The Tomb

THE TOMB
A TALE OF INNOCENCE LOST

It was dusk when we reached the graveyard. The setting sun painted the sky blood red as it slumped exhausted beneath the horizon. The graveyard was ancient and neglected, the kind that is populated by only long-forgotten dead. Shadows danced around the various tombstones and fixtures as if they had lost themselves in frenzied worship of the enormous mausoleum that dominated the cemetery. It was here, in this eerie twilight carnival of souls that 2nd Lieutenant Evans would make his stand.
Baker and I struggled up the small hill upon which the mausoleum rested with our captured German Maxim gun as Evans stood, his piercing gaze skewering the landscape, as he noted every rumple in the ground, every possible axis of enemy advance, every way we could set the environment against our foe. Finally he cracked his knuckles and strolled up to the entrance of the mausoleum were we sat uneasily, in the shadow of the tomb.
We were all that was left of first platoon. There were six of us. Me, Evans, Private Baker, Corporal Hicks, Private Dowding, and Private Hayes. The rest were dead, or captured, victims of the deadly combat that enveloped this tiny mining town of Loos. For everyone except for Evans, it was our first battle.
We sat on the slope of the hill, silent, numbed by the horrors that surrounded us only a few hours ago. Baker wept. Hicks sat motionless, like a statue. Dowding began vomiting and Hayes consoled him half heartedly. I stared at my rifle. Throughout the entirety of the day’s ordeals, I had not fired it once. One thing which I find people do not understand is that giving a teenager a gun and teaching him to march does not make him a soldier. I had just passed my nineteenth birthday. My primary objectives in life were fornication, playing cricket, and winning the approval of my idol, Lieutenant Evans. During the fatal ambush where most of the platoon was wiped out, I had taken aim at a similarly young German with my rifle and the first thing that I did was automatically size him up as a potential cricket rival. Unused to thinking of the enemy as anything but an enemy, I lowered my gun, curled up into a ball and cried for my parents because I had just realized war was awful and I didn’t care about the reasons I was supposed to shoot other young boys. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, because I was only nineteen, and all I cared about was fornication, Cricket, and above all else, pleasing my idol, Lieutenant Evans.
A good officer teaches you how to use your weapon. A great one teaches you what to do after you use your weapon. Lieutenant Evans was godlike. He walked amongst us, passing around cigarettes, telling jokes, comforting the bereaved, always uplifting, but never sugarcoating our situation. He was the kind of man who was as tough as nails but knew that sometimes encouragement worked better than just discipline. If you were stuck trying to do something, he would come over and teach you some veteran’s trick he learned under intense enemy fire at one of the famous battles he fought at. He made certain we knew that he cared about each and every one of us. But he also did not fuck around. He had broken Private Adams arm because Adams kept shirking sandbagging duty but mostly because Adams was a cunt and everyone knew it. He was old-school BEF; he had fought at Mons and almost every other major battle. He had seen it all before, and knew exactly how to interact with each of us, slowly but surely pulling us out of our despondency. There was work to be done.
“Alright lads, that last fucking ambush has reduced us to a tenth of our strength and separated us from our division attacking northwards towards Loos. We have been forced to the east, away from own lines which means we are on our own until they link up with the Scots who are advancing southwards, secure Loos and begin their assault on hill 70. I estimate this to occur within the next twelve hours. In the meantime we are most certainly going to encounter Jerry as he is towards the hill. Given that we are technically behind enemy lines, and the Germans are about to initiate a mass tactical withdrawal we are essentially sandwiched between two elements of the German Army. There is no way we can avoid a fight, so we’ve got to fortify this position, and hope Jerry is too tired of having his arse beaten bloody by our mates to fuck with us.” We nodded in acknowledgement, Evans’ charisma and leadership penetrating even the post-combat physical and mental exhaustion that infected all of us.
“We will remain at this location until we are relieved by reinforcements.” Evans walked among us all, making eye contact with each of us in turn as he continued. “Our defenses will be centered on the mausoleum, where Mr. Hicks and Mr. Stamper will set up the machine gun. Mr. Hayes will secure tools and equipment from the groundskeeper’s shed. Mr. Dowding will take a survey of our current weapons and ammunition supplies, while Mr. Baker will fortify the entrance to the mausoleum using any and all methods at his disposal. I suggest he begin with the coffins. Mr. Hicks will assist him if necessary.” We moved accordingly.
