Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Like Father, Like Son

   by Smilodon

   (c) 2003

   **********************************

   Part One

   September 1915 - Somewhere in France

   Phillip could never quite get used to the transition from peace to war.
One minute you were walking along a dusty lane with crops growing in the
fields on either side, the next instant you entered the war.  You turned a
corner and there it was, waiting for you.  The crops vanished, the earth
turned from russet brown to grey.  Artillery muttered personal threats and
the stench rose from the fractured land.  The placid scenes of threshing
machines pulled by patient horses gave way to a vista of madness: of shell
holes and smashed trenches, broken duck-boards and rusting wire.

   He had been in France for a whole year.  The anniversary passed without
notice.  Everyone's mind was on the 'Big Push.' The area around Loos had
been selected.  Confidence was high.  Guns had been assembled in great
artillery parks, brought there from all over the Western Front.  The
Newspapers from home were full of it.  His father's most recent letter had
informed Phillip that this time "You're going to push the Hun back where he
belongs, my boy." He even seemed to know the date of the offensive.  Even a
humble subaltern such as Second Lieutenant Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes
could work out that the element of surprise was somewhat lacking.

   It didn't seem to bother the Top Brass, though.  The two weeks spent in
the Divisional Area training for the offensive had been punctuated by
streams of visitors in immaculately cut uniforms with the red tabs of the
General Staff prominent upon their lapels.  They were full of jovial good
humour, eyes twinkling and moustaches bristling with martial fervour.  The
Tommies were unimpressed.  They sweated in the August sunshine and swore
and cursed as they practised the advance over and over again.  There was
much talk about the preparatory barrage.  Four hundred guns would be lined
up wheel to wheel to pulverise the German positions and smash the dreaded
entanglements of vicious wire.  After such a pounding, the troops would
walk over and 'mop up.'

   Not everyone was so sanguine though, it seemed.  At the main camp at
Etaples the soldiers had grown silent as they saw line after line of rough
wooden coffins being moved up from the depot.  Someone was hedging his
bets. Phillip had long ceased to ponder the workings of the kind of mind
that could allow the furnishing of such a reminder of one's own mortality
to men who were just about to go into the line.  The men seemed inured to
it after a time and it wasn't long before macabre, rough jokes were being
traded as the lorries bearing the coffins moved away.

   "'ere, Jack, one of them 'ad your fuckin' name on it!"

   "Yeah, well, they got a biscuit tin for you, you fuckin' little runt."

   "They ain't got one big enough to fit Geordie's gut in."

   "They will once 'e's spilled 'em!"

   "Oh, right fuckin' cheerful you are, Spud."

   Phillip hid a smile.  The Tommies were in good heart.  He was filled
with admiration for these men, the last of the old, pre-war, Regular Army.
Their ranks had been filled out now by Territorials and the arrival of the
Foreign Service battalions that had been stationed overseas.  He recalled
the grim retreat from Mons the year before.  The anger and bitterness of
the men at having to move back.  He remembered the frantic fighting at Le
Cateau, where they had stood and checked the German advance in defiance of
orders.  That defiance had ultimately cost Smith-Dorien his job.  Philip
and his brother officers had been angered and saddened by that.  They all
considered Sir Horace Smith-Dorien the best General in the Army.

   Back, now, in the assault trenches, the first pre-battle nervousness had
begun to tighten Phillip's guts.  He knew he'd be all right once it once
started.  The waiting was a torture, though.  There were only so many
letters home one could write, only so many times one could check equipment
or study the trench maps.  He went through the Orders Group notes he had
taken at battalion HQ that morning.  He checked his watch; the bombardment
was due to commence in a few minutes' time.

   A voice was counting down to the start of the bombardment.

   "Fifteen seconds."

   "For what they are about to receive."

   "I 'opes the fuckers is truly grateful!"

   The air seemed to explode around them as the first massed salvo was
hurled from the guns.  They heard the passage of the projectiles overhead,
a rasping, ripping sound that culminated in the brass bellow of the
explosions as the shells poured down upon the German line.  Phillip eased
himself up on to the fire step and watched the fury engulfing the enemy
trenches.  The very earth bucked and heaved and the bass concussion of the
shells could be felt through their own trench walls, which seemed to jump
and tremble in sympathy.  The noise was indescribable.  The stink of
lyddite was borne to them on the faint breeze, prickling the eyes and
irritating the throat.

