My Brother's Keeper (3 page)

‘That's coming from the south,' said Ernie, peering over the parapet. ‘Sounds like Fritz is giving the Jocks a pasting. I wouldn't want to be in their shoes tonight.'

‘Is it really that bad, then?' Alfie asked. The rumbling was joined by the crackle of rifle fire and the chatter of machine guns. ‘Being in action, I mean.'

Ernie didn't reply for a moment, his eyes still on the gun flashes to the south. Alfie felt the fire-step beneath his feet shaking with the dull thud of every explosion.

‘It was for us,' Ernie said. ‘Oh, not to begin with. There was a certain amount of shelling when we took over the trench from the last mob that were here, the Royal Welch, but that was just old Fritz saying hello Tommy, welcome to the Salient, don't take this personally, and our guns gave them as good as we got. Then some bright spark at HQ decided the Battalion should do its bit, and we were ordered to attack. Four companies, a thousand men going over the top with fixed bayonets.'

To Alfie it sounded absolutely amazing, and just the kind of thing they should be doing. ‘So what happened next? You can't leave the story there.'

‘It wasn't a story, Alfie. It was real. We were cut to pieces by Fritz's machine guns, and then he shelled us into the bargain. We lost a lot of good men that day, and we ended up right back where we'd started. It was all for nothing.'

Alfie was shocked and wanted to argue with him. How could he possibly say that? The newspapers in Blighty had said the Germans were evil and had to
be beaten, whatever the cost, and that to die in such a war would be a noble sacrifice.

But Alfie had heard the bitterness in Ernie's voice, and stayed silent.

The replacement for Captain Wilkins arrived after stand-to the next morning. Alfie could tell immediately that Captain Johnson was quite different to their previous commander. For a start he was tall and well built, but he had a very military air about him too, a look of steeliness as he strode down the trench, checking everything with his sharp, dark eyes.

Lieutenant Reynolds and Jonesy scurried along behind him, trying to answer his snapped questions, making note of his clipped comments.

‘I've arranged for two trench mortars to be sent up from the rear, Reynolds,' Alfie heard him say in his posh voice as he strode past the dugout, raking Alfie
and his mates with a brief glance of assessment. ‘I want one in this section and one in section B. I'll be obliged if you could make sure they're in place by evening stand-to.'

‘M-m-mortars, sir?' Reynolds stammered. ‘But we've never used them.'

‘Is that so?' said Johnson. ‘Well, it's time we gave Jerry a surprise.'

He continued along the trench, Lieutenant Reynolds and Jonesy following. Alfie watched him go, and was reminded of a panther he'd seen on a visit to London Zoo. For a moment he couldn't understand why, and then it came to him. The panther had been full of power and menace, as was Captain Johnson, and both were confined, the animal in a cage, the man in a hole in the ground. Alfie grinned. He had a feeling the new captain wouldn't stay confined for long.

‘Things are looking up!' Alfie turned to his mates in the dugout. ‘He's a cool customer, and no mistake. Did you hear that? A couple of trench mortars!'

‘I heard it, all right,' muttered Ernie, his face grim. ‘I wish I hadn't.'

‘Me neither,' said Cyril. ‘If I recall, Fritz don't much like surprises.'

‘Huh, that's putting it mildly.' George wasn't smiling for once.

Alfie had no idea what they were talking about. Why should they worry about Fritz? The Germans were the enemy. A sudden wave of irritation at his mates came over him. They looked ready for another session of grumbling about all the usual stuff, and he just couldn't face it, especially when exciting things were probably about to happen elsewhere. So he quietly slipped away before they could tell him to get the kettle on, and headed off to follow Captain Johnson.

The new captain's impact was visible everywhere along the line. There was plenty of muttering in his wake, but also plenty of activity as a result of his orders. The Company's four Lewis machine-guns were moved to new positions he'd chosen, and two new rearward-running saps were dug, each with a wide circular area at their furthest point from the line. Alfie soon realised these were for the mortars.

