Cobo Madriñan Mateo, Those Who Shall Never Be Forgotten

It was at dawn, the shells seemed to have spit black venom on the gloom land where a black mist always hung. The forest thicket that veiled the camp had fallen and had a sad look like it was resting eternally except it wasn’t at peace. The glittering sunny day had sucked the skins of the remained soldiers. It was just another day on the western front.

Bloody soaked. This vicious rain has been falling for weeks now and we are bloody soaked in these dugouts. Soaked in mud in our trenches. Not even the putties keep the moisture out of our toes. “Bear it lads” our sarge usually blurts as he slugs through the ditch. It’s quite chilling, seeing this chuffed fellow soaked to the brass making a mockery of our situation. Far too much for some of the boys to handle, but, I’ve seen worse.

The mud here isn’t liquid at all, it isn’t porridge. In reality, it is a curious kind of sucking mud ... Perhaps it is a real monster that sucks at you. It seems as if rain and artillery are making an effort to turn the trenches into cesspools where the men flounder and drown. A true nightmare of earth and mud. After living amidst these white-faced men with their rosaries and copper crosses, never getting away from this grotesque atmosphere, you gradually succumb to the mystic languor exhaled by the rifles of the Hun.

Rank doesn’t even matter anymore. Private, Lance Corporal, Brigadier, nothing of that rubbish is of use when you find yourself at the end of a muzzle. The first thing I did when I was promoted was to exchange that bloody piece of tin and ribbon for wine with a French officer. Distinctions and ribbons don’t serve good to a dead man. This is a weird state of affairs down here. Every once in a while, The Hun shell something about a quarter of a mile on the left, while on the right there is a lamb running wild. Miles of country scorched into hell. But, most of the time I find

myself trapped in endlessly, tedious and terrifying moments of silence. I generally manage to grab myself a book or some goods every time I am at the O.P. as there are many hours in the early part of the day when it is too hazy to see anything on the other side. For all I know, maybe it is that all of us dread boredom, as we happen to wait a long time for orders to attack, lazing in the sunshine. That’s the reason some of us are so eager to jump into jerry’s best.

War has been going on for quite some time now. two years ago we were told that we would be back home for Christmas, the year is 1917 and it seems the —war to end all wars— doesn’t have an end on sight. Last year we Brits helped the Poilu repel the germans from the Somme. —Old Somme is a field where every yard is soaked in British blood.— They surely gave up a fight.

It’s “do or die” this time and everybody knows it; the Americans, Australians, New Zealanders, the Indian troops. All of our allies. But for now, we stand alone with jerry’s elite pinned against the wall. Even from one hundred feet, we can easily see that german lines are wired so heavily that only a rabbit could get through. We soldiers now talk of war lasting two years more.

That is why I don’t think of getting back home anymore. It’s best that way. I just can’t stand the thought of getting back with most of my best pals sunken deep in France. I enlisted back in the spring of 1915 before conscription was introduced. I was tugged by my best friend to the nearest recruitment office. His name was Daniel Blake, he was three years younger than me back then. When we were stationed in the reserve trenches near the Somme, Blake was itching his hair off for combat. He would always have his hand over his mouth and eyes. He would be fully geared up leaning against the wall. But, It always looked as if he had failed as a soldier. Dirt seemed to

have worked him so hard that the lines of his face were barely distinguishable. Blake’s appearance was rather deceptive, to say the least. He always looked battered, as if he had never seen the sun. But he was quite the brave fellow if I may say so. I was always impressed with how he was able to fool the recruitment office when he lied about his age. He would always say, “Come on, we will go to some town in France or Belgium, we will shoot twice and come back home with patches and ribbons”. I never understood blake’s optimistic tenacity.

A few hours before the big push on the Somme, I was tasked with resupplying a few saps along the frontline. I was told to pick three other men, so I picked blake and some other lads I barely knew. we proceeded through the crowded trenches, filled with postboxes and long lost memoirs from a distant place. The boys were young as ever. I swear to God that each day they get younger. Poor lads, so fond of piercing themselves with Willy’s bayonets.

As we walked to the post, I took out a piece of barker from my mess tin and shared it with Blake. As he chewed he said that it tasted like a rat. I said, “Cheer up mate, this time, next week it’ll be chicken dinner”.

“Not for me” he sighed. “My eve got canceled”. He added. “Did they say why?” I said. And he replied, “No idea but it’s easier not to get back at all”.

