We Should Have Shot the Donkeys

By Ken Roberts

Three survivors of the Great War 1914/18, decide to tell of their experiences in the, trenches in the hope that the black and white dreams they suffer will at last go away.
A novice reporter with the London Herald is sent to Wales to interview the three men. This is his first job, during the time he spends in Wales he falls in love with the town and the daughter of one of the men.
When the Second World War breaks out and with a need to experience war he joins the army as a war correspondent, landing on Gold beach in 1944.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467007252

Ken Roberts

I have had one book published. No Stamps on My Passport. My day job is I teach people to drive trucks. I took up writing ten years ago. This is my first attempt at fiction.

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© 2011 Ken Roberts. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/11/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0724-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0725-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

1944

CHASING THE ENEMY

12th June 1944.

Part one

Chapter 1

1938 London

EDITORS OFFICE OF THE LONDON HERALD

Chapter 2

FIRST MEETING

Chapter 3

1938

MY FIRST INTERVIEW

Chapter 4

A New Day

Chapter 5

PROGRESS

Chapter 6

TELLING MOTHER’S

Chapter 7

BESSIE

Chapter 8

TALKING WITH DUNCAN

Chapter 9

BEST OF FRIENDS

PART TWO

Chapter 10

TRAINING CAMP

Chapter 11

JUST A TRIP ON THE BRINY

Chapter 12

MORE DRINK

Chapter 13

TEA WITH MARY

Chapter 14

A ROUGH CROSSING

PART THREE

Chapter 15

WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

Chapter 16

A FOREIGN LAND

Chapter 17

THE CIVILIAN COST

Chapter 18

PART FOUR

Chapter 19

TOWARDS THE GUNFIRE

Chapter 20

OUR NEW FAMILY

Chapter 21

TOM HAD TO LEAVE ME

Chapter 22

OUR FIRST ACTION

Chapter 23

THE DAY I FELL IN LOVE

Chapter 24

CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES

Chapter 25

BURIAL PARTY

Chapter 26

HEALTH

Chapter 27

WILLIE

Chapter 28

A QUIET DAY

Chapter 29

THE GERMAN TRENCH

Chapter 30

TALKING TO KLAUS

PART FIVE

Chapter 31

LEAVE IN POPERINGHE

Chapter 32

A SAD DAY IN OUR TRENCH

Chapter 33

AN EVENING AT THE CINEMA

Chapter 34

OVER THE TOP

Chapter 35

CARMICHAEL

Chapter 36

A TERRIBLE DUTY

Chapter 37

I HAVE DOUBTS

Chapter 38

LEAVING DUNCAN

Chapter 39

Getting out of

no man’s land

Chapter 40

TIME FOR A BREAK

Chapter 41

BACON AND WHISKY

Chapter 42

REPLACEMENTS

Chapter 43

THE DUGOUT

Chapter 44

POLYGON WOOD

Chapter 45

NIGHT STUNT

Chapter 46

CONCERNS

Chapter 47

JOHNNY

Chapter 48

PASSCHENDAELE.

Chapter 49

SPYING

PART SIX

Chapter 50

LAST PATROL

Chapter 51

BLIGHTY

Chapter 52

ON MY WAY HOME

Chapter 53

WHAT TO DO

Thanks, to Kirk and Wendy

1944

CHASING THE ENEMY

12th June 1944.

ME. I am Mike Wilson.

The beach heads had been secured as much as was possible, and I had come ashore on Gold Beach. I had no idea what awaited me, I was told that it was not going to be an afternoon stroll in the park, but as a reporter with an inexplicable need to see the war for myself I needed to experience war and see for myself its horrors.

I had climbed rather clumsily on board a landing craft, after scrambling down nets hung over the side of the ship. With my bag over my shoulder, and my teeth gritted with determination, I followed as the rest of the men, I say men, they were more like boys; our country’s youth, and our future generation. I suspected that some if not most, had not even started to shave, but were as me slipping and sliding down the side of the ship. I guessed they were as scared as I, but they did not show it. Unlike me they were weighed down with packs full of equipment weighing fifty pounds or more, and a rifle weighing a further eight pounds. I carried a rather large shoulder bag much like a school satchel, and a side arm weighing altogether about ten pounds. I felt a bit of a fraud, but what I carried was all I needed, or so I thought.

