Staring to his right, an endless line of terror-stricken faces gazed up at the cold, muddy mound they’d soon be scaling. Turning to his left was more of the same. The wind had finally subsided, but only to be replaced by an unapologetic bombardment of heavy rain. Drenched from helmet to boots, James struggled to shield his cigarette flame for what he thought was likely his last smoke.
He crumpled the now-empty cigarette packet in his battle-worn hand and smiled wryly at the triumphant, pristine soldier advertised on the front. Quite ironic, thought James as he stood knee-deep in boggy filth. Images of the same ilk were plastered everywhere back home, inspiring himself and a whole generation of young men to enlist in the call to adventure.
Reality was not living up to expectations. The three childhood pals he’d signed up with had already made the one-way journey over the top, and from the harrowing screams, explosions and rifle shots overhead, James didn’t fancy their chances.
Not that he had time to mourn, that is. Waves of men were intermittently being ordered out of the trench into the corpse-ridden maze of no-man’s land, and James was up next. Most distressing, they were made to deliberately march in unison—practically impossible, given the scattered barbed wire, shell craters and ceaseless enemy fire.
But what did James know? He was no general. He was just a baker’s son from a small town in Lancashire. No fighting ever happened there. To be frank, nothing ever happened there. Oh, how he dearly wished to be back in that homely monotony.
The stench of death permeated ever more thickly in the air, which, combined with the stomach-curdling anticipation of battle, triggered a domino-effect of vomiting all down the line. James barely noticed, however. Lost in contemplation, he savoured one last puff of his soggy cigarette before discarding it on the shrapnel-speckled ground.
James found his thoughts drifting to something rather unexpected; his faith. Or lack thereof it. A half-hearted follower at best, he never cared much for the whole song and dance growing up. His parents usually had to drag him to church come Sunday morning. As an adult, he rarely went at all. But standing there in that hopeless manhole, James was beginning to feel a bubbling, almost instinctual pull towards prayer.
Taking a deep breath and with nothing to lose, James succumbed to the urge. He made the sign of the cross and began to utter the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—”
As he spoke, the familiar rhythm of each word carried his mind back home. Being wedged on that rickety old pew between his parents and two younger sisters now felt like the most precious place on earth. The distinctive, musty odour of varnished oak. Isabel and Anne with their giddy, mischievous innocence. The radiating warmth of his mother’s loving smile, which never faltered in melting worries away.
Tears rolled down James’ mucky cheeks, though he didn’t fall into weeping. Focusing on the prayer kept him level. He repeated the words, with growing conviction this time. And again. Before long, his cadenced recitals started to draw the eyes of those around him.
Much to James’ surprise, he could hear a neighbouring soldier join in, shortly followed by another. Soon there must have been 20, then 30 – and then there were simply too many to tell. A contagious fervour swept through the narrow length of the trench, its intensity rising as more voices successively entered the fold. Drowning out the thumping rain and cacophony of carnage overhead, the troops stood united in holy chorus, echoing out into the foggy abyss.
For but a moment, at least. The screeching of a whistle cut through the air, abruptly silencing the chanting coalition and signalling the next attacking wave. Panic pierced the hearts of each man once again as they frantically positioned themselves on their ladders.
Not James, however. Lost in an ethereal haze, he remained undisturbed. At some point during that act of earnest prayer, his angst had been thoroughly shattered. He’d defiantly stared death in the face and caught a glimpse of something – or perhaps someone – on the other side. Indescribable yet unmistakable, the brief encounter was more palpable than any worldly sensation he’d ever known.
James grasped the ladder before him. Unencumbered by fear and continual in his recitals, the drums of war faded into mere background noise, and as that final whistle blew, he solemnly climbed—step by step, by step, by step.
Based in the picturesque countryside of Lancashire, England, Reece is a digital marketer and blogger by trade. Having recently taken the plunge into creative writing, you’ll likely find him hiking or enjoying precious family time when he’s not tapping away at his keyboard.
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