As I began to erect the machine gun turret, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Mr. Stamper. A moment of your time if you please.” Evans was polite, but firm. I grabbed my rifle as he led me away from the others. My stomach sank.
“Cigarette?” he produced a package from his coat, as well as a box of matches.
“No thank you, sir.” I replied, hoping to get this over with. Evans would have none of it.
“Please, I insist.” I took up the fag and allowed him to light it for me.
“Mr. Stamper, your rifle if I may.” I groaned inwardly, sensing what was coming. Evans raised the gun to his nose and sniffed.
“Mr. Stamper, this weapon has not been fired.”
“Yes sir.” I looked at my feet, heat rising in my neck.
“Do you have an explanation?”
“I haven’t one sir.”
Evans regarded me carefully before motioning me to sit down. He sat next to me, removing his revolver from his holster and placing it in my lap.
“I’ve had this pistol since Gallipoli. It was presented to me by my former commanding officer when I was commissioned.” He paused for a moment, then cocked it and pointed it at my head. I froze, not certain if Evans was joking or not.
“There has been many times I have stared down the sights of this pistol and have seen not an enemy soldier, but just another man staring back at me. Do you know I what do in such times?” I shook my head, glued to the ground, unsure if it was a joke or not.
“I ignore my better nature, and kill him.” With that he pulled the trigger. I started as the pistol merely clicked at me tauntingly.
“Jesus fucking Christ, sir!” Evans ignored my outburst.
“Son, it speaks well of you that you are loathe to kill a man. In almost any other situation, you should be commended. But this isn’t almost any other situation. This is Loos, 1915. I don’t need a good man. The others don’t need a good man. If we are to survive tonight, I’m going to need you ready to kill as many people as you must, and be willing to kill even more than that.” Evans looked at me carefully, and frowned.
“I understand that sir.” I scratched my head. Evans slapped me hard across the face.
“Stamper, stop acting like the perfect fucking recruit and listen to me. This not a matter of rank, this is not something that can be ordered. I need you to make a personal decision, I need you to reconcile yourself to losing your innocence, to ignore millennia of culture, to forfeit all that makes men noble and prepare yourself to kill people like they where animals.” I began to weep. I was certain he thought I was a coward. I had no idea what he was really saying.
“I’m sorry, sir…” I blubbered. Evans slapped me again, silencing me instantly.
“To hell with your apologies, Stamper!” he roared. He composed himself again. “You were at the machine gun school at Grantham before your assignment here.”
“Yes sir.”
“You are the most qualified as gunner.”
“Yes sir.”
“You are going to represent the vast majority of the firepower of this unit.”
“Yes sir.”
“Can I count on you using it?” I paused for a moment.
“Yes sir.” He seemed satisfied with the answer and patted me on the shoulder approvingly. I wasn’t so content.
My reply had been a barefaced lie.

When we returned to the others the mausoleum had been transformed into a fortress. Coffins barricaded the entrance, and the menacing barrel of the machine gun loomed out of it. Hayes had managed to scare up a hatchet, three shovels, and a small knife. Dowding was also ready with his report.
“We have five rifles, with approximately fifty rounds for each. We have the Lieutenant’s pistol, and his trench knife. We have the Maxim gun with about two thousand rounds of ammunition for it. Our rifle and Maxim ammunition are of different caliber, and are not interchangeable.”
“And the bombs?”
“About twenty sir.”
“Mr. Stamper, what is your assessment on our machine gun supplies?” I crunched the numbers in my head eagerly, hoping to impress him with my hard-won skill.
“We have approximately four minutes of continuous fire.” Evans cracked his knuckles.
“I suppose it will have to do.”

As we waited impatiently, we could hear the battle for Loos rage. The Scots and our division, the London Territorials, reached Loos proper and close quarters fighting ensued, artillery fire from both sides died off, concerned about hitting their own troops. Evans had banked on this. Whatever will happen in the next few hours, in the dark, in close proximity to his own infantry, Jerry will not dare turn his cannons on the mausoleum.
I crouched behind the Maxim, which was set in the entrance to the mausoleum, ready to cover the most likely axis of enemy advance. Hicks sat next to me, ready to feed ammunition into the hungry belly of our death machine. Evans remained close, ready to direct our fire as well as act as a grenadier. Dowding lay on the roof of the mausoleum, his rifle waiting for action. Hayes and Baker manned the barricade directly in front of us, also armed with rifles. I was issued the hatchet, while Hayes, Dowding and Baker received shovels, which they began sharpening methodically. Our eyes remained glued on the horizon, ready for Jerry.
