Sample

Chapter One

The Belgian Territory
April 22nd 1915

‘It’s raining heavily today,’ Jack wrote on his postcard. He paused, his pen wavering over so few words; almost hesitant at what he should say next and wanting to avoid all mention of the battle he was about to face. He rubbed his forehead wearily, and looked around him.
    It was a cold, late spring morning, with icy rain falling increasingly from a darkened sky. Heavy rain blurred his vision as it fell from the gloomy grey clouds above. His eyes fixed on the dirt track leading through the trench, which by now had turned to thick mud - a dark dank mire that had a foul stench which seemed to stick in the men’s nostrils, and made a loud sucking sound as their boots tried to march through it.
    Normally such filthy weather would have kept the German forces safely in their dugouts, probably drinking schnapps and sleeping in their proper beds, he thought grudgingly. But today was different, since all the activity earlier that morning. The constant bombardment from the British 18lb guns and the French heavy guns, blasting their way through the enemy lines from morning ’til night trashing their barbed wire fences, told Private Jack Alfred Marshall of the 1st Canadian Division that this was not going to be an ordinary day.
    Not in this trench, and not at Ypres.
    Last night had been the first time their battalion had seen signs of the German army. They had heard them at first digging and chatting in the trenches just a few feet away.
    Then about 9:30pm it all started when the Germans attempted to blow up a mine and rush the allies in the trenches. They were received with a fusillade of rifle and machine-gun fire. At the same time the French and English artillery returned fire immediately and commenced to send shells over the heads of the men and into the German trenches. The enemy replied with their huge guns and trench mortars and a heavy bombardment took place, which lasted several hours. The British and French artillery had been truly magnificent.
    After it was all over they noticed that some shrapnel that had burst over the men’s heads when sending the bullets forward had done a tremendous amount of damage. All the while the French 75mm guns were continuing to shatter the trenches until the ground represented a large honeycomb.
    As Jack looked around him he noticed all the men were quivering with nervous excitement. It had been the first time they had been subjected to such an onslaught of fire, but Jack noticed that not one man had flinched from his duty or moved from his post. If the words, “Over the top, boys,” had come, he was sure that every last man would have done so without hesitation or a second thought for himself.
    Now, in the cold light of the morning, everything was quiet.
    He stared back at the few words he had written to his young friend in England. Jack shrugged his broad shoulders as if discarding his worries and tried to think of something positive to say to someone so innocent, so full of life and love.
    Trying to ignore everything around him, his pen, try as he might, still remained motionless. In desperation he tried to think of what he had overheard the men writing to friends and loved ones back home. They all tried desperately to keep morale up.
    The men talked about their newfound buddies that had recently joined the Division. Fresh-faced replacements for the dead or missing were eager to share their news from home. Many of the men received packages from home: chocolate, cigarettes and socks, all welcomed enthusiastically. Photographs were sent too, anything for their families to remind the boys of home. He smiled a little sadly. Home, a place of belonging, the one place he was still looking for.
    Lifting his head, he sent a frowning look over the men. He could write none of these things. The simple fact was he was a loner; he had preferred it that way ever since he had seen his friends get killed one by one. Only that morning he had seen one of those young men lying dead in front of him.
    A faint sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he remembered Joe. He had been such a nice guy. Joe Mullen had joined the battalion last April, and from the way he acted they all thought he led a charmed life. He always showed a certain kind of coolness and pluck. Jack remembered he had enormous blue eyes, and he had dimples when he laughed. He remembered Joe had been laughing earlier that morning, too, when the sergeant had picked him for a sniper job.
    “Leave it to me boys, I’ll get him! You can all sleep well tonight.”
    It had all been so simple.
    A sniper had kept on hitting the front of their dugout and Jack had held his hat up to test his aim – in return, to prove what a good shot he was he put a bullet through it.
    Sergeant Collier, aggravated by the constant stray bullets, sent Mullen to the second line to snipe back and keep the enemy busy. But when he had not returned from his expedition a couple of hours later, the Sergeant picked Jack and Adams to go find him. They found him all right; Joe had been shot through the head and must have died instantly. A sight that tightened the muscles of his stomach and sent shivers down his spine.
    Another tragic loss in a war made by men and fought by boys. Bitterness crossed his lips. Joe had only been eighteen years old. The tragic loss of his friend made the day seem even more difficult to bear.
