Fritz.”
We group around a stretch of old canvas and count out our arms and ammunition. Ten Mills bombs, two rifles and plenty of rounds, Thompson’s revolver, and Graves’s machine gun with only a couple of drums of bullets. I wish now that I’d turned back last night and retrieved what I’d left behind. “Two rest, two keep watch,” Thompson says. “Fritz doesn’t know we’re here, but the bad news is that neither does our side, so try to find a place that gives a little cover from shellfire.”
We decide that Graves and I will rest first while Thompson goes down the trench as a sentry and Elijah keeps watch in the crater. I pull some chicken wire over a cut in the crater that will make for a comfortable nest. I cover the chicken wire with a few boards and a layer of mud. Slipping into it with my rifle, the exhaustion washes over me. I know I’m invisible here and the tension slowly recedes from my jaw. Sleep comes fast and deep.
My eyes open to sunlight cut by diamonds of shadow. For a moment I’m not sure where or who I am. I just am.
The brightness of late morning shines through the chicken wire and across my face. I wiggle myself a little so that my head is free of my nest and I stare up at the blue sky. Not a cloud, only the blue of morning. Small birds dart across the crater chasing one another. One swoops in and lands close to my head. It doesn’t know I’m there and begins to primp itself, just a few feet away from me, its feathers shining in the sunlight. It is a type I’ve not seen before. The eyes are black as night. I blow on it and, startled, it hops, then flits away. For a while nothing moves. Pure silence. It’s not something I’m accustomed to any more.
I inch out of my nest in such a way that my movement won’t be noticed. I peer about, rifle at my side and ready. Graves is curled up close by, sleeping lightly. Elijah sits at the other end of the crater, rifle across his lap. Every few seconds he scans the parapet above him. I wave to him. He smiles and waves back. I make my way to him.
I feel good but a little groggy. Sitting side by side, we pass a canteen of water. “Get some sleep,” I say. “You look tired. Crawl into the place where I slept. It’s comfortable.” Elijah doesn’t put up a struggle, just gets up and walks to the nest and goes in.
I find a cut in the crater that gives some cover and sit there with my rifle on my lap, listening. Big guns have started up in the distance but they are miles away. It’s as if the war has moved to another place. It has sucked the life from Saint-Eloi and left it like this, has moved on in search of more bodies to try and fill its impossible hunger.
I figure it’s safe enough to light a cigarette. No one will notice it in the sunlight. I started smoking to fit in. Now I like it. Sometimes I send up prayers on the smoke.
I take a cigarette out of my kit. The flare of the match makes me want something more, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m reminded of the danger of the night, see the shellfire in the match’s light. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve got a little time alone. I pull the smoke down into me. It tastes like bitter spring greens on my tongue. Reaching into the inner pocket of my tunic, I undo the moosehide bag in which I keep the tobacco that protects me. It is the bag Auntie gave me before I left. I put the bag back in. It feels warm against my skin, like it is filled with blood.
I hear the scuffle of feet and train my rifle on the trench that runs out of the crater. Thompson appears, looking tired. He sits beside me and lights up a smoke too.
“It’s as if Fritz has headed back to the Rhine,” he says. “I went down that trench a good hundred feet but no sign of anything. I came back half that way and sat all morning long. You wouldn’t think there’s a war going on.”
I must listen carefully to understand him.
An aeroplane drones above us, silhouetted by the sun and hard for me to
We group around a stretch of old canvas and count out our arms and ammunition. Ten Mills bombs, two rifles and plenty of rounds, Thompson’s revolver, and Graves’s machine gun with only a couple of drums of bullets. I wish now that I’d turned back last night and retrieved what I’d left behind. “Two rest, two keep watch,” Thompson says. “Fritz doesn’t know we’re here, but the bad news is that neither does our side, so try to find a place that gives a little cover from shellfire.”
We decide that Graves and I will rest first while Thompson goes down the trench as a sentry and Elijah keeps watch in the crater. I pull some chicken wire over a cut in the crater that will make for a comfortable nest. I cover the chicken wire with a few boards and a layer of mud. Slipping into it with my rifle, the exhaustion washes over me. I know I’m invisible here and the tension slowly recedes from my jaw. Sleep comes fast and deep.
My eyes open to sunlight cut by diamonds of shadow. For a moment I’m not sure where or who I am. I just am.
The brightness of late morning shines through the chicken wire and across my face. I wiggle myself a little so that my head is free of my nest and I stare up at the blue sky. Not a cloud, only the blue of morning. Small birds dart across the crater chasing one another. One swoops in and lands close to my head. It doesn’t know I’m there and begins to primp itself, just a few feet away from me, its feathers shining in the sunlight. It is a type I’ve not seen before. The eyes are black as night. I blow on it and, startled, it hops, then flits away. For a while nothing moves. Pure silence. It’s not something I’m accustomed to any more.
I inch out of my nest in such a way that my movement won’t be noticed. I peer about, rifle at my side and ready. Graves is curled up close by, sleeping lightly. Elijah sits at the other end of the crater, rifle across his lap. Every few seconds he scans the parapet above him. I wave to him. He smiles and waves back. I make my way to him.
I feel good but a little groggy. Sitting side by side, we pass a canteen of water. “Get some sleep,” I say. “You look tired. Crawl into the place where I slept. It’s comfortable.” Elijah doesn’t put up a struggle, just gets up and walks to the nest and goes in.
I find a cut in the crater that gives some cover and sit there with my rifle on my lap, listening. Big guns have started up in the distance but they are miles away. It’s as if the war has moved to another place. It has sucked the life from Saint-Eloi and left it like this, has moved on in search of more bodies to try and fill its impossible hunger.
I figure it’s safe enough to light a cigarette. No one will notice it in the sunlight. I started smoking to fit in. Now I like it. Sometimes I send up prayers on the smoke.
I take a cigarette out of my kit. The flare of the match makes me want something more, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m reminded of the danger of the night, see the shellfire in the match’s light. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve got a little time alone. I pull the smoke down into me. It tastes like bitter spring greens on my tongue. Reaching into the inner pocket of my tunic, I undo the moosehide bag in which I keep the tobacco that protects me. It is the bag Auntie gave me before I left. I put the bag back in. It feels warm against my skin, like it is filled with blood.
I hear the scuffle of feet and train my rifle on the trench that runs out of the crater. Thompson appears, looking tired. He sits beside me and lights up a smoke too.
“It’s as if Fritz has headed back to the Rhine,” he says. “I went down that trench a good hundred feet but no sign of anything. I came back half that way and sat all morning long. You wouldn’t think there’s a war going on.”
I must listen carefully to understand him.
An aeroplane drones above us, silhouetted by the sun and hard for me to
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