Facing Death

David Blake

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 David Blake

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Please note that this is a work of fiction and the resemblance of any characters to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.

This story contains strong language and violence and is not intended for readers under 18 years of age.

***

Barely ten feet ahead of me, little Robin Swaney stopped in his tracks, jerked, then crumpled to the ground with blood gushing from his mouth.

I didn't care. I had no time to. My mind was in panic, thrashing like a fish out of water, knowing that I could not possibly survive for long in this hellish environment and yet that I was quite powerless to return to safety.

The roar of the unrelenting shell-fire was deafening, so loud it literally shook the earth as though God himself was venting his fury on we mortals who were seemingly so intent on destroying everything He had strived to create for us. But no matter how loud it was, the noise of the artillery never quite managed to drown out the hideous dying screams of men who were unfortunate enough to be found obstructing its course.

Swaney had died silently, killed before he knew much about it. My boots ploughed on past his buckled, fallen body, every step an effort as the thick, squelching mud strained to keep hold of me, tried to hold me still whilst the Kaiser's men, unseen but out there ahead of me in the distance, took aim of their weapons and prepared to add my name to the burgeoning list of the dead.

I just about registered an almighty flash of burning red as an explosion immediately to my right threw me off my feet like I had been struck by an automobile. As I fell, my hold on my rifle failed and I could feel tiny objects sharply impacting on the right side of my face, one catching me right in my eye. I moaned pathetically, unable to be heard amongst the ceaseless thunderous rattle. I rolled onto my knees and clawed at my face, wondering how much of it was left after the shrapnel had hit it. I tried to open my right eye but couldn't.

But after wiping my apparent facial wounds, I saw no blood on my hand. Only brown smears of moist dirt. Relieved that it had not been shrapnel that had peppered me after all, I continued wiping the mud from my eye with renewed vigour, a combination of that action and my tears eventually restoring me to full sight. I snatched up my rifle once more, took a deep breath, then charged forward again, feeling strangely relieved, as though that lucky escape had somehow ensured my survival in this bloody maelstrom.

Onwards I drove my heavy legs, only barely aware of my colleagues all similarly advancing at intervals of several yards to both my left and right. Guns rattled, shells screamed through the air, areas of the gnarled, scarred landscape erupted without warning. My boots stomped past another fallen member of my platoon, I wasn't even sure of his name as he'd only joined up with us yesterday following his transfer. I only glimpsed him, for as soon as I caught sight of him I was so sickened I had to look away again, but that image of him lying there, still alive whilst everything below his waist

had been blown away will haunt me forever, like so many other images from this 'noble' crusade. His pitiful, pleading eyes gazing blankly up at me, his tiny weak voice somehow audible, imploring me to help, and the most sickening thing was that I could do nothing for the wretch. Even pausing to put him out of his misery could have cost me my life, at least that's what I tried to convince myself. It was a better excuse than me, a soldier of His Majesty's army, not being able to kill a man face-to-face.

Onwards I waded, onwards, my teeth chattering, my hands numb, my terrified mind wondering if it would be better to just get killed there and then. But at last, over the craggy mounds of earth in the distance I began to discern coils of barbed wire, heads bobbing behind it.

The enemy line!I should have kept on advancing, instead, acting on instinct, I dropped onto my belly. Ignoring

the cold moisture seeping through my uniform I took aim with my rifle and began taking shot after shot towards the enemy trench. It was better to try and kill them from this distance. When I couldn't see them clearly. When I couldn't see they were frightened young men, like myself.

I don't know if I hit any. I tried to, I really tried to. I really tried to kill my fellow human beings, telling myself over and over that the more quickly we won this conflict, the more quickly everybody would get home and the more men would ultimately survive.

Eventually I had to reload. Perhaps the timing saved me, because as my head was bowed, something bounced off my helmet with a loud clang. It may have been just a stone. But it could have been a bullet.

As I renewed my fire, I caught sight through the swirling smoke and the flying mud of Sergeant Clinch still advancing, some distance to my left. He was easy to pick out just from his body language, for unlike the nervous, tired jog of the rest of us he took long, measured strides, his powerful torso stooped forward like he was hunting prey. But then, I suppose, that's exactly what he was doing.