    He shaved that morning as usual, took off his jacket, and hung it on a nearby ladder. Continuing to shave, he peered at the flat, lifeless reflection of his face in the mirror, as if it had a secret to divulge. He saw expressive brown eyes, firm but sensitive mouth, and a stubborn chin: a handsome face, framed normally by straight brown hair that curled over his collar. It was a face that women found attractive, but the image in the mirror gave him no clues, no answers. He slowly dropped his eyes and began lathering his face.
    Since the early hours of the morning there had been a sense of restlessness among the men. No one was laughing or telling jokes. There was just quiet.
    By breakfast an eerie silence seemed to come over the men as some ate in silence, while others took the quiet time to write their news home to loved ones on the army issue postcards. The silence stretched before him. He sighed heavily, and his attention was drawn back to his own postcard, and as he looked at it he struggled to find the exact words.
    What could he say to a friend back in England untouched by the horrors of war? He gazed at the postcard with stricken eyes.
    He could not tell his friend that he had not found the one person he had joined the army to find. What could he tell an innocent child? How could he define his part in this war? How could he explain to someone else when he did not understand himself what he was doing fighting in a strange land, and so far from Canada. Confused, he pulled at his right ear. What was a man to do? He stared down at his hand, still poised, waiting, but still nothing came.
    Then, almost in a dream-like state he had a momentary impression of a pair of brown eyes that were warm and sparkling, and a billowing skirt. She had long unruly dark hair the colour of night and a round face with freckles.
    He stood for a moment, his own eyes hooded with memories. At his first sight of her, he knew she was going to be a beautiful woman some day. Why not; she was after all a delightful child right now.
    On that last day she had held out her small hand to him and placed it in his, her chin quivering. She was looking directly at him, her eyes misty.
    “Will you come back to see me?” she asked, showing him a worried face.
    The question caused Jack an inward jolt. He had been totally caught off-guard by her directness. He knelt down in front of her and even in the darkness of the room she must have sensed the muscles in his face tighten. How could he promise her anything? After all, he had no way of knowing what lay ahead of him when he rejoined his battalion at the front line.
    “If you wait for me to grow up you could marry me, then I could be your family and you would have a family after all,” she said, with a shadow of a smile.
    He looked at her, and still holding her hand he tried to find the words: “I don’t know if I will ever be back this way again. I have to join my friends soon.”
    Her face took on a worried look. She appeared to consider. “You don’t want me?”
    Jack looked at her for a moment before answering, “It’s just that you are so very young and beautiful - you may grow up and meet someone else before I can return.”
    “I would never do that.” She squared her jaw at him, and he knew she meant it. Her face had a sort of sad maturity about it for one so young. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He tipped up her chin with his thumb and gazed into her tearful eyes. “I’ll see you again,” he whispered softly.
    She threw up her arms and hugged his neck.
    He had known it had been foolish to give her false hopes for his return, but she had needed someone in her life to let her know she was wanted, and he had needed a reason to keep fighting. He smiled gently and said, “I’ll send you a postcard from France.”
    She had said with real surprise, “I would like that, my parents send me postcards from different places all the time.”
    He dropped his gaze for a moment and the image was gone. It faded from his vision like a lost dream.
    Jack placed the unfinished postcard back into his tunic pocket with a sigh of regret. Try as he might, he could think of nothing pleasant to say; maybe he could finish it later. Jack glanced back over his shoulder at the men and his brown eyes rested on a young man, a reporter for the newspapers in England.
    He had been on hand to record the recent events for a recruitment drive, now he was tracking down the same muddy trench as the men, not knowing what lay in wait for them as they stepped out into ‘no-man’s-land’.
    Watching the young man as he stamped his feet and clapped his hands in an attempt to keep warm, Jack studied him for several seconds. He was sure the young man would give anything to be in his nice, warm, safe office back home.
    The short uneven expanse of warped and weathered duckboards was filled with eager young men who lined the murky walls. Young boys with innocent images of war; men who had not known or seen battle before that day. The veterans, many who had seen more than their fair share of battle, some sights they would never forget.
    Now in the anticipation of battle they all stood shoulder to shoulder in a united front, with their rifles armed and their bayonets fixed at the ready, waiting in nervous excitement for the call to stand-to. The hairs on the back of his neck began to creep. It was just a matter of time now, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck.
    “This is such a bloody waste of time,” one private complained in a quiet voice.
    Moaning openly, he blew his nose on a worn discoloured rag that Jack was sure had once resembled a white handkerchief. Although no one answered, more than one of the men nodded in silent agreement, as he himself pondered the thought, and rested his chin on the barrel of his rifle.
