The Price of Courage

Knocker stirred the pot with the concentration of a man seeking knowledge in the broth. He hummed softly as the ladle dipped, and the familiar smell of stale carrots made my stomach whine. The scar on my left leg complained against the cold as I shifted position on the bench. 

   The trenches ran from the foot of the Alps, to the English Channel and I doubted I’d find a comfortable spot if I walked the entire crooked length. My bench was a broken crate leaning against the back of a dug-out hollow. Five of us squeezed into that earthy hole sharing the warmth of the pot and each other.   

“Hurry up Knocker, I’m fucking starving.” Mac said with a blast of sour breath. He was a weasel of a man, probably too small for the Army in peace time, but this wasn’t peace time and he had a mouth more than big enough to compensate. 

  “Don’t rush him Mac” I said, “Last time we had carrots I nearly lost a tooth.” 

  The men grumbled agreement.

   “Not my fault the rations are frozen.” Knocker didn’t look up from the pot. The man had been selected for the role of chef on the basis that he’d worked as a waiter ten years ago. He had two styles of cooking, raw or boiled into oblivion, but no-one else wanted the job and it kept the big man happy. 

   “Everything’s fucking frozen” Mac spat out into the trench. His dark stained phlegm landed on top of an icy puddle.

   Jonesy tutted at the profanity from his spot to my left. He was a quiet man who kept a small, well-thumbed bible in his right breast pocket. He hated Mac's swearing and the small man knew it.

   “At least it’s better than the mud though, ey?” I said quickly to stop the two from squabbling. They nodded at that. Waking up to frozen boots was a luxury compared to months of sodden socks and wrinkled grey skin sloughing off your feet like thinly sliced cheese.  

   The bitter weather had slowed the pace of fighting to a tense standoff. Daily machine-gun chatter had been replaced with the lone cracks of sniper rounds that cut through boredom and reminded you to keep your head down. Even the rats had fled for the winter, leaving us alone to wait for the madness to start.  

   “You think there’ll be a push soon?” Peter ventured from the folds of his oversized jacket. We shared a blanket on the bench, he didn’t smell as bad as the others - he hadn’t been there as long - and his honest blue eyes had yet to show the hardness of one who’d been over the top. 

   A thick silence descended; the young boy sat in Danny’s old spot. He was a good lad Danny. 

   “Maybe” I said, taking care to avoid Peters eyes. “I heard one of the Engineers talking yesterday about a plan to use bridges to cross the wire.”

   “Well it would be better than just sitting around waiting for our bollocks to freeze off.” Mac was never quiet for long, “It’s time we took the fight to the Hun bastards. The quicker we kill those Sauerkraut fuckers - the quicker we’ll all be home in warm beds, with a pair of warm tits and I for one will never look at carrot broth again. No offence, Knocker.”

   “None taken” the big chef said. 

   We listened to the pot bubble for a while, each man lost in his memories of home. I tried to picture Rosie in the canvas of my mind but her face blurred like the paint was too thin and the only part clear was her hands. Delicate and fragile and wrapped up in my own. 

   “Whats it like though, to go over the top?” Peters words cut through the image and Rosies hands faded away. The men groaned in frustration at being torn from their homes and Mac opened his mouth for a curse. I stopped him with a raised hand. 

   “It’s hell” I said, turning to Peter and watching the whites of his eyeballs grow. Poor lad couldn’t have been older than eighteen, he should be at school, getting senseless on drink and flirting with girls. “But it’s a hell where you have your brothers with you,” Mac banged his spoon against his mess tin in agreement. 

   “We don’t fight for England or the crown” I said, “We fight for the man standing next to us. When the time comes, and come it shall, we will face it together, shoulder to shoulder and protect each other till the end.”

   A murmur of brotherly pride escaped the mens lips and even Jonesy took a moment to put down his bible. 

   “Fucking right we will!” Mac surged to his feet and narrowly missed disturbing the pot. He scrambled to the edge of our hollow. 

“We are the mighty Lima Company and we ain’t scared of no German scum.” 

   We all cheered and bashed our spoons to that. Knocker took the ladle in a meaty hand and hammered it hard enough to send a splash of hot broth onto the icy turf. Normally a grave sin, this time no-one complained. 

