Authors: Costeloe Diney
The lieutenant looked down at the two men and called again, “Stretcher! Stretcher here, men.” Still no one came, and then a small man, white-faced in the light of yet another flare, hurried up carrying a stretcher.
“Howes and Norris have gone, sir,” he gasped. “They just mowed them, sir, just mowed them.” His voice cracked on the words as he went on, “Them Huns must’ve seen they was a stretcher party going out for the wounded. Must have. Just mowed ’em down. Fuck the bloody lot of them I say! Fuck the bloody lot of them!” Tom could see the tears coursing down the little man’s face, and knew tears to be rising in his own eyes, but the lieutenant said harshly, “Sharpen up, Jones; man here needs you.” He glanced down at Tom and said, “You too. Name and unit?”
“Carter, sir, 1st Belshires.”
“Right, Carter, you and Jones take this man back to the dressing station… and keep your heads down. Where’s your helmet, man?” he added as an afterthought.
Tom waved vaguely towards no-man’s-land. “Out there somewhere, sir, with the rest of my uniform.” The officer disappeared into a nearby dugout and reappeared with a grubby shirt and a grubbier tunic and tossed them to Tom.
“Put these on,” he said, adding as Tom shrugged himself gratefully into the clothes, “and find yourself another tin hat… first opportunity. Now off with you.” He turned away and moved on up the trench, speaking to the men who were standing on the fire step trying to give some cover to the wounded crawling back to the lines and the stretcher bearers who went out to their aid.
Jones and Tom lifted Jimmy Cardle on to the stretcher, trying to arrange his legs to lie along the length of it and not stick out at the strange angles they seemed to want to choose for themselves.
“I’ll take the front,” Jones said. “On three, lift.”
They set off through a maze of communication trenches, away from the front line, twisting their way back to the sunken road that led to the remains of a farmhouse that was being used as an advanced dressing station. Men coming the other way stood aside for the stretcher, averting their eyes from the man who lay upon it. Tom had no idea where he was, it was not the section of the line where he had been before the attack, but Jones seemed to know his way through the maze and when they reached the farm house Tom thought he remembered passing such a building on the way up to the front three days earlier. Was it only three days? It seemed like an eternity since they had threaded their way up trenches just like these to take up their positions in the front line. Where was the rest of his unit? Cookie, Hughes and Farmer with their Lewis gun? Captain Hurst, Sergeant Turner, Corporal Snotty-nosed Johns? Had they got through, or had they been blown away like poor Davy Short, dead within minutes of leaving the trench? Where should I go to find them, Tom wondered? Where do I begin to look?
When they reached the dressing station it was shambolic, as wounded streamed in from all parts of the line. Some, badly injured like Jimmy Cardle, lay on stretchers in patient agony for attention, assessment and first aid before being loaded on to ambulances for the long and bumpy journey back to the casualty clearing stations and field hospitals. Behind the farmhouse, in the shelter of a sunken road, some horse ambulances were being loaded with wounded, ready to start that dangerous journey. They were still well within range of the enemy artillery and nowhere this close to the German line was safe from shells and whizzbangs; death could still scream in from the sky.
Other men, less seriously hurt, were sitting in groups trying to keep their spirits up as they waited for their wounds to be dressed and bandaged. All were in pain, but few cried out. The occasional scream came from within the farmhouse, and those outside shuddered inwardly and thought, “Some poor bugger…”
Jones and Tom put the stretcher down with the other stretcher cases, and Tom gave Cardle’s name to a harassed orderly and told him what he knew of the injuries. When he turned round Jones had disappeared into the throng.
Tom felt dog-tired, but his brain was racing as he decided what he should do next. He, too, faded into the crowd before anyone could give him anything else to do. His one object was to get back to the hospital at St Croix and find Molly. He had leave, he told himself firmly. Captain Hurst had said he could go back with a supply party once the push was over. Well, he, Tom, had made his push and been pushed back. He had brought in a wounded man from the field, and he hadn’t a clue where the rest of his unit, if indeed there was any “rest”, was now. He didn’t even know where he was. Once again his brain played back the vision of the men caught on the wire, blown away by the interlocking fire of the enemy machine guns. He forced his mind away from them, would not allow himself to think about them, nor to listen to their cries that still rang in his ears. The sight of Sam Gordon rose unbidden to his memory, and he turned away from the sight of the wounded strewn about him outside the little farmhouse. He had done his bit, and though he was quite prepared to do more, it would not be until he had got back to St Croix and to Molly.
