Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [137]
2 June
Three weeks of quiet, broken only by the stray shell and the ever-present snipers, and then it all came down on us, hell breaking out anew just after mid-night on Monday last. It had been such a lovely holiday, too, with actual fields instead of pitted mud as far as the eyes could see. The trees had branches and delicate spring leaves, there were birds nesting in the church’s steeple, the people were still capable of smiling. Birdsong—nightingales—animals other than rats! And one night I heard what I’d have sworn was a dog fox. Then at one in the morning the earth heaved and the sky turned to flame with their guns, and it was back to Hades for us.
Except that this time they’ve got us out of our trenches and running for our lives. God knows how much equipment we’ve shed between here and where the front line was 72 hours ago. I managed to hang on to my pack, running through fields with the bullets going zip, zip over my head, although some Jerry’s got himself two pair of nice new French stockings that I’d left drying in the dugout along with my mess kit and entrenching tool. I gave one old pair of stockings to a man who’d run five miles in bare feet, which leaves me with one of Aunt Iris’s pairs on my feet and another in my kit that’s more holes than yarn. I know what the next letter home’s going to ask for!
14 June
Thank God for the Yanks. The Second Division had been set down not far from where we are now, troops fresh off the boat and spoiling for a fight, and when Jerry got to them, he bounced back like a rubber ball. Not at first, but once they had the feel of it, the Yanks dug in their heels and shoved back. They even retook Belleau Wood, and that seems to be about as far as Jerry’s getting this time. But it was close. If he’d had more troops, better supplies, he’d be strolling up the Champs Élysées in the morning.
The guns must have given Iris and her friend Dan a few bad hours. I had a letter from her, one from home, and one from H. all in the same post today; no doubt they’d sat waiting for us until hdq. could spot where we’d ended up.
Lost only one man—head wound, but he’ll live to see Dover. One of the other fellows lost his entire platoon, taken prisoner when he was separated from them. Poor bastard, feels like he lost his mother. Or his sons.
23 June
Back up the line to shore up some weak places in the French fence. Sorry to lose my old batman, he was a great comfort, but I’m closer to H., although I haven’t seen her to talk to yet. Spotted her ambulance—I’m pretty certain it was her Ford—scrambling its way down a hill yesterday morning, but she didn’t see me, one khaki figure in a hundred.
Holiday’s over; we’re back in the thick of it. I wonder if Jerry’s listening to the nightingales right now. There certainly aren’t any around here, just rats.
Shelling heavy tonight, damn them. Makes my nerves jumpy, can’t help it. Not even knowing my green-eyed Hélène is near can stop the twitches.
Had a man go bad on us yesterday—not one of mine, thank God, but about a hundred yards up the line. His nerves just crumbled and he downed his rifle and ran. Took a bullet in the shoulder, with luck it’ll see him out of trouble, and nobody’s saying anything about the fact that he took it in the back. But he’ll have to live with knowing he deserted his mates in a pinch. Don’t know about him, whether that would trouble him or not, but I know that, once or twice, it’s been the only thing that’s kept me facing forward, knowing I’d have to live with the shame of abandoning men who counted on me.
Word is, we’ll be home by Christmas. They’ve been saying that since the first winter, I know, but this time it may be true. One way or another.
The padre’s just been through. Good man, name of Hastings, too old by far for this stunt but doesn’t complain, always a word of encouragement, especially for the young boys. A countryman, Surrey rather than Berkshire but close enough, had some interesting stories about water voles.
Beautiful full moon tonight, brighter than the Very lights. Anyone