Do Not Forget Me Quite by Richard Pike

Author:Richard Pike
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783066421
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

Forty

It began with thunder, a clout of sound that bruised the air, sped away and then slogged back at you – a demonic echo. His dream lurched into a London theatre where a tube train rumbled beneath; the ground vibrating, giving a shudder. Oh, yes, he thought, in dream-talk. Of course. But which theatre is this?

Somewhere. Back home.

He clawed his way back to consciousness. He could not see; no daylight yet. But the smells of feet and bodies, crushed grass and fetid breath told him where he lay.

It’s started, then. Four hundred guns firing as fast as men could slam another shell in the breech, laying down a creeping barrage.

He had seen the shells coming along the road, the limbers loaded with them, mules staggering to haul them up to the gunnery position. Imagine what those cylinders of destruction would do if one hit a man... He clenched his eyes to change the thought.

Around him, men began unwillingly to stir, but he lay still, on his back, not yet ready to play the corporal. Hardly been asleep. Three hours, perhaps. His eyes ached. His boots, left on in frantic fatigue, pinched his feet. A crick in his neck.

He couldn’t see the flashes; the shriek of the shells came first: a whee, a whistle, a hiss of their passing overhead, the sound of their firing afterwards, in turn from right to left at about a second’s interval; again and again along the line, as regularly as the slow ticking of a monstrous clock.

That was the thunder. But it lacked the clap, the cutting crack of nature; no tearing tumble of sound. It thumped the air like a huge bass drum without the deep, resonant warmth, like someone dropping heavy furniture in a room above, or that empty barrel being rolled over the cobbles at Marseilles.

He longed to stretch his arms, dared not for fear of striking someone. “Morning, lads,” he called upwards to the peak of the tent. “We’ve got this racket for the next three hours. Our day has started.”

The bray of a yawn in the darkness, then a voice. “Fucking hell, already?”

“Hey, Corp!” Feltham probably. “Where’s the bog?”

“Left out of the tent, head down the slope. At the bottom of the field. Don’t show a bloody light, and don’t trip over any guy ropes, or you’ll be up to your eyes in shit.” He never used to swear. Coarseness was catching. Perhaps it was the promotion.

* * *

Each man carried two rolled-up stretchers into the support trench and leant them against the mud wall. The rest were stored at the Dressing Station. John had the men wait in bearer teams, ready for action later when... He blocked the thought.

His ears hissed after the British barrage. Curious noise, like a high E flat on the fiddle. Would this bat-sound ever go away? He clapped his hand over his right ear to try to block it out. No, still there. However did Gurney cope with gunfire?

Light seeped into the sky. His stomach jittered at the thought the attack was about to start.

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