In nights like
this, my heart descends into a motionless ocean of dark matter. I gaze through the
sparkling girth of the barb wire and loose myself in the disfigured moonlight. Out
there, some hundred yards away, the enemy awaits; between us, the revolved turf,
tangled with bone, metal and agony. Conversations
among men slow down to the point that silence creeps in. For everyone,
there is a precise moment when the wait becomes tangible, unavoidable. Men clean
up their riffles, verify their ammunition and recover stashed delicatessens –
mostly liquor: wine from Burgundy, bourbon, even the occasional snaps rescued from a raided German
depot.
They say there is
no camaraderie like the one found in war. And that is entirely true. Your life
depends on the action of others. And your death too. But not in the waiting. Not in
the eve of battle. No camaraderie there. Men sunk deep into themselves. They
drink alone and write letters. When someone starts a conversation, they are immediately
dismissed. Only replacements do that of course.
Young boys whose name we don’t want to know and whose faces we don’t
want to remember. We forget we were once like that: shinning knights leaving to
war to fight for honor and liberty. How silly is that? To fantasize about the heroes
of the past.
Why do men go to
war anyway? “I don’t know” – the chaplain of our unit once told me – “but the
ones who think about that are the ones who don’t come back”. I can tell you from
experience that this is the case. Thinking gets you killed. In war, there’s really no point in thinking –
expect for survival perhaps, but for that you just need instinct. So men adjust and stop thinking. After a while, this
is how it works for the men: in the eve of battle, the most important decisions
are taken. Promises are made. Lots of promises. Some of them will determine
your entire future. But you do it, steak to them, without giving it a thought.
“Lt. Harrison! Is everything in order?”
That’s the always unfamiliar
voice of my CO.
“Yes Sir! Men are ready and waiting, Sir!” – I
replied immediately.
Our CO is Cpt. Perkins:
a die-hard veteran from the Boer’s war. Not the worst officer in the British Expeditionary
Corp even though he was a heavy drinker. He always left behind him a stench of bourbon.
Who could blame him.
“Carry on then!” – He said hastily as he
continued through the trench.
Yes we will Sir. We
will go over the top and smash the German machine guns with the shrapnels of
British flesh. British blood will drown the enemy Sir. For King George then, he answered in my
imagination.
The barrage started
around 1 AM. Heavy guns every 30 yards; small caliber ones in between. We even
had some 75’s the frogs left behind. The roar of the guns was stupendous. The
sky was lighten like an orgy of fire crackers. But the mood was somber. By this
time in the war, men had lost faith. In the Somme, after a week of bombardment,
we were told we would only find rats and worms in the enemy line. Some units
were ordered not to run. “Just walk to the enemy line, don’t run. There’s
nothing out there. No one has survived that!”
But there was
something out there. There were men. Men that had gone deep underneath the
earth, men who had lived like moles for days. They would pierce through the
disemboweled landscape, covered in ash, earth and limbs and reach for their
machine guns like ghosts dressed in grey. Only men could survive that. In that
aspect, I praise men. There’s some much talk about rats; rats are overrated.
Once, I was in the
front during a three day barrage against enemy positions somewhere in Picardie.
It had been a calm sector for most of last year, garrisoned only by a few
depleted French battalions. But we had a
surprised installed for both men and rodents in that sector: a new form of gas,
so terrible that earth wouldn’t be farmable for generations. In the late
afternoon of the second day, a gasping vision struck us: hundreds of rats were madly
flying the German positions towards us. We could hear the loud squeaking
approaching as the rats were scuttled out by the never ending blaze of shell
fire and gas. But men stood firm. Men didn’t budge. What an unforgettable sight
this was: rats pouring like rain into our trenches. We received orders to shovel them
away. Some men didn’t care and died; they thought it was because of the
hygiene. It wasn’t. Rats had gas on
them. Our gas. Liquid gas that took hours to evaporate. When it did, men died in their
sleep. For days, men discussed the possibility that Germans had engineered the
rats against us. “The Hun discovered the device responsible for the plagues of
Egypt. Frogs are up next.” – The men mumbled. I guess we're going to have to enlist felines too.
“Lt., we go over
the top in ten minutes! Get your men together.”
This was Perkins
again. He was even drunker than usual. He probably didn’t sleep. No one did I
suspect. He looked rotten inside. It isn’t that men can feel the end approaching.
There is no warning. Men simply stop believing they can get away with it. They
simply give up at some point.
Here we are now,
preparing to take up our quarrel with the foe. Short days ago we lived, felt
dawn, saw sunset glow, and now… Now, here we are again. Fresh logs waiting to
be thrown to the dying fire. Feed the fire we must.
A young private was
passing with a bucket to collect personal belongings. That voice and those
words were terribly dreaded.
“VALUABLE ITEMS!
Valuable Items! Keep your valuable items safe. They will be returned to you if
you live.”
Wearily, men would
throw in watches, pictures, diaries. It was one those sentences you completed
in your mind. As soon as valuable was
heard, one would immediately complete it with if you live. Couldn’t avoid it. This was the moment. This was the crossroad.
I handed my diary over.
This was the fifth
fall of the war. I hadn’t been home for some two years now. Sometimes I searched
my mind to find familiar faces. But they were gone. They too looked like
shrapnels now. I had no pictures left with me. Didn’t ask for more either. This
was a defining moment for every men. At the beginning, men cling to their sweethearts,
their families; they take refuge in their world at peace. Not for long though. After
a while you tend to forget your previous existence. You want to forget. You need
to feel you have no option: nothing for you to come back.
Another bucket was
looming. A jar to be exact. This one carried Deutsch courage and was anxiously awaited
by the men: a double ration of rum. One eights of a
pint. Not nearly enough. Fritz had it better in that aspect: all the snaps you can have. That and magic
poisonous rats.
Finally, the sound
of the whistle. Perkins went over the top holding his Webley pistol pointed to
the skies. Early in the year, officers were still shouting words like, “for the King”
or “to the final victory”. But now everyone just says “for the fallen”.
They’re there, over
the top – in no man’s land. They used to feel dawn. See the sunset glow. Love
and be loved. And now they lie there.
Finally, I felt I was
ready.