I was determined not to show how worried I was, but I was more fearful of what may happen than I had ever been in my life. I suspected that everyone in this battered transport felt the same. I wondered if Tommy had felt like this back in 1914.

I had been issued with a pistol. After a very brief demonstration how to load and fire it, I was given a pouch of bullets, a holster, and belt. I was not very happy about carrying a weapon. Not that I am a conscientious objector, but I was refused entry into the army, albeit due to ill health. Why then did I have to carry a firearm? I was advised to do so.

I strapped the pistol around my waist, as I had seen Tom Mix, the cowboy do it in the films back home in our local flea pit. Tying the belt loosely around my waist, I was told this was not the Wild West and I was to fasten it tightly. It was heavier than I expected and I hoped I would not have to use it. I carried a water bottle, a pack with some rations, two cameras, a dozen or so spare films, a few pencils and notebooks. Four notebooks in particular, carefully wrapped in rubberised cloth to keep them dry, contained a story I had yet to write. I felt I had to bring them with me, I can’t explain why I carried these notebooks with me everywhere. They weighed nothing, so they were permanently in my shoulder bag. I would at some stage write the story.

Our landing was met with no resistance. We scrambled up t he beach and headed inland expecting to see people welcoming us, but there were none. Instead we saw nothing but destruction. Piles of rubble that once were buildings, streets littered with abandoned vehicles, and shops that had been looted of all their goods. Everywhere we looked there was destruction. Trees had been blown up, telephone poles destroyed, farm carts set on fire worst of all, death. Corpses lay everywhere, in positions so grotesque I threw up several times. How could a human being look so terrifying? I assumed these were townsfolk who had been killed either in the bombardment that preceded our landings, or by the retreating army. We passed through the town of Ver-s-Mer as quickly as we could, and on into the open countryside. I was falling behind trying to note down and photograph what I had seen, only to be called to keep up.

The allies were moving swiftly after the Normandy landings, sweeping through France, towards Belgium and Germany. The fighting had been hard; every yard of ground seemed to be won at the sacrifice of another young life. On we went, slowly becoming immune to the sights that lay before us, a nation’s youth scattered around like so much litter. I wondered how many more lives would be lost trying to defeat this enemy, and how much longer would it take. As well as the sight of the dead there was the stench of death, reaching into the back of our throats, bitter, sweet nauseating, I was very jittery I freely admit this, although I was only reporting on what I was seeing, unlike some who were collecting the dead and putting them into what were to become temporary graves, to be re interred later in a more fitting place.

I was attached to a company of soldiers, who were mopping up any pockets of resistance left by a retreating German army. We were assigned to take some prisoners who were too worn out to fight any longer, and the occasional deserter. These men, so dishevelled by war were escorted back to holding cages that had been constructed as temporary prisons. They gave no trouble, and were for most part glad to get some food and water and be out of the war. We trudged our way forward, following the sound of distant gunfire through earlier battlefields. Each man stared at the carnage that lay all around us, each with our own private thoughts that we could be joining the once proud men who lay scattered lifeless, free from the terrors of war and the fear of death. They had no fear now. Bodies lay amongst burning vehicles, in contorted, unnatural positions twisted in macabre poses, some with open eyes staring at us, but unseeing as we trudged past. Others, blown to pieces, unrecognisable as human beings, many more lying around as if they had just fallen asleep. Click, click, click, my camera was busy.

The occasional explosion of unspent ammunition in the burning vehicles make us jump, we would dive for cover, unsure that the enemy had indeed retreated. Ever looking, searching ahead for an army that was supposed to be on the run.

We have come some distance, keeping our eyes and ears open, walking line astern. A couple of men are out in front, looking for any problems ahead, they call it point, a dangerous unenviable task; they are brave men the men who take point. I am falling behind again walking through a field of foxholes; there has been some hard fighting here. Suddenly I have the need to take a shit, possibly more to do with nerves, than the need to shit. I find an empty hole; some holes are still occupied with those who will never leave them. Some, had two or three occupying the cramped space, folded on to each other in deaths final hold. I find an empty hole and jump in. I was in the middle of what I was doing peeping over the edge watching the rest of the men as they trudged past; making sure there was no change of direction, when without any warning all hell broke loose. I finished what I was doing in double quick time, I climbed out of my hole, and made towards the main group, the shelling was so hard I dived headlong into another foxhole.

