The Angel of Mons - Chapters twenty two, three and four - The End

Twenty two

It was impossible for them to believe that at last it was to be over. And, it seemed the nearer the end came the more the news made them jumpy. George had noticed a change in the men. He noticed that many seemed to die quite needlessly as they cowered instead of thrusting forward. He noticed a change in his enemy which seemed to be little more than a grey shadow of its former self. There was news that people in Berlin were starving and this more than anything took the will to fight from her brave army. Their instinct was to return to do what they should have been doing for years. To hold and feed there families to sleep in beds safe from the wind and rain and instant death or slow wounding brought not through malice but by another doing what he did, because he was told it was the right thing to do.
And George also knew, as they settled down for the night in a shallow trench that after everything. After the falling of his friends, the destruction of a generation, he was back where it had all begun, Mons.
In the distance George could here the sound of deep voices singing trench songs and he shook himself as for a moment he dared to think into the future. He could not remember ever having had a future before.

“I wore a tunic a dirty carky tunic and you wore your civie cloths, I fought a bled at Loos while you were on the booze….”

He could hear the sound of the occasional shell bursting limply on a far away ridge and the sound of allied machine guns sweeping what was left of the enemy positions. And he cursed. He cursed the order they had received an hour before.
He had been told that the guns would stop at eleven on the following morning. Which had caused disbelief among the men. He had also been told that there was a bridge, not much of a bridge, but a bridge non-the less that was to be captured and that they were to move forward at nine. “We really don’t expect any resistance.”
A ‘very light’ burst into the cloud filled sky illuminating everything above and below it. George slowly lifted himself and moved his head above the bags. In the distance, the man in grey raised his head when he saw a small flash of light reflect toward him. He shook his body and raised his rifle slowly, curling his long mud caked finger around the rusting trigger of his worn and battered rifle.
George could see across the battlefield. He could see broken trees and turned oceans of mud. A half buried wagon wheel stuck out of the thick soil, smashed, its metal rim hanging limply. There were posts and poles holding rusting barbed wire, much of which he thought probably dated back to the first few days of the war. To his left he could see the machine gun battery popping and spitting across the divide and in the distance, in the corner of his eye he saw tiny flash.
The man in grey kept the weapon pointing at the figure long after its deadly missile had been released, and he smiled.
The force was huge, it felt to George as if someone had pushed his head at enormous speed, and then a bursting rushing sound in his ears overran his senses and he fell from the wall, dizzy, white lights flashing somewhere just behind his eyes. He was unconscious before he hit the duckboard.
“You lucky bastard sir.”
George looked up and one of his young soldiers Heathrington, was leaning over him, offering him his canteen. George could see the light of another flare reaching into the sky and he was aware of a number of men huddled around him. They were smiling and laughing. George could feel his head was resting on something soft and warm. One of the men was kneeling with George’s head was on his lap.
A hand reached across, it was holding a helmet which was slowly turned to reveal a deep dent down one side. “It was direct, bet the bastards’ staked a claim for that one.”
George stammered and began to laugh. He sat up and felt a large bump on the side of his head with the tips of his fingers. “You know how many times I’ve seen a bullet go straight through one of those things?” He said taking back the helmet and examining the dent closely before the light in the sky set over the distant horizon. “I often wondered if these bloody things were able to stop the rain.”
On the other side the man in grey slumped into his small shell whole feeling pleased that he had been able to carry out his duty. But inside he was burning with anger. He and so many had fought for years and given everything, only for the men in Berlin to sign a document which meant defeat and humiliation.
Inside his head, his mind turned and churned with bitter hatred and the feeling of betrayal. He thought of all those who had let his country down, let the soldiers down and capitulated to save themselves. And as he sat in the cold in the rain he thought of who he blamed and what he would like to do to them. “Most of them are not real German’s at all,” he muttered to himself as he bit his lip, his eyes rolling tears running down his filthy cheeks. In his mind he thought of fighting and killing everyone one of them, every one who didn’t fight everyone that had torn down his country. He thought of burning their houses and killing their children burning down their churches and destroying their cultures – wiping them from the face of the earth. In his mind the war was not about to end. It was about to begin.