    The rain continued.
    A few minutes later his attention was drawn to a large man who stood a few feet away to address the men around him. He was the man responsible for their battalion. He stood rigidly astride and next to him was his second in command, followed by his Sergeant Collier. Even at a glance, this one man stood out from the rest.
    His brown leather-clad hands were clasped firmly behind his back. The gold bars on the shoulders of his tunic gleamed, and his chest ribbons were clearly visible even in this weather. There was no mistaking he was in charge, and had been since their arrival to the front line some ten days ago.
    Commanding Officer, William Hartley-Brown was wearing the same dark green trousers as his men, but they were untouched by mud or grime. He also wore a pair of dark brown boots that looked freshly brushed. Jack smiled thinly; even in this miserable dark hole the officers still gleamed with perfection; which made him wonder if the Commander had ever seen a battle.
    Slowly Commander Hartley-Brown walked down the line of men, stopping every so often to inspect the troop. One man was ordered to have his hair cut, another was reported for not keeping his uniform in better condition.
    He moved on to the next man and inspected his hair. Subconsciously, Jack felt the back of his neck and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t too long. His helmet covered his short dark brown crew cut. It was far too risky to remove his helmet for a closer inspection.
    He raised his head and stared up briefly at the dark sky. Rain ran in rivulets down a rigidly muscled chest. His green uniform became dark in patches as it soaked up the water.
    In bright sunlight, normally his eyes were a warm, dark chocolate brown, betraying his every thought and emotion. On this overcast day, they appeared as black and hard as obsidian.
    Appearing disinterested in the proceedings Jack kept those dark eyes void of all expression. He looked through the ’scope across the land once green but now barren and burnt beyond all recognition. The Belgians had once lived and worked this land with impunity. Once he had lived a life so different from this one.
    Jack gripped the ’scope tightly with both hands, and stood stiffly, tense, as a picture he had built up in his mind became all too clear. Toronto was a place where three years earlier he would never have thought of leaving. Then, he had not known the awful truth. Now he did. His life had now fallen into new patterns for the better – but until he found the truth, he wasn’t sure.
    His name was Jack Alfred Marshall, so he had been told. He had been born some twenty-seven years earlier in Toronto, Canada, where he lived with his mother and father. Or the man he was led to believe was his father, until three years ago.
    The man he thought to be his father, Thomas, had been a short, thin, balding man who was lazy and had very little or no ambition. Lucky for him his mother had all he had lacked. Thomas had come to Canada from England to make his fortune, but he had lost money through one misadventure and another.
    It had been at one of those times when he was out of a job that he had met and married his mother, Alice. She had been a tall, beautiful, raven-haired shop worker, who was a very quiet woman, he recalled – and which he had discovered too late was due to her sensitivity over the birth of her son.
    In the absence of a father for Jack, she had met and married Thomas, who’s not working had become his life. Alice was a strong woman and unafraid of hard work, but work soon became her vice. Within ten years she had built her small emporium into a chain covering the entire Toronto area.
    Then three years ago his mother, Alice, had finally had enough, and her heart had stopped beating through being over-worked. Jack had displayed open grief for the benefit of Thomas and all their friends.
    Thomas, it would seem now with the death of his wife, had plans of his own, none of which included Jack. He had always known that he and Thomas had their apartness, but while his mother had been alive it had never become an issue. Their relationship had been based on tolerance rather than love for the boy. It was a kind of attitude reserved for someone living in the same house whom a person could not help but bump into outside the bathroom, in the kitchen, or meet occasionally at the dining table. Then, after the funeral and when everyone had paid their respects and left, Thomas had taken him into the dining room for a chat. He now realised it was a desire for telling the truth, rather than paternal concern.
    “Right,” Thomas had begun as always, his bored glance bouncing round the room, as if he had already wasted enough time on him already. “The time has come for some home truths, Jack.” He dropped into one of the wooden chairs at the table.
    Jack sat down, leaned on the polished table and nodded, not knowing what else to do, at a loss for appropriate comment. He felt the older man’s discomfort, which only added to his already over-stretched nerves. Jack watched as the old man sat kneading his hands together nervously. He took his time taking something out of the breast pocket of his jacket, and took some more time staring thoughtfully at the small piece of paper lying on the table. Thomas slowly leaned forward, placed his forefinger on the edge of the paper, and pushed it to him.
    “Your mother asked me to give you this after her death,” he told him with very little emotion.
    Jack stared down at the folded paper and leaned across to take it slowly. He gave Thomas a swift, puzzled glance, when he saw that the letter remained unopened.
    Thomas gave him a morose, secret smile and placed both hands down on the table. “Your mother thought it was time you knew about your real father.”
    Jack flashed him a quick glance of enquiry. “What do you mean?”
    “It would seem your mother had a dirty little secret – that secret was your father.” Thomas grinned with vicious triumph.
    “That’s a lie!” Jack gasped, his face drained, and brought his fist down hard on the table.
    “I’m afraid not,” Thomas said between his teeth. Then he pushed himself up from his chair and making his way cautiously to the door turned and added, “Read the letter if you don’t believe me.” He opened the door, walked quickly through it and closed it firmly behind him.
    Jack picked up the letter. He noticed his hands were shaking as he opened it. He read the letter over and over again trying to grasp the concept of the contents at first. His mother, it would appear, had met a young English gentleman one summer and they had instantly fallen in love. He had come to her shop every day on the pretence of some small thing or another. He was taking a holiday before taking up his commission in the army as an officer. They were very much in love, but his mother could not ask him to stay. So, after the summer, he had gone back to England to join his command, leaving his mother alone and pregnant.
    Now she wrote saying she knew he had become a Major in the British Army.
    As Jack began to fold the letter he noticed how his hands were still trembling. He should thank Thomas for his frankness and his honesty, but what he needed right now was lacking – affection from the one man he had always considered to be his father.
    His mouth twisted bitterly as he folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. It had not been exactly what he had expected, or, for that matter, even wanted. A puzzled expression knotted his dark eyebrows. What was he going to do now? The rage of discovered abandonment of his mother flared in his brown eyes. He knew what he must do now – leave, go and find his father.
    And that’s how he came to be in the trenches. And in almost two years he had not found his father.
    At these cold thoughts a familiar anger flared in him and began to flow through his veins. As if sensing his mood, a pal only a few inches from his right side placed a hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him. Jack glanced over his shoulder briefly, concern already visible in his pal’s eyes. Before Jack could utter his words of thanks he had dropped his arm and remained still until the Commander passed them by.
    “You would think he would have something better to do than pick on us poor blokes for improper dress and haircuts in this weather,” he groaned, then went onto say as if for good measure, “My tunic hasn’t been dry in a week.” A small thin man, by the name of Harry and supporting a large moustache, he made his complaint to everyone who would listen.
    Jack did not turn his gaze away from the landscape in front of him. A small stretch of land that marked the boundaries of free land, and that was their objective.
    “After today you may not have to worry if you are wet or dry.” Jack refused to give the matter any importance. After all, there were more pressing matters to consider right now.
    Despite the icy chill in the air, Harry’s cheeks flushed a hot crimson, as if with fever. “I was only saying,” he growled, as he attempted to check his rifle and bayonet one last time.
    The men grew anxious as they began chattering their impatience over the delay. “They should not be in such a hurry for us to die,” one of the men called out as he threw a stream of left over tea from his tin mug into the mud.
    “Get ready to fire, men,” the sergeant shouted. The order received a burst of hearty cheers from some of the men.
    Before the Sergeant placed a whistle in his mouth he gestured the men to move in closer.
    The German Fourth Army attacked by unleashing 160 tons of chlorine on the allied line. Soldiers fled in terror at the appearance of the yellow-green gas cloud.
    Jack’s heart leapt into his mouth. This was it. This was what his small friend had warned him against, he thought. With no time to think, his actions were spontaneous. He tore off his clothing and soaked it in water, and then tied it quickly around his face to dissolve the chlorine.
    There was no time to lose; with men falling all around him, he quickly shouted to the men to follow his lead and soak whatever clothing they could find to cover their faces.
    It was all over in a matter of seconds, the gas cleared, and it was evident that the attack had been quick but effective. As Jack looked about the trench for friends who had survived, the horror of seeing them lying before him blinded by the gas attack was more than any man could stomach.
    It was obvious the 1st Division had suffered casualities, but some had survived, Jack included. He felt happy to be alive, and through all the panic and confusion and the dead, he allowed himself to look up at the sky. The sky was clear and the sun beamed through a crack in the slate clouds, lighting up the trenches.
    Yes, he smiled, he had lived to see another day. But when he looked at the dead and wounded lying a few feet away, most of them blinded by the gas, a dark cloud passed over his heart and he wondered if he would live long enough to see this war end. As the medics rushed to assist the men, and the division took a body count, somehow he doubted that he would ever see Canada again.

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