Like Father Like Son - Parts One to Five

Redbourne was capering like a maniac over to his left front, yelling encouragement and waving a black umbrella. He seemed otherwise unarmed. Somehow, this seemed to fit in the rest of the madness and Phillip heard a huge cheer as Lance Corporal Riley caught up with the football and gave it another healthy kick across the broken ground. 

Soon they came up to the first line of wire. It had been flattened and torn but still represented a serious obstacle and they dragged their way through it painfully, with much cursing as it ripped at cloth and flesh. The opposition was growing now and they were starting to take casualties. Riley was one of the first to fall. His body was spun around like a top as he took a burst of machine gun fire. The man next him stumbled to a halt and gaped at the bloody ruin of the Lance Corporal’s body. Phillip ran to him and shoved him on. 

“Get going, man, there’s nothing to be done.” 

They stumbled on. Now the ground was heavy, shattered by the shelling and slick from the rain. They slithered and fell, rose again and fell once more. Some could not get up.

Phillip slipped heavily and crashed into a shell hole. Water had begun to seep into the bottom of the depression and he could smell the taint of gas. He hauled himself out, eyes smarting and tears starting. He could now make out individual field-grey shapes on the parapet ahead of him and he roared his men on. To his right he saw some men of another platoon breaking into the German trenches and he angled towards them, pointing and yelling at the Tommies to follow. He was almost knocked to the ground by the burly figure of Geordie Watts who leapt the parapet, delivering a roundhouse kick to the head of a German soldier as he did so. 

Then they were into the trench and the mayhem truly began. It was the worst type of fighting with boot, bayonet and bomb. They worked their way systematically up the German line. At each re-entrant they hurled their homemade bombs into the next bay. These bombs, made from old jam tins packed with gun-cotton and scrap metal, were no match for the German ‘potato masher’ grenades that were hurled back at them but still they fought on. Gradually, the noise began to diminish and only the occasional shot could be heard as the Tommies ‘mopped up.’ It was then that Phillip realised he had never fired a single shot. 

The reserve company caught them up and they made ready to push on to their next objective – the German support line. It was easier climbing out the back of the German Trenches as there was no parapet and they moved off again. In the distance, Phillip could see the huge steel structure that the troops had christened ‘Tower Bridge.’ He could see the slag heaps of the mines and beyond them, the open green of a country untroubled by war. Someone had gathered up the football and kicked it ahead once more but it was sadly deflated, punctured by the barbed wire. 

The area between the German front and support lines was a nightmare wilderness of shell-holes that overlapped and sagged, one into another. It was like crossing a small outpost of hell. The land stank of high explosive and gas. There was another smell too – of viscera and blood. The tired troops clawed their way eastwards. The first rush of adrenalin was past. Now only discipline and will power kept them moving. Over to his right, Phillip could see flares go up. Two reds above green, the signal of success. He looked left and saw the signal repeated. His spirits rose. Perhaps this ‘Big Push’ would really end the war. 

The German supports were deserted. Either they had all been caught in the front line or else they had withdrawn. He halted the men and set them to digging in. Tired as they were, they responded immediately. Should a counter-attack come, the trenches would be useless. The parapets, what was left of them, faced the British Lines. New parapets had to be thrown up and a fire step cut. They set to with a will, dragging sandbags from the front to the rear of the trench and digging out the sections that had been blown in by the guns. This resulted in a number of grisly finds and more than one Tommy turned away retching. 

Redbourne appeared, hatless, red faced but still clutching that bloody stupid umbrella. 

Phillip called out: “Where’s the second wave?” 

Redbourne shrugged and glared back towards the British lines. Nothing moved. In the lull in the fighting they could hear birdsong. The Captain threw himself down on the makeshift fire step and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the bowl with quick, practised movements of his stubby fingers and hummed a little tune to himself. He patted his battledress pockets for matches and finding none, called to a nearby soldier:

“Private Jenkins, might I trouble you for a lucifer?” 

