The young fellas –I pity them– their world is one of conflict and confusion. Whenever I visit Dad, I catch the news on the hospital telly. I see the stories from Syria, rebels in a collapsing city holding up signs with hashtags painted on them. Even wars have twitter pages now. Meanwhile at my granddaughter’s 14th birthday party, the kids (both boys and girls) take turns playing games on the TV. Lots of blood. They are rewarded for shooting the enemy in the head. That’s not something 14 year old girls used to do.
It’s not that the young ones don’t understand that violence is wrong. They’ve just developed an amazing ability to play these games without facing horror or disgust, unfazed by the contradiction. Yet behind the game they must get the impression that war is a foreign setting, a fantasy to be inhabited from a distance, with toilet breaks. They don’t think war is something that happened to us, or could happen again.
I hate to spoil their fun. Part of me wishes I had more happy stories, like how Aunty Maureen went around the shops looking for her glasses all day, only to find them on top of her head. But that’s not what the kind of story that’s itching beneath me, desperate to be passed on.
I wait by Dad’s bed and my son calls and asks, “How’s he doing?” I know what he’s really asking. My son stopped coming in a few weeks ago, cause it was taking too long. If I told him that Dad was going to die tomorrow, he’d be relieved because he can finally stop calling. I don’t blame him: Sometimes death and memory are a chore.
The Great War was a century ago. People think about it as they play two-up on Anzac day but that’s about it. After these anniversaries, the kids will lose the last shreds of interest. I will have to go by their houses before then, bringing them to the table with a cup of tea, my favourite tool of subterfuge. I’ll find some way to casually bring up Dad and his Dad before him. And then I’ll start telling the ancestral stories, they ones they need to hear, the stories that will die someday, but not with Dad, and not with me.
Grandpa’s name was Tom. I use his Christian name because in this pair of stories it’s important to think of him as a young man. Tom was fond of an officer who “saved their lives by blowing a whistle.” He was along the trench in the Battle of the Somme. The story goes that he faced the single worst patch of No Man’s Land along the whole front. They had orders to advance. They got about half way until the mud reached their waists and the ra-tat-tat of the enemy became deafening. It was then they heard the 3 whistle blows and knew to turn around. Tom lost a third of his platoon that day. He knew that the rest were saved because of the officer that blew the whistle. Later the superiors tried to have the officer court-martialed for cowardice, but they couldn’t find anyone to bear witness against him. The officer’s family name was Campbell.
Yet the story doesn’t end there. No, this is only a warm-up, after which comes the inevitable interruption, a kid screaming or a phone ringing, and then a time during which water is reboiled and new cups are poured. If they sit down again after that, I’ll know they’re listening.
As with Dad’s retelling, I will start again from an earlier day, Tom’s first in the trenches. Tom’s platoon had just arrived after months of training and being ported through Egypt, England and now to France. They were excited. They were instructed to listen to a man who had been serving on the front longer than anyone else.
The shell-shocked Private Mackenzie explained in his tired and lengthy manner that it was crucial that they keep the trench as tidy as possible. They also ought to take great measures to ensure they kept their socks dry. To this end, Mackenzie showed them the most effective way to balloon their pants. Every man was to be vigilant over his own shovel, as other platoons would sometimes take them. If you lost your shovel you would be severely reprimanded.
“We didn’t come here to watch shovels. We came here to kill Jerry!” someone shouted. He inspired an enthusiastic yelp from the rest of the green platoon. Dad was inconsistent here. In some versions, the man is still drunk from some rum they had stolen the night before. Sometimes the young man’s name is Kerry, but more often it is Gary. I’ll have to choose which way to go.
Mackenzie was unamused. He said nothing for a while. Then he glanced to the side and his face turned white. He muttered something about keeping ammunition dry.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Officer Campbell apologised to the speaker. He had been overlooking from a mound to the side. “But I think these men will need a more direct presentation.” He turned to Gary. “So you want to kill Jerry, do you, private?”