That night the man in grey barely slept. When he did drift away his cold heart led to a shallow dream in which he was standing tall and strong on a platform. Behind him he could feel a presence, a force which gave him strength. He could feel cold air on his face and in the darkness stretched out before him he could see row upon row of young faces. All looking at him, looking too him, they were not happy nor where they sad, but determined and proud. They had purpose, a destiny. And as he slept alone in the whole in the mud in France on the last night of the war he thought there was a chance. He thought he could fight on and re build. He would share the pain of his people and he would rise again. His face was still and thin tears ran down his cheeks, and had his mother been there then she would have seen for a moment the child she had held to her. The infant who had once gazed into her eyes searching for and finding affection and who she cared for on the long troubled nights when he woke screaming with fear and hot with fever. But only for that moment.
The sergeant had to call to George several times to wake him and when at last he stirred, he sat with his head lowered and his body trembling with cold. He had slept outside the shelter in a whole carved into the side of the trench. He had no recollection of falling asleep. He lifted his fingers to his head and winced as he found the large bump where the bullet had struck. “You alright sir?” asked the sergeant quietly as he handed. George a cup of thin tea.
George gazed straight ahead unblinking, he made no reply.
“They want us to move forward in ten minutes sir,” said the sergeant who looked up at the parapet and shook his head.
George broke his gaze and smiled at the sergeant. “Are the men ready Stevens?” The sergeant nodded. “Good, lets get lined up in five minutes and I’ll take a walk down the line.” George paused and grabbed the arm of the sergeants over coat. “Should be alright, tell the men to approach it the way they always have and I’ll do everything in my power to bring them all through this.” Stevens looked down, bit his lip and nodded slowly before looking back at George. George smiled and the sergeant made his way down line gently touching each man on the shoulder like the captain of a team about to play in a cup final, which he felt they had no chance of winning.
As he made his way among the men George noticed, as he had on so many occasions, how everyone had a different way of dealing with the job. Some laughed and joked and others sat quietly with their own thoughts, some wrote letters that they hoped would never be sent and others simply seemed to empty their minds in preparation. For George it was always during the minutes before they moved that he struggled most. And particularly on this day. Although impossible to believe, they were told that in a matter of a few hours it was due to stop and after that? He had no idea.
George smiled and nodded at the men. He knew they looked to him for reassurance and it was important that they had no idea what was going through his mind. It was important that they could not read his mind as it struggled with the thoughts of escape, to be anywhere but leaning against the wall of the trench. He moved up onto the fire step, his shaking hand holding his silver whistle. And then as he looked down the line and at his fathers’ old watch, as the tiny black hands ticked around beneath the scratched glass face, he felt his heart slow, and a calm came over him. His senses became alive and any remnants of tiredness or pain from his wound dissolved. He was ready to go and those around him were stepping forward their faces focused, determined, some nodding at him as if to say ‘lets go, lets go now.’
There was no artillery support, but just as George felt the cold of the silver whistle on his dry lips he heard the reassuring chatter of four or five of their own machine guns. They provided deadly cover, sending enemy troops into their fox wholes. George wondered if they also knew it was about to end.
The sound of the buzzing bullets dragged the man in grey from his cold thin sleep, from his dreams of greatness back to the fight and to the angry reality of impending defeat.
He could virtually feel the heat of the bullets as they buzzed and whistled around his head. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he raised his rifle to his shoulder and tracked the progress of a young soldier who ducked and dived from shell wholes, broken walls, from smashed tree stump to shallow ditch. And he waited. Calmly watched and allowed his quarry to enter a range where he could be sure of success. The man in grey knew it was about to end, but in his heart he wished it could go on. He wished he could fight until it was won. Until the enemy was dead and their filthy seed destroyed forever. At least, he thought, he would be able to take a few more before it all ended.
George could see what looked like little more than a meandering brook at the bottom of a slight slope around fifty yards ahead. It looked to him as if the enemy position had withdrawn and that they had effectively surrendered the tiny bridge which was their goal.
“Is that it Sir?” screamed the sergeant above the din of grenades and machine gun fire. George nodded and then shook his head slowly. He could see that there were some old defences around the bridge and he issued orders to his men instructing them to advance with him until they got to shallow trenches. It occurred to him that they could stop there and God willing sit tight and wait for the end of the war.
They began to make their way down the slope. For once thought George they had been right. There was no resistance and as he walked through the mud and around the tangled wire, he thought he could hear the sound of birds singing in the distance. He could hear his own breath as his tired lungs sucked in the clear clean air. His heart beat felt slow, and for a moment he felt an exhilarating euphoria. As a man may feel at the top of a great mountain or having witnessed the birth of a child.
The man in grey smiled as he pulled the trigger and as the young man fell lifeless to the ground, the side of his head blown away by the energy of the thumping bullet. He drew back the bolt and enthusiastically pressed another shell into the chamber. He selected another target, and fired this time he considered himself a little fortunate to have struck his victim in the neck when he thought he was going to get him in the chest.