He watched a three-man Royal Artillery crew setting one up. It seemed pretty basic – an iron pipe three feet long and six inches across, with a metal plate for it to stand on and a couple of rods to support it in a diagonal position, the whole thing painted the
usual drab Army green. The bombs came in wooden boxes, sinister black globes of iron twice the size of a cricket ball, with sticks attached to them like handles.

‘Look like toffee apples, don't they?' said one of the Artillery men with a smile. ‘They're not very sweet when they go off, though. Kill a man at twenty paces.'

Two dozen boxes were stacked behind the mortar, each one holding a dozen bombs. Alfie tried to work out the total, but he'd never been much good at sums and gave up. He only knew it added up to a lot of death.

That evening after stand-to, Alfie sat in the dugout with his mates, eating the meal Ernie had prepared. It was bully beef and biscuits again, although Ernie had managed to rustle up a couple of tins of peaches for afters. George tried a few jokes, but Cyril and Ernie weren't interested, and before long they all fell silent. Then Jonesy appeared – he always checked on the men in the evenings – and Ernie beckoned him over.

‘So what do you know about the new captain then, Sarge?'

‘Why are you askin' me?' said Jonesy. ‘I'm not the bloomin' oracle, am I?'

‘Come off it, Jonesy,' said George. ‘You'll have made it your business to find out. I bet you know what he likes for his breakfast and his mother's maiden name.'

‘I think you boys are mistakin' me for someone who indulges in tittle-tattle.' Jonesy scowled at them. ‘Now if everythin' is tickety-boo here, I'll be off.'

‘Maybe the Sergeant needs a little something to wet his whistle,' said Cyril.

Jonesy had started to walk away, but he turned to them again, raising an eyebrow. Cyril retrieved a bottle of French cognac from the rear of the dugout and handed it to him. Alfie had tried the cognac once. It had burned his throat like liquid fire, and he hated it more than Army rum. Jonesy, however, clearly had a liking for it.

‘Don't mind if I do.' He took a huge swig and handed back the bottle, then glanced over his shoulder and leant further into the dugout.

‘Can't tell you much,' he said, his bark lowered to a whisper. ‘All I know is he got himself a bit of a reputation when he was with the Fifth Battalion, at least if the nickname they give him is anythin' to go by. They called him Mad Jack. You boys take care, now.'

Jonesy nodded a goodnight at them, then headed away down the trench. Ernie, Cyril and George exchanged dark looks. Alfie tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard to conceal his excitement. How he would love to earn a nickname like that!

The mortars were to start firing the next morning, half an hour after stand-to. The Company had been warned, and Alfie could feel an air of tension along the line as the moment approached. He bagsied one of the trench's parapet periscopes – an upright wooden box two feet high containing an arrangement of mirrors – so he could watch the attack. The first shot fell in no-man's land with a dull crump that sent a fountain of mud twenty feet into the air. The second landed well beyond the German line. Then the mortar crews found the range, and bomb after bomb dropped into Jerry's trenches. Alfie was sure he could hear screams.

After ten minutes or so the mortars fell silent. Alfie wanted to cheer like you do at a football match when the referee blows his whistle and you know your team has won by a long way. But the trench was strangely quiet. He looked round. It was empty – his mates and everyone else had vanished.

All at once Ernie's head appeared from behind the sacking over the dugout.

‘For God's sake, Alfie!' he yelled. ‘Don't just stand there – take cover!'

Alfie wondered why Ernie seemed so worked up. Then he heard the boom-boom-boom of heavy guns somewhere in the distance, and understood – the German artillery was opening up.

He leapt off the fire-step and dived into the dugout just as the first shells whistled down in no-man's land and behind the trench. Ernie pulled him deep into the dugout, where George and Cyril were already huddled.

‘There, you see?' yelled Cyril. ‘I told you Fritz don't like surprises.'

Alfie wasn't listening. He felt as if he were inside a huge drum that was being struck by a giant fist every few seconds. Each impact released a cloud of dirt from above, the soil getting into his eyes and mouth, each shockwave pulsed through the dugout walls and up through the ground. It all seemed to go on for ages, far longer than the mortar attack on the German trenches, but it stopped at last.