I kept firing, kept reloading, kept firing. All the while shells were whistling through the air back at us, exploding all around me. Some so close I screamed and sobbed, and fumbled pathetically with my firearm. I didn't want to be in this dirty, wretched country fighting this horrible bloody war! I wanted to be home! Home in my warm snug bed in Darlington!

Then it came, like the song of an angel. The whistle. The sound of Sergeant Clinch's tin whistle, tooting anxiously as though he were a policeman stumbling upon some felony.

"Retreat! Retreat men!" he was shouting, waving his arm in a broad sweep.The signal to go back. If we could make it back. Once again, our attack had failed.I didn't need telling twice. I scrambled to my feet and ran, my legs feeling lighter now. Still

the shells rained down on us, the sky rattling above our heads, unpleasant odours of smoke and earth assaulting my nostrils. I saw several comrades fall, only one of them got up again and continued running.

It felt like we were being chased. The distance seemed more than twice as long going back, compared to the outward advance. I was panting, wheezing, but driven on by pure adrenalin. The ugly brown landscape was littered with fallen soldiers. Germans as well as our lads. Some had been lying there for weeks. As well as the bodies there were just parts of bodies. You didn't stop to wonder whose part it might have once been.

My eyes bulged and my panting increased as I finally spotted our trench up ahead of me. Khaki-uniformed men were scrambling into it by the dozen like a colony of rats that had just been disturbed from their shelter. As I reached the fortified trench, utterly exhausted, numerous arms reached up and helped me down into the safety of the furrow and I slumped against the wooden support structures, straining for breath and trying not to cry. Trying not to think of the things I had seen.

"Where's Cyril? Where's Cyril? Has anybody seen Cyril?" one voice was anxiously enquiring amongst the many heavy breathers, coughers and sobbers. Getting little response, the voice faded as the search moved off down the trench. More men continued to climb in and join us from the battlefield, but the numbers were rapidly diminishing. When a few came moaning in pain, bleeding badly, supported by selfless souls who had stopped to help them complete a journey they could never have managed alone, we knew that was it.

Except for Sergeant Clinch, who made sure he was the last man back in. He brushed aside the hands that offered assistance and climbed down the ladder unaided. Then he stood, head bowed for a few seconds to take some deep breaths before he turned his ruddy red face and his steely blue eyes

towards us. He looked at us intently for a few moments, then turned and looked down the other side of the trench. Then, back at us. Every ashen face stared blankly back at him, waiting for him to speak.

"We weren't far off that time, lads... We nearly busted them. And they knew it." He flashed us a triumphant snarl that convinced no one.

One of the wounded groaned loudly in pain. He was being supported on either side by a man and looked like he didn't even know where he was.

"Get him and the others to the sick tent!" Clinch barked. Then he looked round again, his yellow teeth gritted underneath his handlebar moustache. "Right, where's Wilkins?" he hissed.

There was no response."WILKINS!!!" he roared like a shellburst."S-Sir..?" a voice answered meekly from somewhere behind me.We all parted to let Clinch loom forwards towards the pale, quivering figure of Private Norman

Wilkins.The thick carrot moustache of the sergeant may have hidden it from our view, but I knew his lip

was curling in distaste. "And where were you then, Wilkins?" he asked the lad in an ominously calm tone.

"I... I... " Wilkins could barely even speak, his eyes bulging with dread, his Adam's apple squirming up his throat.

"Go on, tell all your mates here where you were, whilst they were all taking the fight to the enemy."

Wilkins clammed up, juddering."You fucking ran away!!!" Clinch roared, making most of us flinch. "And don't try and deny it,

cos I saw you, you snivelling yellow belly! You barely made it a hundred feet across the battlefield before you turned and ran back 'ere! Do you think that's what Lord Kitchener expects from you, Wilkins? Eh?!?"

"N-n-no, Sergeant," came the reply of a mouse."You're a fucking coward, Wilkins!" Clinch bellowed, his beetroot face an inch from the object

of his ire. "You're a stupid fucking coward! You could be court martialled for this, d'you realise that, lad?!?"