“It’s Lance-Corporal sir,” Gary responded.
“Oh! Lance-Corporal. Ah, I see, there’s your chevron. You must be proud,”
“Quite sir,” Gary carried on despite his officer’s mocking. “I was promoted in training. I’m the leader of my section.”
Gary smiled. Officer Campbell did not.
“Well Lance-Corporal, come with me. Let’s give you that chance to kill Jerry.”
(It’s occurred to me that Campbell should have had a proper rank, but Dad always gave him the honorific ‘Officer’ rather than Major or Captain. I feel this is because Campbell may have been promoted throughout the war and thus his rank here would be inconsistent with that he held during the Battle of the Somme. I reckon I’ll settle with “Officer.”)
Officer Campbell led the fresh platoon past the kitchen and the latrines to the reserve trench. They passed a few wounded men lying in stretchers. These men had been shot through flesh or suffered from a bad burn, wounded enough to be taken off the front line but not enough to warrant the trip to hospital. They proceeded through to the support trench, which was crowded with both men and supplies, and then entered a narrow communication trench that led to the front line. Tom noticed the explosives set all along the connection. He smelt the horrid odour of a dead horse.
Campbell told the old-hands at the front line that reinforcements had arrived. They giggled without joy and word went down the line that some “virgins” were here. Campbell had Tom’s platoon form around him in a semi-circle, or as semi-circular a form as the trench would allow. He singled out Gary.
“See that line over there corporal,” Campbell pointed into the distance beyond the barbed wire.
“I think so sir.”
“That trench is two-hundred and six yards away. We know because it used to be ours.” Campbell sighed. “In there is Jerry son, and he’s waiting for you.”
Gary swallowed. “I’ll give it to him sir.”
“I know you will. You’ve got your rifle, yes? Throw down your pack and take out your bayonet, you’ll need that. And your thickest blanket, you’ll need that too.”
Gary frowned. “What’s the blanket for sir?”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be sleeping with Jerry.” Campbell’s tone ensured no one laughed. “The blanket’s to help you get over the barbed wire, I’m not cutting it for you, and neither will Jerry.”
Tom’s platoon looked at each other’s confused and fearful faces. The iron that had been a subtle undertone in Campbell’s voice now fortified his every word. You’d have better chance catching a live shell than arguing against that voice.
“Are we attacking now sir?” Gary asked.
“You are. I, however, can’t afford to lose men. I can only afford to lose one arrogant fool who won’t last a week.”
Gary finally realised what was about to happen. “Just me, sir?”
“It’s your chance Lance-Corporal. It’s what you trained for, your chance of glory. Come back here with five Jerry helmets and I’ll promote you to full corporal before the day’s done.”
Gary put his pack down, his hands shaking as he took out anything that might help: ammunition, a bomb he had made from gasoline and tar, his thickest blanket, his bayonet, his canteen, his matches. He retied his shoelaces. Then he took up a place with one foot on the ladder that led out of the trench.
“I won’t blow the whistle for you. Try and sneak up on them,” said Campbell.
Gary looked at the enemy line. He looked again at Campbell. They all knew disobeying a direct order was insubordination, punishable by death. They had all heard stories of men shot on the spot because they had refused to go over the top. Gary’s only hope was that he’d find some mercy deep within his commanding officer.
“Go on,” Campbell insisted. “We’ll watch you from here.”
Gary took two deep breaths and then scaled the ladder. He treaded carefully through the friendly wire, recovering his blanket whenever he had to roll directly over the barbs. MacKenzie whispered advice to him, something about stepping on the wire rather than touching it with his hands. Then Gary was off into No Man’s Land. All of Tom’s platoon jumped up to take a look.
