Sorrow Of A Soldier

Sorrow of a Soldier

The bombardment had begun to draw out. The shells whistled overhead and crashed into the trenches like meteorites sent by the wrath of some malevolent god. Mud was violently thrown up into in the air. Sergeant Stanley Johnson looked on and sighed with gritted teeth as men ran forwards and backwards in his trench, carting the dead and dying like gruesome transports. One man was blistered, the white boils almost pulsing with sickness, blood pouring out of his mouth as he screamed in pain. The gas attack had been the worst the sergeant had seen before. Even now the rats were screeching and rustling. He had a sudden thought to draw his bayonet and skewer them, ‘You never know, might end up tasting better than whatever meat they feed us, god forbid that’s beef’ he thought. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. Although he was a sergeant and the men recognised him as that, he had torn off his crisp, white stripes long ago. It was common knowledge that snipers targeted the officers and sergeants were no exception. He had been in a close encounter with one such sniper previously, at a time before the trench lines were fully etched into the ground, when he was sent on patrol in a nearby forest with his platoon. He had lost three good, experienced men in that engagement. Not just men; brothers. They were family to him. His blood boiled even now when he thought about it, about how the first had died instantly, a shot to the head. They had dashed for cover but the second was too slow and has been singled out. Sergeant Johnson could still picture his face as the man crawled to him, crying out for help, the blood trailing as he tried with the last strength he had within him to reach the officer. Johnson was almost like a beacon of hope for the man as his life began to vanish from him. Johnson could not break cover, he understood this but still knew that there must have been another way, any way to save him. The third had jumped out of cover and drawn the sniper whilst the others watched the muzzle flash and executed the enemy with a barrage of .303 fire. The most honourable death you could have in this time of dishonourable killings. The loose, lifeless corpse of the revealed sniper hung from the tree that acted as his vantage point, his head resting gently on a wooden outstretched arm. Johnson was convinced that he had failed his men that day, but repeatedly told himself he must avenge them. Sadly, no matter what he told himself, nothing helped the guilt. The men. His men. They trusted him without fail and he recalled a saying he had heard his drill sergeant tell them during training, ‘A good soldier follows without question, a good officer leads without doubt.’ Both him and his valiant soldiers had followed this to the word yet, was this a lie too? Stanley Johnson never expected war to become a part of his life. At least not like this. This war was said to be an adventure, one of bravery and honour. How wrong could they be? There is no honour here. Only death. He left everything behind: his parents, his job, his life. The sergeant promotion had come quicker than expected, the previous sergeant had been killed on one of Johnson’s first engagements with their adversaries. Sergeant Johnson had, at least to his superiors and the men he commanded, almost all the qualities of the perfect soldier: courage, honesty, and upheld self-decency. Now Johnson sat in his dugout, cleaning his Short Magazine Lee-Enfield. The shells and gunshots no longer bothered him. He thought back to when he used to be affected by the crashes and harsh cracks and how the sounds made his skin crawl. He scoffed at how pathetic this seemed now. If nothing else, this war had hardened him, to a point where he had seen everything. Nothing bothered him anymore. Nothing except the death of his men, and all those that fought around him. They were heroes. Johnson just hoped they would be remembered in that way. He could smell the putrid scent of rot and of decay and of the overflowing latrines. It seemed that his nostrils had been hardened as much as the rest of him. The putrid stench still stung his nose, however. The mud around him was shaken and flung, stinging the soldiers’ eyes. Johnson was so intertwined with his rifle that he didn’t see the man before him.