   “You hear that you German pigs” Mac shouted at the parapet above the walkway, where rough, wooden planks pushed back against the earth.

   “We ain’t scared of youu!” He raised both arms as he turned the last syllable into a howl and I found myself howling with him.

   Along the trench the battle cry rose, as other groups of soldiers screamed their defiance across the half a mile of twisted, barbed wire strewn with the decaying bodies of our friends and towards the bastards that put them there. 

   For those few brief seconds I felt alive again. Aches and fears poured from my lungs and into the frozen air. I felt the power of brotherhood in men next to me and I truly believed we could win.

   “Food’s ready.” Knockers low voice stopped the shouting faster than any sergeant majors growl. We gathered round the pot, shoving our mess tins forward and squabbling over the portions.

   I glanced at Peter, still a teenage boy drowning in a dead man’s jacket, but there was a fierce set to his jaw that wasn’t there before. I looked away and dipped my spoon in the steaming broth; it tasted more sour than usual. 

   “Fuck me Knocker, did you dip your cock in this? It tastes like someone’s arsehole” Mac pulled a face that was somewhere between a gag and a grimace”

    “You’d know what that tastes like wouldn’t you” Knocker didn’t miss a beat as he poured the last portion for himself.”

    Jonesy gigged like a girl at this. Not to be outdone, a sly grin slid over Macs face. 

    “You know what. It’s worse than arseholes, it tastes like your mum’s…”

    “Ahem.” A man coughed from the walkway. He was tall with gaunt cheeks and a well groomed moustache. Though he wore the uniform of an officer, his well worn jacket and boots spoke of hard time in the trenches.  

  Mac reddened, he threw up a salute still holding his spoon flinging a soggy carrot at the wall. The rest of us bristled to attention. 

    “Sorry to interrupt your supper gentlemen.” He stood with the composed air of man used to being listened to. “I’m Captain Wallbridge from the Rifles 7th battalion. We hold the line a mile east of here.” He pointed his arm down the direction he’d come from. 

    “I don’t have long so I'll just get to it. Reports from our spies indicate a German high value target is visiting the trenches opposite my unit's position. The general wants us to strike, and strike now.” His moustache quivered as he spoke. “Unfortunately our earlier efforts have left us with mass casualties and what men we do have are weak and tired”

  He stood up a little straighter when he said, “I come here seeking volunteers for this mission. I’ve spoken to your colonel and he’s agreed to it.” 

  I rubbed my temples and studied the other mens faces. Mac found something to poke at in his mess tin. Jonesy fiddled with a button on his jacket and Knocker stirred his ladle in an empty pot. 

   “I have three brave men joining from Charlie company and two from the engineers, make no mistake, the General sees this as top priority and Colonel Howes will draw names if necessary.”

    Further down the trench a soldier coughed, a dry hawking sound that made you want to rub your chest. 

  I closed my eyes and remembered our battle cry, the strength of our voices and pride in our hearts. The sound got louder until it started to change. Twisting into the high pitched animal screams of Danny, begging for his mother as he tried to stop his intestines from touching the mud. 

   Then all I could see was Rosie, smiling from her golden curls as she reached to take my hand. I opened my eyes and kept my mouth shut.

   Peter shifted in his jacket. He poised his arm to lift, and pay the price of courage. Reflected in those young blue eyes was glory, medals, and victory parades and he opened his mouth to speak.

  My hand snaked out beneath the blanket and snatched his arm, preventing it from rising. He looked at me, I shook my head, and when he tried to pull away I only squeezed it tighter. I watched his face take a faltering step from disbelief to anger before it finally settled on the hard lines of hatred. 

  “Nobody?” the Captain said. 

   Peter remained silent.  

  “Ok gentlemen thank you for your time.” There was no malice in the small smile he gave us, just the weary acceptance of a man who had heard the screams himself. 

  We came to attention and he saluted smartly, turning on his heel. Then we watched him trudge away down the trench, towards the next cramped dug-out and the next group of soldiers, gathered round a pot. 

   The men turned back and finished their meal. Jonesy reached for his bible and Mac for once, left him alone. Knocker went back to humming his soft tune as he turned off his cooker. 

  I turned to Peter. He trembled at my touch and a slow tear rolled down his cheek. Underneath the blanket, I gave his arm a gentle pat. I hoped he would never get a chance to understand.