My War

The harsh morning light floods my small room and I screw my eyes up in an attempt to block it out. My old bones are stiff and I can feel a cold coming on. I am always cold now. I have been up for around ten minutes and I am waiting for them to come and get me ready for the day. I do not like pressing the button that makes them come to my room. It feels like cheating. So I wait. I glance at the dressing table over by the window. I have a few photographs placed on it. One of my five grandchildren, one of my children - Colin and Gillian - and one of my late wife Catherine on our wedding day. The eleventh of March, 1926. I roll over in my chair and pick up Catherine's portrait. She was twenty-seven when we married. My gnarled hands shake as I hold it and I find myself near crying at the thought of her. Sixty years flash before my eyes. Sixty stolen years. I place it clumsily back on to the table and breath deeply; as deeply as I can that is. To be faced with your own mortality is terrifying - but exhilarating too. Having outlived my wife by three years I feel it is my time. My children disagree. They are forever begging me to fight this illness that I have. Cancer. They told me at Christmas last year I had cancer of the bowel. This time it was going to get me. I feel a certain indifference towards it all. I am old enough to go peacefully and I have lived a full life. I have children and grandchildren that I love. Overall, I think I have left my mark on this world well. I am what they call a veteran. The Great War. But what was Great about it I still do not know. My hearing may be dreadful nowadays but I remember the sound of snapping bullets above my head; The reeking stench of death filling the air. I am an old man now, and my war was a long time ago but even after seventy years I remember as if it were yesterday...

My feet ache. I feel them squelching in my boots. The boots rub and pinch even though I have been wearing them for months. My feet are constantly swollen. I have not been properly dry since last year. I am holding a letter from my mother. She writes of home and tells me that she misses me greatly. I replied and told her that I am "fine" and that I will be home soon. I know now this is not the case. I should have told them that I will most likely not be returning. Save the telegram boy the trouble. Tomorrow...we go over the top. I hear the rats scuttling around the bottom of the trench. I ignore them. I am used to their constant presence. Fear washes over me like an icy breath as I think about tomorrow. The feeling I have in my gut is one of dread. I know that I will most likely die. Facing that grim truth takes a while to comprehend. Eighteen. Not old enough to die.

"Who told you that, boy?" Sergeant McRae barks at me.

"No one sir," I reply. "I just do not believe I have experienced enough of life yet. That is all." I look down and try to stop my hands shaking. He looks at me with pitying eyes for a second and then almost as quickly as his expression softened it hardens again.

"You are never too young to die, Dalton. Never. Remember that." I will. Though it is of little comfort to me down here, shivering and shaking. Fearing the inevitable. I try to sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see my family. My mother receiving the telegram informing her of my death. I hope they will be proud. I hope they will not forget me or use me to boast.

"My son died fighting for his country, what did yours do?" I imagine my father's pompous voice to the country neighbours whose sons stayed behind to man the farms. I squeeze my eyes tight shut for a second and shake my head quickly. I want to numb my mind. To not think of them. To not think of anything. I must banish all fear. All feeling. All doubt. This is my duty. This is my purpose.

The larks up above sing brightly heralding the morning. I slept little, but enough. I have no need of sleep anymore. Many of the men are excited at the prospect of action. After months of training and preparation  and waiting we are finally moving forward. I, however, know what we face. Death. I imagine a little caricature of the devil sitting on my palm, waving up at me and winking.

"Ready, boys?" a voice asks. I glance up and see that it is the man next to me. I believe his name to be Carmichael. Ken maybe? It's best not to get attached to people. You never know who's next. I am acquainted with most however. I exhale forcefully. "I'll take that as a yes then?" He smiles at me. His accent is Scottish. Of which part I cannot be sure. He is softly spoken and his smile makes me feel a little less scared somehow. I find I cannot reply. My voice has died in my throat. I smile weakly back. There is nothing I can do. There is nothing I can say now that will change this. The whistle blows sharply and it cuts through me like a knife. My heart pounds and I can feel the blood pumping in my neck. My breathing quickens, and I begin to gasp for air as the men all along the line scramble up and over.

"Come on, come on, over the top, over the top now! Over! Over! Over!" The sergeant is bellowing as he makes his way down the line. I grip the rung in front of me. My hands freeze. I hear machine gun fire and shouting.