The man grinned and tossed Redbourne a box of matches bearing the Union Flag and the legend ‘England’s Glory.’ With his pipe well alight and drawing nicely, Redbourne turned his attention back to Phillip.

“Well, young W-B, we got this far. Casualties?”

“Nine dead sir, four wounded. Chapman’s the worst but he should be all right, the medic says. I think we got off lightly. Half the bloody wire wasn’t cut.”

Redbourne nodded. When he replied, his voice was pitched low so that only Phillip could hear.

“Do you know tomorrow’s my birthday? 26th September. I shall be eight and twenty. Who’d ever have thought it? I can tell you now, old fellow, I never expected to see it. Not after Ypres. So! We must think of some way to celebrate.” 

He raised his voice so it carried to the platoon in the trench around him. “ Any of you chaps know how to bake a cake?”

He was rewarded with laughter. Redbourne was popular with his men. His cultivated madness reassured them as it was intended to. Some of the older men had seen it all before but recognised, despite their increased cynicism, that the newer hands needed the Captain’s antics. It helped to persuade them that things could not be all that bad. 

“No bakers, what? Damned shame! I was counting on you lot. Looks like it will just have to be jam roly-poly again, eh chaps?”

This too raised a laugh. The infamous tinned stodge that, along with ‘corned dog’ and the unidentifiable canned meat known as ‘dead baby,’ was the staple ration. 

“Maybe you’ll get a parcel from home,” Phillip said. 

Redbourne gave him a sharp look and then shook his head wearily.

“I don’t think so, W-B. No people at home to send one. What about you? Anyone waiting in Dorset with bated breath for the telegram boy?”

“Just my parents. I had a brother. He died when I was quite young. I don’t remember him at all.”

Redbourne looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

“We ought to be pushing on now. The longer we delay, the more time we’ll give the Huns to organise their defences. What’s keeping them?” 

He leapt to his feet and strode off down the captured trench, stopping every now and then to crack a joke or pat a shoulder. Phillip heard his booming voice recede around the traverses and he felt again that wave of inadequacy. Redbourne was a true leader. He could fire the men or calm them as the situation required. He, Phillip, lacked that touch. He didn’t delude himself. He wasn’t the stuff of heroes – he just tried to do his duty. 

The sky darkened and a light rain began. Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the magical play of Very lights as they blazed and fell in the black bowl of night. The harsh white light flattened everything into a two-dimensional relief. The spectral glare compressed distances. He found it impossible to judge how far away the old front line was. He felt he could reach it in a couple of steps; yet, that morning, it had seemed as distant as Africa. From his left he heard the persistent crump of artillery and saw the distress flares lazily arcing upwards. Someone was catching it. The men were quiet in the trench beneath him. He understood. The fighting and the sudden relaxation of tension had drained them. He often found himself yawning prodigiously immediately after moments of high danger. At the same time, he would be too wound up to sleep. No doubt there was some physiological explanation for it.

It was past midnight when he eventually turned in after a final check on the sentries. He had been barely been asleep a few minutes before he was roused by a summons from Captain Redbourne.

“Another attack has been scheduled for eleven ack emma.” Redbourne used the phonetic version – ack emma for a.m., pip emma for p.m. 

“Why so late?”

“Delays in bringing up reserves, cavalry not in position to exploit any breakthrough, the usual. Ours not to reason why, young W-B.”

“Yes, sir. Still, it does seem like handing the advantage to the Hun.”

“Indeed. However, between thee and me, old fruit, I rather think we did that today when everyone pulled up a bit too sharpish. Some of the lads got clear into open country but had to come back for lack of ammunition. Anyway, Brigade says they were held up on the left and our flank was open. So we do it all over again.”

The dawn was chill and grey; a thick mist clung to the battered landscape and left pearly droplets of moisture on men and weapons. The mist cleared slowly as the morning wore on and soon they could make out the new German defences. Artillery preparation was to be minimal. Very few of the bigger guns had any shells left after the initial bombardment. A ten-minute barrage was all that could be managed. Phillip checked his watch for the twentieth time that morning. An overwhelming lethargy had seized him. His limbs felt leaden, detached from him in some inexplicable way. The men seemed to be feeling the same. They stood as patient as oxen, blank faced. It was as though they were all resigned to their fate. There was none of the nervous edge that had been present the previous morning and no rum ration to impart any cheer or ‘Dutch Courage.’

