My Brother's Keeper (4 page)

He glanced at his mates, and suddenly he felt angry with them.

‘Why didn't you lot tell me what being shelled was like?' he said.

Cyril shrugged. ‘There's no way to describe it, Alfie. You wouldn't have believed us if we'd tried. You have to live through it to know what it's like.'

‘What's up?' said George. ‘Worried because you nearly filled your pants?'

Alfie shrugged and looked down, unable to meet their gaze. ‘No. Maybe.'

‘Forget it,' said Ernie. ‘We all feel like that, all of the time. You'd be crazy to feel anything else.
There are no heroes here, Alfie. Just the lucky – or the dead.'

Alfie knew they were trying to make him feel better, and he was grateful to them for that. He wasn't sure he entirely agreed with Ernie, though. Captain Johnson seemed like someone who could be a hero. It had been amazing to see the Captain striding out of the smoke this morning like some kind of warrior from ancient days, a Saxon or a Viking. There had been no fear in the Captain's face, none at all.

‘Well, our new leader is definitely crazy,' said Cyril. ‘No wonder the lads in the Fifth called him Mad Jack. He looked as if he was having the time of his life.'

‘Huh, let's hope he's had enough fun to keep him happy for a while,' said George with a snort of disgust. ‘Jonesy told me the butcher's bill for this morning's little entertainment was seven dead and ten wounded, a couple of them badly.'

‘I heard two lads in Section B were blown to pieces,' said Cyril. ‘There were just enough bits to fill a sandbag, and the working party couldn't tell who was who.'

They fell silent for a moment, Alfie struggling with the image Cyril's words had left in his mind.
It was a terrible way to die, without any chance of fighting back, like rats in a trap. He hated the idea of that happening to him. If he was going to die for his country – and he was beginning to realise he might have to – he wanted it to be when he was out in the open, attacking the enemy with his rifle in his hands.

‘Cheer up, you miserable beggars!' said Ernie. ‘You can all stop worrying.'

‘Is that right?' said Cyril. ‘So how did you work that one out, then?'

‘We won't be be here much longer,' said Ernie. ‘We'll be out of the line the day after tomorrow. Mad Jack can't cause a lot more mischief before then, can he?'

Cyril and George shrugged and sipped their tea, but Alfie could tell Ernie had eased their minds. Alfie was relieved too, although he felt a wave of guilt the instant he realised that. He told himself he should be keen for the Captain to attack the enemy whether Fritz retaliated or not. Yet his stomach churned at the thought of any more shelling. He wasn't sure he could take that kind of pounding again.

Captain Johnson, however, had another form of mischief up his sleeve.

Later, after the evening stand-to, the Captain came striding down the trench with Reynolds and Jonesy in his wake, the three of them stopping outside the dugout.

‘Wakey, wakey in there!' barked Jonesy. ‘The Captain would like a word.'

Alfie and his mates emerged, still holding their mugs of tea. Johnson stared at them each in turn, his cool, penetrating gaze like a knife, or at least that was how it felt to Alfie. The boy stood straight, squaring his shoulders, trying to show the Captain that he was a proper soldier. But the Captain was more interested in Alfie's mates.

‘I understand some of you lads have seen a bit of action,' he said.

‘Oh, I don't know about that, sir,' said Ernie. ‘Nothing much, anyway.'

‘You're being too modest, Private,' said the Captain. ‘I was told you three have been in a few big shows, and done well in them, too. Isn't that so, Sergeant Jones?'

Ernie, Cyril and George turned to stare at Jonesy, their eyes hard and cold. Jonesy couldn't meet their gaze.

‘Er…yes sir,' he said.

There was a brief pause, the Captain waiting for Ernie to say something else, Alfie realised. But Ernie stayed silent.

‘I'll get to the point,' said the Captain, suddenly brisk. ‘I'm putting on a stunt tonight, a raid on Jerry. We should keep up the pressure, and of course we need some intelligence as well. I'm looking for volunteers, men who know how to fight.'

Now you're talking, thought Alfie with a thrill of excitement. He had read in the newspapers back in Blighty about ‘raids'. The idea of a small party of men staging a surprise night attack on the German trenches had seemed to him impossibly brave and dashing. None of his mates had spoken yet, but he didn't care. This really was the kind of thing he'd signed up for – the opportunity was far too good to miss.

