Sixty-Two Yards by Logan Chandler
“They say that this war will end all wars.” The sergeant’s saliva catches onto his black, well-groomed mustache. “But do not let it be the war to end your resolve, or our empire!” At that, multiple men in the trench let out a yell of pride, some throwing their fists into the air. As I see artillery shells being lobbed across our lines and into enemy territory, I check to make sure that my service rifle has a full magazine. Opening the bolt reveals that all ten bullets are, in fact, ready for battle. The kid next to me doesn’t look as ready. “Kid” seems fitting, as his helmet covers most of his forehead, shaking with the rest of his body and his rifle bolt.
“Nervous?” I ask, as we wait for our artillery to finish shelling the enemy lines. The kid just shakes in place, having to push his helmet off his eyes to look up at me. “Don’t be. I’ve been in a few battles now, and I know the look of a survivor. You have that look.” I can make out a small, momentary smile on his face as he takes comfort from my words, but the silence of the lack of artillery and following sharp screech of the whistle interrupts us.
“Stand fast and strong!” the sergeant yells. “For King and Country!” Service revolver in hand, he climbs up over the precipice of the trench, and a mass of men in our khaki uniforms march towards ledges and ladders to follow behind.
After climbing up the ladder, I am surprised by how little damage our bombardment actually caused. Aside from a few craters, most of the ground is consumed by golden wheat, stretching far out into the countryside, with small patches of varied wildflowers dancing within. Looking at this scene, it seems like a peaceful one. But the whizzing of machine gun fire, the distant booms of explosions, and the cries of men old and young as they disappear into the wheat suggest anything but peace. We are ordered to march onwards through the field, and I occasionally fire a shot towards the German lines. I can’t actually see them, save for a few sandbags where the entrances are. Finally, after marching for what seems like an eternity, we are told to charge with all our might. Holding my rifle over my head, bayonet pointed outward, my feet carry me at speeds I didn’t know I could go—all the way into the German trench. My bayonet finds its way into the gut of a Jerry, almost getting stuck in what I assume are the ribs. Yanking my rifle free, I turn it to face another enemy soldier—whose wide eyes and lack of a gun in hand don’t stop me from pulling the trigger—my own eyes closed.
It is now well after noon, and we have taken the trench. After my initial scuffle, most of my time consisted of walking through the defenses, finding most of the Hun willing to surrender or already falling back. Now, setting up our own positions, I work with an older man, who introduced himself as Daniel, to clear out some of the bodies.
“We took this one quick, eh?” I attempt to start a conversation with the elder.
“You can bet they won’t give up the next one so quickly,” Daniel’s gruff voice is barely above a whisper. We proceed to toss one of the grey-clad corpses out of the trench, and he looks at me, continuing, “This isn’t your first battle, is it lad?”
“I fought at Mons, sir, right after I joined up in 1914. Why do you ask?”
“You seem unaffected by what we’ve done here. Only two years of this, and you’re already insensitive?” His question catches me off guard, and I can’t do much but respond weakly:
“Well, you look like you’ve seen your share of war, if you don’t mind me saying,” we start carrying another body, Daniel grabbing the arms while I grab the feet. “Forgive me, but I’d think you would be used to it.”
We toss out the body, then Daniel closes his tan trench coat onto his bosom. “I’ve been in wars before, son. Let me tell you, this is no war—it’s a nightmare. Never, in my thirty years of service, have I seen so many men mowed down like what happened today. I’m telling you, these are the first steps of the Reckoning. It starts with slaughter. Soon, there will be fire, and trailing them, the Horsemen. Then we shall witness Death upon his pale horse, with Hell following him.”
I can’t shake that image out of my head as we continue to toss out the bodies, and as we carry on, it begins to feel like their blank, lifeless eyes are staring back at me. Luckily, a runner calls for me just as I begin to hear whispers. “Private Reilly? Private Thomas Reilly!”
“That’s me,” I stand to face the young man, who appears only be a bit younger than myself. “What is it?”
“Captain Mountford has requested you. Come with me.” Daniel gives me a smile, saying that he’ll take a break. Turning my back to him, I follow the messenger through the network, our men either loitering around in some of the more open areas of the trench or working with pickaxe and shovel in hand, trying to expand the defences. The man leading me currently has his helmet off, revealing a small tuft of messy red hair.
Curious, I ask, “Are you with the Irish units? Sorry, it’s just your hair—”
“I am, don’t be sorry,” he interrupts. “The name’s William McBride, by the way. So, is it true you cleared out the southern sector all alone?”