Wilkins just about managed a nod of his egg-shaped head.Clinch gripped hold of the young private's jerkin and shook him hard before pressing him back

against the side of the trench. "Well, lad, maybe you think that's the worst that'll happen to yer... But if you're scared of what

could happen to you out there," he twitched his head towards the battlefield, "let me tell you now, that's nothing compared to what I'll do to yer if I see you turn yellow again! Yer get me? You'll fight those fucking Germans until I say you can stop!"

Again Wilkins was just about able to manage a nod.Clinch released him and span round. "And that goes for all of yer!" he snarled. "Just

remember, we're Englishmen, and Englishmen don't run away!"With that, the fearsome sergeant thundered off down the trench, presumably to report back to

Captain Arrowsmith. We were left in his wake, cold, exhausted, demoralised and exchanging our usual looks of despair.

"Ruddy cheek, he knows I'm not English," Taffy Evans muttered once it was safe to do so, breaking the silence, after which all the men relaxed a little, murmuring and shuffling about. Some started lighting up cigarettes. Others took their boots off to pour the water out of them.

I turned to Wilkins, who was still stood there, petrified."You okay, Norman?" I asked him quietly. I could see he was still trembling. When he didn't

answer, I continued, "Look, for what it's worth, I think what you did was pretty brave. I bet most of us all felt like doing the same thing you did, only we were too scared."

I forced a small smile, patted him on the shoulder and turned."Ha-Ha-Harry..." I heard him say weakly and I turned back to face him. "I... I don't think I can

take much m-more of this..."I looked at his wan face, streaked with tears and dirt, his small round eyes reaching out to me

and begging for mercy. I recognised in that fearful countenance every emotion I'd been feeling over

the past few weeks and knew he had reached a point I was also getting close to. How I wanted to reassure him, say something that could make him feel even a tiny bit better.

But there was nothing I could say to him.And he knew it.

***

I waited on the rickety wooden ladder, my stomach feeling heavier than my boots. My hopes of a long respite dashed as here we were, only about twenty hours later, preparing to go over the top once again.

My eyes were level with the ground, the squidgy brown landscape rolling out into the distance in craggy folds, like choppy waters that had been stilled and turned into chocolate. Foul-smelling chocolate, mind.

I glanced upwards to where the clouds were thickening overhead, concealing the sun from us. It was still dry, but for how much longer? Perhaps, just perhaps if one of those clouds could squeeze out a few raindrops then the attack would be called off and we would be spared the madness that was about to unfold.

I looked to my right. Perched atop the next ladder, eight feet along the trench from my position, was the weasel-like Albert Wickes. He noticed me looking across and gave a characteristic sneer. "Over by Christmas..!" he reminded me, not for the first time, of my hopelessly failed prediction last year.

I then looked to my left where, on another ladder a similar distance away, Wilkins stood. He was still pale, still quaking. He had his eyes closed and his lips looked to be moving, possibly mouthing words.

It seemed almost quiet, the gunfire had dropped to an infrequent level, the men had all stopped talking, stopped moving, and even the wind made only cautious breezes. I wanted the toilet, even though I'd relieved myself three times in the preceding hour.

Then, oh God, the whistle piped. I scrambled up and over, onto the land and began jogging forwards again, wondering if this was the moment I would meet my maker.

As I always did in these situations, I stopped thinking about where I was and let my legs work on automatic as I flooded my mind with sweeter images than the desolation before me. I smelt the appetising warm aromas of bacon and eggs inviting me to the kitchen table back home in Darlington, remembered the pleasure of dunking my toast in the oozing golden yolk before putting it into my mouth. I remembered being in the company of my family whom I'd been amongst every day without ever knowing the value of it. I thought of us all singing Christmas songs around the piano as Gran played, wearing our paper hats and huge smiles because we thought life would always be that gay.

Inevitably I thought of Mabel, my dear, cute, Mabel, so beautifully uncomplicated. Letting her have a ride of my bicycle. Chasing her when she pulled my cap off my head and ran away with it. Our first nervous kiss on her front doorstep that momentous day when I walked her home. The afternoon in the field when we kissed and held one another for maybe an hour or more.

The thought of her in my arms, I wanted her there again but all I had now were her letters. Letters and promises which could mean nothing whilst I was trapped hundreds of miles away from her, unsure if I would even live to see her again.

Despite my aching longing to be reunited with her, I didn't want Mabel anywhere near this godforsaken country. No woman should have to witness the horrors that were now part of the daily routine out here, sights that could make even a good Christian man question everything he has been brought up to believe. Yet for Mabel, my family, and all the other families back home in dear Blighty, I had to remain strong.

I don't know if the Germans had got wind of our approach, but the gunfire seemed to become more determined once again. I tried reciting the Twenty-third Psalm to myself as I jogged on over the uneven waterlogged ground, finding it difficult to get the words out amongst my laboured breaths. Even the wind was siding with the enemy now and, too late, the rain finally began to come down. On and on we went, lambs to the bloody slaughter.

There was a faint engine-like rattle, sustained and rapid, and two of the men who were up ahead of me crumpled and fell.

Machine gun fire!I dived down onto my belly, lying as flat as I could. I spotted a wiry figure catching up with

me to my left. It was Norman Wilkins, still trotting forwards, oblivious to the sudden danger."Norman!" I called to him. "Get down!"He looked across, but not directly at me, as though perhaps he'd heard something but wasn't

sure what."Norman! Down! Get down, they've got a-"There was another burst of machine gun fire and I saw blood suddenly begin to spurt out of

newly-formed holes in Wilkins' torso. He jerked, his legs sagged, yet he tried to lumber onwards. He kept looking ahead, his face twitching as the pain began to hit him. His rifle slipped from his grasp as his strength ebbed away, yet still, still his wobbly legs lolloped forward.

It was heart-breaking to see his last final efforts, but after just a few steps more his legs gave way completely and he slumped to his knees, coughing blood. Then he just sunk onto his side and became completely still.

As I lay there, unable to take my watering eyes from his inert body, I considered that he was possibly the bravest man I'd ever known, confronting such overwhelming fear like that. He'd died courageously, with dignity... He hadn't screamed, or cried... I hoped that when his loved ones learnt of his death, they would hear he died with such fortitude.

As for myself, the situation seemed hopeless. If I so much as stood up, I was sure to get hit the next time that machine gun started its lethal spitting. Shells were now beginning to rain down on the battlefield once more, some landing dangerously close and showering me with dirt and stones.

How long did I lay there for? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Time was incalculable in the midst of such fury, but only when it seemed to me that the machine gun had lapsed into a lengthy silence did I dare get to my feet again. I took a long, sad look at Wilkins' corpse, then continued on my way, not jogging but marching with determination.

I didn't get much further. I don't even remember the shell exploding. All I was aware of was that I was suddenly regaining consciousness from some sleep, my head swimming and with an almighty throb in my temple. As consciousness didn't feel too good, I wanted to just drift off back into my slumber but I was being prevented from doing so by my being shaken and slapped around the face.

"Come on Sleeping Beauty, you can't lie around here all day," a sharp, rodent-like voice was nagging me.

I tried to keep my eyes open, tried to focus. The weaselesque face looking back at me was a familiar one. It was Albert Wickes.

"W-where..? Wha..?" I murmured."You're a bloody lucky one alright, Simpson," he told me, just a hint of a smile behind his usual

sneer. "I nearly left you for dead. It's lucky you had some colour in your cheeks. But we can't hang around here... Can you move?"

I sat up, and had to clutch my head to stop everything spinning. But my arms, my legs could still move without pain and I seemed to be intact.

With Wickes' help I struggled to my feet, but I still felt giddy. I tried to bend down for my rifle but couldn't make it, so he picked it up for me.

"Come on, we've got to shift," he said, and helped me to walk – but not in the direction I was anticipating.

"But the enemy's that way, isn't it?" I questioned weakly, gesturing to our rear. Was I so concussed that I'd lost my sense of direction?

"Yeah, and we're retreating, remember? The whistle blew ages ago. How long have you been out?" Wickes frowned.

