Escaping Boredom

Fifteen

Filled with drying and wet mud, and seven feet below the dust surface, the bottoms of the trenches were littered with moaning men. Cries of “Oh God, why?” and “Jesus, our Lord and Saviour” were heard so frequently that the words formed a familiar background noise. The shifting of the earth above their heads was another constant sound.  The soldiers gripped their belongings, close to their chests and every few minutes glanced at them just to be sure he still had them.

For two months, the recruits lodged themselves in the contaminated trenches. They clipped the wire at night and set bombs. In the days, they waited- prepared for the British to attack. Faces were covered in mud, grime and blood.

Two months previously, when the had boarded the steam boat across the ocean, they waved goodbye to New York with giddy smiles and excited words. But now - other than the words of prayer, nobody spoke- at least not to each other.

The trenches were started to crumble in some areas. There were holes, peaking through and the boards were splintered.

Once a band of one hundred men, only twenty-three men survived. But what hurt the men the most was the act of nothing. Half the men were gone due to insanity. They ripped their guns from their arms, tore their helmets from their heads and dove willingly right into harm’s destructive path. To them, the best way to end their suffering was to die.

Among the men in Sid and Franky’s troop, William Farr was the only one to have perished. His arm was amputated at a hospital after being in No Man’s Land for a day. The doctors didn’t care if he lived or died; they just wanted a chance to practice. The rest rocked on the edge of life and death. Sometimes, their bodies pushed towards death with an explosion or gas bomb and other times, with packages and letters from home they could swear to see the light.

***

Sid sat on his post with a scrap of paper and pen in hand.  For a flat surface he used his kneecap. His hand moved quickly across the paper

“Writin’ to a sweetheart?” Tommy said, kneeling down beside Sid. He held a sorrow look in his eyes as he scanned the wall of mud that surrounded them.

Sid shrugged. “I ain’t got no sweetheart.” He didn’t say much more about whom he was writing to; it was a private matter.

“You know, I used to have a sweetheart. She is exquisite. Here’s a picture of her; her name’s Isabelle. ”

Without looking up from his paper, Sid replied, “Lovely. Do you mind?” he rudely asked, referring to the idea that he desired to be alone to finish his letter.

***

Franky rubbed his eyes, trying to keep the tears from running down his cheeks.  His face was red, dirty and ached for a smile. His chest heaved as he attempted to write a straight line but each word he wrote, only brought the urge to cry closer to the surface. “Clara,” he muttered over and over again into his hand.

Suddenly, the earth shook with greater force than ever before, the walls trembled and minds became alert. Shouts of “What the hell was that?” echoed across the lines.

A whistle detonated throughout the trenches. “On my command, go!” Buckley cried as each soldier grabbed their bayonets and mounted the ladders out of the trench.

Franky gripped his weapon with shaking fingers. On one side of him was Joseph and on the other was Sid. He gave Joseph a nod of reassurance and ignored Sid.

 “Franky, I just wanna say- you’re a good solider,” hissed Sid just as The Captain’s whistle blew. Franky didn’t have time to respond before he scrambled up the ladder.

The moment his head was above the trench, Sid wished he were back inside. Mud splattered into mouths, faces and uniforms with each pounding step. The smell clogged each nose and forced a cough out of each lung. The sounds of machines deafened God to a plead of Mercy.    Under Buckley’s orders, the men kept marching forward. This is what they were trained for; this was their moment.

“Gas bomb!” someone shouted.

Quickly the platoon slipped their masks on and continued marching forward into No Man’s Land.

In front of Sid, Tommy fell to the ground, wheezing. He clutched his chest and heaved to the dirt. Against his better judgment, Sid stopped moving and hunched over Tommy.

Wrapping his arms over Tommy’s shoulders, Sid shouted, “Hold my arm! Grip it. I’m here for you.”

Tommy didn’t respond; he couldn’t respond. His coughs overthrew his words. He tried to cough out a response to Sid- maybe a prayer or an order for Sid to tell the world about Tommy’s ending. But Sid couldn’t make out the words among the gasps.

The rest of the line marched forward, oblivious to the fact that they were about to lose another great soldier. Shells flew, bullets penetrated and screams echoed on both sides.

 Sid looked up from Tommy for a moment and quickly looked back down. “It’s gonna be good- you is gonna be fine.” He tried to pump assurance into his tone, but it was impossible when he didn’t believe it himself.

Tommy’s hand fell limp against Sid’s arm. His eyes rolled back into his skull.

Sid wiped the tears away from his cheeks. Gently resting Tommy’s head to the ground and using his helmet for a pillow, Sid rose to his feet. He pulled his gun out and aimed it at the other side.

In a blind rage, he pulled the trigger without aiming. When the magazine was empty, he reloaded it and once again shot as many people as he could. He was unable to see the whites of their eyes or the stubble of their beards therefore, he didn’t care that they screamed in agony.