After a few moments, Ernie said it was safe to leave the dugout. Alfie emerged into the grey daylight with
his mates, his ears ringing as if he'd been repeatedly bashed round the head. He expected to see that the whole trench had been blown to kingdom come. It was still there, although it looked as if some giant angry creature had bitten huge chunks out of the rear wall and kicked in the parapet. The trench bottom was full of smashed wood and torn sandbags, and dark swirls of smoke with a strange, bitter-sweet smell hung in the air. Alfie coughed as it hit the back of his throat.

‘The smell of cordite, Alfie,' said Ernie. ‘There's nothing quite like it.'

Alfie wanted to ask what cordite was, but he didn't get the chance. ‘Out of the way!' someone yelled behind him, and he was roughly shoved aside.

Two men were racing along the trench carrying a stretcher with a man on it, a soldier with his eyes shut tight, his face as white as paper. He only seemed to fill half the stretcher, and for a moment Alfie thought he must be incredibly short. Then he saw that both the man's legs ended in a ragged, scarlet mess just above where his knees should have been, and that blood was pumping out of the stumps.

‘Jesus wept,' muttered Cyril. ‘Poor devil. Hope he makes it.'

Alfie swallowed hard, determined not to be sick this time.

But he was, anyway.

Seconds after Alfie had emptied his guts on his boots the trench mortars opened up again, and Ernie dragged him back into their dugout. The German artillery soon replied, and this time the bombardment was even heavier than before. Alfie huddled between his mates and curled into a tight ball, making himself as small as possible, trying not to scream or cry and desperately wishing it would all just stop.

Then the British big guns joined the exchange, and Alfie began to wonder if the noise of shelling and counter-shelling would simply get louder and louder until it crushed his skull.

It ceased at last, and after a while he and his mates
crawled out of the dugout once more. The first thing Alfie saw was Captain Johnson striding through a cloud of smoke, swirls of it clinging to him like the folds of a cloak.

‘Stand to, men!' he shouted, pulling his revolver from the holster on his belt. ‘This might be the moment Jerry chooses to attack, so we need to be ready for him.'

The Captain strode further on up the trench, yelling the same thing at the other men he passed. Alfie jumped onto the fire-step and waited, gripping his rifle, his heart knocking against his ribs, too scared to even think about looking over the parapet. Nothing happened, however, except for a couple of bursts of machine-gun fire further along the line, and the order to stand down was given half an hour later.

‘You all right, Alfie?' said Ernie, his face full of concern.

‘I'm fine.' Alfie didn't want to admit he'd been utterly terrified. His heart had slowed, but his hands were shaking and he was finding it hard to hear.

‘It could have been worse,' said Cyril. ‘A hell of a lot worse.'

‘Oh yeah,' said George. ‘It could have gone on for days.'

Alfie didn't want to think about that, and luckily he didn't have to. Orders came for the trench to be put to rights as quickly as possible, Lieutenant Reynolds and Jonesy organising the men into working parties. Alfie spent the rest of the day helping to shore up the trench with new planks, digging out the heaps of soil that covered the duckboards, shovelling it into sandbags. It was back-breaking, exhausting labour.

They took time for a brew-up in the middle of the afternoon. The trench was tidier, almost normal again, although the bitter-sweet smell lingered, overlaying the usual odours, Ernie explaining that cordite was the propellant in artillery shells. The sky was pale grey, almost white, the temperature dropping steadily, and now that he wasn't working any more Alfie could feel the cold seeping into his bones.

It was good to get the primus going, to see its blue flame lighting up the shadowy dugout, to feel its warmth on his hands. Ernie put a tot of whiskey from his small silver flask into each mug of tea, even Alfie's.

‘Go on, get it down you,' said Ernie, smiling. ‘You look as if you need it.'

Alfie was too tired to argue, and took a sip of the scalding liquid, expecting it to be spoilt by the alcohol. But his mouth filled with a strange sweet smokiness, and when it hit his stomach he felt a wave of warmth spread through his whole body.

They sat quietly for a while, drinking their tea. Alfie brooded on what had happened – and more particularly, on how he had reacted to the events of the last few days. Twice now he had been sick at the sight of blood, of what bullets and bombs did to men's bodies. Worse, his terror during the German bombardment had really unsettled him.