Tourists

We were still getting used to sleeping in the daylight. It was for three or four hours at most, before we had to be ready for something. We called ourselves ‘six-bob-a-day-tourists’; being paid six shillings to wander around France with a backpack and a rifle seemed better than what we had going on back home. Most of us barely had a job yet, and those of us who did, weren’t going to have them for much longer anyway. We were just regular blokes. We didn’t know how to fight a bloody war.

Charlie, our gunner, had spotted the Germans coming fast from the south of the main road of the village and started firing off the Lewis to give us time to get up. They were hidden in a trench about thirty yards out from us and we were dug in behind a thick, fallen wall. There were more of them, but we had higher ground. It was tough to tell where they were in the glow of dawn, so some of us fired blindly. I squinted down range and watched their square helmets bob up and down through the haze. The roar of gunfire drowned out the grunts and shouts of the men around me. My rifle laid still, pressed against my face like a bored schoolboy on his desk.

“Stop muckin’ about, Pete,” Jonesy yelled at me from the left. “Fuckin’ get on with it, mate!” Jonesy was older than the rest of us. We guessed mid thirties, but nobody knew his age. He was from Ballarat and was one of the first to be sent over here, so he was our ranking officer. 

“It’s not goin’ anywhere, Jonesy,” I yelled back. To me, it never seemed like there was a plan. Both sides were stuck in trenches, and when anybody tried to come over the top, they’d end up full of holes. We were just trying not to die at this point.

“Oi, catch!” Jonesy threw me a grenade. “Do somethin’!”

I rolled the cold little ball around in my hands for a few seconds. I’d never thrown one before, at least out in the field. I shrugged off my rifle and pulled the pin.

“Hot!” I stepped halfway out of our trench and threw it over-arm, straight and quick, like a fieldsman to their wicket keeper. It flew through no man’s land and bounced straight into the trench. I ducked back down with everyone else and covered my ears. The ground shook as the sound of the explosion ripped through the morning air.

“Christ, those things are fuckin’ loud,” said Jonesy. He climbed up out of the trench and slowly walked forward a few steps at a time, before turning back to the rest of us. “I think they’ve copped it!”

“On ya’, Pete!” Davo yelled out. A few others cheered like we were in a pub.

“Let’s go over and have a gander. Just makin’ sure.” Jonesy waved at us from above. We hustled out of the trench, rifles at the ready. The heat was still in the air, waves of it hit us through the smoke and ash as we made our way over. The sun was just rising and filled the trench up with just enough light to make out their bodies. I slung my rifle back onto my shoulder as we surveyed the trench, but Jonesy kept his straight ahead, as if he could see out of his muzzle. Most of them had been blown to bits this time, barely men anymore. Only one of them was still alive, slightly squirming in the mud. The man’s legs had been blown straight off and his right arm was tucked inside the left breast of his jacket. I crouched down to get a closer look. His face was blackened and twisted, stuck in shock. A sticky tar of blood, drool, and ash hung from his jaw in thick black strands. His body trembled as if he was holding his breath, and if he let go, his soul would slip out, leaving his body limp and cold, crumpled on the ground like a wet paper bag. I ripped open his jacket to find him holding onto a small brown envelope. His knuckles were white from clutching the thing, almost bursting out of his skin as he managed to hand it over to me. I took it from him and stared at it for a while. I wondered what his name was, and what was inside. The words were smudged with mud and blood, but I could make out an address scrawled in the corner, the same way we did it back home. I wiped the envelope down with my jacket and held it. The papers inside were folded and heavy. A weak groan came from below and I looked down at him once more and met his gaze for the first time. His eyes were blue and frightened. He didn’t look much older than me. A shot exploded from behind me and the man’s head exploded like someone had stepped on a stray cherry. A warm splatter dripped down my face.

“Fuck do ya’ think you’re doin’, Pete? Sucking him off?” Jonesy laughed. A couple of the boys chuckled. Someone whistled.

"Yeah, nah, just checking for a pulse," I replied, as I tuck the envelope under my arm.

"Next time, just shoot him, mate. What do you think these are for?” He slapped his rifle. “Put the poor cunt out of his misery."

"Yeah, sorry." I climbed out of the trench and wiped my face off on my sleeve. I lit up a fag and took a long pull. The boys had started to head back but I lagged behind for a bit. I held the envelop for a few more seconds before setting it alight and tossing it back into the trench with the rest of the bodies. The smoke drifted off into the rising sun.