Image by Bruce Mewett from Pixabay
By
Jan Selbourne (Guest Blogger)
In
1915, my grandfather and his brother enlisted with the Australian
Imperial Forces and set sail for what so many believed would be the
adventure of a lifetime. Teach the Germans a lesson and be home by
Christmas. For the next three years they were involved in horrific
battles on the Western Front - Amiens, Fromelles and Villiers
Bretonneux to name a few. Both came home but were never the same men
again.
In
2015 I joined an “Anzacs on the Western Front” tour, visiting
those battlefields where my grandfather and his brother fought.
Looking at the lovely towns and villages with their soft green
fields, it was hard to imagine the horrors of that war until our
guide held up enlarged photos of blackened, treeless wastelands torn
apart by shelling and littered with bodies of men and horses.
Visiting the immaculate Commonwealth War Graves and memorials, cared
for by the people in the nearest towns, was humbling. Thousands of
graves of young men who never came home. Particularly sad was the
inscription on so many headstones - "Known Only to God". I
could only assume their bodies were unrecognisable and their identity
discs destroyed or buried in the mud or blown elsewhere. When our
guide told us the huge numbers of deaths in each battle, it brought
home the utter waste of that war and how awful the task would have
been identifying and recording deaths and injuries on their service
records.
After
the tour ended, I got to wondering if it was possible for a soldier
to swap identity discs with another who had been killed in battle. In
those days, war service records were hand-written with a basic
description of the soldier - name, address, marital status, religion,
date of birth, place of birth, nationality, height, weight and
colouring. Curiosity grew to a real need to know because I was sure
it would have happened - a soldier suffering shock and wanting to
escape or desperate to make a new life somewhere else. As a
historical fiction author, I believe we must research the era of our
story to provide an authentic as possible background. We can’t
throw our characters head first into history and hope for the best.
So, I contacted London's Imperial War Museum and the Australian War
Memorial in Canberra asking that question - were discs stolen or
swapped. Both replied that it was possible, but the chance of
discovery was very real and the penalties very harsh. Neither would
confirm it did happen but that was good enough for me to begin my
third book, The
Proposition.
Blurb
They met on the eve of battle. One enlisted to avoid prison, the other enlisted to avoid the money lenders. On the bloodied fields of France, Harry Connelly collapses beside the corpse of Andrew Conroy. It’s a risk, a hanging offence, it’s his only hope for a future. Harry swaps identity discs. Now Andrew, he's just another face in post war London until a letter arrives with a proposition, plunging him into a nightmare of murder, family jealousy and greed. To survive he must live this lie without a mistake, until he falls in love with Lacey. To keep her he must tell the truth and face the consequences.
Excerpt
Hundreds of coal braziers spread an eerie glow over the camps and the thousands of men stood waiting. The order to stand-to had come at 3.30 am and now they fidgeted, vomited, prayed and gripped their rifles with sweating hands, waiting for the officers and NCOs carrying the precious gallon jugs of rum.
The
quarter gill of eighty per cent proof rum burned into Harry’s
stomach and spread through his body, filling him with warmth,
strength and courage. At 4.05am came the “fifteen minutes”. At
4.15 am came the “five minutes”. When the synchronised watches
along the seventeen-mile front touched 4.20 am, seven hundred
artillery guns began their creeping barrage in front of seventy-five
thousand British, Australian, Canadian and allied troops.
Their
solid lines advanced steadily over the terrain laid bare from years
of shelling, gassing and fire. Rawlinson had set a target of an
eight-mile advance on Day One and they had the advantage of early
morning fog to disguise their tactics. The heavy tanks were now
travelling one hundred metres every three minutes and their
relentless pounding, the fire power of the infantry and the complete
surprise of the attack had the Germans scrambling.
Entering
the hilly sector which the tanks found difficult to negotiate, the
resistance became fierce. The pounding and smoke intensified as they
fought with rifles and bayonets. Screaming, shouting, a tangle of
men, booming cannons and rising mounds of earth and they continued to
push forward.
By
9.00 am they were approaching their first objective when all hell
broke loose with deafening explosions. The air was sucked out of
their lungs as huge walls of scorching earth reared up, throwing them
into a black burning hell.
Harry
screamed as excruciating pain tore through his ears, then something
slammed into him. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t
move. He was dead and the Man he didn’t believe in had despatched
him to sinners’ hell. His throat convulsed and gagged on the dirt
stuffed in his gaping mouth. Oh Christ, he was buried alive by the
huge weight pressing down on him. His heart thumped with terror.
Don’t move, don’t swallow, but his throat gagged again, and
instinctively he coughed and spat. Frantic, he gasped and coughed
again and felt cloth brushing against his face. He was lying on his
outstretched arms. Hot tears filled his eyes. Very soon this little
pocket of air would be gone, and he’ll die a slow death. No, think,
think, push your hands forward. What if he was lying upside down?
