10 minutes to go now.
Dear Beth,
My nerves are yelling.
Blondie has just killed a rat; he’s got its tail in his fore finger and his thumb and is swinging it just like a pendulum. Swinging the seconds away.
My nerves are screaming.
I position my hand on the dirt floor and push myself slowly up. My hands progress at snail’s pace through the air and my feet shift gradually beneath me.
I’m going to take all the time I want to die. Die, why, why should I die?
Do you remember when I used to teach you how to rhyme?
This might be the last time I write. It might be, yes. But it might not. Keep that in mind.
I can smell porridge. I can always smell porridge, but that’s OK. I suppose you can smell porridge too. You always have it for breakfast. Now we can both smell porridge.
If I breathe deeper I can smell fags, lots of fags - the wasters of life. Don’t worry; there is no life to waste.
If I suck in more air the waft of rats floods inside me. Rats…I can’t explain the rats. You would scream. Some are as big as cats.
Cats and rats. The rats also have all these red streaks (this life stains everyone) all over them, red from the blood of the soldiers. Red and dead, they have bled, just like lead now, they are dead.
If I suck in all the air I can. I can smell the death. The rotting remains of men. Treated like rubbish. They are rubbish.
I am gazing around me right now; I’ll fill you in on all the details. There are four of us. Where is the fifth I hear you say, where is he?
Gone.
But I can see him, sis, I can see him. He’s crouching in the corner, smiling, laughing, a transparent figure, slowly fading away. Fag was his name. Gone now. Poor Fag, stubbed out.
Our dugout – I suppose it is exactly how you expect a dugout to look, like a coffin. We have added a few homely touches though: a couple of candles, a few chairs, a worn out rug, but how could we ever make this place homely? Instead of burning brightly, in this forever dampness, all the candles manage is a little flicker – they are scared to show themselves. Instead of being soft to the feet, the rug is like sandpaper – war has toughened it up. Instead of being something to relax on after a hard day, the chairs simply collapse under your weight – it’s all too much for them.
Five minutes to go now.
I turn around, turning my back on the present, I look at the past. You are coming back to me. I can see you.
I’m a bird swooping over a dock; a great boat is nudging the concrete. Boys are striding up the ramp, proud as peacocks. The dock’s crowded. I can see red, white and blue everywhere. They are people. It’s like the Union Jack jumbled up, with little heads poking out here and there.
There, unfair, this is unfair, that we have to tear…apart from each other.
You – my sister, as always, are wearing your bobble hat. Your long brown hair is rippling in the wind, doing a little dance; your blue dress is joining in the ballet. Your eyes are reaching out for me. But I don’t care. Sorry, sis.
I swoop lower.
Your little brown head, at that moment, gets lost in a sea of red and white. The boat backs away and bobs into the distance. I get pulled with it. After all, this is my memory.
“We are leaving Blighty, Oh-la-la - France next stop.” I hear someone say.
I slam back to reality when Ace screams. My nerves bellow back, furious.
“1 minute men.” The words echo in my head, scrutinizing and taunting me.
We are standing in a line with our partner. There is no sound at all. We just stand in a dead silence. Tick tock goes the non-existent clock. Clock and dock…my mind is at the dock.
I can’t hear anything. I just watch as the general takes a deep breath and blows into the biggest enemy of them all.
The whistle.
The whole army sprints forward. One big mass of guns, sweat and fear – bad combination.
Everyone’s face reflects mine: sheer horror. It is utter chaos, men screaming for their mothers, men screaming for themselves, men screaming their last scream. War’s meant to make you manly. If you saw this mess, you wouldn’t call us men. You’d call us monsters.
We are in a storm. Bashing and crashing. A huge body of water, men merged into one, we surge forward as one and pull back as one. Just like the sea, just like waves, we fight to live, but we are drowning.
I am floating down to the bottom of the ocean. My ship is going under.
One man’s head turns downwards and spots my open eyes. He has a rough cut beard and dark hair.
He is death.
The whistle has blown.
I’m going to die.
It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.
It’s serene. I’m happy. I take my last breath. Let it flood through me. Let it wash me away - before he does.
His brown eyes meet my blue and only when he has turned away does he pull the trigger.
It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.
There’s a pool of blood forming around me…growing and growing. The sound of screaming is fading. I can just hear my heart beat. I think I can hear yours. The red pool is soaking me now…
It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.
It’s a good thing. The madness is going…the madness has…
Red and dead, I have bled, just like lead now, I am dead.
The madness has gone.
XXX
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