The Push

The Push

Stan woke to a misty rain pinging off the edge of his helmet, the steady drip impacting on the webbing strapped to his chest, each splash matching the impacting explosions of the shelling penetrating the land above. As he lifted the blanket from around his shoulders he felt the skittering of a rat from the small of his back, with fur black as night and eyes of crimson, it shreaked up the wall into its burrow. Stan paid no mind and wiped the sleep from his eyes as the dawn light crested the top of the trench. He turned his head and peered into the periscope sight which was fixed next to him. It was the same view every morning, blackened trees, fog and barbed wire.

The stench of rot, mud, burning and body odour filled his nostrils. Most would vomit at such a mixture of decay, but to Stan the smell was a welcome one. It meant he was safe in this 100 mile long mass grave in France. As he breathed in, relief flooded his mind, he survived another night in this blood soaked field of human destruction.

His mind refocused to the niggling thought in the back of his mind, when will this big push begin? Would he see another dawn in his corner of man made hell? He took in another deep breath to push the growing fears that had begun to manifest and swallowed hard.

He reached into his tunic to retrieve the small tin of tobacco he kept concealed. With a suspicious look around him to see if any of the others were watching, last time he told someone he had tobacco he didn't smoke for a week, because some bastard pinched it while he slept. Feeling the dented metal revealing the weather worn metal holding within a small comfort of home. His fingers grasped purchase on the lid, his hands numb and cracked from the frosty mist that surrounded. He rolled a cigarette, tasting the dry tobacco on the tip of his tongue, bitter but welcoming. As he finished licking the paper, he felt someone kick his boots, surprised that he felt it at all since his feet have felt like blocks of ice for months. He looked up slowly to see a towering bulky man in his late 40s sporting the thick moustache of brown and greying hairs of his sergeant.

“On your feet Wilkins and finish that ciggy sharpish” Stan pushed his cold body off the fire step which provided the last evenings excuse for comfort to his feet, feeling the blood rush back to his extremities.

“Yes Sarge” he said in a raspy voice through chapped and broken lips.

“Good lad, carry on Corporal” he replied.

The Sergeant carried on down the line of mud walls and gnarled barbed wire kicking boots and tapping the brims of helmets, awakening the frozen husks of men to their feet until his silhouette vanished in the mist beyond. Stan took two short pulls of the last dregs of the cigarette and flicked the remaining embers over the top of the trench like a night flare lighting up the damned laying still in the darkness. He picked up the rifle leaning near the pile of mud and debris which made up last night's bed. He shouldered the leather strap to take the weight and headed down the line in search of something warmer.

As he drew closer to the dug out the sight of steam from the hot water in the cool air. He removed the tin mug from his webbing ready to receive whatever was on offer. He reached the small cut hole in the soil where Lenny was preparing a pan of boiling water over a small open fire. Its damp wood cracked and sizzled under the pan. The platoon hung around in silent anticipation of a mug of tea, it was the only warm thing, creature or man can get in a 10 miles radius. Lenny raised his head from the pan to greet him.

“Morning Len, how was your night?” Stan noticed the fresh black eye, the blacks and purples as fresh as a thunder cloud on the horizon.

“ What hell happened to you” said Stan with a slight giggle in his voice, “Did Sarge catch you sleeping on watch again”.

With a smirk Lenny winked with one eye, wincing with the other.

“ Nothing that dramatic, my rifle thought it best that I receive the shell casing back for my hard work”.

“You? Hard work?” Lenny gave Stan a sideward glance with his good eye.

“Do you want a cuppa or not?”

Stan presented his scuffed mug to Lenny. He grabbed the handle and placed it on a broken piece of wood fashioned into a table. He grabbed some tea leaf dust from a small box and placed it into a dented strainer, which looked like it had walked too close to the German frontline. He grabbed the nearby ladle and began to pour hot water over the strainer, dumping the contents into the mug.

“Here he said”, handing back the mug, “get that down ya, you’ll need it today”

Stan lifted the mug towards his lips and mumbled into the cup.

“What do you mean by that?” He took a small swig of the steaming liquid into his mouth burning his top lip. The after taste of petrol filled his nostrils, burning the hairs as it went down. Lenny began to hand out more poor excuses of tea to the huddled masses.

“I hear the big push is today, straight over the top and home by Christmas.”

Stan, with a worrying look, stammered “You have said everyday for the past fortnight and look we are still here”.

Lenny looks him in the eye and gestures for him to come closer.

“I heard the Captain talking last night in his dugout, said the order to attack is today. Why do you think the sarge is waking everyone up”. The colour ran from Stan's face as he slowly looked up at the top of the trench, hearing the gunfire and whistling of shelling. It was a graveyard up there and he was about to walk into it. He was about to shut down Lenny again when the sergeant’s booming voice echoed down the line.

“ Get on Parade, look lively Hobbs!”

The voice moved further towards them, Stan finished his tea feeling the warmth hit his chest, and pushed the mug back into its pouch.