Grinning, I shake my head. “No, I was just alone for, I don’t know, ten minutes before I saw a friendly face. There were only twenty or so Jerries, I don’t think it’s too much of a feat.”
McBride just looks forward as we descend a makeshift staircase. “Well, the captain would disagree with you. That’s the reason I’m gettin’ you in the first place. How’d you do it? Surely, those men didn’t go down without a fight, and to take on twenty—”
“Men? Oh, right, uh,” I haven’t heard Jerry referred to as ‘men’ since I joined the army. “Well, I couldn’t tell you. Instinct just took over, you know?”
“Right.” McBride stops for a moment, looking at the ground. “I haven’t been in many battles, but I’ve already had my fill with this business. Bloody hell, we’re not even supposed to be here! What are we, the British and Irish, doing by the River Somme, the heart of France? I’ve heard even some lads from Australia are here, and they live a whole world away!”
All I can do is shrug and motion to continue walking, replying with “Well, we fight here so that the Hun won’t bring the fight home. See you later, McBride,” I say as we come to the door of the captain’s quarters.
“Here’s hoping,” he says, then he turns away to go run more messages, I assume. Before I can knock, the captain’s door swings open, and a tall, stern man who I assume is Captain Mountford rushes me in, closing the door just as fast as he opened it. Inside, the freshly-dug dirt walls are lit only by a single lantern, surrounded by four stools, two of them taken up. One seats the sergeant, his face covered in mud, and another seats the kid from this morning, who looks like he’s been buried alive, with dirt all over and a pale expression. Mountford proceeds to sit in one of the stools, facing me.
“These two tell me that they saw you rush into the southern sector of this trench, all alone. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t realise no one was behind me, and it was only after ten minutes or so that I decided to seek out the rest of the men.”
“Reports say that there were 14 German bodies in there, and this lad,” Mountford pointed at the kid, “said that he saw another seven running out of that trench. Was that your work?”
“It was, sir.” I stand motionless, not knowing whether that kid had earned me a medal or just condemned me to the stockades for the remainder of the war. The captain broke the silence.
“Initiative like that is exactly what we need in this battle,” Mountford proceeds to hand me a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Yours to enjoy. I believe that talent like yours would go to waste as a private. What say you, sergeant?”
The sergeant sits upright in his stool, clearing his throat. “He would make a fine corporal, methinks.”
“You hear that, Corporal Reilly?”
I do not let my shock show, keeping my face stoic aside from a small grin. “Thank you, sir. What are your orders?”
“Right now, go get some rest; you’ve earned it. Tomorrow, I’ll have you help lead the charge. Dismissed, all of you.” With that, I take my leave with the sergeant and the kid, who tags along with me for a little while. As soon as we exit Mountford’s quarters, I say to him:
“See, lad, I told you that you’d survive. What’s your name?”
In a high-pitched voice, he answers, “Smith, sir. Johnathan Smith.”
Taken aback, I can’t help but ask, “How old are you?”
“You have to be eighteen to sign on, sir, so. . .” But he trails off, likely seeing the disbelief in my face. With a sigh, he pulls me down to his level, saying “I told the recruiter I was fifteen, but he said to come back tomorrow when I was eighteen. So, the next day, I said I was eighteen, and, well, here I am.”
“Look, Johnathan,” I set myself on one knee, both of my hands on his shoulders. “Trust me, the battlefield is no place for someone your age. Yes, you’ve survived this encounter, but what about tomorrow? You know Jerry won’t give up nearly as easily as they gave up this trench. Besides, what do your parents think?”
Head hanging down in shame, Johnathan replies, “They. . . They think I’m down in Wales with my cousin. I just want to do my part for King and Country before the war’s over. When else will I be able to go on an adventure like this?”
Standing up, I guide the kid to his bunk, navigating past multiple men who are definitely more than twice his age. “Johnathan, I get that you want to fight for the cause, but you’re too young. Please, for your own safety, stay here tomorrow. I’ll vouch for you, saying you’re too sick to fight.”
“No, I’m going to fight.” The look of resolve on his face contrasts with his uniform, which is too big for him, now that I notice. He then sits on his bunk, grabs his rifle, and begins to clean it. Heading to my own quarters, I open the scotch and take a swig. Johnathan is nearly ten years younger than me, and yet here he is, a child fighting not for any cause, but for his life. Well, if he’s gotten this far, he can’t be too bad in a fight. Maybe the kid does have what it takes.