A hidden artillery unit had been left behind as a rear guard in a last desperate bid to slow our advance opened up. Shells were raining down on us at an alarming rate. There must have been several guns firing at us, no single crew could have fired such a salvo.

After about fifteen minutes, which felt like fifteen hours, I was screaming stop, for God’s sake stop. The noise was so loud I couldn’t even hear my own voice. High explosive shells were falling all around us, thudding into the already pocked marked ground, sending up columns of smoke, flame, and red hot shrapnel. Fragments whizzing so close to me I felt the heat of them as they thudded into the ground, around my hiding place. I was rapidly being covered in debris. Earth and rubble were being thrown up into the air then falling back on me. I had thought to climb out of my cover and run, but where to? I decided this was not the best course of action, I tried to get lower in my shelter, but there is a limit to which the human body can fold itself. During the bombardment my head was covered beneath a tin hat I picked up from the last battlefield we came over.

I had wondered who had lost the tin hat I was now depending on to save my life, and, if he had been killed. Maybe he was one of the dead who had found his last resting place in the field we had not long trudged through. I was glad I had picked it up, and of its protection, thoughts of the last owner were now furthest from my mind.

In desperation, fear and a need for self-preservation, I struggled to get lower in the ground that could soon be my grave. I expected to be blown into a thousand pieces at any second. The fear of this almost inevitable end to my life started me shaking uncontrollably. My legs felt as if they were not connected to my body, my arms, and hands like lead, and I was totally disorientated, my mind was in turmoil. Getting out of this hole was going to be nothing short of a miracle. Shaking hands clasped over ears as if glued to the side of my head, eyes so tightly closed they hurt, and my teeth, were going to be crushed if I bit any harder. Explosions all around me, I was waiting for the one, I would not hear. My nerves were at breaking point.

The sound was louder than any storm I had ever experienced, roaring noise; as if the devil himself was watching this terrible scene unfold. I imagined him sat on his fiery throne rubbing his hands together, counting the souls he was collecting shouting, More, more. Now, at this moment of my almost certain demise I understood, what it was like to be terrified, so frightened I almost wished for a direct hit on my foxhole to end my misery. Tommy had tried his best to describe to me what it felt like to be in the middle of a bombardment. He experienced days of shelling, whereas I had only fifteen minutes.

The vibration coming through the ground was indescribable, shaking my hole as if it were in the middle of an earthquake epicentre that was trying to suck me, into the depths of Hades.

I was expecting the next whistling shell would be the last I ever heard as it screamed its way towards me. I was about to scream again to relieve the tension, when half a dozen aeroplanes swooped overhead, bombing the artillery position that had us pinned down. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the barrage stopped. I stayed where I was for a good five minutes, not wishing to be caught in the open in case it started again.

As I emerged from my hole, all I could hear were muffled sounds as if I was under water. I shook my head to try and clear the fog that seemed to invade my ears. This worked to some extent, now I was hearing a different sound. Screams, loud terrifying screams filled the air; all around me men were lying on the ground, wounded. I was looking out on to a scene of carnage, soldiers, with whom I had a few short moments ago shared laughter, and jokes, along with meagre rations, had been caught in the open when the shells started to fall out of a clear blue summer sky. I dropped to my knees and I thanked God for my safe deliverance, but shouted at him in the same breath WHY?

I looked out at these men, lying on the ground crying out in agony. Medics were rushing about with syrett’s of morphine injecting the injured with a swift jab, of the pain relieving substance, it had little effect. I tried to help but my help was very limited, how could I help a man who had lost his legs or one who was holding in his guts screaming for morphine? I felt totally useless. I was pushed out of the way by a medic who was running to aid a man who had lost his arm. Was I in a dream? Was this really happening?

I was a journalist, a pen pusher a none combatant. Cursing my lack of skills I tried to shut out the noise of the wounded; I felt helpless, useless. God why were we here? Why was I here? I made my way to a large boulder, seeking refuge from the mayhem, I had to get away, gather my thoughts. Calm my shaking body.

