Eleven Eleven

CHAPTER 8

7.00 a.m.

William Franklin woke up toying with the fibre red-and-grey identity discs around his neck. He hated wearing them and remembered the fear he’d felt when he first placed them over his head. Although no one had explained it to him, it was fairly obvious that one was to remain with him if he was killed and the other was to be removed by the burial party as proof of death. Will couldn’t remember which one got taken and which got left behind. But having them separated would be the start of a process that would end with a telegram to his parents. The other would stay there round his neck for the rest of eternity, unless he was blown to fragments by a high-explosive shell. Whenever he found himself thinking like that, he tried to stop it. Think of something nice, he’d say to himself, like his mum’s cooking or Alice.

It was almost light now. Will had such a terrible ache in his stomach. He felt so tight and tense he could barely walk. It was like those dreams where you tried to move but found yourself paralysed. He always felt like this before combat. But then the whistle would blow and the one thing he feared more than being shot by the Germans – being shot by the Military Police – would drive him out on to the battlefield.



The rain had started in earnest. Will began his day soaked and freezing. No wonder they called them ‘the poor bloody infantry’. Things usually got worse around first light when Fritz sent over a few shells. It was all part of the daily routine.

‘Start the day with the prospect of dismemberment,’ said Moorhouse, one of the older soldiers. ‘Set the tone.’ He winked when he said it though. Will was always a bit taken aback by these comments. They called it ‘gallows humour’ apparently.

One or two shells coming over was something he had got used to. But prolonged barrages still frightened him to death. The noise went on for ever, like perpetual thunder. Then your ears would ring for hours afterwards – you could barely hear what people said. This is what it must be like to be deaf, Will realised. He thought of his old grandad. If he ever got back to Lancaster, Will decided, he was going to be a lot more patient with him.

He reached into his pocket for his mother’s latest letter. Although he was pleased to hear from her, what she wrote slightly bored him. He had been mildly interested to know that their Essex Redcomb hens, Sarah, Beth and Caitlin, had been producing at least three eggs a week. But he didn’t really care how much grease his mum had managed to collect from washing-up water to give to the rag-and-bone men for use in the manufacture of explosives. And he gave even less of a fig about the patriotic parish pageant his mum and younger sister were organising for the coming Christmas celebrations. This would be the fifth wartime Christmas. When the war began, they were convinced it would be over by Christmas. Still, at least she hadn’t put any nonsense in about trying to contact their Stanley with that medium she knew down the street. Lillie Franklin had been to see that woman three or four times since Stan died – wanting to know if he was ‘at peace’. It made Will and Jim angry when they heard about it; the woman charged sixpence a sitting, bringing messages from ‘the other side’ – a day’s wages for a load of waffle. Maybe his mum was still going but just kept quiet about it now.

What Will really wanted was a letter from Alice. He had written to her at least three weeks ago and that was more than enough time for her to get his letter and write back. Her last letter had been rather formal too. A lifeless description of a play they had put on for wounded men, which stopped abruptly when she reached the bottom of the page. Maybe the post was having difficulty keeping up with the army.

A couple of runners came up from the rear with flasks of tea and porridge. Just as they plonked the heavy cauldrons down, there came the first unmistakable whine of incoming shells. The men all dropped to the ground, sheltering in the ridges. Will heard the shells land but there were no great earth-shifting explosions – no tearing of the air. Instead, there was a series of jolting thuds that shook the ground, and then the eerie sound of hissing.

‘Gas!’ someone shouted, and the men were thrown into panic. Everyone fumbled for their respirators. The Huns had not sent gas shells over for a few weeks. Will’s unit had got careless. A pair of horses were harnessed close by and their minder was desperately rummaging in two sacks on their backs, unpacking the masks the animals had to wear. In the panic, one of the men knocked over a pail of porridge. It spread over the ground like a great grey steaming cowpat.

Will had had the misfortune to be close to one of the gas shells. Too late he saw the green mist creeping towards him as it mingled with the morning fog. He got an acrid whiff of it before he could put his mask over his face and immediately began to cough. Pulling the mask on he tried to calm down and breathe as he had been instructed. But his eyes were watering and stinging terribly and he felt hot and cold despite the near-freezing morning. Worst of all, he thought he was going to be sick.

He breathed as deeply as he could through the caustic gas-mask cylinder and willed every atom in his body not to do what he knew he was about to do. It was coming up from the pit of his stomach like a great unstoppable wave. At the very last second he flipped the mask up and wretched on to the ground. A second later he pulled the mask down to take in another lungful of air, retching again immediately. He willed himself not to panic. If he inhaled his own vomit, and had another coughing fit, he would surely be dead. Fortunately he had yet to eat his breakfast and had had little to eat the previous day. It ended there. He sat down clammy with sweat as the waves of nausea gradually subsided.