A large gathering of men cuts off my thoughts, clambering out of the trench over the precipices in various states of undress. Following them, I see three large, metal objects that look like moving water tanks heading towards us, tracks flattening the wheat as some men ride atop of them.
“Gentlemen,” one of the riders says as the moving tanks halt, a chainmail veil shrouding his face. “Look upon what will win this battle – no, this whole bloody war. We call it, the landship.”
“It looks like a water tank!” One soldier yells from the crowd, likely trying to jest, but the rider exclaims:
“Exactly! Jerry will never know what hit him, for the landship is armoured to the brim and can carry any gun, even cannons!” With that, the men move up to the landships, taking a look wherever they can. Looking at it now, I can see what the rider means. On the sides of the trapezoidal tank, two sponsons look like perfect positions to set up guns. Foolishly, one man asks:
“Can we ride in it?”
“No, we’ve already trained some lads to operate these. Just know that tomorrow, the two month stalemate at this river will come to an end! Rule Britannia!”
We cry into the setting sun, its fading orange light just barely illuminating the way to my bunk. While travelling through the maze of our defences, I see our trench mortars pounding the enemy lines with all sorts of munitions, their normally-deafening boom reduced to a simple thump in my ears. All around, men ready themselves for the coming fight, cleaning rifles, sharpening bayonets, I even see Daniel leading a group in prayer, McBride among them.
Finally, I crawl into my bunk, only taking off my helmet and web gear. Most of my night is spent just lying down with my eyes closed, too nervous to fully fall asleep. Morning comes after, and despite everyone preparing themselves, all is silent in the trench save for the constant explosions of distant mortars and the occasional gunshot from a sniper.
As the corporal, I stand next to the sergeant on the ledge of the trench, my newly-given service revolver in my right hand, while my left holds my bottle of scotch, emptied by the men requesting a drink of false courage. The silence is broken by the barks of the sergeant:
“Today, we will turn the tide and end this damned stalemate!” Unlike before, no one cheers or yells. “God save the King!” And the whistle cracks through the air, forcing our lads over the parapets while I stay behind to ensure everyone leaves.
Most of the men have filed out, all save for myself, Captain Mountford, and Johnathan—his grim and violent face betrayed by the puddle he stands over. After letting out a yell, he charges up to a ladder, but he reaches the top only to fall back down on his back, hands clutching his throat while a red river runs down his chest.
“Johnathan!” I jump down from my perch to help him apply pressure to his wound. All that I hear come from him are gags and gasps for breath, the occasional bubbling of blood spewing from his youthful lips.
“Leave him!” Mountford commands, “The medics’ll do their best, now get your arse over the top!”
I hastily stand upright, not bothering to wipe my hands clean, and turn away from the dying kid who didn’t even get to prove himself. In the stretch of land between us and Jerry, the wheat fields have now been desecrated by fire and shrapnel, the craters present enough to rival those found on the moon. Even though it is midday, the sun is cloaked behind a cloud of thick smoke and smog, no doubt the result of the artillery. Seeing that those who haven’t been shot down are cowering behind what little cover they can, from tiny hills to craters to even the corpses of their comrades, I join one who hides in an entanglement of barb wire, a soldier who turns out to be McBride.
“What’re we doing, sir?” Despite yelling, the sounds of exchanging gunfire and indistinguishable artillery explosions make McBride’s voice sound no louder than a whisper. A few seconds hesitation, and I reply, “We have to wait for our landships, the tanks, to break through the enemy line! Steel yourself!” I proceed to fire three shots from my rifle in the general direction of where I think the Hun is, not knowing whether my little messengers of death find their mark. For a good ten minutes, we can do little more, McBride and I taking pot-shots. But then I hear the deep rumbling of several engines. Rushing behind the now-visible landships, I exclaim “Cheers lads, cavalry’s here! Use the tanks as cover!”
Those who hear my orders run as fast as their legs will carry them, some lucky enough to make it while others fall face first into the desolate earth below.
It takes a few minutes for our landships to reach the enemy lines, but when they do, everyone trailing them jump into Jerry’s trench, ready to give him our sharpened British steel. I personally hop into a side trench network, likely used for dispatching messages, and fire my rifle into a small crowd of maybe four Germans. Realising that I can’t cycle the bolt of my rifle fast enough to take them all out, I drop it in favour of my revolver, which is more than quick enough to deliver a swift death to all in that pit aside from me. As I move forward, a Jerry pops out from behind a box, grabbing at my throat. Not reacting clearly, I yank the bottle out of my belt and bludgeon my foe’s face with it, piercing the air with shattering glass and a howl of pain the likes of which I have never heard. Small gashes line his face, blood streaked across it, but noticing that he still moves, I bring the remainder of the bottle into his chest, effectively stabbing him.
When he lies motionless, I look at my surroundings. More of our men have moved into the trench I am in, brawling with the Germans in any method they can, whether they use their bayonets as knives or resort to simply punching their enemies. The desperation can’t be more visible. That is when I see one of our tanks get slammed by an artillery shell, smoke promptly rising from it. Screams emit from the metal coffin, but no one moves in to help. No one but McBride, who attempts to tear open the latch near the gun sponson.
I can see his mouth moving, his arms motioning for me to join him, but all I can hear is the souls of the dead inside the tank crying for deliverance, which comes in the form of another artillery shell. Inching toward the landship, I fail to make it in time before the shell engulfs it in flames, knocking me back. Flat on my back, all I can see now where the tank and my friend once stood is a burnt metal husk, flaming corpses strewn about. The smell is unbearable, like someone left rotting meat in a cooking pot overnight and let it set in. All I can do is hope that McBride died quick and clean.
Suddenly, I feel myself being hoisted up onto my feet, and looking at me is Daniel, his face stained with death.
“The sergeant’s dead,” he manages to get out, “Leaving you in charge, son. Your orders?”
Still in a daze, I stammer, “We, we’ve. . .” I take a deep breath. “We’ve got to move further into the trench. There are still two landships left, and if we follow this dispatch trench, it should take us right to their command. Onwards!” With caution, the men in my vicinity creep farther down the winding network, and we encounter more than a few Germans along the way. We kill them with no mercy or second thought, using whatever means are at our disposal. My broken bottle has become a knife, and my revolver, a tool of Death himself, firing without even a second’s hesitation.
We follow the trench for what seems like an age, until we finally reach a circular pit, wood and metal lining the walls and floor, logs acting as roofs in some areas where Jerry officers ponder over maps and telegraphs, crates of unused munitions stacked in no particular order. A fire rages, blocking off one pathway, likely further into Jerry’s lines. Chaos cannot describe the ensuing melee, as we charge at each other head-on, a horde of grey-clad barbarians smashing into our line of khaki-wearing monsters.
I say monsters, for I see one man use a rock to smash one German to death, another chokes one out, and I myself shoot six of our foes, who proceed to dive into the mud at our feet. I then drop my pistol entirely as I use my bottle to shred the torso of another, the tatters of his flesh and uniform spread all over. Thinking the day as won, I notice Daniel, staring into the nearby fire. His expression as cold as stone, he mutters:
“They have come.”
“Who?”
“Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death.”
From the inferno, I can indeed see four men atop horses, sabres in hand, shrouds hiding their faces, and pointed helmets covered in soot. Those of us who do not cower and find a place to hide are easily run down, the roaring of the horses nightmare-inducing.
I attempt to pull Daniel out of the way, but a German sword from atop a white horse slashes across his chest, spewing warm crimson onto my face. In anger, I grab a hold of my revolver, reload it, and fire every shot into the Horseman responsible, reload again, then take out his comrades. All of the horses fall to the ground, but one of the Horsemen dismounts from his fallen white horse, readying his sabre. Before I can ready my revolver, he rushes at me, leaving me to spar a trained swordsman with only a bottle. Catching his blade in between two prongs of glass protruding from my knife, I push towards his shrouded face, forcing him to drop his weapon with mine still caught onto it.
While he’s off-guard, I make a right hook at his face, then a left, then a right, then a left until he too finally collapses onto the ground. But I do not stop. Pinning him down, I proceed to land my vicious blows on the Horseman, until his shroud and helmet come loose, revealing the face of not Death, but rather that of a young, terrified boy. His blue eyes pierce into me, begging for mercy though he doesn’t say a single word.
Standing up, I bring him to his knees, and he keeps his hands behind his head, knowing that I’m watching. Finally, some other soldiers come and take him off, informing me that the rest of the German trench has fallen. I climb out of the command post, looking out onto the No-Man’s Land before me.
What I see are not the sights of victory. What I see are the wrecks of machines of a new age, the bodies of men on both sides of this conflict, piled and stacked indiscriminately. No one cheers, no one cries, no one breathes a word. The sun’s golden honey does little to sweeten the landscape, as most of it is blocked out by the ash rolling over the German lines. All the while, our own lines taunt us from just a mere field away, no further than sixty-two yards.