The guns began promptly at ten minutes before eleven. Phillip’s practised ear noted the lack of ‘heavies’ – the flatter crack of the 18-pounder field guns predominated. Time seemed to both stretch and compress. Each minute seemed interminable yet, when the guns ceased and the whistles blew, he could scarcely credit that ten minutes had passed so quickly. Heavy-footed, he stumbled out of the trench and began to advance.

Of course, it was a disaster. German reserves had been rushed to the fighting overnight. There were now seven times as many enemy troops as there had been twenty-four hours before. The German High Command had responded energetically. Phillip covered less than a hundred yards before being slammed to the ground. His first reaction was one of total wonder. He could not connect the smashing impact of the machinegun bullets across his thighs as having anything to do with himself. There was no pain. He dimly recognised that this was due to shock but still it seemed unreal. He tried to stand but his shattered legs would not obey him. He rolled slowly onto his back and gazed up at the blue, cloudless vault above him. 

The noise of the battle seemed to be coming from a great distance, like the tolling of a church bell on a summer Sunday morning. His attention wandered. High above him he saw a faint shape, delicate as a dragonfly. He thought he could hear the hornet hum of its engine as it made its stately progress across the heavens. It seemed to come to him like a revelation. That was where he wanted to be; flying in the clear air above where there was no gas, no lyddite fumes and, above all, no mud. 

The tumult was slackening now. The attack had failed. A handful of soldiers made their way back past him. He craned his neck to see where the rest were. The untidy hummocks of khaki littering the broken ground told their own story. There weren’t any others. Over half of the troops that had climbed from the trench scant minutes before were either dead or wounded like him. Rough hands seized his shoulders and he felt himself lifted onto a broad back. He was still in that strange dreamy state. He hardly felt the jolting as Geordie Watts carried him at a stumbling run back to their own lines.

He woke to darkness and pain and cried out. The memory of being hit returned slowly but this time he could connect with it. His legs were on fire. A haggard medical orderly loomed out of the darkness.

“All right, sir, all right. You’ve copped a Blighty one and no mistake.”

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse and he cursed inwardly at the tremulous note he heard.

“Battalion aid post, sir. We’ll be taking you back when the ambulances get here.”

“What time is it? I mean, how long have I been here?”

“Just coming up eight O’clock, sir. You’ve been out for about six hours. The MO gave you something, sir. For the pain, like.”

Phillip nodded and asked for water. The Orderly shuffled off into the gloom before returning with a canteen. Phillip could taste the rum in it as he drank and was sincerely grateful. 

“How bad is it?” He hardly dared to ask. The Orderly grunted.

“I’ve seen plenty worse, sir. You’ll be fine once you get to the back area. Clean beds and proper nurses, they ‘ave. You’ll be dancing again in no time.”

Phillip gave a chuckle then gasped as the pain flared. He didn’t feel the needle slipping into his arm but relished the fuzziness that followed as he slipped from consciousness once more.

************************************

November 1915 The Home Front

He woke to the wan sunlight that insinuated itself through a gap in the curtains. His legs itched madly under their plaster sheaths and Phillip groaned aloud, then cursed himself. Others on this ward were far worse off than he. The officers’ hospital was a converted country house called Bentley Hall. Non-ambulatory cases such as Phillip were accommodated on the ground floor. He shared the former library with five other young men. Three had lost a leg, one both. Phillip thought his fifth companion the worst off of all of them – he had been gassed. 

All six had taken their wounds at what was now being called the Battle of Loos. Phillip had heard that the church bells had been rung for victory after the first day. Like the others, he dismissed this as incomprehensible madness. The veterans, those who had been out since ’14, no longer believed in victory in the conventional sense. Phillip had formed the view that the war would go on, consuming men and money until the Great Powers finally ran out of both. Yet already the newspaper talk was of another ‘Big Push’ next year when the New Armies recruited by Lord Kitchener would be ready for action. More madness. 

