Go Find a Better Hole
His body was shaking with terror. Crouched in the shell-hole, feet in the water that half- filled it, he twisted around to watch the flare hanging in the sky almost directly above him. For a moment all the guns ceased firing; in the unnatural silence he hardly dared breathe. Somewhere nearby a wounded man was moaning – why couldn't he be quiet, or else die quickly?
Eight of them had been doing a repair job on the barbed wire: the Front for once quiet. A clear night, not good for creeping into “No Man's Land,” where no man of any sense wanted to be. But an order was an order. The sergeant called out the names: “Painter, Williams J, Fairfield ...”. As his name was called, each man groaned or swore quietly. So there they were, boots wrapped in sacking, faces blacked, creeping out: no words spoken. Every order was a gesture from the Corporal I.C. The sergeant, of course, was by then tucked away in his cozy dugout. And then some idiot dropped his heavy wire-cutters.
Instantly all hell broke loose – rifle and machine-gun fire; flares turning darkness into daylight. He dropped flat and attempted to crawl away. It was this hideous hole which had saved him – but for what?
The day had started badly. With the rare event of mail from home had come a letter from his sweetheart, Emily ... sweet gentle Emily. And him a mere farm labourer, though able to read, but without even a cottage of his own, certainly no farm or land. He thought Heaven had come to earth that day when she said 'Yes' to his proposal of marriage. And then, the war had taken him away from her.
There had been another, Jack Simpson, a dairy man with a thriving business and a cottage of his own. Yet she had said 'Yes' to poor Fred Fairfield. But now, this letter, she could not wed him, she had given her hand to Jack; they were to be married ...
Suddenly a head appeared above the edge of the hole, a whispered “Mate, help me down ...”
Fred reached out and tugged the other into the shell-hole. The man screamed with pain and suddenly the hell of machine-gun fire started up again. 'What a hole,” he yelled. Fred turned and they stared at each other. “My God,” he said, “Jack Simpson!” Then “Go and find a better hole!” He tried to heave him back on to the open ground. “My leg”, whimpered Jack, crouching helplessly. “I can't walk, I can't walk.”
In mad rage Fred brought down the butt of his rifle on the other's head. Jack rolled down and lay half in and half out of the water, his face still seeming to stare back.
Fred found he was screaming: he couldn't stop. Suddenly everything blacked out. Someone was struggling with him, trying to hold him down. He was no longer in the shell-hole. He could feel blankets and someone's arms about him.
And then a woman's voice. “Fred my love, it's alright. You have been having that nightmare again.” It was dear lovely, loving Emily. Yes, there she was, as beautiful as ever. But then for a moment in that unsteady candle-light, came the awful illusion: her hair was grey.
The door of the room opened. A young man came in. “Is there anything I can do, Mum? The noise wakened me.”
“It's alright now, son,” she replied. “Your Dad has been having another of his nightmares. He suffered badly in the war, you know, and it hasn't changed while you have been away.
Fred was now sitting up. The sounds of battle were fading. He looked into the mirror and saw the face of an old man.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved
His body was shaking with terror. Crouched in the shell-hole, feet in the water that half- filled it, he twisted around to watch the flare hanging in the sky almost directly above him. For a moment all the guns ceased firing; in the unnatural silence he hardly dared breathe. Somewhere nearby a wounded man was moaning – why couldn't he be quiet, or else die quickly?
Eight of them had been doing a repair job on the barbed wire: the Front for once quiet. A clear night, not good for creeping into “No Man's Land,” where no man of any sense wanted to be. But an order was an order. The sergeant called out the names: “Painter, Williams J, Fairfield ...”. As his name was called, each man groaned or swore quietly. So there they were, boots wrapped in sacking, faces blacked, creeping out: no words spoken. Every order was a gesture from the Corporal I.C. The sergeant, of course, was by then tucked away in his cozy dugout. And then some idiot dropped his heavy wire-cutters.
Instantly all hell broke loose – rifle and machine-gun fire; flares turning darkness into daylight. He dropped flat and attempted to crawl away. It was this hideous hole which had saved him – but for what?
The day had started badly. With the rare event of mail from home had come a letter from his sweetheart, Emily ... sweet gentle Emily. And him a mere farm labourer, though able to read, but without even a cottage of his own, certainly no farm or land. He thought Heaven had come to earth that day when she said 'Yes' to his proposal of marriage. And then, the war had taken him away from her.
There had been another, Jack Simpson, a dairy man with a thriving business and a cottage of his own. Yet she had said 'Yes' to poor Fred Fairfield. But now, this letter, she could not wed him, she had given her hand to Jack; they were to be married ...
Suddenly a head appeared above the edge of the hole, a whispered “Mate, help me down ...”
Fred reached out and tugged the other into the shell-hole. The man screamed with pain and suddenly the hell of machine-gun fire started up again. 'What a hole,” he yelled. Fred turned and they stared at each other. “My God,” he said, “Jack Simpson!” Then “Go and find a better hole!” He tried to heave him back on to the open ground. “My leg”, whimpered Jack, crouching helplessly. “I can't walk, I can't walk.”
In mad rage Fred brought down the butt of his rifle on the other's head. Jack rolled down and lay half in and half out of the water, his face still seeming to stare back.
Fred found he was screaming: he couldn't stop. Suddenly everything blacked out. Someone was struggling with him, trying to hold him down. He was no longer in the shell-hole. He could feel blankets and someone's arms about him.
And then a woman's voice. “Fred my love, it's alright. You have been having that nightmare again.” It was dear lovely, loving Emily. Yes, there she was, as beautiful as ever. But then for a moment in that unsteady candle-light, came the awful illusion: her hair was grey.
The door of the room opened. A young man came in. “Is there anything I can do, Mum? The noise wakened me.”
“It's alright now, son,” she replied. “Your Dad has been having another of his nightmares. He suffered badly in the war, you know, and it hasn't changed while you have been away.
Fred was now sitting up. The sounds of battle were fading. He looked into the mirror and saw the face of an old man.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved