due to being dragged over the sodden ground.
“What you got then, Corporal Asher?”
“Spuds!”
“Come again?” I must have misheard him.
“Spuds, Sarge. I doubt if they’re King Edwards, but…”
“They could be Queen bloody Victoria’s for all the good they are!” I kicked the sack – hard as a rock! Slowly and deliberately, I put the lid back on my tobacco before putting it into my breast pocket. Buttoning the flap, I looked the hapless soldier in the eyes. “Just what do you suggest we do with 56 pounds of uncooked potatoes, Asher? Use ‘em as hand grenades if we run short? Or perhaps we can drag ‘em out into the no-go area in the hope a bloody German artillery shell lands on ‘em and cooks ‘em up a bit?” His head slumped and the grin slid from his face. Galloway, I’d noticed, had made a tactical withdrawal. I wasn’t finished yet, “Could be I’m underestimating you though, Asher. I can see a long-term plan here. We plant the spuds, and then wait for ‘em to seed and germinate – not quite sure how long that takes, but never mind. Once they do grow, though, they’ll no doubt produce leaves. Little bunny rabbits – in between bouts of fornicating – will rush over to feast on this plentiful bounty, and you’ll nip out and snare a couple. So we’ll have nice fresh meat. Likely have a spot of rabbit stew, eh Asher? Brilliant! How could I ever have doubted you?” A snigger sounded from along the trench but, when I looked, all were busy cleaning weapons or rolling cigarettes, seemingly paying no attention to the Corporals plight.
“Sorry, Sarge.” He really looked quite forlorn now. “They was just lyin’ there, and I thought it was too good an opportunity to pass up. There was nuffin’ else we could…”
“Ssh!” I put my hand in front of his sorry face before looking back towards enemy lines. I’d heard something. There it was again!
“Tommy!” My eyes were drawn to movement, a vague shape in the distance. It was barely discernible through the drizzle, but I could just make out a human form. I contemplated using the field glasses, but in this drizzle it would be akin to looking through the bottom of a milk bottle. The voice spoke again, “Tommy! Is your turn to be singing of the Christmas song, Ja?”
There are very few certainties in this life, but one of them is that if you show your head to Asher on a battlefield, he’ll shoot it off! I heard the bolt of his rifle being drawn back, and him muttering about ‘Cheeky buggers can’t even speak the King’s English!’, then there was a deafening bang next to my right ear as our Regimental marksman bagged himself another scalp.
The man who threw his life away by standing up, no doubt had the intention of spreading Christmas cheer and goodwill on this special day. But it wasn’t special at all…just another day in the war of all wars.