There was nothing George could do for the boy. The bullet entered near the Adams apple and exited from the side, he could not breathe and the blood loss was terrible, spurting into the air and across those around him. The boy grabbed at his throat in a desperate bid to hold in the blood, he kicked and twitched and his eyes bulged in shock and terror. And George screamed inside with anger. He stood and turned to where he thought the shot had come from. He was not thinking. His mind was working almost independently and against his better judgement. The man in grey saw the officer turn toward him, and raised his weapon. He could not believe that he was being approached in such a way. He could not believe that anyone would have the nerve to head toward him with so little respect. He held the weapon close and looking down the barrel he focused the site on George’s head and took up the tolerance on the finely balanced trigger. And then he stopped, he nearly laughed out load and he shook his head. He lowered the barrel and fired.
At first George could not understand why he had fallen. He put out his leg to take another step across the mud, but it simply was not there. He felt no pain at that time but was aware that there was something wrong. The bullet had struck his shin, smashed the bone and torn through his calf muscle, blowing bits of flesh out of the back. The muscle seemed to have been torn away almost completely and the bones hung together held by translucent strips of sinew. The man in grey let out a yelp of shear joy. The officer was down, injured and best of all he was in the open. He would watch him bleed to death. Or he would wound him some more before finally finishing him off.
George signalled to the others to take cover, and the pain kicked in. His face screwed up into deep lines and he closed his eyes tight. He reached down and held the shattered limb in both hands, just above the knee. He noticed that the bullet had somehow failed to break the artery and so although blood was running thick and dark from the wound, he felt he was not in imminent danger. Not from that wound at least. He was however all too aware of his position. To his left, about ten feet away he could see a tiny crater, which he thought, might afford him a little cover. He began to crawl across the slimy wet mud. He didn’t hear the shot being fired, but he felt the soil as it was thrown up inches in front of his face. George stopped, turned his head and saw the man in grey smiling down his barrel. Taunting him and toying with him as a cruel child may a newt in a jar.
George lay still and waited to be finished. He assumed he must have blacked out. The next thing he felt was a terrible thirst, the agony of his leg, and cold needle like rain falling onto his face. He raised his arm and looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eleven. Still laying flat on the ground, he turned his head and looked across the now quiet battlefield. In the distance he could hear the sound of artillery pounding and there was the occasional crack of small arms. But it was spasmodic. Token fire. The man in grey was laughing at him as he let go another shot that George felt graze his arm.
George rolled onto his back. The sky was heavy and dark. The clouds seemed to be moving at great speed, but George was not aware of any wind. And then he felt the pain drift away. It eased as a terrible tight grip might ease upon release. There was brightness in the air, and a sound, like a deep smooth reassuring note. George’s face changed, the lines smoothed out and the burden of anguish drifted from his eyes. He looked like a tired child who was fighting to stay awake, but could not. And inside George prepared to die.
“George,” said Peter. His voice clear yet soft. George smiled and reached up, he thought he could touch the clouds. He felt a sudden warmth run through his body, like life itself, it charged his senses and lifted his spirits.
“Have you come for me?” George whispered. And then he felt his body rise, first to his knees and then he stood. He put down his shattered leg and it held him firm. He could feel something or someone holding him under his shoulder.
At first, he wanted to try to bolt back to the lines. To his comrades who were frantically beckoning him back toward them, waving their arms, their eyes wide, as if in shock as if they where unable to believe what they could see.
“This way.” George turned and there stood a man. Not a man he had ever met before, not a man like any other man, but a light bright face, with golden eyes and a strange translucence. He turned and pointed at the man in grey.
The man in grey smiled when he saw George stand. He admired his courage. He could not understand how he was able to walk, with a leg that didn’t even seem to reach the ground. And then as he walked toward him, he thought perhaps it was time to finish him once and for all.
The guns fell silent, and in the distance George thought he heard the sound of men shouting, perhaps even cheering.
The man in grey raised his rifle once more and pointed it at the head of the advancing soldier. A deep frown fell across his face. Where was the familiar exhilarating pop of the explosion and the caressing thump in the shoulder? The man in grey looked down at his faithful weapon his eyes full of surprise and then he realised that he had wasted his last bullet winging his victims arms. Before he could reach for another clip, George was on him. He crabbed him at the throat, reached to his belt for his knife, and in a single automatic movement he cut wide open the side of his neck.
The thick dark blood seemed to steam a little as it soaked into the white soil and the man in grey thrashed around in the mud, his eyes full of surprise and fear.
