An Ode to the Somme | Hunter Daniels

An Ode to the Somme

Hunter Daniels

“One minute now, lads!” the lieutenant called from underneath John—

Private Edwards to the men gathered around him (His Majesty’s army had little use for first names). The detonations of German shells nearly drowned out the officer’s warning. The trenches overwhelmed his senses. The wails of the wounded and firing from the Lewis guns deafened him, the constant haze of smokey dust kept him congested, the persistent shaking of the ground thanks to those damnable new metal monstrosities numbed him, the sudden, bright flashes of the explosions blinded him, and the gas had taken away his taste. In sixty seconds, he would be first up the ladder and over the top, and would face down Jerry and all his wrath. He would march through the hail of lead and fire, crawl through the barbed wire barricades, and choke on noxious fumes as he had too many times before over the past two months. And it filled him with such sweet relief; it felt reminiscent of a familiar childlike fervor he had not

experienced in some time. He swore it was like going home after school, that rush, running with Tom back to the waiting embrace of their mother. He found himself smiling like a madman at the thought, even as shells landed just a few meters ahead of him. He knew that today it would all be over. He would rise out of the comforting embrace of the trench’s dirt walls and simply walk. He would throw his rifle down, remove his helmet and just wait for the inevitable.

“Forty-five seconds!” the lieutenant cried again. He took such respite in this fact. He shook at what would happen in less than a minute. He would be free, and how that would happen no longer bothered him, not since Tom and Arthur died. Tom was his brother and Arthur his best

friend, and now they were gone, hopefully absorbed into some distant, bright eternity, and not consigned to wander some bleak, ethereal oblivion. Tom, Arthur, and John had been ecstatic when they heard the news that General Haig was getting ready to mobilize them. They were even all in the same division, and in John and Arthur’s case, the same platoon. They were thrilled to finally be done with training and give it to Jerry; they had no idea what that would mean though. For John, it meant having to live with the fact that his last words to his brother were “cheeky bastard.” At the time they were having drinks, laughing. Now, he found no humor in it at all. He had not been there when it happened. Harold Shelby, one of Tom’s squad mates, had told him that evening. John just walked away, maybe mumbling a thanks, but he could not even remember. All he hoped for now was that it was quick for his brother. John tried to remember fondly those times on Sunday mornings spent in the church pews with Tom. He could see the inside even now, rays of light refracted by the stained-glass windows depicting such scenes as the baptism of Christ and his subsequent crucifixion, the golden chandeliers, and the old wooden altar before the pulpit. He never paid much attention to these details when he was younger, he was too busy horsing around with Tom. He would pinch him, and Tom would slap back at him before their mother gave them a backhand each, a preview of the hiding to come later. He had learned to cherish those memories, and to yearn to see his mother again. “Thirty seconds!” John had been there when Arthur passed. Right after a sudden German barrage on their forward trenches they were ordered to charge. Howitzers to the front of them, to the left and right of them; their volleys passed them by as their

thunderous reports cracked over the heads of the charging English soldiers. John was right next to Arthur when it happened. A shell blew his leg off and John held him while he died. They say you never hear the shot that kills you, but John sure as hell heard the one that killed Arthur.

Arthur was a very religious man, always going on about how the flashes of dogfights above the clouds were the unseen forces of Belial and the Almighty fighting for the fate of the world. John and Arthur passed through the town of Albert at the start of the campaign and saw the Tower of the Golden Virgin outside the opulent basilica there. It was leaning when they found it, and Arthur said whichever side knocked it over would lose the war; John wanted to ask Arthur that

if God could not be bothered to care about the mother of His child, how could he

care about the heathens below killing themselves in droves every day. Arthur died praying for John and the other heathens, even the Jerries. John had no illusions about a god anymore, and Hell had lost its fury because he knew it could not be worse than this.

“Fifteen seconds!”

John Edwards steeled himself and prepared to meet his fate. He had lost the two people who understood him most, and now stood at the top of the ladder with a bright, beaming smile. It would end today, and he could not wait. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The whistle blew, and John did not move. His legs were fixed in place, his white knuckles clung to the ladder, his pale face slicked with sweat. The men below him were urging him to get on, screaming for him to climb but he could not. He began to sob and scream and pray. He prayed for forgiveness, for mercy, to be home again with his mother. Then there was a different whistle, one that began to get louder and louder before the black took him.

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