Authors: Jim Eldridge
The Trenches
To
my wife, Lynne.
Contents
Epilogue: January 1918 â June 1919
Carlisle,
1919
It all began just five years ago, but in those five years everything has changed. In that time I've lost good friends, and made new ones. I've changed from Billy Stevens, the innocent boy from Carlisle, to Billy Stevens, a man whose mind is still filled with memories of terrible sights that I hope no one else has to see or live through. This is my story, told while those memories are still vivid in my mind. But I don't think they'll ever go awayâ¦
1914
My family â that is, me, my parents, my two brothers and two sisters â lived in a part of Carlisle called Denton Holme. It was all red-brick terraced houses and cramped cobbled streets. Other parts of Carlisle were richer, with bigger houses, but I liked where we lived. It was friendly. In Denton everyone knew everyone else, and you'd always find someone to help you out if you were in trouble, or short of money for milk, or coal or anything.
Rob Matthews and I had been best mates since we started at school together. I suppose we became best pals because we were sat together when we were first in Miss Pursley's class and we used to walk home together because our houses were round the corner from each other. But there's more to it than that. You don't stay best pals with someone just because you live near them.
Rob was always the dare-devil of the two of us, the one leading the way. He was the one who climbed the highest up the trees to get the pick of the crop when we scrumped apples from Mrs Gardner's orchard. Me, I was content to pick up windfalls from the ground. And Rob wasn't afraid
to
tell our bullying teacher, Mr Dickens, what he thought of him when Dickens picked on some poor innocent kid in our class. It got Rob a beating from Dickens with the cane, but Rob just took it and didn't let him see that it hurt him.
Like I say, that was Rob Matthews. He was a hero to the boys â and the girls â at school and around Denton, and he was my best pal. What he saw in me, I don't know. Although he said once, “You're clever with your head. I like that.”
Rob and I were both thirteen years old when the War broke out. There'd been talk about it coming for some time, though I hadn't paid much interest before because it was all just politics as far as I was concerned, and politicians talking was just boring. But I had picked up things from listening to my dad when he'd sit and read the paper and talk about what was going on about the Kaiser â who was the Emperor of Germany â with my Uncle Stanley when he came round.
I remember sitting in our tiny kitchen cooking potatoes in their skins in the range, while my dad and Uncle Stanley shared the newspaper, and Dad read out from his bit, the sports pages, and Uncle Stanley read bits out from the pages that had the news.
“There's a horse racing at Epsom today called Stevens Luck,” said Dad, rustling his paper. “I wonder if it's worth a shilling each way?”
That was the way it was with my dad: he'd check the horses and spend all day thinking about whether to put a
bet
on or not. I had no doubt that if he'd had spare money he would have, but in our house money was so tight that he never did. This was lucky, because most of the horses he mentioned as likely winners never came anywhere.
The front page of the section that Uncle Stanley held said “WAR DECLARED” in big letters. “It had to come,” sighed Uncle Stanley. “I could tell it was coming when they killed Franz Ferdinand.”
“Who's Franz Ferdinand?” I asked.
“He was the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria,” Uncle Stanley told me. “Him and his wife were on a visit to Serbia and they got killed by a bunch of lunatics. Anarchists.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Politics,” said my dad. “Believe me, son, politics is to blame for most of the troubles in this world.”
“As soon as that happened, I knew we were in for trouble,” Uncle Stanley continued. That was the way with Uncle Stanley. Once something major had happened he could tell you how he always knew that it was going to happen. However, just like with Dad's racing forecasts, Uncle Stanley never seemed to be able to tell us what was going to happen
before
it did.
“Once Franz Ferdinand was killed there was only one thing that was bound to happen: Austria and Hungary declared war on Serbia. It was obvious.”
“Why?” I asked.
Uncle
Stanley ignored my question, and carried on: “Of course, straight away Russia declared its support for Serbia.”
“There's another horse here called Archduke,” muttered Dad, still studying the racing form. “It's 100-1. Now that's what I call good odds.”
Uncle Stanley glared at my dad, slightly annoyed because he wasn't paying attention to all this knowledge unfolding, but my dad just ignored him. He was used to Uncle Stanley.
“Why did Russia get involved?” I asked. “And why are we at war?”
“Alliances,” said my dad, still concentrating on his racing page. “Countries sign agreements to back each other up in case they're attacked.”
“Exactly,” nodded Uncle Stanley. “In this case, Germany, who are on Austria and Hungary's side, told Russia to stay out of it. Russia refused, so Germany declared war on Russia. Then straight away Germany set out to invade France.”
“Which had been the Germans' plan all along, if you ask me,” said Dad.