I sat, or rather threw myself down behind the boulder, burying my head in my hands. I knew I had to report this but I could not face the carnage, not just yet. I needed a few minutes to collect my thoughts and pull myself together. This was my first real taste of action I never expected it to be this bad. Some desk Wally had told us that most of the resistance had been quashed, and we should have a long uneventful walk to Germany. I would like to meet the clot who said that; he evidently had not seen the sights that were now surrounding me, or been under fire.

I pulled myself together as much as I could, I reached into my bag, my reflexes seemed to be taking over; I took out my camera. My hands were automatically checking it over for damage, I blew the dust off the lens, it was still intact. I fumbled with the shutter settings, my hands still shaking, but doing what they were supposed to do on their own. Getting up from my hiding place I turned and pointed my camera at the scene before me, I did not really look at what I was photographing; I was seeing things through a lens. As long as I was looking through the lens the picture I looked at was sort of unreal. My stomach was churning my head was spinning, click, click, click, I can’t remember how many shots I took, I slumped back down behind my boulder, I did not want to see anymore.

My boulder seemed to block out the screams, at least for a while. How could human beings any human beings, do this to each other and think they were in the right? I remembered what Tommy said about doubting the existence of God. At that moment, I found myself doing exactly the same. If there was a God he didn’t give a cuss about what was going on here, but then I thought about what Gordon had said about having to believe in something.

Just at that moment when I was thinking about Gordon, straight in front of me as if nothing had happened a bird landed on a bush and sang. One single bird, in this field of hell, found something to sing about. It sent shivers up my spine, the hair on the back of my neck bristled as if caught by a very cold breeze, click. I don’t know why, I had to photograph this bird, If I get back I will show the photo to Gordon. If I get back, did I just think IF?

Was this what they had experienced in 1914? Tommy and his mates had told me of the silence after a barrage, I could never have imagined what it was like, now I was beginning to understand. It was a silence that only comes when your nerves are at breaking point; your hearing is impaired so you strain to listen for any noise that may threaten. It is a strange loud sort of silence. I had to experience war for myself I needed to know what it felt like. I certainly learned that early on.

I was beginning to think I had made the biggest mistake in my life coming to France as I was refused entry into the army on the grounds of I’ll health. A heart murmur the medics said, but I never heard it murmur. Despite all my pleading to join up they would not let me fight. It was then I decided to do what I had been trained to do, I was a reporter, and though I say so myself, a pretty good one. People back home wanted news of the war, so I volunteered my services, joining the army as a non combatant war correspondent.

I was thinking to myself as I crouched behind my boulder, I must have been mad. This was my first experience of war, and here I was terrified, scared out of my skin. I felt so bad I can’t describe my feelings. I made a promise to myself; if I got out alive I would never volunteer for anything like this again. I felt like a coward, I probably was a coward, but nothing short of a gun to my head would have made me move at that moment of terror.

I crouched a little lower behind my boulder, shivering with fright, my hands clasped around my camera, looking searching the terrain around me in case we had sniper fire. My head was spinning.

We had met a group of American soldiers a few miles back they were on their way up the line. As our paths crossed, being here to report, I started to talk with one of the men. He said his name was Samuel, Sam, for short, from the Bronx in New York. A big man over six feet tall, he looked worn out. I asked him where he was headed, he did not know and could have cared less. I have never seen such a tired man. We talked for a while, and exchanged a few items then shook hands he patted me on the back and wished me good luck. I gave him some brandy and chocolate I had liberated from a bombed out café, he gave me a cigar, it was all he had. His hands shook as mine were doing now. I reached inside my tunic pocket for the cigar.

I had come across a discarded backpack; the fields and roads were littered with such items having been thrown away for some reason or another. I picked it up thinking I could use it, but it fell apart in my hands, all that was in it was a lighter, it fell out as I picked the pack up, so I pocketed it. God knows who it belonged to, but it was mine now. I flicked my new found lighter a few times, taking comfort in the fact it still worked. I thought of Sam and wondered if he would survive the war, I prayed he would. Not really praying, more of a faint hope he would survive, he seemed a nice man. I asked myself what was the use of praying, who was I praying to? If God did exist why did he not stop this murder? Tommy had asked God this question a thousand times in the Great War.

