大象传媒

YESTERDAY

By: Alfie Williams

As dusk approaches the still air is filled with damp coldness, turning the day鈥檚 sweat in my clothes into a cold clinging mass around my shivering body. Standing on wet feet in a muddy hole, my hand holds the remains of an army biscuit which was as appetising as a piece of plaster consumed with the stale dank taste of water purified with chemicals.

These discomforts are minor compared to the mental trauma of the attempt to ignore the extreme fear of being left behind at dawn with the remains of others. These thoughts are forced from me, a shell tears its way through the air like some immense sheet being torn above my head to explode nearby causing the earth to shudder under me as I push my head below the surface with the cold crumbling earth splattering around me.

The barrage continues like drumming fingers on a native drum, the fearful message is confirmed by the devastating noise of explosions and we are subject to a game of chance, not unlike Russian roulette. It is dawn, the shelling has stopped, and not a sound or word is heard. The morning sun spreads a golden beam through the shadows of the night and glistens the hanging moisture on nature鈥檚 growth. We can now stand upright, the loud N.C.O.鈥檚 are silent and friendly. We stared with lowered gaze not wanting to speak. The loss is around us, we try to think clearly but it was beyond our comprehension. We were gathered and marched back to our vehicles to another part of the front being tired, dirty and hungry, to continue until relieved.

We valued the pleasure of a plentiful supply of cigarettes that most of us could not afford in civilian life. Somehow tobacco helped, after all it was the only compensation we had, however imaginary.

The time had come for us to have a rest period and receive reinforcements. We arrived in troop carrying vehicles in the back streets of Brussels on a cold evening, the wet cobbled streets reflected the brilliant moonlight. The housing was similar to the dwellings of cockney London, austere but subject to the pride of its inhabitants. Two of us were installed in each house. I remember a tin bath being put out in the back yard with a chunk of white soap for us to bathe. The water was lukewarm, our clothes were being dried indoors 鈥� how good we felt to be clean again! Our hosts were a couple of some sixty years of age. My heart warmed to them, they were just like the folks back home, although of course we could not fully understand their language. We slept on their bed that night which was sheer luxury to us having not had such comfort for such a long time.

In the morning the cook鈥檚 truck was operational and we queued with our mess tins for hot food, bread, sausage, porridge and a mug of tea in the street on the wet pavements. The next evening the transport appeared, it was time to return to the front line.

My lady host hugged and kissed me goodbye while her husband shook my hand and said partly by gesticulating 鈥渓ook after yourself son 鈥� and keep your head down鈥�. The same parting words my father said to me back home!

A few women were crying as we left, after all some of us weren鈥檛 of an age when shaving was really necessary.

We were driven away into the darkness of night leaving behind a lasting memory of loving kindness to be recalled and cherished for all time.

24 Hull Crescent
Bearwood
Bournemouth
Dorset
BH11 9RG
Tel: 01202 575117

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.