A Stroll in the Sun

George lifts his head, closes his eyes, and bathes his face with the full glory of that early morning sun, but soon finds himself fighting the power of July’s celestial furnace as it invades his thoughts, coaxing them to wander.

Just bloody concentrate on the job in hand he commands the half of his brain newly freed by those soothing rays. But his hand shakes in disobedience as it pulls a well-thumbed sheet of folded paper from his breast pocket.

All thought of the present then yields to the power of the past as he yet again reads Molly’s desperate words.

Is it only a week ago, just seven short days since she kissed me goodbye on the quayside in Dublin, and slipped her sardonic composition into my pocket? It seems so much longer. Didn’t find it until half way across the Irish Sea; did she think her biting words would shock me? How could they? She’s made her feelings plain enough many a time with that gorgeous voice of her’s – pleading and yet so forceful as she stood on the dockside: "George, I’m begging you please. Please don’t go back?"

"I have to, Molly, I can’t stay, it’s impossible."

"Don’t I mean anything to you?"

"Molly, you mean more to me than life itself, but…"

"…But, but! I hate that word; there’s always a but. Why can’t…"

"…Molly, darling, we’ve had this conversation a thousand times over. One day you’ll understand, you’ll see that…"

"…Don’t you dare patronise me. I hate it when you’re an English prig."

"I am English, and can’t alter that even for you, and that means I have responsibilities. It means that…"

"… Not again? I know exactly what you’re going to say."

"Yes, and I'll keep repeating it until you understand, I’ll keep telling you that…"

"… I know, I know, you’ll tell me again about that Empire of yours. What is it with you Englishmen?"

"I’ll never understand you, Molly. Ireland’s part of the Union, just what is your problem with the English? We’ve brought civilisation to a major part of the world. I still can’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want to play a part in all of that?"

"We saw at Easter what your civilisation means! It virtually destroyed half this town. You think you’ve a God given right to do whatever you want in bringing English civilisation to the rest of the world; but never mind what the rest of the world wants!"

"They were bloody rebels, in open revolt, what else could we do?"

"They were freedom fighters defending their country!"

"Why couldn’t I meet an ordinary woman? Why? Votes for women, freedom for Ireland, stop the war! Why can’t you be like other women, Molly, why?"

"You know why, I’ve told you often enough. I hate being a second class citizen. I hate Ireland being under the English yoke. But more than anything I hate this war! If I lose you then I’ve lost everything - please stay?"

"Oh, Molly. Let’s stop arguing. Look, if it hadn’t been for this war then I'd never have been sent to Ireland for my officer training, and we’d never have met. We’ve had six glorious months together."

"I know, and I’m truly grateful for that. But how can I thank this awful mess for anything?"

"This war may be dreadful but we’re in it and as such we have to win it, anything else is much worse than death."

"Don’t, George, don’t. I can’t bear the thought of losing you. My family has virtually disowned me for my love of you. Please stay, don’t go back, how can you face it all again?"

"I’m a British Soldier and that means something. Who’ll stop the Hun? Who’ll stop them dominating the world? Who’ll rescue tiny Belgium?"

"Ireland needs rescuing as much as Belgium does, stay and help me do that, George, stay and help me do that – please?"

"Now you’re asking me to commit sedition. I’ll never desert the Colours, Molly, never."

She unbuttoned the neck of her blouse, her wide green eyes full of tears, then pulled out and kissed her precious crucifix: "I swear on this holy symbol of Christian penance," she sobbed, "that I’ll give up everything if you’ll only stay. I swear I’ll give up Ireland’s as well as the women’s cause forever, if you’ll only stay here, safe and sound, with me!"

I knew then, when those words left her lips after kissing that symbol of unyielding faith, that her love for me meant more to her than life itself. Knew, as I watched her flee, angry, humiliated and in tears, away from me down the quay, that my refusal to match her sacrifice had hurt her far more than any bomb or bullet ever could. She would give up everything; give up all she believed in just to keep me safe, but I couldn’t give up my bloody honour, even for her…

"…Mister Wheeler, sir," Sergeant Larvin’s voice is instantly consumed by the ever constant scream of shells travelling overhead, and the din they make when carrying out their duty not so far away…

…Oh, Molly, I’ll never refuse you anything ever again, I’ll…

"…MISTER WHEELER, SIR!"

"OH, ER - WHAT ER…"

"…YOU ALL RIGHT, SIR?"

"YES, SAR’NT - I HOPE THERE AREN’T ANY PROBLEMS?"

"NO, SIR. THE LADS CAN’T WAIT TO GET GOING, SIR."

"WHAT IS IT THEN, SAR’NT?"

"HOW MUCH LONGER, SIR? THE LADS ARE A BIT FED UP OF WAITING, SIR."

George pulls back his sleeve and glances at his wristwatch; 7.20 ack emma: "TELL THEM, SAR’NT, WE GO IN TEN MINUTES - MAKE SURE THEY’RE ON THEIR TOES, READY FOR WHEN THE BARRAGE STOPS!"

"YES SIR, THANKYOU, SIR."

Sergeant Larvin turns then shuffles off shouting George’s message to each man in line as they crouch on the firing step.

As the NCO passes on his message to his men, 2^nd Lieutenant George Francis Wheeler glances proudly at his sleeve. Stuck on his arm is the solitary pip that confirms they are indeed his men. My men! The fifty citizen-soldiers of No 2 platoon, C Coy, 12th (Sheffield City) Battalion of the York and Lancaster Regiment are my responsibility now - for good or bad. They’re as ready as they’re ever going to be; they’ve trained long and hard, and are just as keen as we were.

