Fromelles Anniversary: An Odyssey Books Bundle

Chapter 8

Harry returned from hospital to a different war, one much more to his liking, although it still felt strange to be out in the open, in the daylight. Strange and terrifying, but better than shivering in a trench. The platoon started forward in formation, the sun hot on their backs, their gear heavier with each step. It was hard to see through the haze of early morning fog. The hill was shrouded in a murderous dust and machine-g*n fire was thick about them, a solid wall of venomous noise. It was like running through a burning hive, swarming bullets intent on keeping them out. Harry stumbled more than once in the long grass, but kept pressing forward. He was keeping Alex in sight, just about. When they came to the first uncut wire, he dropped down beside him.

‘What now?’

‘Keep them up, Harry,’ Alex shouted over the thunder of weapons. ‘We’ve got to get through here.’

They lay on their bellies, working at the wire. The platoon ranged alongside. Young Border was slow getting down and dropped backward with a squawk. Alex swore. Harry crawled over to the fallen man, wrestled one and then a second field dressing onto the wound, and then made it back to the skipper.

‘Hit in the thigh. He’ll be all right. We’ll come back for him.’

Alex just grunted. ‘Right. We’re through. Come on, chaps. Can’t let the blessed Canadians down.’

It was hard going, teetering on the precipice of desperation. The game had gone on too long. They’d been on the move since April; four months in the line instead of four weeks, and no sign of rest yet. Harry kept saying to himself, this is it, there’s no tomorrow. It was something he’d said before, but today it felt different. If they didn’t get through today, if they didn’t get through, if they didn’t. They had to. It was b****y well time. One more push and then some rest. This is it, this is it. The trenches of Flanders were now far behind them. They’d won nearly seven miles of territory, thousands of prisoners, hundreds of guns, tons of equipment. Enough to start another whole war. The ground was theirs for the taking. So far their successes had won them nothing but more work, and their enthusiasm was fading. They’d had enough. This was the time.

Harry wanted some Germans to fight. He was disgusted by now with dropping into trenches to find the enemy all with their hands up. He wanted some hand to hand. He wanted to crawl over the top of them and smash them, and smash their b****y guns too. He wanted to stamp them underfoot all the way to Berlin, not send them back through the lines to some cosy prisoner-of-war camp. At least here they were well dug in; they’d fight all right. A man fell beside him, heaved up, kept running. Someone went down ahead. Harry leaped over him, staggered, went on. It was hard to see through the smoke. He no longer had Alex in sight. Carter somersaulted in front of him, blocking his way. Harry bent over to catch his breath. Someone ran past him, knocked his hip, half-spun him. He was looking back the way they had come. There was an officer down just behind him, face up, looking wide-eyed at the sky. Harry flung back.

‘Alex! Alex! Oh God, Alex!’

‘Harry?’ Alex put out a hand blindly and grabbed Harry’s sleeve.

‘Keep quiet, damn you. Don’t talk. s**t, where’s my f*****g field dressing?’ Then he remembered Border’s thigh and the blood pouring out. He put both palms to the gaping wound in Alex’s chest and pressed down for all he was worth. Death pumped through his fingers.

fuckingThe advance went past them. Mingled shrieks of artillery and men skirled all around. Over Harry’s hands, blood soaked into the ground, wicked up his sleeves, pooled on Alex’s throat. Blood foamed at his mouth, clotted his teeth. His face was a rictus of pain. His eyes held Harry’s.

The sun beat down. Dust from the battle settled on them, started to jelly the blood. Alex coughed. Harry smelled piss and s**t. The wounded always smelled like that; the worse the wound, the worse the smell. Alex stank. Harry leaned closer, his shadow keeping off the beating sun. He shook his head at the flies. They just buzzed louder. It was hopeless. Alex was trying to talk.

‘I’m hit.’

‘Too b****y right,’ growled Harry.

‘Where’s … where is everyone?’

‘Ahead.’ Harry nodded beyond. He didn’t bother to look up and check what was happening. ‘You just lie there quiet. I’m going for a stretcher-bearer.’

‘No! No. Stay.’

Harry had no intention of leaving. He thought mentioning help might make it real, make the stretcher-bearers come, make someone drop beside him with a vial of morphine and a wad of dressings. No one came. They were too advanced, too early. Too many wounded behind them. It could be hours before someone found them. He kept his hands pressed against the shattered ribs.

‘I won’t go anywhere, I promise. Lie still.’

‘Have to,’ Alex said dryly.

Harry swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do. He looked about. Maybe he could grab a field dressing from somebody’s kit, from one of the fallen. If he could reach out with one hand, maybe he could hold the wound with the other. But there was nobody near. He turned back to Alex, whose face now was the pasty colour of uncooked dough. His eyes were bright.

‘Harry!’

‘You should be quiet. What is it?’

‘Are we making ground? Are we getting there?’

Harry made a play of looking ahead. He couldn’t see anything. ‘Reckon we’ve got Fritz on the run now. Be all over soon.’

‘Yes.’ Alex closed his eyes and groaned. He turned in pain, curling over to one side. Harry followed the movement, tangled in the bloodied mess of uniform, trying uselessly to stop the blood. ‘Harry, go back.’

‘The f**k I will! I’m staying right here till the medics come.’

‘No. Home. Go home. Nora. Home.’

‘Don’t think about that now.’

‘Home,’ Alex said. ‘Dorothea.’

‘We’ll get you stitched up. You can have Christmas with her.’

Alex opened his eyes again, looking sideways up at Harry. ‘No. Wrote to me. Finished.’

‘Oh.’ Harry didn’t know what to say.

‘Always wanted … brother. Harry?’

‘I’m here.’

‘I loved you. Always.’

Harry leaned down and kissed Alex’s cheek. His shadow was dense on the white face. ‘I b****y love you too.’

Alex took a breath to laugh. ‘Enough, you fool. I’m not dead.’

‘God no. Just resting,’ said Harry.

Alex closed his eyes. Blood leaked from his mouth, thick and pink. Lungs, thought Harry. He wanted to scream. He looked about wildly. Nobody near. Nothing. Alex shuddered under his hands and the stink was worse. Shivers convulsed his body. He started moaning, grinding his teeth as the pain surged through him. The sound terrified Harry.

‘Lie still!’ he said. ‘Don’t move. We’ll just wait for the stretcher-bearers. They’ll be here soon.’

Alex turned his head, stifled his moans against the dust. ‘Since there’s no help …’ he whispered to himself.

Since there’s no helpHarry bent lower. ‘What? What did you say?’

Alex gulped a breath and then squinted up at him. ‘Don’t wait’, he said. ‘Don’t, don’t watch. Go. Go get one for me. Take my pistol.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

‘Take it. Go,’ said Alex again.

Harry bent close and pressed his forehead against Alex’s. His hands were clotted in blood, but he set his teeth and pulled clear. He kneeled for a moment, eyes closed against the sun’s glare, and took the g*n from Alex’s open hand. His own hands were shaking. This is it all b****y right. This is b****y it. He took Alex’s pistol and reeled away, toward the clamour of the hill. Then the shell hit nearby. He felt a heavy spray against his side, and then a blow like an axe to his head smashed him into darkness.