There was a light wind, which helped disperse the gas, and the rain was coming down more heavily now, which also helped. Jim quickly mustered the men to get them to move away from the gas. As they left, Will saw the fellow who minded the horses lying on the ground. He thought he was dead until he began to cough in hideous spasms. The horses were wearing their masks and looked on impassively. Their minder had left it too late to put on his own. Will tore his gaze away. It was like watching a man drown before your eyes.

Will guessed the gas was chlorine or phosgene. He was grateful it hadn’t been that terrible mustard gas he had heard about. That was the one that attacked your skin and eyes, blinding and blistering. He didn’t want to think about what it did to your lungs.



‘Fall in,’ said Jim, when they had reconvened several hundred yards down the road. ‘Lieutenant Richardson wants to have a word with you all.’

The men waited in their ranks, while Jim went to tell the lieutenant his soldiers were ready. He hurried over, anxious to have kept them waiting. That was nice of him, thought Will. He had known officers who would keep their men waiting for ten or fifteen minutes and then stroll over without a care in the world.

Will looked at the platoon lieutenant in his officer’s outfit. It all seemed too big for him. He wondered if Richardson’s parents had minded spending all that money on the Sam Browne belt and the short sword. Front-line officers, it was well known, had the briefest life expectancy. Will felt sorry for him, and admiration too. Richardson had moved heaven and earth to get them hot rations, and held regular foot inspections to ensure none of them developed infections. It was quite a thing for a young man, barely more than a boy, to command the respect of these men. Will knew Jim thought well of Richardson too.

‘I have just heard from Divisional Command,’ their lieutenant told them in a loud, clear voice. Richardson knew how to address a squad of soldiers with clarity and confidence. ‘We are to attack the town of Saint-Libert to the east of this position at ten ack emma, following a half-hour artillery bombardment. As you know, we have American soldiers stationed on the other side of the woods to our right and they will also be attacking the adjacent village of Aulnois at around the same time. We are expecting light resistance but I would urge you all to show caution and not to risk your life unnecessarily. Prior to the attack I have asked Sergeant Franklin to take a small group of volunteers to these woods to the south of here, to check they are clear of enfilade fire or any other enemy activity that would hinder our advance. I also urge you to be prepared for further gas attacks. The bombardment this morning resulted in the loss of Private Atherton, who died gallantly saving the horses in his care. I would remind you all that, even though we may cherish and care for the packhorses, they are not worth the life of a trained soldier. Thank you. Rest easy.’

The men were issued with hot coffee – or something approaching it. Jim came and sat down next to Will. ‘I’d like you to come with me,’ he whispered. ‘I want to keep an eye on you. And if you volunteer it’ll impress the others. Make them think you’re not shirking. So if I’m easy on you later, they’ll be more likely to let it go.’

‘Is it going to be dangerous?’ asked Will.

‘Who knows?’ said Jim. ‘Fritz probably won’t have men in the forest. But going in there to look will probably be safer than taking part in a frontal assault on the town.’

Will nodded. When Jim stood up soon after to ask for his patrol volunteers, his younger brother was the first to raise his hand. Other men followed suit.

‘We’ll set out in half an hour,’ said Jim. ‘Leave your packs here. You’ll just need your weapons.’

Just then, Richardson came up to Jim and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. He got up and left the other men on their own. Will suspected the lieutenant had asked Jim to help him with his letter to the parents of Private Atherton.

Jim had told Will that Richardson had the same formula for every letter. Regardless of the usual gruesome circumstances, he would say the man died quickly from a shot to the head, or a shell blast that killed him in an instant. He even told the parents of the men who had been shot for cowardice that they had been killed on the battlefield. That was a kindness no one could argue against.

And Richardson would also say he had been well liked by his comrades, even if he was a constant whiner or a shirker. ‘I try to dissuade him sometimes,’ Jim told Will, ‘especially if the man was a bloody pain in the backside. I’ll say, “He was a sour old sod, sir. His mum won’t recognise your description.” But Richardson always says, “Can’t kick a man when he’s down, eh, Sergeant?” and he’ll insist we keep it. I’m not sure that’s right. If you know your husband or your son’s one of life’s miseries, then hearing they were the life and soul of the party is going to make you wonder if they really did die as quickly as you’ve been told.’

Will wondered what Richardson would write about Atherton. He kept himself to himself. The men had often joked that he liked the horses more than his human comrades.

When Jim returned, Will’s squad were sitting round a wood fire bare-chested, going through the daily ritual of delousing their shirts. The fire was blazing away, but it was still a freezing business. You roasted at the front, froze on your back.