“Fancy a cig sir?” The voice asked in a gruff, yet kind tone. “Sorry? Oh, no thanks Harry.” Johnson was slightly startled by his silent approach. Harry Borne was Johnson’s closest friend, and even though they had known each other for years, had joined the pal battalion together, and fought numerous times side by side, Harry still insisted on referring to him as ‘sir.’ “Gas attack yesterday was bad wasn’t it sir?” “Yes, Harry I’m afraid it was.” “Lost a few from the company we did. The bombardments been out for a while. Fritz is coming you know,” Johnson nodded in grim agreement. “Anyway, any letters from the family?” Harry enquired. “Yeah, mum’s been sending me some nice things, says she’s been down with the other girls in town, sewing for us. Got a lovely pair of socks I did. What about you? How’s the Mrs?” The gentle patter of rain quietly fell on them. “Eh, same old, same old She’s been“ “Shhhh, Harry can you hear? “Hear what?” “The rain, Harry. The artilleries gone silent.” He cautiously lifted his eyes just above the trench. Nothing. He had time. “Defensive Positions!” He shouted to his sombre soldiers. They immediately sprang into fatigued action, entering positions as ordered, with fellow officers yelling commands further down the seemingly endless line of mud and grit. Sergeant Johnson and Harry Borne exchanged a quick nod before lining at the trench, rifles poised for the incoming slaughter. The machine gunners had mounted their deadly weapons of war. There was a moment of pure silence. All anyone could hear was the breathing of the men standing beside them. Then the enemy reared its head. Now they were out for all to see. “OPEN FIRE!” All at once the salvo started. Bolts clicking back and forth. Bullets screaming towards their target. The cartridges clattered as they fell. So did the bodies of the enemy. The sergeant did not think, he did not have space to stop and consider; he just fired again and again. At present they were merely 20 metres away and had begun to return fire. A man close to the sergeant screamed in agony as his hand completely disintegrated with the impact of a bullet. Fighters around them began to fall and they took a step back. The Germans were here. They began to jump into the trench and engage in hand-to-hand combat. Sergeant Johnson prepared himself. He gritted his teeth and mustered his strength. This is what he had been waiting for. Conflict had begun to affect the man. He was only human after all. Too many times had the sergeant been too meek, and too afraid to save those around him. No more. A German soldier jumped down in front of sergeant Johnson as he drew the bayonet. The German had a spiked mace in his grip and launched himself. The sergeant was stronger and easily overpowered his attacker. Johnson clenched the man’s arm as they locked eyes. The German soldier’s face was filled with fear, the sergeant’s with rage. A mild cry was let out from the attacker and Johnson headbutted him with the strength of a bull. He pinned the German’s head against the side of the trench and slit his throat with the hand that was holding the knife. One of the sergeant’s own men now held his rifle towards Johnson. The man fired, seemingly at Johnson. Suddenly, a shriek was let out behind the sergeant. A body fell at Johnson’s feet. Surprised, the sergeant took a second look towards his saviour. It was Harry that stood before him, rifle smoke drifting upwards.

“Always check the rear sir, you should know that. Now, sir, take a breath. We’ll get through this alright. We always do.” Harry flashed a brief smile. Somehow, despite the endless horrors they had faced, Harry still upheld a positive disposition. Johnson admired this greatly. Suddenly another German grabbed at Harry around his neck hauling him backwards. As the sergeant ran forwards to assist his friend, a foe grabbed at his legs, causing him to stubble and he grappled with Johnson. Sergeant Johnson stabbed the man’s hand making him recoil in pain. He then slashed at his stomach, 10? 15? 20 times? He could not tell, and he did not care. He was now covered in the man’s blood and could smell the scent of death. He twisted his head around, back to where Harry was. Now he witnessed the worst event of the war, the deaths of the others seem tame compared to this. The blade cut through Harry’s uniform, and the blood began to seep through the woollen tunic, staining it crimson. A mild look of shock appeared on Harry’s face as the wound began to spread and he fell to his knees, the mud squelching and absorbing the fall as he collapsed upon it. Now the anger overcame Johnson, and in an act of pure, burning rage he screamed and cursed and jumped at Harry’s killer, stabbing mindlessly as the man cried out. The sergeant did not stop, again and again he struck him with the knife. It was only as Johnson regained partial control over himself that he realised his victim could be no older than a teenager, 16 or 17 at best. His fair hair covering the pained and gore-covered face. Sergeant Johnson dropped his bayonet, realising what he had done. The sergeant had almost dismembered the torso of his victim. It did not matter to him, instead he returned and shook Harry’s body, searching for some sign of life within him. He was desperate. Sergeant Johnson lifted and held the body, calling the name over and over. “Harry!” Harry was the only friend he had known and now he was gone. The sergeant screamed in anger and frustration as he was flooded with grief and rage. Then he cried. The warm tears matching the rain that poured upon him, gently tapping at his helmet. Johnson knelt above his companion, looking down on him with the memories of their friendship. Sergeant Stanley Johnson refused to believe, to accept that Harry was gone. Johnson was not a religious man but, in the moment, prayed for Harry’s life. He began to think of how he was going to tell Harry’s wife but pushed these thoughts aside and closed his eyes. He did not know how long this war would take to seize his life too, yet for once he did not care. There was nothing left now, except to be the example for his men. His one hope had gone. Death no longer seemed so terrible. He began to cry again.

Theo Pickard