First stop must be Albert. He could find St Croix and the convent once he got there.
If I can just get to Albert, he thought, I can be in St Croix in a couple of hours. He thought about Jimmy Cardle and wondered if he’d make it. Surely his was a Blighty one, he’d be going home, his war over, that was if he survived the journey. Tom thought about the ambulances that would jolt off down the tracks taking the wounded out of immediate danger.
That was when the idea came to him. Though aching and exhausted, he heaved himself to his feet and made his way back to where the ambulances were being loaded. Stretcher cases were being slotted inside, and then the drivers were heading out along the sunken road to the tracks and roads that led away from the front. As he watched an ambulance began to move off. The next was still being loaded and he climbed up beside the driver who didn’t seem at all surprised to see him.
“You Henderson’s relief?” he asked.
“Yes, Carter,” replied Tom, wondering who Henderson was and why he had been relieved, but not questioning this piece of luck.
“Right,” said the driver, “I’m Gerard,” and they pulled away.
“Complete shambles,” remarked Gerard as they trundled down the track. “Complete cock up.”
Tom nodded his agreement, but said nothing. He didn’t want to get drawn into conversation with this man. Although they were moving away from the front line, they were not out of danger yet. A shell whizzed over their heads and exploded in the field beside them. The blast made the horse rear up, it heavy hooves pounding the ground as it plunged in the shafts. Gerard leapt down to quieten it, soothing it with his hands and voice, before they could continued their plodding way down to the casualty clearing station.
Here, too, all was chaos, with wounded pouring in from all fronts. The ambulances lined up to be unloaded, and as their turn came, Tom and Gerard lifted their stretchers down and carried them over to where others were already in rows on the ground, waiting. When the final stretcher was out, Gerard went round to the front and led the horse away.
“I’ll give him his nose bag and a drink at the trough,” Gerard said, “You go and get us some grub.” He pulled a couple of mess tins from under his seat and handed them to Tom, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of a large hut. Tom headed to the hut, suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten since dawn and that he was starving. The hut was hot and crowded. Tom took the mess tins to a counter where an orderly dished out some sort of hot stew. Tom carried the tins outside where Gerard found him and together they polished off the hot food in double quick time. It was nearly sunrise again, the sky was lightening in the east and the ambulances were continuing to roll in.
“Time to go,” Gerard said. “Just got to go and splash my boots.” He headed off towards the latrines and Tom turned in the other direction. He headed into the mêlée of men, losing himself among the shadows, so that when Gerard returned to drive his ambulance back to the front for more wounded, Tom was nowhere to be seen. With a job to be done, Gerard shrugged and swung himself up behind the horse and headed off alone to collect more men.
From the shelter of the mess hut, Tom watched him drive away and then set off himself. He needed to be well away from the clearing station before it was full daylight. The rising sun told him which way was east and he struck out south across country towards Albert, St Croix and Molly.
10th July
My darling Molly
I am writing to you from near the town where we were going to meet, where I am under arrest at present. Sarah’s brother did give me a pass in the end, but I lost it in the battle, and so until they find out from him for sure I have to stay here. I am well treated and have exercise, but the rest of the day is a bit boring. But it won’t be for long, I am sure. It does mean that I shan’t be able to come to you as we’d hoped. You must go home, my darling girl, and I will come and find you as soon as I can…
Tom walked steadily for nearly two hours and then knew he could go no further. He had made his way cross-country. The roads and lanes were crammed with troops and equipment moving both up to the front and away from it; a steady and rather confused traffic of marching men, limbers, double-decker buses packed with troops, ambulances, staff cars and occasional heavy artillery. Vehicles were going in both directions and it seemed to Tom far easier to stay off the roads, he could move more quickly and now the only thing his mind focused on was getting to Molly. There would be no meeting in Albert as originally planned, she would have no idea that she was coming, he must find her at the convent.