We were hustled to one side of the bolt hole while a few men of the machine gun corps carried some guns and ammunition through the traverse. There were men of the Scottish highlanders that sat in a muddy puddle on the floor of a ditch called “Pusieux”. They were cleaning a Lewis gun. Behind them, as the trench bends round to the right, a group of men stood on guard, one of them with his bayonet fixed.

“Something’s up”. Blake said reluctantly.

Have you heard anything?” he asked. “No”. I answered.

Then he said, “Has to be the push right? Twelve bobs and I say that we are going out”. I refused that offer. It was crystal clear that he didn’t have twelve Bobs.

We hadn’t gone far up the frontline before we came across three of our lads lying dead. Their heads had been badly damaged by a shell and half of their body was covered with a cape. Their collar tabs read Brown and Evans. We had to go scrambling over the poor fellows. Further in there was one lad who shoveled the wall of the trench. I asked for the Yorks which was the unit we were resupplying.

He said, “ Next bend you’ll be standing over half of them. They shot the hell out of those poor bastards two nights ago”.

I led the men through the trench until we reached the Yorks. Trench’s name was “Death Valley”. It was pitch dark and most of the men lied buried deep underground. We resupplied the sap and when our task was fulfilled, we made our way back to our former positions. On our way back, we stopped by the command post. “Lance Corporal Davies and Blake” One man said loudly.

The Major had his head wrapped in bandages and his insignia was warped. He held a piece of paper against his chest.

He said, “ Gentleman, I have an order for you. this is from command. We need a team of runners to forward this message to our artillery line.”

He pointed out to one red circle drawn into a map and said;

“Yesterday morning orders were for artillery to fire upon the germans stationed here. Tomorrow there will be a major offensive against the enemy’s new line. The attack is to be held shortly after dawn and those artillery batteries have no idea of what they’re getting into. We have no way of warning them. This is a direct order to call off tomorrow’s bombardment. If this message fails to reach general Hughes, Those batteries

will rain hell upon two of our battalions. The commander is convinced that he has the Germans on the run. Think you can get there in time?” he asked.

“Yes sir” Blake answered.

“Any questions?” The major asked. “No sir” both of us answered. And he said, “they’re all yours, lieutenant.”

The lieutenant standing right to the major said, “Here boys, supplies. A map, some torches, grenades, and a couple of treats. Leave immediately. Take this trench west up to Sauchiehall street and then northwest on heavens alley to the front. You’ll cross there. I hesitated to ask but I said, “It’ll be daylight sir, they’ll see us. The lieutenant answered, “there is no need to be concerned, a small team of two men shouldn’t ring any bells.

We followed the lieutenant’s directions until we reached the narrowest corridor that reached out into no man’s land. There was a signpost with a cap riddled with bullet holes. The sign read; “watch out for snipers”. When I looked through the perisher, I could only see about fifty yards of golden field rendered into a death trap by unexploded ordnance, and that field was poisoned beyond habitation by the arsenic, phosgene and chlorine gases the germans spat at us. The craters were so big that there was no hope of getting out if you happened to fall on one. As we cocked our rifles and fixed our bayonets, I warned Blake about the dreadful german mine mortars.

The German Minenwerfersare quite a hassle. you hear a slight pop and the next moment you see the bally thing coming over. It is very hard to judge where they will let, so you are kept in suspense with your eyes protruding out of your head watching the torpedo whistle till it hisses down…. Ditches were not much use against these blighters, this is why we needed to keep our eyes peeled for those bastards.

It wasn’t a long way to the batteries, but we struggled to

make our way through all the barbed wire and scorched land. Half a day had gone by before we knew it. It was getting dark and we were about halfway to our destination. We were somewhat oblivious to the fact that we made fine targets for either side. It was nice though. Living in the trenches meant that you needed to be wary about lice and rats. Not even rats survive in no man’s land.

In the distance, we spotted a pillbox shaped structure. We had no way of identifying if it was friendly as it wasn’t marked in the map we had on hand. We made our best to keep our heads ducked in the dirt while we crawled out of sight. We both knew that if you raised your head, even if it were a few inches, a Boche sniper would take a shot at it. A minute or two later, rifle shots ring out, and several grenades are thrown near our location. I can only remember that there were blinding flashes and explosions, Pieces of land flying up to the sky and the scurry of feet coming from stumbling figures that loomed up and scrambled over the structure. Stop! Stop! for fuck’s sake, That’s one of ours! A man yelled loudly from the structure. I laid on my back, motionless as if time had stopped around me. Blake laid on my feet in a natural position, but his ashen face and fearful eyes suggested that he had just fallen.