As the silence extended, even Campbell ascended the ladder to watch. Gary dropped his blanket just before the German wire. He quickly turned back and picked it up. He threw the blanket over the wire and tried to leap over it. He got caught. Tom saw him struggle. Tom saw him reach for his rifle and take aim. There was a crack when Gary shot and more cracks when he received shots in return. Gary’s uniform was struck red. Then the German machine gunner finally noticed what was happening and the ra-tat-tat started. Little of Gary was left intact or unbloodied. The Germans would leave him there until sundown.
The front was silent again. Tom felt sick. His friends slid back into their trench.
“Welcome to western front,” said Campbell.
Tom then listened very closely to everything Private MacKenzie had to say. That night, the old-hand’s lectures strayed from practical topics. He said that it was good they had already learnt fear. Now it wouldn’t be long before they learnt to live with fear, every second of every day. Normally a green platoon would lose so many more before they grew into soldiers.
MacKenzie said that Campbell was not mad, but a rational person in an irrational world. It would be the Western Front that would drain them of their humour and their love. It may even be the Western Front that would take them into its eternal embrace. The private suggested that, by killing one of them today, Officer Campbell had saved many more from the gas and the shells and the machine guns.
That night, Tom went to sleep cursing the officer he would later claim “saved their lives by blowing his whistle.” The first time I heard this story, I assumed they were two different men and that the storytellers had somehow muddled the officers together. But there must have been a reason Dad always told these two stories as one.
I’ll never know if Officer Campbell was truly the saviour that my grandpa (Tom) believed him to be. Maybe he knew that half a green platoon was expected to die in the first month, and sacrificed one arrogant whelp to save the rest of them. Or maybe Campbell was a proud beast, punishing insolence and furious that he had lost a trench line. Maybe he blew that whistle to save them. Maybe he blew it to save himself. It is something that has blurred with time, as oil decays on an old portrait.
I also wonder how great a sin it would be if I changed the story myself. I know there is meaning behind Campbell’s story. And I know that for those who died, stories are all we have left of them. But how can I interrupt my 14-year old grandchildren’s adrenaline-packed lives and expect them to remember this savage anecdote? They see enough senseless violence as it is. And I don’t want to stunt their creativity with a disciplinary tale on following orders. How can I get down to the true meaning here, without all the pulp? Surely there is something more beautiful to remember than barbed wire?
Maybe the story is no longer about Campbell. Maybe it’s no longer about Tom. Maybe it’s our story now. They teach the facts about Lone Pine to schoolchildren. We know about the blood and the shelling and the machine guns. I want a way of remembering my grandpa’s platoon that will make me smile, help a pleasant family evening stay pleasant, and inspire as well as warn.
This is how I’d like to tell the story to my grandkids:
“Come back here with five Jerry helmets and I’ll promote you to full corporal before the day’s done,” said Officer Campbell.
Gary put his pack down: taking out ammunition, a bomb he had made from gasoline and tar, his thickest blanket, his bayonet, his canteen, his matches. He retied his shoelaces. Then he took up a place with one foot on the ladder that led out of the trench.
“I won’t blow the whistle for you. Try and sneak up on them,” the officer suggested. Gary looked at the enemy line. He looked again at Campbell, with a cheeky grin on his face.
Campbell took no notice. “Go on,” he insisted. “We’ll watch you from here.”
Gary took one deep breath and then scaled the ladder. He soon found a weakness in the friendly wire. Gary turned around to the rest of the platoon and pointed, so they too would know where the hole in the fence was. Then Gary was off into No Man’s Land.
All of Tom’s platoon jumped up to take a look. Mackenzie was about to shout advice but Tom hissed at the old-hand to be quiet. As the silence extended, even Campbell ascended the ladder to watch. Gary almost dropped his blanket just before the German wire. He tossed it ahead of him and leapt as high as he could. He got caught. His rifle tumbled out of reach. Tom saw him struggle. The whole platoon was leaning forward on their toes. One of the men started praying. Gary was free! He picked up his rifle and slid into the German trench.
Tom’s platoon watched as the silence dragged on and on. Campbell sunk back down. The old-hands figured Gary got caught in a bayonet fight.