Nothing happened.
As we stayed on alert, fear and anxiety ravaged us. We couldn’t smoke, for fear of giving our position away. We were unarmed against the dread that wrapped itself about us. Hours passed. Dusk evaporated into night. At about one in the morning, the sounds of fighting in the village stopped. Silence reigned with an absolute tyranny.
That’s when we saw them. A group of Germans materialized out of the darkness, trudging through the cemetery. The moon was almost full, and it illuminated the graveyard and its occupants. Everything bore a silver tinge and it made them seem like ghosts. They were close enough that we could see the expressions on their faces. They were weary but completely at ease, expecting an easy night march back to their hill fortifications. At first there were only thirty. Then even more appeared. Soon, at least one hundred figures marched slowly towards us.
“Holy shit!” I whispered, my anxiety turning into panic. The suspense was unendurable. My arms were quivering violently. I thought of my scholarship, my life back in England. They seemed to be thousands of miles away, everything familiar and friendly far from me as I faced mortal peril.
It was only when they were literally yards away that Evans gave the signal for me to fire. I lined up a cluster of Germans in my sights and took a deep breath and…
Nothing. I couldn’t do it. Evans swore.
“STAMPER! FIRE THE GODDAMN GUN!” He whispered furiously. At this point a German began to notice the movements and the strange shapes huddled around the entrance to the mausoleum. He began to make his way straight for us, more out of boredom than anything else, chewing absent mindedly on some of his rations.
Still, I froze, unable to fire. Nineteen years of western civilization is a hard thing to shake. Evans slammed his fist into the ground in frustration. The German inched closer. I began to swear myself.
“FuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuck!!!!!” It was no use. Evans, sensing defeat, raised himself, ripped the pin from a bomb and threw it into the German’s face. I threw myself to the ground, banging my head painfully in a mad scramble for cover.
At this point, all hell broke loose. The bomb exploded with a throaty crump, showering the poor Hun and his nearby companions with thousands of deadly shrapnel fragments. Evans drew his massive revolver and began to fire into the Jerries. Dowding, Hayes and Baker also began firing, emptying their firing chambers of ammunition as quickly as the bolt actions on their rifles would allow. Time seemed to slow, adrenaline flooded my body, and a strange calmness overcame me. Hicks screamed at me. Germans began to fire back, peppering our barricade with bullets. Baker’s head snapped back, half of his skull blown away. Evans hurled another grenade. My head began to pound. I seized the machine gun and swiveled it into the very heart of the German formation, and finally, opened fire.
The Maxim Gun gave a roar as it belched out ammunition. Grave markers exploded as bullets slammed into them, Jerries shrieked as the maxim robbed them of their lives. I swung the Maxim from side to side, sparing no one.
But the Jerries kept coming, and though the Maxim claimed most, it never was enough. We were surrounded, cut off. Evans threw more bombs, Hayes and Dowding fired frantically into the German mob. But we simply couldn’t kill them quickly enough. They stormed the barricade. Hayes swung his shovel, sinking it deep into a Jerry’s neck before he was shot in the chest. Evans drew his revolver, Hicks grabbed his rifle and I fired a final deadly burst before I snatched up the hatchet and everything went red.
My world denigrated into a hurricane of fists, bayonets, feet, blood, knives, rifle butts, makeshift maces and more blood as the surviving Germans tore into us. Something heavy and sharp hit my face. I was hacking frantically in every direction. Dowding’s body slid off the roof, riddled with bullets. I screamed with blind anger as I drove my hatchet into a man’s head. Evans’ pistol barked. Hicks cried out as somebody drove cold steel into his body. Someone threw a bomb, I fought on, and I felt nothing but pure rage. The world began to swirl around, and I let myself go to the bloodlust.
The next thing I remember is standing in the doorway of the mausoleum, soaked in blood, corpses lying everywhere, and Evans, splattered with gore, calmly reloading his revolver. Evans eyed me closely, his noble features filled with sorrow.
“It will get easier.” He said simply.
I sank to the ground, totally numb.
“Nothing. It feels like nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Evans nodded. I looked at him. “There’s no going back after this.” Evans nodded again.
Evans walked to the steps of the mausoleum and sat down.
“How old are you, Mr. Stamper?”
“Nineteen.”
“Shit.” He put his head in his hands as if he was personally to blame for my destroyed youth. I noticed for the first time that blood was oozing from dozens of wounds all over his body. He was quite pale, and was having difficulties keeping his balance, even while sitting.