At last his legs refused to carry him further and he looked round for somewhere he could rest up for a while, just catch a couple of hours’ sleep. Amid the twisted tree stumps of what had once been a copse at the edge of a field, Tom could see the remains of some sort of building. Summoning up the last of his strength he plodded over to it. It was indeed a ruin, but the gaping hole in its back wall gave access to the welcome shelter of three walls and half a roof. Tom crawled inside, and found to his amazed delight that there were some wisps of straw strewn on the floor. It was damp and smelt of mould, but never had a bed seemed so welcoming. Raking it together with his fingers, he dragged the wet and smelly strands into the corner beneath the roof, and collapsed on to it, instantly asleep.
He woke hours later with the evening sun slanting in on his face, his body stiff and cold, his teeth chattering and his head pounding. For a moment he looked blankly around him and then the previous day flooded back to him, the mud and the blood, the shattered bodies and Sam Gordon dying in a shell-hole; Jimmy Cardle on his back, the nightmare journey with the ambulance.
Exhaustion claimed him and Tom lay back on the dank straw and tried to take in his surroundings. Three walls, jagged-edged where the stones had fallen away and sloping steeply were all that had sheltered him, with the remains of a thatched roof hanging precariously from broken rafters above him. The fourth wall had collapsed into a heap of rubble, beyond which Tom could see the sky, a gleaming, polished blue shot with the crimson and flame of sunset, stretching away into the distance. Somewhere beyond the rubbled wall he could hear a trill of birdsong, a sound that seemed to the bemused Tom completely alien… how could there be birds on a battlefield? For far away still playing out their thunder, he could hear the guns, the ever-present accompaniment to his life in the past weeks. He raised his head again, heaving himself up on to his elbow, but his head reeled with the effort of it, and he dropped back again closing his eyes. He could feel the last rays of the sun on his face, but it didn’t warm him, he felt chilled to the bone and his whole body seemed to be shaking, and yet he was covered in sweat.
Trying to concentrate on what he should do next, Tom realised that he was incredibly thirsty. His mouth was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to swallow, but had nothing to swallow with. Once he had recognised it, his thirst seemed to increase until it threatened to consume him. He had had nothing to eat or drink since dawn at the casualty station, and though he felt no hunger, his thirst dried his throat to a rasping ache. Water became his only concern, and again he made the effort to get up. He was in an animal shelter after all, maybe there was a trough somewhere, perhaps outside, or even a hollow in the rubble of stones where rain might have gathered. He dragged himself across the muddy floor towards the collapsed wall, and hauled himself up to peer over it. The country stretched away before him, flat fields, their emptiness only broken by occasional clumps of stunted trees, broken stone walls and tattered hedgerows. Beside the barn was a single tree, leafless and gnarled, and it was from the branches of this that the thrush was singing its evening song. Beneath it was a small wooden trough, its water oily-surfaced in the sun. With immense effort, Tom pulled himself to his feet and staggered across to the trough. At his movement the thrush flew away in alarm, but Tom’s whole being was focused on the water. He reached the trough and kneeling beside it, scooped the brackish water into his parched mouth. It tasted foul and he almost threw up, but after a moment he forced himself to drink a little more. Then he collapsed back against the tree and, closing his eyes, sleep claimed him once again.
“Aye, aye! What have we here?”
The guttural voice jerked Tom awake and he looked up to see two military policemen standing over him, each with a rifle in his hand.
One, with sergeant’s stripes on his arm asked, “What are you doing here, son?”
Tom stared up at him for a moment and then said, “I’m on my way to Albert.”
“Oh you are, are you? On your feet, man. Name and number?”
“Private 8523241 Thomas Carter, 1st Battalion, Belshire Light Infantry, Sarge.”
“Well, Private Carter, why are you here on your own and not with your regiment?”
“Don’t know where they are, Sergeant.”