"You boy!" He roars at me. "Get up there! Don't you dare hesitate. Right now!" I stare at him, I know the fear is clearly showing. He does not falter. "You have ten seconds to get up there otherwise I'll shoot you myself!" He thunders. My eyes prick, but I don't move. Carmichael, who is in front of me, has reached the top, legs still dangling he makes to crawl on his hands and knees but no sooner has he began than he falls backwards, a shot going straight through him. He crushes me and I collapse with the weight of him. Paralysed with shock, I lie there, my mouth hanging open, not quite believing that I have a dying man on top of me. I manage to squeeze out from underneath him and stand up in the trench. Leaning heavily against the sides I continue to stare at him. The blood is pouring out of his mouth in a grotesque manner. His face is a mask of determination. The sergeant turns back to face me. "Five seconds." He breathes menacingly. His maniacal expression tells me he is not joking. All I want to do is run. If I do that I know he will shoot me. I grasp the sides of the ladder. My mother's face flashes in front of me. I force myself not to think or feel. I am over. I see the mist coming towards us all from the other side of No Man's Land. All our men are marching forward. I run to catch up with everyone else. It does not take long. They are only walking. The sharp shooting shots of the snipers buzz around me and their effect is immediate. Men fall to their knees. Their faces a mixture of fear and relief. I stare blindly around me, stumbling as I keep moving. The sergeant is behind me and he is still screaming as loud as he can.

"Keep moving! Keep moving!" Until he is silenced. I hear his footsteps stop behind me but I do not turn around. I march on. All around me men are being cut down like cattle for the slaughter. The soldier directly in front of me stops suddenly and in the same breath I am sprayed with his blood. He falls. I step over him, not looking at his face. The gargling that is coming from his throat and the feeble grabs he makes at my legs I ignore. God is on my side so far. I blunder onwards; forward towards the enemy line. I keep my head up and I point my bayonet. I am nearly there. I focus on that one point and fix my eyes upon it. More men are slaughtered as we advance. I find myself wishing for it all to be over. I begin to wonder what death feels like. I picture all my troubles floating away and being left in a dreamlike trance. My mind is detached from my feet. They march by their own accord. I am still standing however. I am still alive. I look right, and then left. The number that have made it this far stuns me. I dare glance behind me. A sea of fallen men fills my eyes. Some are dead; some are not, they cough and gargle and scream with pain. My steps thump on the hard grass and I feel my heartbeat match their tempo. I have made it. My mind is benumbed by everything I see. I am aware that it is not over; It is not likely to be over anytime soon. But for the Somme, I have crossed this land and made it through.

I feel beads of sweat on my forehead and I clumsily search for my handkerchief in the pocket of my dressing gown. I sit here, having recalled the most fearful day of my life, and sweat thinking about it. After seventy years its effect is still so profound. That type of fear never leaves a man. Even today I find myself waking sometimes in a nightmare. The sight of Carmichael's dead face. His eyes rolling in head and the blood gushing from his abdomen. Or Sergeant McRae. His footsteps coming to an abrupt halt. The guilt has very much stayed with me ever since those years. Why did I survive when so many others didn't? Why was I able to marry a women I loved? Why did I have the title of hero bestowed upon me even though I was only a scared, vulnerable and extremely lucky boy? I never speak of it. My wife knew of my ordeal. She herself lost a brother. My children frequently asked me to tell them tales of the war. I improvised and made lots of things up. I remember Catherine standing at door to our living room one night. I was telling the children about life in the trenches. Her eyes welled up but she was smiling. She knew I was lying but she smiled on. Her dark green, emerald eyes lit my world up. I miss her terribly. I must not think about Catherine. I will only upset myself. I tell myself often that I will be seeing her soon. These last three years have been long. Longer than even those drawn out moments in the trenches when I tried to remember my whole life. I believe I have had my fair share of suffering. I have been living on borrowed time. In 1916 I escaped death. It is coming for me, quick and fast. I feel it in my bones. There is not long now. I close my eyes. The noise of cracking bullets and gunfire fades away, and I am left in a peaceful sort of tranquility. I think of my mother, and Catherine, and Carmichael and all of the others I can thank and meet. This is not the end. My journey has only just begun.