"Lord knows," I groaned, rubbing my head."It's a pity whatever hit your nut didn't knock more sense into it! Now come on, let's get

moving!"With Wickes supporting me, we hurried as best we could, an unsteady pair looking like we

were competing in a three-legged race. Considering he was much smaller than me in height he was deceptively strong and did a grand job of getting me back across that unforgiving landscape. And of trying to keep my spirits up, too:

"I'll tell you what, Simpson, this must be the second worst place on Earth."I took the bait. "So what's the worst?""Yarmouth. I spent a week on holiday there once and it rained the whole bloody time!"Excited cries and cheers could be heard as we entered the final stretch and came within sight of

our trench. We were helped down and a stool was quickly provided for me as I collapsed, wheezing. A hand shot out and offered me a tin mug of water which I gratefully accepted.

"Glad you're alright, mate," was one of the numerous comments of similar sentiment I received as friendly hands patted me and slapped my back. I looked up and nodded my appreciation at the smiling faces of my comrades. It was good to see the men also showering Wickes with praise and congratulations.

He exchanged a little look with me and he gave a slight nod, hopefully reading in my eyes my heartfelt gratitude for saving my life.

"You want to get yourself properly checked in the medical tent," Connor, the rough bulbous-nosed cockney told me.

"Well, I don't really think I'm that-""Looks like you're still in shock, to me," he interrupted. "The doc might have to give you a tot

of brandy," he winked.I smirked, understanding his reasoning. I wasn't really that much of a drinker, and in any case I

didn't want to gain treats through deception. Even so, I wanted to see how I was so I struggled up out of the stool and had a bit of a stretch, looking down the trench where so many faces were watching me, rain water dripping down from the rims of their helmets.

I froze.I blinked, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me. For standing there, a little way past the

immediate cluster of soldiers regarding me, was a pale, slight figure in an ill-fitting uniform staring expressionlessly ahead.

"Wilkins..." I breathed. "Tha-That's Wilkins!" I pointed towards him.The men chuckled, one or two looking around at him."Didn't you think he'd make it back?" chuckled Connor. "Or did you think old Clinch would

have had him for breakfast by now?"I took a couple of paces backwards, feeling numb. "It-it-it can't be Wilkins..." I gibbered. I

grabbed Connor's sleeve and looked at him earnestly. "I saw him killed out there! He was right next to me!"

"Blimey, that knock on yer 'ead must've affected you worse than we thought!" Connor laughed, his relaxed attitude betraying a total disregard for my concern.

I looked beseechingly at the other men around me, seeing only bemusement writ on their grubby faces. "I tell you he was killed! I saw him gunned down!"

"Aw, leave it out, Simpson," one of the other men, Anderson, a small chubby-cheeked fellow with a bulging waist whined with diminishing patience. "I've seen enough dead men in these last few weeks to make me an expert, an' he don't look dead to me!" He turned round and gave Wilkins a thumbs-up. "Alright there, Norman?"

Wilkins didn't react. He was stood there, on his own, appearing quite calm, looking out towards the battlefield as though ready to go into action once again.

I rubbed my throbbing temple, wondering if I was imagining things. I was sure it was Wilkins I'd seen cut down by the machine gun, yet there he was, standing just a few feet away without a mark on him, no sign of blood at all, so it wasn't as if he'd even just been wounded and somehow struggled back here.

"Why doesn't he answer?" Connor wondered aloud."Ah, he's still sulking cos' old Clinch humiliated him in front of us all yesterday," Anderson

said. "Leave him be, if he wants to be anti-social. He'll soon discover that sort of attitude doesn't get you very far out 'ere."

"Looks more like he's in shock, to me," Connor said, stroking his chin."Shock, my auntie's arse!" Wickes piped up with his usual sneer. "There's nothing more can

shock us in this jolly playground that we haven't already seen, unless you're gonna tell me that Sergeant Clinch is prancing round in a tutu!"

As his quip yielded a few laughs, Wickes clawed a small clump of soil from the side of the trench and lobbed it at the silent Wilkins.