‘You can count me in, sir,' he said, saluting smartly. ‘I'd like to volunteer.'

‘Hang on, Alfie, you don't know what you're letting yourself in for,' Ernie said quickly. ‘You'll have to forgive him, Captain, he hasn't been out here long.'

‘I'm not sure you should take him, sir,' said Reynolds. ‘He's rather young.'

‘The Army reckons I'm old enough to fight,' Alfie declared, glaring at them both. How dare they try and stop him! ‘I wouldn't be here otherwise, would I?'

‘Capital!' said the Captain. ‘He might be young, but he's clearly keen as mustard, and he puts the rest of you to shame. Unless you're all volunteering together?'

There was a brief uncomfortable silence. At last Ernie turned to look at Alfie. ‘I can't speak for the others, sir. But if Alfie's going, I will as well.'

Cyril and George shrugged and nodded too, and the Captain beamed.

‘Good, that's settled,' he said. ‘This is going to be a night to remember!'

Alfie grinned. He certainly hoped so.

It was soon obvious to Alfie that his mates didn't feel the same way. Once the Captain had gone, Cyril and George exchanged grim looks and did lots of sighing and head-shaking. Ernie was worse, though: he simply sat on the fire-step and stared into space.

For a moment Alfie felt exasperated and almost walked off again. But he didn't. Something about their expressions sent a shiver of fear running through him.

‘What's wrong?' he said, looking at each of them. ‘What have I done now?'

‘You've just gone and signed your own death warrant,' muttered Cyril.

‘And ours too, probably,' said George. ‘You explain it to him, Ernie.'

Ernie raised his head, his eyes locking onto Alfie's. The guns were rumbling in the south again, lighting the evening sky with distant orange flashes. Further down the trench men were bustling around, and Alfie could hear Jonesy barking orders.

‘A raid might sound exciting if you've not been on one, Alfie,' said Ernie. ‘But believe you me, the only thing more dangerous out here is going over the top in a full attack. I've never known a raid happen without a few lads getting killed.'

‘Well, maybe it'll just be a few Germans getting killed tonight and none of us.' Alfie pushed down his fear, turning it into anger against them. ‘That's what we're here for, aren't we? And why did you volunteer if it's going to be so bad?'

Ernie almost smiled. ‘Somebody's got to save you from yourself, Alfie.'

‘You know, I'm fed up with you lot treating me like a kid,' said Alfie. ‘I'm a soldier like the rest of you, although I seem to be the only one who wants to fight.'

‘Watch your tongue, Alfie,' said Cyril, frowning. ‘That's firing squad talk.'

Alfie blushed, realising he might have gone too far. He'd heard the stories about men who refused to fight being executed by firing squad. For a long time he'd thought it was all nonsense, mostly because he'd been unable to believe British soldiers would behave like that in a war. But everybody said it was true.

‘Sorry, lads,' he mumbled. ‘I didn't mean to accuse you of anything.'

‘Forget it,' said Ernie. ‘Go and ask Jonesy where the assembly point is, and whether the Captain is going to give us a briefing. It would be good to know when he plans for his little stunt to kick off, too. We don't want to be late now, do we?'

Alfie ran off, pleased to be given something to do, although that particular task was soon completed. Jonesy told him the assembly point would be a bay further down the trench, that the Captain hadn't said anything about a briefing, and that the raid itself would start at midnight. So there were still several hours to go, and for Alfie they crawled past, an eternity of waiting filled with anticipation.

‘Come on lads,' he said at last to his mates. ‘What's going to happen? You can't leave me in the dark again. You have to tell me so I know what to expect.'

They were in the dugout, finishing another tin of
Maconochie stew that Ernie had produced as if by magic. He and Cyril and George had eaten with their usual relish, but for once Alfie had no appetite. The only light came from a small oil lamp hanging from a hook screwed into one of the planks that formed the roof of the dugout. The lamp swayed every so often, registering the impact of distant explosions.

