Unto Certain Death Brave Men Walked

Waking with a start Michael was gripped by fear. Shaking the fog out of his mind he noticed that others too had fallen asleep. Some were lying on the firing step whilst others slept standing, leaning against the parapets.

All around him his comrades were waking. He noticed different patterns of behaviour amongst them. Some looked relaxed and wrote letters to loved ones as they smoked casually. Others seemed nervous. Some told jokes and remembered wartime anecdotes that had passed into legend. They laughed without feeling or joy. Beneath the laughter, thought Michael, there lay a fear; a real feeling of ones own mortality; a feeling that he too felt in his stomach like a stone so heavy.

Peering above the front parapet Michael surveyed the field in front of him. It lay like a lush green carpet, flat except for the ridge hiding the opposing trench. To the east the sun rose above the trees bordering the battlefield and warmed the morning; the rural silence broken only by the chatter of birds. The scene reminded Michael of home, of the meadows he’d roamed as a youngster and of the paths he’d walked carrying milk to the neighbours. He thought of the summer holidays when he would play in the fields surrounding the farm for hours at a time; his only company the scarecrows on the next farm. He thought of a time when he might return to those fields and see the scarecrows once more.

Snapping back to the present he nudged the boy who slept at his feet on the firing step. Startled, the boy rose quickly and joined Michael overlooking the vacant battlefield. ‘I was dreaming. We were right here, ready for battle, and the reaper appeared…’ He paused for a moment waiting for Michael’s response. It never came.

‘He came out of those trees looking both ways. A faceless figure dressed in a hooded cloak. He bore no scythe, only a rifle slung over his shoulder.’

‘Whose side was he on?’ Michael asked.

The boy shrugged. He was mesmerised by the beauty of the scene before them. ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ he said, almost whispering.

‘It is.’ Michael paused, then; ‘What’s your name?’

The boy frowned.

‘You might be the last person I speak to. This might be the last conversation I have and I don’t even know your name.’

‘Frank.’

‘Are you frightened Frank?’

‘Yes.’

Michael sensed an uncertainty in Frank’s voice. ‘It’s not wrong to be frightened. Have you heard that lot down the line? The joking? The laughter? That’s fear.’

Frank nodded. ‘I’m so proud to serve my country, but I am scared.’

‘Of dying?’ Michael asked.

‘Yes, of dying, and of not doing my job properly, and making mistakes that put others in danger; of letting the side down.’

Michael put a hand on Frank’s shoulder to reassure him and at once became more comfortable with his own insecurity.

Frank continued, ‘I’ve wondered many times what it would be like going over the top. Just the thought of it scares me half to death. It can’t be fair can it? It’s not a true battle or a true test of man’s ability to fight?’

Michael looked Frank in the eyes, ‘It’s a true test of a man’s courage.’

‘I agree.’

‘Do you think an artillery bombardment is a true test of a man’s fighting capabilities? Or the use of poison gas? Modern warfare needs no real skill on the part of the soldier. The skill required is in the development of science and new technologies. The modern soldier need know only how to die. He doesn’t need to know why; just that it is his duty.’

Looking skyward Frank again nodded his agreement. A lone biplane flew overhead drowning the chatter of the birds. It was difficult to make out its markings from the ground. ‘But a frontal assault on a heavily defended position belongs in the nineteenth century.’

‘If you live through today you can tell that to the generals.’ Michael laughed at his own words. Frank didn’t respond; he sensed the time was getting close.

Gazing over the field Michael’s thoughts turned to his family. He thought of his Grandparents. They were the ones who had raised him as their own. What would they think of the war? How was the war affecting life at home? What was their perception of the war now, after three years of stalemate and casualty lists in the newspapers?

He thought of his brother whom he knew to be safe at least. Paul was older than Michael and had joined up a few days after the outbreak of war. He was injured by a shell burst whilst laying telephone wires behind the lines. His left leg had been shattered and amputated and he had recovered slowly. The last letter Michael had received from his brother brought good news; Paul was now working at a munitions factory as a pay clerk. Helping the war effort from a safe distance is how he described it in the letter. Michael had thought how proud his brother had sounded at being able to contribute again.

Looking up at the warm cloudless sky, towards the place that angels call home, Michael’s thoughts turned to his parents. He half hoped they would be watching him and half hoped they wouldn’t. If they weren’t watching they wouldn’t see the awful situation he was in, they needn’t fear for his safety if they were ignorant of his plight. On the other hand if they were watching him they would be proud to see him serving his country and maybe, just maybe, they could oversee his safe return after this whole bloody mess was over.

Closing his eyes and clasping his hands together Michael prayed silently. Dear Father, judge me not on my actions today for I have reached a time where I am to do what I have been trained to do and what I have been instructed to do. I hope that today, of all days, you can be my light and my guide. I pray for the well being of my comrades and that, for those of us who do not return, you will be the safe keeper of our souls for all eternity. Amen.