Wilkins didn't flinch. And I frowned, trying to rationalise what I had just seen, for I saw the various crumbs of soil landing and rolling on the planked walkway beyond him, as though...

"Holy Moses!" Wickes gasped."That went right through him!" said Connor."Nah, nah, it couldn't have, it just missed him, that's all..." Anderson argued, not even managing

to sound very convinced."You saw it! We all saw it!" Connor said.I swallowed hard. "I'll tell you something else," I said in a weak voice. "His uniform... Look

at it... It's bone dry."There was a moment of silence as they all checked my observation with their own eyes. It was

impossible, yet there was the evidence standing there right before us. A man untouched by the falling rain.

"Oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus Christ," Anderson's nerve broke first and he hurriedly began backing away.

We all backed further and further away from Wilkins, word quickly passed along the trench and in moments numerous interested spectators huddled around us, though nobody had the courage to approach the mysterious figure. Several called out to him – it – but got no response.

"It's an omen! A curse!" Taffy Evans shrieked. "He's a harbinger of death! It means we're all going to die!"

"Bollocks! I'll get rid of it!" Anderson insisted, unslinging his rifle and pointing it at the calm, isolated figure.

"No, you can't! What if it really is Wilkins?" came one protest amongst several similar ones, but Anderson wouldn't be deterred.

"Get out of the way!" he warned, then fired a couple of warning shots. When Wilkins didn't flinch, he fired again, right by the man's foot. I saw the small eruption in the wooden plank where the bullet struck.

Still Wilkins didn't respond in any way. Again Anderson fired, and again, this time directing his aim at the figure itself, but the shots failed to hit it.

"Fuck this, I'm getting out of here!" Anderson blubbered, lowering his gun and turning round to hurry away. There were mass murmurs as others concurred, and a tide of men quickly began to surge away from the spectre.

They froze as one as a commanding voice filled the air. "What the devil's goin' on 'ere?!?"It was Sergeant Clinch. Everything fell deathly quiet as he marched through the parting crowd

of soldiers, casting his beady eyes about like he was looking for another victim. "Who's firing shots in my trench? I'll not have good ammunition wasted!"

His question was met with silence."Well?" he demanded loudly."I-I was shooting, S-Sergeant," Anderson owned up.Clinch rounded on him menacingly, forcing Anderson to quickly explain himself. "Please,

Sergeant, you don't understand... The devil's in 'ere with us!"Before Clinch could repost, many of the men murmured their agreement, visibly surprising the

violet-faced walrus."L-look, Sergeant," Anderson gesticulated towards the lone figure of Norman Wilkins down at

the other end of the trench.Clinch peered, frowned, looked at the various men's faces, then thrust his nose within an inch of

Anderson's. "Now look here, lad," he said with foreboding calm, "That is not the devil... That is Private Norman Wilkins." Clinch straightened up again, rearing to his full height. "Wilkins! You been growing horns or something, upsetting poor Anderson 'ere?"

As Clinch chuckled, Wilkins looked over to him but didn't speak, showed no expression. "Cat got yer tongue, boy?" the sergeant barked over to him.

I decided it was time to follow Wickes' earlier example. I pulled a clod of earth from next to my head and threw it at Wilkins. The men all gasped and tensed again as my missile passed clean through the tragic figure, but I was watching the sergeant for his reaction.

For the first time ever, I saw the colour drain from his ruddy face. His eyes bulged and I think I even saw him gulp. "What the hell..." he breathed.

After a few seconds, he regained his composure a little, and looked around at us. "What's this about? What's going on?"

"I saw Wilkins killed out there, Sergeant," I told him."That isn't Wilkins, Sergeant," Anderson followed, "that's some ghost, come to haunt us! That's

what I was shooting at!""Bullets can't hurt that thing!" Evans moaned, wide-eyed. "Nothing can! It's come to claim

us!""Do something, Sergeant!" one of the men begged.Clinch twitched his head, trying to maintain some degree of bravado and authority in spite of

his obvious discomfiture. He glanced around our group, looking for support but seeing only hopeless bewilderment, fear and desperation.