George could hear the sound of singing voices all around him. He felt as if he were going to weep with joy. He could hear children laughing and people talking, he felt more alive than he had ever felt before. And as his victim’s heartbeat for the last time, George watched as the clouds moved and light reached down on the scene.
George knew at last it was over. He could smell the earth and the blood. He could feel the silence and hear the sound of birds returning to the shattered trees. He felt as though a huge weighing burden had been lifted from him. And he allowed himself to think of a future in terms of years as opposed to the hours, or minutes or perhaps even seconds which had been his way of life and the way of life of all his comrades for longer than he was able to remember. He thought of them marching down the line for the first time and seeing the struggle mapped out in front of their eyes. He thought about the laughter and the love he had had for so many around him. The steeling of food and steeling of an hour’s sleep, both risks, which could have cost them their lives, but in a world with no future, what difference did it make. George knew it was over. He could see lines of men marching slowly away from their friends who lay lost and broken in the mud and in the fields which soon would once more be turned and churned but this time by the plough of life growing and making food for a world in peace.
George fell to ground, and as he did he was aware of a filthy chilling stench like nothing he had witnessed before, the smell perhaps of evil was rising harmless and defeated from the spilt blood in the soil from the man with the empty face his terrible thoughts extinguished. And George felt happy. He knew it was right, he knew it was why he was there.

Twenty-three

George smiled as he looked around the room. He had taken care to let the fire burn low and he had allowed the boiler to go out for the first time since he and his brother had lit it six years before.
He limped across to the mantelpiece and, as he always did he compared the time of the clock with that of his fathers watch. He reached behind the dusty old time piece pulled out the key and hesitated. He smiled and gently shook his head before returning the key, unused onto the shelf.
He unlocked the French window leaving it open so that Bully would be able to let himself out when he needed to. He led Bully into the kitchen and made him lye down next to the cooling boiler. He stroked him gently until he was asleep.
George pored himself a small whisky, took the brown envelope containing all that remained of his wife and the boy and turning off the lights he made his way slowly to his bedroom.
The sleeping tablets had belonged to Graham who had used them when they travelled. They slid down easily with the help of the whisky and a glass of water.
As George lay in his dark cold room, alone his mind began to fill with the thoughts of his childhood. He saw his fathers face and thought for a moment he even smelt tobacco in the room. He saw his mother when she was young and happy, her mind sharp and quick to correct, her beauty radiant and her smile captivating and contagious.
George saw Peter and his friends, the Oakley boys and all the men he had known, some for what seemed like a lifetime and others for a fleeting tragic moment. He thought of the boy and of Liz and the pain he felt to have lost her to Peter. And as he thought of these people he began to smile. He opened his eyes and thought he saw a light and felt sure something moved in the room. He thought he felt the tiny fingers of a child on his cheek touching gently, he thought he felt the warmth of a breath and smelt its sweet innocents.
George closed his eyes and for the very last time he felt his body loosen and any remnants of pain from his shattered leg and broken heart seemed to rise from him and drift gently away.
And suddenly he was running like the wind through the great beech and oak wood, his body felt young fit and taught, trained through hours of work on the land. It carried him effortlessly down the hill toward the small village in the valley. The summer’s air was full of the sent of the country, wild garlic and flowers, rich soil and dew drops. He ducked and turned and jumped with the athletic ease of a virtuoso dancer, spinning, balancing and swinging from branches. He thought for a moment perhaps he could fly.
A light flashed in front of his eye and disappeared and as he came into the village he could hear the sound of laughter coming from the open windows of the Greyhound. He approached and there he saw the men as he remembered them or as they should have been. The fathers of his generation happy and laughing seemingly without a care in the world. His father leant against the bar with Bert Jackson and in the corner Faulks fiddled and feet tapped to his tune. They did not see him but George was happy, he knew where to find them when he wanted to.
He turned and ran again, passed the pond, and right up the hill. The gates at the entrance to the churchyard were open and in the distance he could see through the doors and there were bright lights shining and although it was silent George knew it was not empty.
George knew that everyone he had ever known was there he was filled with an overwhelming sense of belonging. He could feel the smile, and smell the breath of the boy and Liz and feel the touch of Graham and of his mother.
Suddenly he stopped. In front, at the altar stood a young man. He didn’t move and his expression remained fixed. His eyes looked down, his arms were outstretched and he held out his hands, his palms showing. Next to him a man in black who read in a monotonous voice, words which George could hear but which had no meaning.