The prayer was punctuated by a distant whistle piercing the warm summer air. A buzz ran along the trench. It was the buzz of anticipation and fear, of an impending action. It was the buzz of life or death. The whistle continued for an age. Each man knew what it meant. Each man knew his duty.

The two soldiers faced each other. ‘Good luck.’ Michael said.

‘God be with you.’ Frank replied.

Frank followed Michael up a ladder and over the top of the parapet before climbing over the low wall of sandbags that protected their machine gun. Kneeling at their weapon Frank checked the belt feed from the ammunition box whilst Michael released the safety catch.

‘Ready?’ Frank asked.

‘Ready.’

After a few moments the two machine gunners saw figures appearing over the ridge a mile ahead of them, the sun reflecting off their bayonets. Looking left and right Michael saw the accompanying machine gun nests that formed the first line of their defence. There were five in all; a hundred metres apart. Behind them two battalions were strung along the line waiting nervously on the firing step. Their banter had stopped now; their tension obvious and understandable.

‘If we fail they cop it.’ Michael’s words were blunt and spoke acres of truth in Frank’s mind for he realised he wasn’t alone in feeling a burden of responsibility; he wasn’t alone in his fear of messing up.

More figures appeared over the ridge. At first only the distinctive helmet shape was visible but as the field levelled they came into full view wearing the green uniforms of the British army. ‘How close?’ asked Michael.

‘Fire at a thousand yards.’

Wiping the sweat off his brow with his left hand Michael fingered the trigger with his right. The number of green shirts grew. It seemed as though the whole British army was attacking his section of the line. Another thought struck him; why do they walk?

An age passed before Frank told him the attackers were a thousand yards away. In that time his thoughts again turned to his family. He looked at the sky and spoke to his parents. He saw the biplane in the distance but couldn’t hear it now. The chatter of the birds had returned and the heat from the sun was stronger.

A thousand British soldiers approached them. Pointing across the field Frank identified an officer by the cap he wore. He carried a revolver in one hand and a cane in the other. Michael thought this scene was absurd; an officer leading his men into battle in a slow, straight line, and carrying a big stick. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pitiful. He aimed and squeezed the trigger.

His MG08/15 burst into life unleashing a murderous volley of fire. The officer wasn’t the first to be hit but he went down soon enough. Glancing in both directions Michael saw the other machine gunners had followed his lead and joined the one sided slaughter. A thousand yards away chaos and fear reigned. A demented noise echoed as death descended on the meadow. The summer heat intensified.

Releasing the trigger Michael studied the gap he’d created in the advancing line. He aimed slightly to the left and squeezed again, and again several men went down before he released the trigger. This routine continued for ten minutes or so; broken only by an intermittent pause to prevent the machine from overheating.

Scanning the breadth of the field Michael guessed the thousand strong force had been reduced to fifty or so individuals. The remaining attackers had taken up prone positions and, shielded by their fallen comrades, they attempted to pick off the machine gunners.

Frank shouted something over the noise of the guns but couldn’t make himself heard. Kneeling upright he pointed into the distance. A second wave was advancing over the ridge.

‘It’s a suicide march. Suicide!’ Michael stared, disbelieving, at the carnage unfolding before him; the carnage he was perpetrating. ‘We’ll need to reload for the second wave.’ Turning to urge Frank to hurry the belt change he saw his friend was on the ground behind him. There was a cavernous hole where his nose had been. The flesh around it smouldered whilst blood and matter stained the ground beneath his head.

Instinctively Michael returned fire; gunning left handed now whilst feeding the belt with his right. Finding it difficult to identify the living from the dead he aimed at the muzzle flashes of the British rifles, whose fire became sporadic before ceasing altogether. In the distance the second wave had turned back seeking refuge below the ridge.

The scene before him was unrecognisable from ten minutes earlier. Fathers and sons, brothers and husbands lay in grotesque shapes where they had fallen. Some had been cut in half whilst others lay in growing pools of blood. Some screamed for their mothers. Smoke rose from the bodies and machine-guns enveloping the battlefield and creating a shroud for the dead. The lush green of the grass became a sea of crimson.

Silence hung heavy over the scene; punctuated now not by birdsong but by the groans of wounded and dying men. Death was a better place thought Michael. Behind him his comrades returned to the comfort of their cigarettes. Beside him Frank lay motionless and gazed towards heaven; watching his own ascent he searched for an angel.

Tears ran down Michael’s cheeks purifying the smoky sweat. A burning sickness entered the pit of his stomach. Looking skyward he blessed his parents. The sun rose higher as the smoke drifted away. Soon birds began to chatter again and in the distance a biplane droned.