"Cowards, the lot of you," he said quietly, waveringly, still twitching his head and shoulders. "It's only Wilkins." He coughed, looked at us again, flexed his neck and then slowly walked along the trench towards the wretched figure.

When he got halfway he stopped and glanced around, perhaps hoping that we would be backing him up, but none of us dared move any closer. He shrugged, then continued forward, but the closer he got to the spectre, the more he slowed, until he was just edging his feet inch by inch. His nerve gave out when he was eight feet from it.

"Now then, Wilkins," he addressed the figure calmly. "Why aren't you mixing with your mates, eh?"

The figure gazed blankly at him.Clinch took another quick glance back at us, then coughed and continued. "It's no good you

trying to spook them, you know... And me, ha! I'm not afraid! You'll never scare me!""Bloody liar," I heard Wickes mutter under his breath right next to me."Now, ah, I expect you're famished, ready for a bit of grub, eh?" Clinch went on. "So let's stop

this silly business, eh? Come and have your bully beef with the rest of the lads..." He extended his hand a little, but lost courage and quickly withdrew it, wiping it nervously on his thigh.

Again, Clinch looked round at us for encouragement. All eyes were on him, and the poor man knew he was expected to resolve this. I'd never felt sympathy for him before, but I did at that moment. My fists and my teeth were clenched tightly as I watched this confrontation play out. Wickes next to me was gripping my sleeve and I don't think he even realised.

Clinch stroked his moustache and edged just a touch closer to the apparition. "Look, uh, Norman, isn't it?" he cautiously addressed the thing once more. "I know we haven't always exactly seen eye-to-eye, but my job is to toughen you all up, see, turn you all into men who can win this war... You don't think Lord Kitchener would have us all sitting round drinking tea and playing parlour games, do you?" He fingered his collar, then extended his hand again. He kept it extended this time, but it was wavering. "You were scared, lad... We've all been scared... That little tellin' off I gave you yesterday, that was just... Well, just me trying to motivate you, get you past your fear... I didn't mean to upset you, lad, there's n-no need for us to have a fallin' out over it, is there?"

The figure of Wilkins looked back at him glumly, glancing at the extended hand."You've done all you can, lad!" Clinch insisted more forcefully. "You've given everything you

had! No one expects any more of you... You can go now... You've done enough..."Again Wilkins looked down at the faltering hand of the sergeant, then back up to look him in

the eye. The young Private then stood to attention, silently clicking his heels together, then he saluted. And vanished. Yes, completely vanished from view as he was standing there, just fading away in a couple of seconds.

There were gasps around me, murmurs of disbelief, words of prayer. Sergeant Clinch remained where he was, with his back us, but his head bowed. After nearly a

minute had passed we plucked up the courage to approach, and Clinch turned, fumbling for support as he collapsed against the side of the trench. He was pinching his nose and crying profusely. I'd seen most of the other soldiers cry in my time, but never him.

He opened his eyes, then quickly tried to compose himself. He quickly dismissed our offers of support and said, in a stern but cracking voice, "Nobody ever talks of this incident. Not ever." And

with that he barged right through us and away to the privacy of his quarters, leaving us alone with our thoughts.

We did, on occasion, speak of the incident to each other, of course, but not often. It wasn't an incident any of us wanted to revisit, but I thought of Wilkins a lot afterwards. And of Sergeant Clinch, too. The next time we saw him, he was back to his usual harsh, authoritative self, but I never heard any of the men who were there that day say a bad word against him after that.

And in a strange sort of way, I lost some of my own fear. There was now the reassurance that perhaps there was something more to life, that perhaps all those colleagues who had fallen still existed on some other plane, hopefully a more ordered and rewarding one than this.

Yes, that had been a day that had changed my outlook forever. And, for the first time since I had been posted out on the front line, I had rediscovered that most important thing that had been lost from my life.

Hope.

###

About the author:

David Blake was born in the northwest of England in 1970 and grew up on a diet of Marvel Comics, 2000AD and television sci-fi. He has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember

and remains an avid reader. His other interests include travelling, vintage British television programmes, vintage cinema, football, eating toast and even having the odd drink.

The author welcomes all feedback providing it is fair and constructive.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DavidBlake