He had made his journey home by stages. From the battalion aid post he had been taken by solid-tyred ambulance over the jolting pavée to a casual clearing station in the rear. There he had been subjected to the routine triage and sorted as a potential survivor. After that he spent a week in a tented hospital near Boulogne before the hospital ship had brought him to Dover. His parents had met the ship and were allowed a brief reunion before Phillip was once more embarked on a hospital train and had completed his journey to the hospital by ambulance from London. Now, after six weeks of inertia, he felt ready to go completely insane.

A small cabinet stood beside his bed and from this, Phillip picked up the letter from Captain Redbourne and re-read it for perhaps the twentieth time. 

What Ho, W-B,

Thought you might like to hear how the workers at Mars’s Mill are faring while you take your ease in Blighty. The battalion were withdrawn on the 28th and we’re now in Divisional reserve awaiting our master’s pleasure. Censor won’t let me say where we are, of course, but you will remember that grubby little estaminet where Madame wore the most hideous shade of yellow! 

The boys are all in fine fettle and we have had a couple of drafts but are still a bit short of full establishment. A friend of yours has joined, by the way. St John Thomas by name, claims you were at school together and that you were always a frightful slacker even then! (Ha ha)

One bit of good news, Private Watts has been given a gong for pulling you out. The CO put him up for the VC but they settled on an MM. Our rotund rogue is delighted of course but overcome by martial modesty whenever it is mentioned. 

A little bird told me you’re in Hampshire. Can’t be too far from your home, can it? At least you’ll get lots of visitors. Find a pretty girl for me, won’t you old chap? Anyway, there isn’t too much more one can say. The front has quietened down after our last little effort to liven things up. The Hun is as beastly as always but not misbehaving too much at present. No doubt waiting for your return so he can have another crack at knocking you off for good!

Take your time and make sure the old pins are well and truly mended but do come back soon, you’re sorely missed.

Best wishes,

Brian Redbourne.

Phillip folded the letter again and felt guilty. As soon as he was fit enough he intended to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps. The thought of returning to the trenches horrified him. He didn’t consider himself a coward but felt sure that he would crack up completely if he ever had to go back to the front again. 

He tried to rationalise his fear but his mind always seemed to circle and evade the issue. Phillip had enjoyed the companionship of the army. He’d never dreamt of doing anything else. He joined the army in 1912 and had been gazetted as a second lieutenant at the end of the following year. He had imagined service overseas – India, perhaps – with the odd skirmish just to make life interesting. Then Arch-duke Ferdinand had been assassinated in Sarajevo and the world had progressed inexorably towards war like lemmings rushing at a cliff-top. Of course, Phillip had been swept in the excitement. Marching through the streets behind the regimental band through cheering crowds that thronged the street, he felt ten feet tall. The men had joked and sung as they made their way into Belgium, feted by the local populace wherever they went.

The reality of Mons and Le Cateau had brought them all down to earth. A year of trench fighting had squeezed all the military ardour out of his spirit. He felt drained before the fighting in front of Loos. He saw his wounding as a blessing. It had given him the separation he desired. He would not have to face Redbourne or Geordie Watts or any of the others. He could simply vanish into the RFC like a summer cloud.

“And how are we feeling this fine morning?”

Phillip’s reverie was interrupted by the fruity tones of Sister Hallam who ruled the ground floor wards with an iron will and unrelenting heartiness. She was what was termed a ‘handsome woman.’ Phillip supposed her to be in her forties. She was tall, carried herself erect and was preceded by a starched bosom that could best be described as stately. Her patients were a little in awe of her and she positively terrified the staff nurses. Yet she was not unkind and certainly not without feeling. Phillip had seen her weeping silently soon after he arrived. A young officer with terrible burns had died despite her best efforts. Now, as she approached, Phillip mustered a smile.