A few of the men came out rushing from the outpost. They carried some stretchers. I remember seeing Blake being taken away. To this day I have never seen my friend again. Apparently, the artillery positions we were seeking, had been pushed back a few yards hours ago. With the greatest difficulty, I got myself together and started mumbling for the commanding officer. I remember being taken by some of the lads into a dugout. Inside the rat’s den, was general Hugues. I quickly pulled a piece of paper out from my satchel and I said to the general; “Sir, This is a direct order to call off today’s

heavy bombardment over the north sector. The 2 nd and 8 th battalions are going over the top this afternoon”

The commander got hold of the piece of paper and read it in silence. Then he replied, “Cease all artillery activities for today. Tell the men the 11 th and the 12 th are joining the offensive”.

After that, I just laid down for a bit. I remember myself looking up to the sky and seeing the sun glittering through the clouds. At that moment I believed that the world beyond war was just out of reach.

Belatedly after, Before I could ask for Blake’s condition, I was assigned to one of the battalions that would storm the german trenches. Our battalion was ordered to “dump everything and fix bayonets” They also added that at 5 pm. An officer was going to go down the trench and check the other soldiers, anybody who didn’t stand on guard with a fixed bayonet was going to be shot on sight for cowardice. A few seconds later, after whistles were blown, we went over the top and crawled.

As soon as you’ve climbed that bloody ladder, fear has left you and only terror remains. You don’t look nor hear. Your nose is utterly filled with fumes and putrid odors are exhaled as you stick your toes in the ground. You now carry the weight of your rifle...The veneer of civilization has surely dropped away. I was a few yards into hell when I came across what I reckon was a Cornishman. He was ripped from his shoulder to his chin with shrapnel and his insides were gushing out from his belly. He yelled; “Shoot me, shoot me!” Before I could draw a revolver to shoot him he was beyond human aid. He was dead. And he only said one word. He called for his mother. That has haunted me since then.

When we reached the trenches, there were about five germans that got out. They did not run. They got out to fight. One of them was coming towards us aiming to stab with the

bayonet fixed at the end of his rifle. As I have always been a crack shot, I took my rifle and I shot him in the shoulder. At that moment I only thought; “Maybe he’s got a family to go back to. I can’t kill him”. That Cornishman’s mother was stuck in my head.

We then landed at the trench we were making the run for and we saw some awful sights in it, for a lot of wounded men were left unattended. There was one german that was struggling in hand to hand combat. “Pour la France!” A french soldier yelled while he took out a spiked club and bludgeoned the hell out of the poor devil. The spikes sank deep into the side of his forehead. The straps were cut clean and his helmet flew off. That’s when I saw that he was an old man. I have never forgotten that bald head, and I don’t suppose I ever will.

The battle of the Somme went all the way from July to November. More than a million men from both sides were killed or wounded by the end of the fighting. I am just grateful for being able to reduce the bloodbath by alerting about the bombardment. It’s now winter of 1917 and it is starting to get cold in the trenches. I’m now stationed east of the Belgian city of Ypres. At this point, I only know for sure that one day, all this will be over. The truth is, that war will eventually be won, by one side or the other. Guns will rust and grass will grow and there’ll be nothing left of any of this.

We were taught not to overthink the act of killing. Our enemy wasn’t human. Killing those seen as the enemy of our country was just part of the job. We had no choice at all. In combat, you’ll seldom get to see your enemy face to face. Even if you do, it is no more than ahead or a passing silhouette. Those targeted as enemies are no more than lifeless shadows in the background. Perhaps this lessens the guilt for ending someone’s life. Maybe those that we called enemies were taught the same thing. It could be that those men we tried so

hard to kill were conditioned by the same high-ranking blokes that didn’t bother with coming here to fight their bloody war. Neither the Germans, the French or the British asked for this. This was never our war. As for our future, well, many of us will be long gone when peace finally arrives but, maybe, we will not be forgotten. Even when history only remembers one in a thousand of us, the stories of who we were and what we did will remain.