The
earth beneath him shuddered and soil fell onto his head. The weight
above him was shifting, just like the underground coal mines before
they collapsed. More soil fell on his arms and the blackness above
him turned grey. Scrabbling like a crab, he wriggled upwards and
howled in agony when a savage pain sliced through his leg. Gasping
and terrified of falling back, he pushed up further into the light.
He had no idea where he was.
Dragging the precious air into his lungs, Harry lifted his head to a silent scene from hell. Black roots of trees pointed to the sky and thick smoke poured from huge craters gouged into the earth. Just like the books on the Apocalypse. It took many seconds before his eyes told his brain the craters were dark red and littered with dozens of bloodied, twisted bodies. Some stared up into nothing, some face down. Harry looked behind him and opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out.
He’d been pinned beneath bodies submerged in the crater still smoking from an exploded shell. The entrails of one body oozed into the bloodied soil and the other body, oh God. Harry’s stomach heaved, he was covered with blood and guts. Using his arms, he lurched forward, bit by bit over the churned earth towards the blackened tree stumps. The ground shook again making him cringe. In the distance, a thick pall of black smoke was covering the rows of men fighting furiously while shells pounded around them, but it was eerily silent. Like the films at the picture house without the words on the screen.
Harry
struggled to his knees and almost fainted from the pain in his leg.
Closing his eyes, he fell onto his side, breathing deeply, then
reached down to feel the blood oozing through his trouser leg. He
rolled onto his stomach.
“Come
on, move, move.” He dragged himself forward until he came to a
mound, but his strength failed. “Give up,” his mind screamed,
then his eyes settled on a water canteen half buried in the earth.
Pulling it out, he unscrewed the cap and drank. Nectar. Spitting the
dirt out of his mouth he gulped the water greedily, feeling it
flowing through his body and clearing his mind.
“Oh,
Jesus.” The mound was a pile of bloodied bodies with sightless
eyes. He couldn’t crawl over them. He couldn’t do it. Crying and
wheezing with the pain in his leg he inched around them and looked
back. The crater was barely thirty feet behind him. He had to stop.
Why crawl to the trees? Stay here. Rest.
The
throbbing in his leg forced Harry’s eyes open. If he could crawl to
the little rise ahead of him, he’d stop there. Using his elbows to
propel him, he inched forward and without warning, the earth gave
way.
Tumbling down the small slope he fell against a solid lump. A
lump in uniform whose blank eyes stared directly into his. Jerking
back, he clutched his head as excruciating pain tore through his
ears. Moaning, he rocked back and forth until it eased and when he
opened his eyes bile ran into his mouth. Insects were taking up
residence in the gaping, oozing chest cavity while the neck and chin,
mouth and nose were strangely untouched. The scalp had gone. Harry
turned away as his stomach heaved again. Move, move. Inching forward,
his fingers touched a shiny object in the churned soil. He stared
stupidly at the unscathed cigarette case.
“Oh
no!” he turned back and leaned closer to read the name on the
identity discs. Andrew Conroy, his service number and C E. The poor
scared bastard with no family.
He
wanted to move away but his feeble strength failed. He’d rest here
for a while. Holding the cigarette case with both hands, he lay back
against the crumbled mound. He was so damn tired.
Voices,
shouting. He forced his eyes open and everything tilted sideways.
Blinking, he squinted at the hazy moving objects, oh yes, the Red
Cross stretcher bearers and wagons were picking up the wounded before
the ghastly task of removing the dead. Feeble, whimpering cries rose
from the churned soil, arms outstretched from the wounded and barely
alive pleading to be rescued from this bloodied, silent, wasteland.
Harry
looked at the cigarette case in his hand and its owner lying next to
him. It was a hanging offence. If he did, there would be no turning
back. He had no strength and his fingers wouldn’t work. Do it, for
Christ’s sake, do it. His chest wheezed and his weak hands fumbled
with the effort of pulling Andrew Conroy’s discs over the gaping
skull. His arms ached with the mammoth task of removing his. When it
was done, he lay beside the body. He wanted to say something, beg him
to understand, but he couldn’t find the words.
A
lump was in his throat. “Mate, you are in a better place.”
His
tears dripped onto the soil beside the body before he crawled away
and put up his arm.
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your copy today!
About
the Author
Jan
Selbourne grew up in Melbourne, Australia. Her love of literature and
history began as soon as she could hold a pen. Her career started in
the dusty world of ledgers and accounting then a working holiday in
the UK brought the history to life. Now retired, Jan can indulge her
love of writing and travel. She has two children and lives near
Maitland, New South Wales.
2 comments:
Jan, this is such a moving excerpt. You've vividly brought the horrors of war to life.
My grandfather served in WWI. He never wanted to discuss it, even though he was decorated for heroism.
Thanks for being my guest. I hope the book does really well.
This is a wonderful book! Thanks for sharing the background behind it, Jan.
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