“Exactly,” nodded Uncle Stanley again. “That's what I've always said. It's obvious. But to do that the Germans have got to go through Belgium. And Britain has got a treaty with Belgium, so that if Belgium were ever attacked we would come to its defence. So, when Germany invaded Belgium, we had no choice but to declare war on Germany.” Uncle Stanley prodded the headline on the paper with his finger.
“
And that, Billy, is how this war started.” He gave a smile, pleased at having imparted his knowledge of world politics to me. “Mind,” he added, “it'll all be over by Christmas. The Germans can't fight a war against proper soldiers like ours. I know what I'm talking about⦔
As you can imagine, as soon as we knew that war had been declared, me and Rob and all the boys in our street all went down to the army recruiting office to join up and fight the Hun. But the Sergeant there just laughed and told us all to go away.
“Don't you worry,” he said. “It'll all be over in a few weeks. We'll soon kick the Kaiser back to Germany.”
I was really disappointed. All the way down to the Recruiting Office I'd had visions of myself in my khaki uniform and my tin helmet rushing forward in battle, firing my rifle, and taking loads of Germans prisoners and getting medals. I could even see myself at Buckingham Palace getting my medal for bravery from the King. Instead of fighting bravely we were being sent home and we'd all still have to go to school tomorrow.
Rob was even angrier than I was. “It's not fair,” he said. “When there's a war on they ought to take everyone who wants to go. It makes sense that the more soldiers we've got on our side the bigger our army will be and the quicker we'll win.”
“
Maybe the Germans'll be harder to beat than the Sergeant thinks,” I suggested. “Maybe it'll go on for longer and then they'll want us soon enough.”
“Maybe,” said Rob. “We can but hope.”
Well, the Kaiser didn't get kicked back to Germany in a few weeks. In fact the weeks turned into months, and then the months turned into years, and all those people who'd been so confident it would all be over in a short space of time were now moaning and groaning about the country going to ruin because of the War.
My Grandfather Pickles, my dad's father, told me, “It wouldn't be going on this long if the old Queen, Victoria, were still alive. She'd have put a stop to it. She'd just have a word with her nephew, Kaiser Billy, and tell him to pack up his soldiers and go back home.”
I must admit, I was surprised to find out that our king and the German kaiser were cousins. But when I told Rob this he just laughed and said didn't I know how families were always fighting among themselves. Like his mother and her sister, who were always arguing hammer and tongs.
As the War dragged on, Rob and I often talked about joining up and going out and fighting. We saw ourselves as the heroes who would go over to Belgium and France and sort those Germans out. Both of us were really eager to get out there, but there was one problem: our mums.
When
my mum found out that I'd been down to the Recruiting Office soon after the War started, she was furious. “Don't you even think about joining up!” she said. “If you go over to France I'll never see you again!”
“Course you will,” I said. “I'll be allowed home on leave.”
“That's not what I mean and you know it!” she said angrily. “You're not going and that's that! So don't you even think about it!”
After a few months, I brought the matter up again, but Mum hadn't changed her mind about it one bit.
“You're not going!” she said when I mentioned I was thinking of joining up.
“He's only thinking of defending his country!” my dad put in, defending me.
“Oh yes,” snapped back my mum. “And he'll come home with bits missing, like Brian Cotterill over in Botchergate. Twenty years old, and no legs now. What chance has Brian Cotterill got of ever earning a decent living?”
“They don't all come home injured,” said my dad.
“No, some come home dead,” snapped my mum. “And some don't come home at all.”
With that she gathered up the bundle of washing she'd been packing in a sheet and went next door to use Mrs Higsons's copper washer.
Dad looked at me and sighed. “Your mum's got very
strong
opinions,” he said. “That's because she lost an uncle in the Boer War. She doesn't really mean it.”
But I knew she did, and it made me feel miserable. I wanted to be out there, fighting for my king and country. Instead I was stuck at home while other boys from Carlisle went off and became heroes.
Januaryâ
February 1917
At the start of 1917, the year I turned sixteen, the War had been going on for over two years. I'd been working as a trainee telegraph operator at the Citadel Railway Station in Carlisle for two years, ever since I left school. Being a telegraph operator meant sitting at a desk and operating a telegraph key. This key sent messages along cables to the other railway stations along the lines. It also received them, printing the messages out in Morse code, a series of short buzzes and long buzzes, each one representing a letter, so the telegraph operator had to be able to understand the code to be able to read and send messages.
Rob had also got a job on the railway. He didn't work on the telegraph, though, he worked as a track layer, laying railway lines. He was a big tough lad, was Rob, and he could wield a hammer and drive a spike as good as men twice his age.
By January 1917, stories were coming back from Belgium about how our troops only needed one last push and they'd break the Germans, but the Germans had dug in tight. If only more troops could be got out there to the Front, which was where the fighting was going on, the Germans would
crack
and the war would be over. More men were all that was needed. I was getting more and more eager to get out there, and so was Rob.