How to get the lice out of his shirt was one of the first things Will had learned when he came over to France. His ‘Special Preparation Against Vermin In The Trenches’, from Boots the Chemist, had been useless. Destroying lice was far more complicated than simply rubbing ointment into your uniform. Along with his rifle and ammunition and iron rations, they’d been issued with a candle. One of the lads had joked, ‘What’s this for? Romantic dinners?’ He’d been put on a charge for that. They soon found out. The only thing that got rid of lice was fire. You lit the candle and then ran the flame over the seams, the places where the lice gathered in their hundreds. There was quite a skill to it, killing the lice without setting your shirt alight, or singeing it so badly the material ripped when you put it on. You knew you’d killed them because they exploded with a little pop. When the men were all sitting together, doing their delousing, it was almost like a miniature machine gun going off.

As they formed up for the forest patrol, Will looked around at the other volunteers. There was Ogden and Binney, who had both come out with him in the spring. Before they had boarded the train down to the Harwich ferry, they had all been issued with live ammunition, and Ogden had actually leaned out of the window and taken potshots at farm animals with his Lee-Enfield rifle. Will had seen a scraggy old sheep topple over and had gone and remonstrated with him. It took a whole month before Ogden forgave him. Will was pleased to see Weale and Moorhouse and another veteran of 1914, Hosking, were coming. The three of them thought themselves invincible, and no wonder. Will knew boys, and a few officers, who had died in their first hour at the Front. Cowell and Bradshaw, two other old hands, who had been at the Front for a couple of years, were with them too.

‘Hosking, take point, watch out for mines, any booby traps, but most of all, we’re looking for snipers. If they’ve got machine guns on the edge of the forest, we’ll find out soon enough, so don’t bunch up.’

Sergeant Franklin had his stern voice on.

‘No talking, no smoking, you know the drill. You want to tell me something, you come and tap me on the shoulder. All right? And whisper.’

Will looked at the men they were leaving behind and felt himself lucky. He was sure Jim was right. The forest patrol was definitely a safer bet than the attack on the village. They set off and within ten minutes the dense green trees loomed up before them.



Shortly after they left, the soldiers preparing for the assault were surprised to see a young runner from Divisional Command arrive breathlessly among them. He seemed to be bursting with a wonderful secret, grinning from ear to ear. He could barely contain himself when he asked for Lieutenant Richardson. He handed over an envelope, which the young officer immediately ripped open. The anxiety on his face vanished in an instant. He too seemed strangely excited, and called for the men to assemble immediately. He even rushed around their position himself, to ensure every man under his command would be present to hear him.

Eventually, when he had gathered them all together, he announced, ‘Men, I have some momentous news. The attack on Saint-Libert has been called off.’ A murmur of relief went around the platoon. ‘In fact, I have been informed that hostilities will cease at eleven o’clock this morning.’

Lieutenant Richardson’s men looked at him with dull acceptance. There was no cheer, no celebration, no throwing caps into the air. He felt a flash of exasperation. ‘Gentlemen, don’t you understand? The war is over.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Corporal Entwistle, who took on Jim’s role when he was elsewhere. The men remained impassive. It was as if Richardson had just announced that breakfast was being served half an hour later.

‘Sir, what about Sergeant Franklin’s patrol,’ said Entwistle.

‘Send a man to fetch them back, Corporal. Tell him to get a move on.’

Half a mile away a couple of shells screamed down and exploded. Even from that distance they still shook the ground around them. ‘The war’s not over yet, sir,’ said the corporal and marched briskly over to Rifleman Heaton.

Corporal Entwistle had never liked Heaton. He was always too eager to obey the officers, always happy to volunteer. There was something smarmy about him. And those books he read – always fishing out an E.M. Forster or a James Joyce from his knapsack when they stopped for a break. That was all right for an officer. But Heaton’s father was a blacksmith. He had no business with books like that. He had just fished one out to read now. Corporal Entwistle pulled down the book and peered straight into his face. ‘Make yourself useful, lad. Go and fetch Sergeant Franklin and his patrol and tell them the war is over.’

Heaton immediately put down his book and gathered up his rifle and helmet. ‘Yes, Corporal. Which direction did they go?’

‘Just follow the path there into the woods, son. Make it sharpish.’

Heaton headed off as fast as he could, in the stooped posture which had become second nature to him. Like the others in the platoon, he was too exhausted to feel anything other than a kind of dull surprise about the end of the war. Maybe when they’d stopped the infernal artillery bombardment he could hear in the distance, maybe then he’d feel something. For now, that endless rumble just clouded up his mind.

As Heaton approached the wood, the artillery stopped and there was no small arms fire – not entirely unheard of, but rare anywhere on the Western Front. He could even hear a few birds singing and began to walk in a more upright manner.

He thought about what he was going to do when he got home, and the terrible row he would have with his father when he announced that he wanted to study to go to college. Heaton wanted to be a teacher. English literature. It was the thing he loved the most. Far in the distance he thought he could see a group of soldiers. He called out, ‘Sergeant Franklin,’ but they were too far away to hear. He called again to no avail and had began to run towards them when a sniper’s bullet caught him square on the forehead, throwing him off his feet and twisting him round as he fell. Private Heaton was dead before his body collapsed like a discarded doll on to the ground.