And then George saw them. A young woman and her child, standing by the pews, she delicately held a handkerchief to her nose and the child pulled at her skirt looking up at her. George smiled and walked down the isle toward the altar. When he got there the eyes of the young man raised and looked deep inside him. He bowed gently and as George turned, the young man placed his right hand on George’s shoulder.
To his right George could see galleries of smiling faces, to his left was Terri and her beautiful child. Joseph tugged at her skirt and looking straight at George he pointed and called, “look, can you see the Angels?”

Twenty-four

They weren’t due to go through the tunnel for another four hours and although they had experience of being able to cross early they thought perhaps they would stop somewhere on the way back to the coast to eat the chicken and bread which they had bought before they left Paris.
The roads were quiet and they made good progress as they headed north. The children sat in the back of the car staring blankly from the window their headsets, tingling.
She was fair, and beautiful in her early forties and he was a little older, his long nose and frowning face made him look stern.
“Had you thought about where you would like to stop?” She asked as she reached down into the foot well which was littered with maps and small bags, ticket holders passports and half empty tubes of suntan lotion.
“Not really,” he replied, and as he did he noticed a large brown sign indicating that they were about to cross the river Somme. As he began to scratch the peeling skin from his left arm, she reached across and grabbed his hand. He turned to her, taking his eyes from the road for a moment and smiling he screwed up his nose.
“See if you can find a place called ‘Theipval,” he spelt it out hesitating as if unsure as to the precise spelling.
“Why?”
“It’s mentioned in the book I’ve been reading.”
She pulled open the road atlas and ran her finger down the index. “Its two junctions away, perhaps seven or eight miles off the main road,” she said looking down at the map once more. “Surely there must be somewhere closer?”
“I would like to go there, we have the time,” he said once again smiling at her and this time reaching across to squeeze her hand.
Ten minutes later he swung the small blue Mercedes off the main road and followed the signs for Bapaume.
They drove down the deserted streets of Bapaume and turned left toward Albert.
“Look,” he said as they headed down the long straight tree lined road. Ahead was a sign which marked the position of the front line in 1917. A moment later, he nodded at another sign showing the allied line at the end of 1916.
She instructed him to turn right, which led them down a narrow road that turned and dipped and rose one more.
The car park was empty. They paused for a moment before opening the doors and stepped out from the comfort of their air-conditioned cabin into the heavy heat of the late August afternoon.
He opened the tailgate of the car and took out a video camera and was about to take it from its carrying case when he hesitated and putting back he said to one of the children, “I don’t think we’ll be needing that.” Instead he opened another bag and pulled out a small leather bound book which he slipped into the back pocket of his shorts.
As they walked toward the imposing memorial he put his arm around his wifes shoulder and gathered his children close to him. He was aware of the silence of the place. Huge flags, the French tricolour and the Union flag hung lazily in the warm still air, flicking out occasionally, silently, respectfully.
The four of them walked in silence. When they reached the steps, they paused and without even realising, they bowed their heads.
“My God,” she said, “they’re names.”
“Yes,” he replied, his voice catching slightly as he swallowed, “these are the ones they never found.” He moved up the steps and into the body of the huge brick built arch. In the centre he hesitated. Standing on the spot he turned through three hundred and sixty degrees, his left hand rubbing his brow above his eye, his shoulders slumped. They emerged from the back of the memorial where they could see rows of white headstones glistening in the sun.
She stood looking down at the rows and he turned to her. “What does it say?” He asked in a whisper. She looked at him and he saw the tears running down her face and he struggled to control the emotion beating inside him, fighting to get out. “Unknown,” she said the sound of her sobbing echoing around the great structure. He reached out and held her and so did the two boys.
They walked slowly back to the car and she smiled at him through the tears as he gently kissed her forehead.
They stopped the car around half a mile from the memorial, pulled into a field and opened the tale gate.
He noticed how soft the soil was and he looked around at the gently undulating fields. He could see an area which was cleared of trees, as far as the eye could see, as if a great river had once cut through there twisting and turning and taking everything in its path.
When they had finished eating he walked away from the car with the youngest boy and headed across the road.
“What is it?” asked the boy.
“It’s a shell whole, made during the war,” he replied smiling. They sat in the long grass and the child leant against him. He put his arm around the boy and held him tight. He could feel the book in his pocket. Pulling it out, he opened it near the beginning and read George’s account of his first day on the front.
George smiled when he heard the child ask “What’s it about dad?”
“It’s about someone I used to know son,” he replied smiling.
“Is he dead?”
Joseph looked at the boy and smiled, “No son, I don’t think he is.”