Gary reappeared with something in his hands. He slowly and carefully threaded through the wire where his blanket was. Then he ran. Finally a few Germans raised the alarm. There was the crack of a rifle. Gary dropped something. He didn’t turn around. Tom’s platoon began yelling, urging Gary back. Campbell couldn’t believe his eyes.
There were more cracks and Gary was running as though hell were behind him. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun started as Gary was about 40 yards off. Then they heard a whistling in the air. The German artillery was firing a test volley! Great geysers of dirt and dust appeared from the single round of shelling, chasing Gary through No Man’s Land. They hadn’t noticed that there was also a German plane was coming in from the distance. It must have noticed the commotion, swooping in for the kill.
The western front wanted Gary; it leered over him. But he pressed on. The shelling had covered him in dust, the machine gun was aiming closer to the mark, and the plane was unrolling a carpet of bullets towards his feet. But Gary was almost there. Tom could see his face: He was searching for the way back.
Everyone pointed to the weakness in the friendly wire. Gary tossed the metal things he was carrying and dived into the trench. He landed on dozens of friendly hands. Tom and the others lowered him. The shelling had stopped. The plane passed over. Not a bullet had nicked him. Even as everyone cheered, Mackenzie picked up one of the metal things Gary had been carrying.
It was a German helmet.
A smile crept across the old-hand’s face. Tom used to say that seeing Mackenzie smile was like seeing flowers after a decade of winter. The cheering carried on and on. It only stopped when Gary, after being thrown from mate to mate, somehow ended up before Officer Campbell.
“Sir.” Gary saluted. “I’m sorry sir, I dropped one. But there’re four of your five helmets. Jerry had ’em sitting in a pile for me. I can get the other at sundown, if you insist sir.”
Campbell just stared. He didn’t talk to Gary. One does not address miracles directly.
“Private Mackenzie?”
“Yes sir.” The old-hand stood at attention.
“In the Q store you’ll find some spare Corporal badges. See that this man receives one before dawn.” Campbell turned to go.
There were the beginnings of another cheer but Officer Campbell turned and stared it down. “Are there any volunteers for a second run?” he asked warningly.
The men shut their traps. They looked at their shoes, at the supports of the trench, at the piles of rifles. They looked everywhere but back at Campbell. Satisfied, the officer turned, muttering “Welcome to the Western Front.”
Tom didn’t remember much else of that night. He did recall a lot of cheering and a bottle of rum. Somehow they ended up in the town’s field hospital. They somehow talked a few of the nurses into coming and seeing the trenches, the ones far from the line, where you couldn’t smell the dead horses. For the nurses, the platoon’s enthusiasm gave the trenches a mysterious air. For the men, the artillery had started again. Campbell wanted them nearby in case anything happened. Although Gary had survived, the men knew better than to cross their superior twice. Later he would save many of their lives.
So they had a small gathering in the secondary trench. Some old-hands joined in. One borrowed a violin. Gary, the drunkest of them all, went around showing his new patch with two chevrons. He ended up proposing to one of the nurses. Tom danced with a few but would never go any further with the details. That night remained legendary in his eyes. Although Gary wouldn’t make it through the winter, although over half of them wouldn’t make it through the war, that one night they danced like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world.
This is my retelling. It is not historically accurate, although I doubt grandpa’s original telling had ever been accurate in the first place. But there is still the artillery in the background. There is still the warning against violence. There is still the mystery of Officer Campbell.
It is not a story for the dead. But it is a story for those who have heard about the shelling and who know about trench foot but who want to feel that it was real people (people like us) down there. It’s a reminder that this really could happen again, if we let it.
It is a story for us. I hope the kids don’t mind. I hope Dad would be proud. This is my way of making remembrances: by making my grandpa dance with a French nurse, as with the rest of his revelling platoon; all to the melody of an old-hand playing violin and the rhythm of the distant guns.