Lest We Forget
A story which came from reading an interview in a local newspaper.
I don’t know which I dreaded most from my nightmares, the sights or the sounds. Night after night the horrors came stalking me. The cries of wounded men, the raw and terrible injuries. And these were my friends, men that I knew; their bodies left there in the waterlogged trenches. Homes for the water rats. I kept sleep away as much as I could, snatching an hour or two when I was able to hold up no longer, and waking as I had now, ice-cold, fearful and confused, not knowing where I was until I recognised the smell of straw and of animals in the darkness. Then I remembered.
I remembered that this place was my prison, and I remembered why I was here. Now that I was wide awake I would lie, like every other night, freezing in my own sweat, and going over and over what had happened. I had been on patrol that night. There were occasional bursts of gunfire and flares illuminating the sky, but it was pretty quiet. We had been playing cat and mouse with the Germans for a couple of days. I leant against the trench steps and enjoyed a quiet fag. As usual I was weary, muddy and rain soaked, feet frozen, but I was sharp and alert. I could never understand how men slept on watch. Every nerve was strung up tight. You could have played a tune of sorts on me.
When I raised the periscope, carefully, I could see nothing till a light went up and then I saw them; figures; men approaching in bounds across no-mans land. What should I have done? Waited there to be bayoneted in the darkness? They wouldn’t have fired a shot and risked raising the alarm. So why didn’t I, raise the alarm I mean, by firing a round? My rifle would probably not have fired it was so caked with mud, and how would my men know who it was or where it came from? Is that what went through my mind, or did I just panic and run like a rabbit? All I know is I did run, as much as you could on the floating duck boards. But what did I do with the gun? The charge is ”shamefully casting away” a rifle. The charge is “cowardice in the face of the enemy”. The punishment is death by firing squad. The defending officer has said the rifle was found wedged across the trench. He has said that I did it deliberately to impede the enemy. Did I? It doesn’t alter the plain fact that I left it. The thing was useless as a gun right enough, but I was a Sergeant, not a raw recruit, not a half-wit like the boy here with me under arrest. I was a volunteer; in it from the kick-off, and I knew the rules. You never abandon your weapon – it has to be taken from you by force. How can I blame anybody for jumping to conclusions? It only took my Captain a few seconds to make up his mind.
There were three of us cooped up together, but by God the conditions here are a damned sight better than what we were used to. We were on a farm. Amongst the animals, of course, not the human beings, but the straw was clean and warm and we got decent tuck. There was me, Davis, and the boy. Davis was found cowering in the trench when his unit went over the top. He was one of nine survivors out of a hundred and fifty from the previous push. He had seen action all right. He hadn’t spoken since, just sat there staring. I don’t think there was anybody in there any more. Human beings didn’t seem to exist for him.
It was the boy that made me angry. The people who sent him out here should be the ones to be shot. It was plain as the nose on your face the lad was simple. He’d run away from the lines three times, and three times they’d brought him back. Now he was for it. He thought this place was heaven. Resting in the warm straw. He would sneak in and sleep close to the animals if he could, and the guards turned a blind eye and let him stay beside them. Poor little bugger.
So the three of us waited. And me just wishing over and over that I’d stopped where I was that night and let them make a quick job of it. Finish me off. My record was brought out by the defence. Served with bravery through the battle of the Somme; no evidence of previous offences; no shirking. Would such a man have thrown down his gun in panic? He left it in place for a good reason. But there can be no good reason. The King’s Regulations say so in black and white.
As well as the army officers there was an older man sitting in on the court. He listened attentively and made notes; never spoke. The court seemed to carry on oblivious of his presence. I would say he was a foreigner. There was something odd about his clothes, his hair, his glasses. I couldn’t place him at all, but it was a while since I had seen a well dressed civilian. From the Red Cross very likely, they’re all Swiss I think. Perhaps they had to have somebody independent to see fair play done. Fair Play! What would be fair play I wonder, for one shell-shocked shadow, one simpleton and one, one what, one who? I didn’t know any more. But sometimes I wanted to shout out, if I had done something shameful, wouldn’t I know it? Like at school when you were caught out by the master. You would try to wriggle out of it but you knew you were in the wrong, and you were for the stick . And I was a grown man. Wouldn’t I know?
We were all found guilty and the order of execution signed. Just let it be over.
The time came. I thought I should keep myself up to the end. I made myself as smart as I could and prepared to show I was a soldier to the last. We walked out together with our guards. They hadn’t been unkind to us in the weeks we’d been together. Davis remained white and speechless. The guards helped me to make him tidy, the boy too. I don’t believe the poor lad had any idea of what was going to happen to him.
I had to endure the Padre and his prayers. For your sake Mam, I did my best to say them, but if there is a God, he has forgotten France, and us, yes and the Germans. Perhaps what we are doing to each other is so bad that he has just closed his eyes and turned his back. The boy was a Roman Catholic and his priest came and made much of him. Dissolved his sins or whatever they call it and gave him the last rites. I give him his due, that priest, he had visited the boy every day, written letters for him, tried his best. I couldn’t face asking anybody else, so I watched my chance and spoke to him. I wanted to know what they would tell our families. Would they know, Mam and Dad? He said he thought it would just say ‘Killed in Action’. That’s one mercy.
We were marched out. A wet morning. The priest tried to walk with the boy, but the Red Caps pushed him back. I was surprised that the old man from the court was allowed to walk beside me. I suppose he was there to see everything done. Anyway they didn’t stop him and I was glad, somehow. How can you believe in certain death? Your muscles work and you move, your eyes see, your ears hear. I saw the grey sky; felt the rain on my face. I heard the clatter of our boots striking the cobbles and saw the startled innocent faces of the animals looking out of their stalls. Out of the yard I felt the everlasting mud sucking at my boots. At least I would fall in that same mud that had swallowed my comrades. My heart was beating so loud I couldn’t believe that nobody else could hear it. It seemed to be filling up my whole mind and body. But I kept my head high and my pace steady. The old man beside me also marched with a firm step. He didn’t seem to notice the rain, and kept his head up. His face was set and grim as he looked straight ahead.
When we reached the spot, Davis, the boy and me stepped forward, and I felt the old man touch my sleeve, so light it might have been the breeze and I heard him say, in English, very quiet, ‘I’ve done my best Willy’. Those words, how strange, seemed to go right through me and I felt calmer and steadier as I turned. Peace and silence. A great stillness and a silence, as if the whole world was holding it’s breath. And I didn’t see my life flashing before me like you’re supposed to. No, what I saw, I’m certain, was a park, smooth and grass green, and gunners, King Troopers, loading field cannons on a bright clear winter’s day. Four times I heard it before the darkness came…
Newspaper extract from November 2019
‘Since 2002 descendants of British soldiers shot for cowardice during the First World War are included in the veterans’ parade at the Cenotaph. Local man Mr. Tom Stones who was a tireless campaigner for the pardon of these men has marched faithfully among the fifty strong contingent, and will do so again this year. Mr. Stones’ great-uncle Sgt. Willy Stones, was shot in 1917 for ‘shamefully casting away his rifle’. Army records, concealed for 75 years, showed that he came under attack while on patrol and wedged his rifle across a trench to obstruct his German pursuers while he ran back to alert his unit of an impending assault. ‘He was a brave man, a volunteer who had fought five battles including the Somme’, said Mr Stones, 74. ‘I’m glad to march to the Cenotaph on his behalf, but I do it half with pride and half in anger’.’