I bit into the cigar and spat out the end, I had watched the Americans do this and was surprised I did it with one bite, although some bits were left on my tongue, so I spat again to rid my mouth of the debris. Lighting the cigar with my new lighter I drew on the strong smoke and inhaled, imeadeatly I started to cough. I looked at this cigar and suddenly realised I did not smoke, so what the hell was I doing? I blamed the confusion, but I decided to smoke it anyway, after all, I had just as well die from cigar smoking as a bullet. After a few puffs I felt very light headed and threw it away, it was imeadeatly picked up by a soldier who as me was feeling the worst for wear after the bombardment.

Your’ the reporter aren’t you? he asked.

He looked at me through very tired eyes as he drew on the cigar, looking at the lit end and blowing on to the smouldering leaves. He slumped down on the ground beside me sighing as he rested his back on the boulder.

This is too good to throw away you know he said taking another long draw.

‘I don’t smoke’

I replied looking at this, bedraggled man who was puffing away causing clouds of smoke to swirl around his head.

Why light it then? If you don’t smoke I mean?

‘I was given it by one of the Yank’s, we met a few miles back, I lit it in the thought it may calm my nerves’

Did it?

‘No it just made me cough.’ He smiled,

It’s a bit strong but very good I’ll save it for later.

He took out his knife and cut off the lit end, he placed the stub in his cigarette tin removing a cigarette as he did, lit it offering me one, I took it.

Thought you didn’t smoke

I smiled, I don’t know why I smiled maybe it was a release of some kind.

‘Sod it; I nearly died a few minutes ago, to hell with it I’ll start’.

I lit the cigarette, it tasted strange but somehow it seemed to calm my nerves, and despite the light-headedness I finished it. Thinking of Sam, who had given me the cigar, I wondered if he felt light- headed after a smoke. I had given him the chocolate and brandy I had liberated. I wondered where my brandy was now; I could certainly do with it.

So what the hell are you doing here?

I looked at the soldier. He could not have been much more than twenty years old, he was filthy, but beneath the grime, bright emerald green eyes looked back at me, a shock of dirty blond hair peeked beneath his steel helmet, which had been pushed back on his head, he had some cuts to his face, not serious but they needed cleaning up. His uniform, what was left of it was caked with mud, a single stripe on his sleeve hung by a few threads, trousers that could have stood by themselves, and his boots, were caked in mud. He needed a complete re fit, but he was not going to get one out here.

‘Reporting, just reporting’ I replied. I thought of Tommy, Gordon, and Duncan back home, possibly having a beer in the pub, reading the newspapers. I was now experiencing some of the trauma they had suffered.

Well you got one hell of a story here he said shaking his head.

I looked at him sat beside me. Leg’s stretched out smoking his cigarette, as if he had been here all his life, maybe he had. Maybe he would stay here beneath the earth that was already so full of men who had died in the belief their war was a just one.

‘Did you land with us?’ I asked. He shook his head.

No I am what the army calls a straggler I got cut off from my mates. I was knocked out by a blast and left for dead. When I woke, you lot were coming towards me, so I joined up with you.

I thought about the reason I was here as I watched him suck on the cigarette. He reminded me of my old editor he constantly had a cigarette in his mouth. Capstan full strength, I could visualise the brown packet on his desk.

I got up from behind my boulder, as I did I looked at my hands, they were filthy, with broken fingernails, and cuts. I had been clawing at my foxhole in a vain attempt to get deeper into the ground. These were not the hands I started out with, always clean, and nails trimmed, I rubbed them together in an attempt to remove some of the dirt, a wasted exercise as it turned out. It would take a long soak in a hot bath to get them clean again and out here there was no chance of that.

I stood up and held my hand out to help the soldier up. He took it and struggled to his feet, picking up his rifle as he rose.

Jack, my name is Jack, Jack Seymore, from Manchester

‘Mike Wilson from London originally, but now Wales’

Pleased to meet you Mike,

We looked in the direction of the carnage, those who could, were gathering up any equipment for the march forward. Medics were still tending to the wounded when the captain shouted.