As he admires his sleeve’s symbol of new, elevated status, he feels his men’s eyes fall on him. Looking up, he’s met with fifty pairs of adrenaline fuelled orbs. Usually, when an officer looks at enlisted men they divert their eyes and try to look busy, but not this morning, most just stare.

I’ve only been with them four days, not long enough to remember most of their names, but they look to me as a son looks to his father? Silent tongues but their questions couldn’t be louder; the same ones we all ask the first time - Will I be able to cope? Will I let my pals down? Will I be coward or hero? Will I see another sunrise?

"CHIN UP LADS! GET READY, IT WON’T BE LONG NOW."

That should help. What else can I say? The din of our own barrage does this when you’re being introduced to the Devil’s dance for the first time; makes a man realise it’s real and no longer a game. But they’ll soon learn that an enemy barrage doesn’t just make a racket; it changes you forever. Not long now til they learn that Mistress Fate, when she rings this school’s bell, laughs aloud when ploughing massive furrows through proud ranks, mocks you as she blows your mates to bits. They’ll have to learn how to deal with it themselves, just as we did; it’s something that can’t be taught only learnt. How can anyone ever be made truly ready for what’s to come?

At the briefing, they told us it’ll be easy this time; a weeklong barrage, the biggest ever mounted. This time, for sure, it will cut the German wire and destroy their positions - their trenches there for the taking. So, we will walk not run across no-man’s land and conserve our energy for the inevitable breakthrough.

Walk don’t bloody run? I’ve heard that one before. Surely, they know by now that when the barrage stops and I blow my whistle, no-man’s land becomes dead-man’s land? What a difference to 1914 as we loped along to fife and drum. Proud regulars, the 2^nd King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, so eager to get to grips with the bastards and teach "em a lesson. Now I’m here, all thought gone of teaching anyone anything. The Jerries’ll only learn when they’re all sent to bloody hell. And the bloody staff? Molly’s right, they’ll never bloody learn!

At least I can thank the buggers for sending me to Ireland; thank them for Molly being in my life. But teach me how to lead a platoon? Led one more than once, when our officers were killed, first as a private then a sergeant. The last time the buggers also said the German wire and positions would be destroyed; two hundred of C Coy set out, but just one bloody hour later I led only twenty back to our own lines. The red-tabbed buggers should be made to come to the dance with us when the whistle blows; they’d soon bloody learn then.

Not long now, just a few short minutes before I’ve to order these fine men to fix bayonets and climb out of the relative safety of this earth walled, wood lined, stinking scar on the French landscape and enter the slaughterman’s back yard. Order them to put their futures on hold and gamble with their very existence. How many breast pockets carry letters from sweethearts, from wives, from children, from parents? How many hearts broken today, how many lives left empty?

What was it Major Holdsworth said at Mons, just before he bought it? "When the Devil throws his dice, innocence pays the price." I wonder what he’d say now, nearly two years on; which words of wisdom would he give the sole survivor of his old company as he’s about to lead a platoon of fresh innocents into Old Nick’s game? Who’d be a bloody soldier in this bloody war – who’d be a bloody officer? Who’d be…

…SILENCE! The barrage ends, but the silence is more deafening than the turmoil it replaces, forcing a fresh charge of adrenaline through men’s veins. Making the few seconds between barrage’s end and orders to move last for hours. A time of silent prayers, silent curses and silent trepidation - but above all it’s a time of silence.

George concentrates, lowers his head and pulls back his sleeve. Damn, it’s only 7.25. Five minutes short, damn, damn, damn. What to do? Wait or go? Got to act, and act now, before we freeze through indecision, through lack of orders: "No 2 PLATOON – FiiiiiiiiiiX BAYONETS."

To a man, they obey as if on parade - their prayers, their curses and their trepidation all forgotten as George’s powerful voice shatters the stillness and their training takes over.

Whistle to mouth - a shrill blast followed by hundreds of others all along the line. Then, with revolver in one hand and Molly’s verse clutched in the other, he leaps on top of the trench to face the enemy: "FOLLOW ME MEN – REMEMBER THE ORDERS – WALK DON’T RUN."

"Why have you brought me here?" Molly demands an answer from the men who arrested her in the street, then brought her to Dublin Castle.

"Miss Doherty," says the taller of the two special branch men, "you’ve been brought to the castle to answer our questions, not the other way round."

"And what questions would they be? What questions would an English lackey have for me?"

He hands her a piece of scruffy paper: "We want to know if you wrote this?"

She snatches the stained sheet: "Where did you get this? I don’t believe you have this! Have you arrested him? You swine!"

Her interrogator moves menacingly closer: "Arrested who? That paper was recovered from the body of a British officer. The body of Second Lieu…"

"…Leave the Fenian Bitch on the floor, Riley," the second man sneers. "Go and fetch the doctor, we’ll finish our questioning when he brings her round."

Beneath that scorching sun she glances at the diagram handed to her at the entrance, then reads the inscription on the slab before dropping to her knees to scrape out a hollow in the soil with her bare hands at the headstone’s base. When deep enough she pulls a piece of folded, scruffy paper from her bag and places it in the hole: "There, my darling, it’s back where it belongs," she whispers through her sobs. "You beat the Germans and freed Belgium, Ireland’s won its own freedom, and I’m allowed to vote. So many changes in just ten short years since we parted. But as before, my love, I’d give it all up just to have you by my side."

Wiping away her tears, Molly then recites from another sheet:

She places her verse alongside the other in the hollow then gently brushes the soil back into place, leaving no trace. Her tears fall onto French soil like pearls from a broken necklace as she looks lovingly to her right and holds out her hand: "Come and join me, George, it’s time to meet your father."

© John Sales 2003.