‘A raid's a very simple thing, Alfie,' said Cyril, shrugging. ‘We just crawl across no-man's-land in the dark, making sure we don't get stuck in our wire or theirs, jump into Jerry's trench and kill as many of the poor devils as we can find. It's easy.'

‘Dead easy,' said George, and the other two snorted. ‘Don't forget the intelligence part of it, Cyril,' he continued. ‘We're supposed to have a rummage in Fritz's dugouts, see if we can find any important information he might have left there.'

‘You never know, we might even come across the German High Command's plan for the war on the back of a fag packet,' said Cyril. ‘Or Kaiser Bill's address. Then we can go and visit him after it's all over. I've always wanted to sleep in a palace.'

George and Cyril were laughing now, but their mood was brittle and nervous, and suddenly Alfie knew they were just as scared as him.

‘All right, you lot,' said Ernie at last. ‘Time to get ready.'

He took a bowl from the box where he kept his cooking stuff and poured some black powder into it from a tin. The powder was burnt cork, and Ernie mixed it with wet mud from the wall of the dugout to make a thick paste. He smeared it all over his face and Alfie's, and Cyril and George did the same. Alfie thought the four of them looked like shadows, only the whites of their eyes reflecting the lamp-light.

Then Ernie turned down the lamp and led them to the assembly point. Two dozen soldiers were already waiting there, whispering, their faces blackened too. Above them a half moon hung in a clouded sky, its eerie light lying on the men's helmets and shoulders like silver snow, their legs and feet in darkness. Several of the men nodded to the new arrivals, making room for them among their number.

‘Out of the way, lads!' said a voice from the other side of the bay. Alfie recognised it as Jonesy's, as the Sergeant pushed through the group of soldiers. Two men with a long wooden box were right behind him. For an instant Alfie thought it was a coffin, and was horrified. But there was a heavy clanking sound when
the men lowered their burden onto the duckboards and he realised he'd got it wrong.

Jonesy threw back the lid of the box and its contents glittered sharply in the moonlight.

‘Right, choose your weapons!' said the Sergeant. There were knives and blades of every kind, some short, others as long as swords, a few with handles that would also serve as knuckledusters. There were clubs as well, a couple like maces from the days of knights in armour, others with nails sticking out of them.

Alfie gave Ernie a questioning look. ‘It's no good going in guns blazing, Alfie,' he said. ‘The killing has to start quietly, or we'd be sending an invitation to every Jerry in the sector. We only start shooting and bombing when it's time to leave.'

Jonesy and his helpers brought out two more boxes, the first containing Webley revolvers and ammunition, the second full of Mills bombs. Alfie had done a day's training with Mills bombs, so he'd seen the black, apple-sized hand grenades with their segmented shells before and he knew what they could do. But there had been fifty men on the course, and he'd never got round to actually throwing one.

Alfie watched as men picked out revolvers and loaded them and stuffed their pockets with Mills bombs. He knew neither were for him, but he couldn't see himself using a blade or one of those clubs either, and was relieved when Jonesy detailed him and a couple of the others to be the raiding party's riflemen. Their job would be to give covering fire if necessary, especially on the way back from Jerry's trench.

‘Fix your bayonet though, son,' said Jonesy, his voice softer than Alfie had ever heard it, almost friendly. ‘You might need to do a bit of close work as well.'

‘Er… right-o, Sarge,' said Alfie. He pulled the foot and a half of shining, sharpened steel from the scabbard on his belt and clicked it onto the end of his rifle.

Suddenly a hush fell over the trench, and Alfie looked round. Captain Johnson had appeared, the men parting to allow him through. Beneath his helmet his face was blackened, and he had two pistols thrust into a thick belt round his waist, along with a short curved blade like a cutlass. He had two more belts crossed over his chest, each carrying extra ammunition pouches and Mills bombs. Alfie thought
he looked amazing, like a pirate, and felt a thrill, half fear, half excitement.

‘Everyone ready, Jones?' said the Captain. Alfie could see now that Lieutenant Reynolds was behind the Captain, and clearly coming on the raid too – he had a brace of pistols and a small hatchet stuck in his belt. But he wasn't giving off the same air of cool confidence as the Captain. He had blackened his face, but even with all that burnt cork and mud to conceal his expression, Alfie could tell he was nervous.