Ok let’s move

I felt guilty leaving the wounded, but there was nothing more we could do; we had to go on. Gathering up my bag I checked the contents, my waterproof bundle was still intact. I made my way with my new found friend and joined the main group. I looked to where the bombardment had been coming from, all that remained was a burning wood, the trees were on fire and small explosions were going off, I assumed this was ammunition exploding. Nobody could have survived that attack. We marched on towards Germany, wherever that was, leaving a couple of medics to look after the wounded until relief caught up with them.

The road before me now was littered with bombed out farms, dead cattle and sheep. Dogs, scrawny skinny dogs scavenged among the carcasses, ripping, snarling, and snapping at each other in an attempt to satisfy their hunger. Half a dozen human corpses lay in a ditch. The scrawny dogs were fighting over them. I tried to avoid looking at them as I felt sick I almost vomited then Jack tapped me on the shoulder and said.

Don’t look Mike don’t look

But I could not turn away. Their hands were tied behind their back; these people, possibly locals had been executed, murdered. One man fired a few shots in the air in an attempt to scare the dogs they took no notice, just a glance up toward us then carried on with their frenzied feeding.

The stench of death was all around us, it was overwhelming. A smell that still lives in the back of my throat, I can actually taste it sometimes. Columns of smoke rose from burned out buildings darkening the sky as the blackness clouded out the sun. A breeze caught the smoke and blew it into our faces, the smell of roasting flesh thick in its swirling mists. Distant sounds of gunfire told us the Germans had not long gone from here. Ever vigilant we trudged on towards the gunfire.

We walked cautiously through a village, watching for snipers. Every building had been damaged by artillery, sides of houses stood at a tilt waiting to fall at the slightest vibration. Roads covered in the debris of homes that had been flattened, their contents strewn amongst the rubble. Children’s toys, smashed crockery, furniture, clothes, and human, limbs, were protruding from the mounds of brickwork; it was a waste land. Many dead were scattered around, none of them in uniform, I took them to be villagers who, had died with their homes and possessions.

There was not a standing tree, they had been blown apart or pushed over by tanks, their roots exposed like tentacles reaching for the sky. The retreating German army had destroyed everything, roads, bridges, homes, and what little crops there were, had been burned. Lives had been decimated. We learned later that Hitler had ordered the destruction of everything that was left behind by his retreating army. It was his scorched earth policy. Burn and destroy, leave nothing, or nobody, standing.

People with ghostly white faces stared at us as we marched through the remnants of their village. These few who were left, had been through hell, how were they going to survive? An old woman, bent with age, went to approach us, she was held back by some of the other villagers; she pulled free of them in desperation coming towards us she held out her hand pleading with us for food. One of the soldiers went towards her and gave her some of the rations he had in his pack, seeing this a few more of us followed suit. All of a sudden we were surrounded by people begging for food, we gave what we could but we had to live ourselves. We marched on leaving them to share out what little we had given them.

I was struggling to take in all that was unfolding in front of me it was going to be very difficult to report what I was seeing. How could human beings wreak such savagery on other human beings? Click, click, click, with shaking hands, I changed film.

The train station was just a pile of rubble a train was lying on its side having been derailed, smoke, and steam still curling up into the clear blue sky from an engine breathing its last dying breath. It must have received a direct hit from a shell by the look of it. The carriages were empty, either looted or emptied by the retreating army. Jack nudged me and pointed to a barn which by some miracle was still intact. The Germans must have missed to fire it in their haste to retreat. I had not heard the captain saying we were going to rest up for the night. Jack nudged me into action we started to march a little faster towards the barn.

Come on let’s see if we can get a comfy spot

I followed Jack he was a survivor I needed to be close to him. We made our way to the barn and found a spot in the hay loft; collapsing into the hay thoroughly exhausted after our march I was very tired. I looked at the rest of the soldiers as they dumped their packs down and collapsed on the floor, most imeadeatly fell asleep. They must have been exhausted with all the equipment they had to carry, I opened my water bottle and took a long swig of the warm water, Jack tossed me something that slightly resembled a biscuit, I bit into it, it was very hard but I ate it, every crumb, then I fell asleep.

