Chapter Forty-Eight

The clanging of a bell had the men tumbling out of their camp beds the next morning and as one they surged towards the wash tents, for what good it did them. They were confronted with tin bowls full of freezing cold water beside which stood a scratchy towel and slivers of soap. Tom wondered how long it had been since he had felt properly clean and couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even take his boots off to wash his feet because the layer of mud on the duckboards only ensured that they would be as filthy by the time he put them back on. Many of the men were suffering from infected blisters and trench foot so he supposed he shouldn’t complain.

When they were done, the men trooped off to the dining tent, their teeth chattering, and Tom found himself watching Tate, who was already sweating profusely at the thought of what was ahead. Had it been any of the other young chaps, he would have sympathised with them, but he couldn’t feel an ounce of pity for this man.

Breakfast consisted as usual of lumpy porridge and slices of cold toast and Tom forced some down, noticing that Tate barely ate anything. They all returned to the tent then to collect their rifles while Tom went off to the stables.

The horses whinnied and tossed their heads when they saw him, and he went along the line of them whispering in their ears and stroking their noses. The next hour was taken up with saddling them ready for the officers and trying to keep them calm as they stamped their feet and pulled on their reins.

It had been quiet since early that morning but by now Tom knew that this could change at any moment. And then the shout would go up: ‘Forward!’ and the men would surge up out of the trenches and charge towards the barbed-wire fences that marked the enemy line. That was when the real nightmare would begin, as the Germans opened fire and he was forced to stand and watch the young men fall. Only when the all clear sounded would the stretcher-bearers venture out to retrieve the wounded and the dead who hadn’t already been swallowed up by the foul-smelling mud.

It was no wonder the rats were so huge, he thought. The sight of them gorging on the corpses was seared on his mind and would haunt him for ever. The soldiers in the trenches were plagued with them too; the damn filthy things seemed to be everywhere but there was little anyone could do about it, they were all too busy trying to kill the enemy to have time to try and kill the plague of vermin. Those men who had been there for a while and still survived had come to accept them, while the new recruits were horrified at their presence.

He was still stroking the horses when the dreaded shout went up: ‘Forward!’ and all hell broke loose. The soldiers rose from the trenches like spectres in the early-morning mist and from his vantage point he watched as they waded as best they could across the field. Within seconds the air was filled with the sound of gunshots. He could see the Germans approaching from the other side of the field and then the two sides were locked in combat as men dropped like stones. It was sickening and he glanced away, only to see one soldier hovering on the lip of the trench. With a little shock, he recognised Hugh Tate. He was shaking uncontrollably until an officer suddenly came behind him and pushed him forward with the butt of his rifle.