“Good morning, Sister. Can’t complain other than my legs itch like the very devil.”

“Language, Mr Worrell-Barnes, language. Need I remind you that the staff here are ladies?”

“Of course not, Sister, sorry. My legs do itch frightfully, though.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll just have to see about that. Another two or three weeks and those casts will be coming off anyway. Nurse Meredith! Mr Worrell-Barnes needs a blanket bath. Attend to it directly, if you please.”

And with that she strode away. Phillip groaned inwardly. He hated the indignity of blanket baths almost as much as the routine of bedpans. His legs were encased in plaster from ankle to hip and the bulky casts prevented him from wearing pyjamas. Instead, he was clad in an old-fashioned nightshirt that he hated with a particular venom. 

Nurse Meredith was a sweet young F.A.N.Y. from West Wales who spoke with a soft singsong lilt. She was darkly pretty with large brown eyes and fair skin. The officers teased her whenever they got the opportunity just to see her blush. It was very easy to make Bethan Meredith blush. She wheeled her bathing trolley up to him and pulled the screens around Phillip’s bed. She approached him like some wild creature sensing a trap. Pulling back the covers, she helped Phillip into a semi sitting position and stripped off the hateful nightshirt. Averting her eyes, she began to wash his body.

As she moved the sponge over him, Phillip began to get aroused. His penis twitched and rolled slightly to one side as the blood engorged it. Nurse Meredith gave a little shriek and thrust the sponge into his hands. She turned her back on him and allowed him to wash his own genitals. Both were scarlet with embarrassment. He tried to mumble an apology but his mouth was dry. By now his erection was in full swing. He gritted his teeth, willing his unruly member to subside. It was so hard it hurt and this added to his mortification. 

Bethan Meredith was overcome with confusion. She was a recent volunteer to the F.A.N.Ys and had little experience. She liked Mr Welford-Barnes. He didn’t tease her as much as the others and seemed a gentle sort of person. But then his thing had reared up like one of those snakes from India that she had seen in a picture book. She knew what it meant all right. She wasn’t a farmer’s daughter for nothing. She’d seen the old Tup doing his business with the ewes enough times. Now it seemed Mr Welford-Barnes wanted to tup her!

She risked another quick peek between her fingers. It was huge! How did something like that ever fit in a woman? Then, catching herself even thinking about it, she grew even redder, gave a little cry and fled. Phillip lay back on the pillows and felt wretched. He hadn’t meant to get a bloody erection, it just happened. And it wouldn’t go away! His knowledge of sex was somewhat second hand. He had never been with a woman. nice girls didn’t do that sort of thing and he had seen enough of the soldiers who had ‘caught a dose’ to be terrified by the very idea of going to a whore. His limited knowledge of female anatomy had been gleaned from late-night conversations and those ‘dirty postcards’ he had sometimes had to remove from the personal effects of a dead or wounded soldier. It wouldn’t do for their loved ones to receive that sort of thing among their beloved’s belongings!

The screens parted once more and Sister Hallam charged in. 

“What have you been…?” she started to say then spotted the root of the problem.

“Ah. I see. Well, we can soon deal with that.” 

She flicked the tip of his glans with a solid fingernail and looked up at him triumphantly. Phillip turned his face away, unable to meet her eyes. She looked back, sure that her sovereign remedy would have done the trick. Phillip’s erection stood firm. 

“I see this calls for somewhat sterner measures.” 

Phillip groaned aloud and coloured again. He dreaded to think what she might do next. He was taken by surprise when her hand curled about the base of his shaft and gently squeezed. He gasped. The sensation was nothing like he had ever felt before. He had masturbated, of course, but tried very hard to avoid doing so. After all, it could cause you to go mad. The feel of someone else’s hand on his prick was unbelievable but oh, the guilt! Sister Hallam hesitated for a moment. She had intended to give the young man a good hard squeeze and tell him to stop this nonsense but she sensed his vulnerability. Compassion flooded through her and she changed her mind.