“Sait!” shouted the Sergeant looking straight at Lenny with a demeanor that would match the look of a lion eyeing its prey, “Put down that ladle, ain’t a hope in hell that will help you against the Hun.”

Lenny hastily dropped the ladle back into the water with a splash and scrambled for his rifle.

The men in the trench grabbed their belongings, throwing the remaining drops of tea from the mugs to avoid rusting the bottoms. The clatter of rifles being slung on shoulders and the groans of sleepless men falling into line travelled the line like a game of Chinese whispers. Lenny fell into place and Stan felt an object being folded into his hand, it felt hard and dusty. Stan glanced down towards his open palm and spied a biscuit. He looked up at Lenny as his friend lent in towards his ear and whispered “No food for brekkie was dropped this morning, I saved this for you from yesterday” and with a touch of his nose he turned and stared at the mud bank in front of him.

Stan's heart dropped into his empty stomach, no food he thought, that can mean only one thing. We are about to attack. Command never sent food to a regiment about to charge, it's a waste when they know that the majority of the men standing here would be swallowed by the meat grinder of red flowers, mud and smoke.

He took a deep breath, the younger lads could see him and he wanted to keep his fears bottled up lest they spread like the fires in no man’s land. He concealed the biscuit in his pocket for later. The Sergeant walked down the line to fall beside Stan, and with a bellowing roar, “Company, Attention!”

There was a squelch of cold leather as boots stamped on the ground into the ever slicking mud as the captain came into view.

Captain Parsons loomed into view, fresh from a night in the support trenches where the dugouts were a bit more luxurious, well they had a warmer place to sleep and less rats for company. He looked up and down the line with pursed lips and a pale faced stare.

Stan with a sudden lump in his throat knew what was coming, before he could think further the captain raised his voice.

“Morning Men”

And with the unison of a church choir they all responded “Morning Sir”. He walked down the line, the squelch of planks as he walked an undertone to his words. He lowered his head in what seemed silent contemplation before he continued.

“Well, today is the day. The day we have been waiting for, the day we make king and country proud. The day we show the Hun that we mean business”

A pregnant silence fell over the company. The blasting of the shells above the only sound that could be heard amongst the heavy breathing of the men.

“Prepare to receive orders of the advance. Sergeant carry on”.

“Yes Sir.”

The Sergeant turned towards the Captain as he walked and fixed a hearty salute. With the normal loud bellow but with a rattle in his voice.

“ Company Fall Out”.

The men downed their rifles on to the nearest surface. Some sat on the fire step, pulling out pieces of paper, photos and other comforts that provided some normality to this place where no man should be. The sergeant stormed his way down the trench and placed his hands on shoulders, offering words of encouragement.

“Come on lad, be British,” and “Home by Christmas eh.”

I turned to face Lenny, as standing orders began to kick in.

“Well bugger,” said Lenny “there’s no turning back now, what's the plan boss?”

Stan narrowed his eyes and turned to Lenny.

“I want you on Fire Watch*”

Lenny lent in, wide eyed at the words.“ I cannot do that Stan, I will not be seen as a coward.”

Stan whispered back at him, “You know the drill, your job is to stop cowardice and besides I want a brew when I get back from whatever I face out there.”

Lenny grimaced, “If I must, yes sir”.

Stan headed back down to the nearest gap on the step and sat, he pulled out the small tin again and with shaking fingers and a knot in his stomach began to roll a cigarette. He was more generous with the tobacco this time.

He struck the match and the flame sparked to life. He took in a long drag, feeling his nerves ease ever so slightly. After placing the tin back in its hiding place, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small envelope.

The smell of the now dulling lavender still lingered upon it. He unfolded the letter and looked at the photograph concealed inside. The picture was of a young woman in her late twenties with Brighton pier in the background. He stared at the snapshot of a memory before him for what seemed to be an eternity, taking in every emotion held within its frame. He turned the picture and read the writing on the back in fading pencil. Rosie. Brighton. 1904.

He smiled to himself letting the memory wash over him like the spring morning sun on the banks of the Thames. That was the day he first met her, five weeks later they were married, and now even twelve years on he still loved her like that day next to the coconut shy on the pier. He remembered trying to show off with his throwing and Rosie laughing at how bad he was. They spent the whole afternoon talking about the wonderful future that lay ahead and how it was filled with wonder. Just the memory of her filled him with a warmth the tea could never replace.

A sudden explosion overhead jolted Stan back to his painful reality. A tear ran down his face leaving a track behind in the dirt and mud encrusted to his face. The idea he may never see Rosie again terrified him.This is the longest they have been apart. He wiped his eyes and face. He didn't want this to be the last image of him they’d have. Stan reached into his pocket and bought out the biscuit Lenny gave him.

He crunched into it. It tasted like stale bread and was as hard as brass, but he was thankful for the sustenance. His stomach grumbled and groaned as he swallowed down the remaining crumbs, his belly gurgled with its first digestion in days. One hour went by. Looking down the line at the dejected faces of his men, eyes down staring at the mud sodden ground but not seeing. Thousand yard stares bore their way into Stan’s mind. As Stan contemplated rolling another cigarette the bellow of the sarge ricocheted down the line.