We were woken by a sergeant shouting. Get a move on form up. It seemed we had only been asleep for a few seconds.

Morning was wet, a warm sticky wet, the air thick with smoke lying like a fog dark and eye stinging from all the fires, there was no wind, it was still and damp. Gathering up my bag I joined the rest of the men who had already started to march forward, Jack looked at me. As I focused my camera, click, click, click.

You were talking in your sleep last night to someone called Tommy. You sounded pretty angry, is anything wrong apart from this place?

I thought for a second, gathering my thoughts, thrusting my camera back into my bag.

‘I didn’t know I talked in my sleep, I hope I didn’t swear too much’

No you were yelling for this Tommy bloke to get down, you seemed as if you were fighting a battle or something.

‘I was probably dreaming of my first reporting job’.

What was that then? It must have been a hell of a story, the way you were shouting.

‘I was sent to interview three men, who had fought in the first lot, you know 14/18’.

You got pretty involved in that job by the sound of it

" ‘Yes I found the whole experience a little overwhelming sometimes. I could not imagine men going through what they did, and living to tell the story’.

Can you tell me about it, I mean, it will help pass the time until we catch up with the Jerry’s?

I thought for a moment before answering jack, I wondered if Tommy, Duncan, and Gordon would object. After all I had not written the story myself yet. I decided I would tell jack about it. Get another person’s point of view"

‘Yes when we get a stop, I’ll tell you about some of the experiences they had’.

Jack nodded, we settled down to a steady trudge through fields and villages, my mind went back to my first meeting with three very brave men. My mind was elsewhere I was not exactly daydreaming more lost in thought when It, happened. An ambush, I was confused as to what was happening it was all so quick. I felt a searing pain in my back, my legs gave way, and I was flat on my face, with this burning sensation eating its way into my body. The last thing I remember is Jack shouting

‘Hit the deck’,

I was too slow. I lay on the ground with my face buried in the mud, I tried to get up, but I could not move, the next thing I remember was a medic jabbing something sharp into my thigh, the pain eased slightly, then I passed out.

I woke in a hospital in Caen. The pain in my back was still there, but not as violent as it was when I passed out. I have no recollection of how I got here, but here I was, surrounded by nurses wearing huge white butterfly hats, fussing over me, speaking French. In the next bed was Jack. He had been shot through the shoulder and leg.

Next stop blighty

He smiled and put his thumb up.

Going home Mike, home.

I smiled back, and gave him the thumbs up.

How long have we been here?

I did not feel too much like talking, I was so thirsty. I could have drunk a few pints at that moment.

Four days, you have been out of it for four days. They thought you were going to die, but then, you started to shout again, that seemed to pick you up, so here we are.

I settled back and closed my eyes, I thought about my life before the war.

I had been running a small newspaper in mid Wales, not a huge circulation, more local news than anything groundbreaking. Everybody who read it seemed to enjoy the cross section of local news and events. There was a page of local news covering market prices for farm stock, corn, and hay prices, local weddings, and engagements and a small sports section. There was very little crime except the usual weekend skirmishes when youngsters had too much to drink. So I covered the court reports on the fines handed out by the local magistrate. My little newspaper catered for all.

I was gifted the newspaper by Gordon Rettie, one of the three men I had been sent to interview. He had run the paper since 1918 after returning from the war having been severely wounded. He needed to retire, so had offered the job to me. Leaving me in almost total charge although he would drop in from time to time to share a brandy and muse through the latest edition, correcting any mistakes that may have slipped through the editorial net.

I have been told I will be in hospital for some time; there are no plans to move me just yet so my Blighty will have to wait. I have lost the use of my legs but the prognosis is good, the doctors tell me I should make a full recovery in time, so now, is the time to tell the first story I was ever sent to report as a young, very inexperienced junior reporter.

So here I am, propped up in a hospital bed; I have four pillows supporting me as I wrestle for some comfort. My dressings have been changed, and I have just had fresh cool bed sheets and a hot cup of tea, I am almost comfortable. The nurse, who tended me, has purloined a typewriter and rheum of paper. Where she got it God only knows but now I can start.

My new found friend Jack, is still in the next bed to me, his shoulder is very badly shattered