“That last grenade went off a little too close for comfort, I fear.” He said, winking at me.
“Good God, sir!” I said, rushing over to support him. His skin was cold and clammy, and I realized that most of blood that inundated his clothes belonged to him.
“Are you going to die?”
“Oh, yes.” Still in shock from the ensuing battle, my mind simply could not process him dying. Everything felt fake, surreal, like this was some sort of dream.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked, trying to think of an appropriate thing to say to console dying person. It made sense to me at the time.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, more for my sake than his.
“Yes, Mr. Stamper.”
“Do you believe in heaven?” My head would not stop pounding.
“Yes.”
“Do you think they’ll let you in?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.” He looked at me and smiled. I just stared. I could barely understand what he was saying. The only thing I remembered was that this was all some mistake, I’m not supposed to be here, I need to finish up college and fornicate and play cricket and make Evans proud of me.
“This is too much. Shit. I’m not trained for this, I’m just a boy. I don’t want to live with all this bloody shit. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m afraid of dying.” I whimpered.
“You are already dead. You died the second you squeezed the trigger. Brian Stamper, the sensitive young man who went off to war will never come home. But what will replace him? An alcoholic that runs from pub to pub, trying in vain to flee the ghosts that haunt him? A cold-blooded killer who has suppressed all feeling lest he confront the pain he’s caused? Or perhaps something else, something better than what was lost. A man who has taken the worst life can deal out and survived. A man who can stare unflinchingly into that Great Destroyer of men, the despair that strangles the all the meaning out of life? Whatever it may be, know that this mausoleum is as much as your tomb as it is mine, and no matter which path you take, your old life is gone forever.” Evans laid back on the marble floor, his breathing heavy. I kneeled on the ground, still stunned by the weight of the last twenty four hours.
“Excuse me, I’m delirious. A nasty side effect of not enough blood.” He rose up suddenly, reinvigorated. “I almost forgot!” he said, in a bizarre chipper voice. I noticed that his pupils were dilating wildly. It was hard to see him like this, struggling heroically to stay conscious and lucid, but losing ground minute by minute.
“I want you to have my revolver.” He pulled his revolver from its holster and pressed it into my hand. “Remember how I told you it was presented to me by my old CO at Gallipoli?”
“Yes”
“He was the bravest man I ever knew. A real hero. He died not long after. It’s my most prized possession. Please, take it. It’s a Webley, Mark Six.” The Webley looked even bigger in my hand. Black scuffed and chipped a little, it was clear that although it had been used on many battlefields, it was in superb condition. “Remember, it jerks once it’s fired. You’ll need to practice with it.”
He patted me on the arm, then closed his eyes and fell unconscious. I sat there, stupidly, holding my mentor’s gift as he bled out on the floor. He faded in and out of consciousness, but even when he was awake, he was completely insane. He begged my forgiveness, asked me to marry him, saluted me, and told me I was a dirty cunting rat. His murmurings became mumblings, and his mumblings became silence. His breathing became fainter and fainter until finally I couldn’t be sure he was breathing at all. I was left alone in that blood soaked tomb, weeping for him, for our unit, for the Germans, for myself.
When the rest of our division found me at sunrise the graveyard was unrecognizable. Virtually every grave marker had been chewed up by gunfire. The hill which the mausoleum stood atop of was slick with blood, and bodies lay scattered about in heaps. All the men coming up the hill slipped at least once, and more than one vomited. I was sitting on the steps to the mausoleum, splattered head to toe in blood, a cigarette in my mouth, holding a revolver and a gore stained hatchet. I sat, almost catatonic as an officer approached me. He asked me if I was a member of First Platoon. I told him I was First Platoon. I don’t remember if it was that when I was covered blood he couldn’t see how old I was, or that I seemed to be a corporal because I was holding a pistol, either way, I was given a battlefield promotion to Sergeant on the spot.
Evans was buried with the rest of first platoon in an empty part of the graveyard, along with many of the Germans. I stood over the grave as the punishment company covered them with the very ground they had died on, a one man funeral service. Evan’s final words came back to me as I watched the closest thing I would ever have to a father along with all my mates disappear forever underneath the ever-increasing mound of soil, and I realized that in a sense, I had been destroyed as well. Loos should have been my grave.
The drums beat off in the distance, and their call shook me from my reverie. With great sorrow I moved to take my place among the shambling figures in the distance, the figures marching, marching, marching.