“On your feet lads, rum rations”.

The clatter of tin mugs appeared down the line as one of the lads went down pouring the copper contents of rum into each mug. The lad got to Stan, the bottle shaking in his hands as the nerves set in, and splashed a couple of measures into the tin. He took the contents in one hit, the liquid warming and burning down into his chest. He took in a deep breath, feeling the cool air hit his lungs. He placed the tin back in its pouch.

Before he could sit down back on the step the voice of the Captain yelled down the line.

“Company on your feet!”

The lads got to their feet and unshouldered their rifles. Actions of rifle clicking and sliding into place.

“Form two ranks!” the captain continued.

Both sides of the trench were lined with men, a mixture of emotions being performed in mime. The captain walked down the line nodding to the men with encouraging glances. He un-holstered his service revolver and clicked open the drum as he loaded rounds. He took his place a couple yards away from the sergeant.

Stan turned his head to see Lenny, holding his rifle with a white knuckle grip ready for his terrible task. Stan felt bad for ordering it, but it was the only way to try and keep his friend alive. Lenny was one of the only friends he had left, most of his friends were above him, lost to the mud and endless sorrow. Stan turned back to face the wall of muck before him and started to breathe deep. The captain pulled the chain of his pocket watch from his jacket and observed the time.

“Five Minutes”

Stan closed his eyes and began to silently pray to see another dawn. His fingers began to tremble as the adrenaline pumped around his body. The anticipation of the coming attack kicking his brain into overload. He breathed deeply, trying to control the convulsions, his eyes opened with a blur from where he was clenching his eyelids tight.

“Four Minutes”.

Stan’s leg began to twitch and he struggled to contain it. Trying to refocus his mind to the task at hand. “180 yards” he kept telling himself in his mind “Just like walking to the pub” as his breathing began to steady.

“Three Minutes…Fix Bayonets” the captain shouted. With the sharp ting of steel and clicks bayonets were being affixed to the barrel of the rifles. You could see men down the line struggling to clip the bayonet in, the men beside them trying to help them with their trembling hands.

“Two Minutes”

Stan spoke to the lads beside him “This is it, prepare gents”. Stan placed a foot up on the splintered ladder in front of him, ready for the climb.

“One minute”.

The land was still. The large guns many miles behind falling quieter and quieter. The dull thuds of impacts slowly fading away. Silence fell like a hammer to its anvil. The lack of sound brooded a ghostly calm. The Captain took the whistle from his pocket and raised it to lips, placing it between ready to blast the charge. The breath of men could be seen in the frosty damp air. Stan’s ears numbed, images of Rosie and the pier flooded his mind. He was on the beach walking hand in hand with his love. Suddenly the loud pitched whistle pierced his vision, and before he knew it he was climbing the steps of the ladder over the top.

The climb felt like ascending a mountain. He crested the top and clambered to his feet. He was greeted with the blackened mire of a cratered landscape, splintered trees and wire. A sight that can only be compared to Hell. Levelling his rifle to his hip and the bayonet glistening in the rarely seen sunlight he walked towards the enemy. The deafening whistles for miles left and right begin to erupt their loud pitch cry calling warriors of the king to action. The shapes of human figures begin to emerge from the smog and earth like ants from a hill.

Negotiating the razor sharp wire as he picked up pace. He looked but could not see, could not listen but heard as the whizzing of gunfire opened up in front of him. His nose filled with fumes of burning gunpowder and decay, he could taste the mixture of rum and petrol in the top of his mouth as he ran faster towards flashes of muzzle.

He hopped over corpses long taken by the darkened abyss of this no man's land. The veneer of civilization faded away as the tremendous rifle fire grew. Turning his head side to side to his men beside him trying to keep pace being cut down like a farmer harvesting his grain. The ticking of machine gun fire ignited into land in front of him. Men's chests exploded into plumes of claret. Bones cracked between the explosions. Despite his very being telling him to run back he continued forward. Placing one foot in front of the other, every step filling him with dread.

As he moved through the spectral mist of the unforgiven land he began to see the shadows of men in the fog only illuminated by the flashes of gunfire. He raised his rifle. The iron sights now level with his eye as he focused on his quarry. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed its hellish contents towards the first shadow of a man he could spot.

In his exhaustion the kick of the rifle hitting his shoulder nearly knocked him on his back. He threw back the bolt to load another round into the chamber. Took aim at the outline. And fired. The shadow disappeared from view into the depths of the ocean despair under the waves of mist and blood. He moved further forward, reloading in one fluid motion.

The bolt fell back into place and he raised his rifle again; so close now he could smell the mass of bodies huddled in the ground before him. As the scuffed barrel of the rifle searched for a new foe, he could see the whites of a man’s eyes boring into his being. He felt his feet fall from under him. His eyes filled with the grey sky above. The hard cold ground came to meet him. And the light faded and darkness filled his vision.