   After the initial shock, the barrage seemed to settle down and they
could pick out the individual characteristic sounds of the various guns;
the flat crack of the 18-pounders as counterpoint to the thunder of the
60-pounders.  The tearing sound of the heavy shells and the higher scream
of the howitzers rolled and blended into a Devil's Symphony of pain.

   The fire that danced and played upon the German parapets was terrible
but also strangely beautiful.  Every colour of the visible spectrum was
there in the flash of the explosions.  There were some colours Phillip saw
that he could not put a name to.  It was, quite literally, awe-inspiring.
Phillip felt his own humanity reaching out to those souls who suffered a
scant five hundred yards away.  He knew what it was like to be on the
receiving end of such ferocity.  One could do nothing but endure.  The
noise and concussive blasts stunned the senses.  It seemed as if one's
life-flame waxed very small and sought to hide as deep within oneself as
possible, away from the mechanical insanity that reigned around it.

   At such moments he would fix on a memory of home.  It was always the
same memory; he was looking down from the unnamed hill to the south of the
village.  Below him he could make out the Church and the little row of
cottages that fronted the lych-gate.  He could see the course of the river
making its lazy meanders through the valley bottom and if he really
strained, he could hear the hum of bees and the faint barking of a dog from
the village below.  It was thus he could insulate himself from the terror
and madness around him.  As he watched across the barren stretch of no-man'
s-land, he wondered if there, some German boy was picturing his home in
Saxony or Bavaria in a vain attempt to keep a grasp on his own sanity.

   The guns snarled and thundered on and on.  A quarter of a million shells
fell on the German defences over four days.  The barrage was less even now,
the pace slackening and rising as the tired gunners served their steel
masters.  Phillip became aware of the first whooping noise of gas shells
and he shuddered.  Gas had first been used against them at Ypres that
spring.  He hated it.  He could still picture the first gas casualties and
groaned aloud at the vividness of the memory.  Then it started to rain.  He
cursed.  It wouldn't take much for the pulverised earth to turn to the
strength sapping mud that was perhaps the greatest horror of all.  You
couldn't do anything about artillery; you either lived or died; or you were
driven mad by the noise and pain and terror.  The mud you had to live with.
It drew your strength as though you were being bled.  It rotted your feet
and filled your soul with the deepest misery.  He uttered a silent prayer:
'Oh God, don't let there be mud.'

   A hand tapped his knee and he slid down off the fire step to face
Captain Redbourne, his company commander.  Redbourne's face wore a fixed
grin and he was clasping a football.

   "Here, young W-B, you've a healthy kick on you." He was bellowing to
make himself heard.  "I want you to boot this into no-man's-land when the
whistle blows.  It'll give the boys something to chase."

   Phillip stared at him uncomprehendingly.  This had to be the final proof
that Redbourne was Dhoolali.  Nevertheless, he took the ball and placed it
on the fire step.  Redbourne grinned again, patted his shoulder and roared
"Good Man!" He hurried off down the trench.  Phillip watched his retreating
back and shook his head slowly.

   The bombardment rumbled and churned on through the night unabated. 
Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the explosions, his head cradled
on his forearm.  He dozed occasionally but proper sleep eluded him.  He
could feel it now: the slow but steady tightening of every nerve fibre.  He
felt sick.  His mouth felt dry yet was filled with saliva.  He wanted to
spit but forced himself to swallow.  His head ached abominably from the
pounding drumfire and his eyes felt raw and scratchy.

   Soon after dawn, the barrage rose to a final crescendo and seemed to
reach a new peak of intensity.  It seemed impossible that anyone could have
lived through the torment.  Phillip could feel the explosions through the
trench wall.  It was as though someone was kicking him in the chest and
stomach.  It grew so violent he had to pull back and drop into the bottom
of the trench.  White-faced Tommies stood waiting the rum issue.  Every
tenth man clutched a scaling ladder of crude construction.  He tried to
give a reassuring smile but his facial muscles were frozen.  He saw the
same blank, rigid expression reflected back at him from a score of faces.
He pulled out his watch, alarmed at how his hands were shaking.  This was
the worst time of all.

   Unexpectedly, the bellow of the artillery ceased.  One final desultory
crack echoed in the sudden calm then all was silence.  Phillip heard
Redbourne's voice, a scream of fury:

   "The bastards!  Oh, the utter, stupid bastards!  They've stopped too
soon.  There's still ten minutes to go!"

   It was true.  The Tommies looked at each other with foreboding.  The
premature end would give the survivors time to recover.  Time to get out of
the surviving dugouts and man what was left of the parapets.  Time to drag
up the hated, deadly, machine guns.  Time to call up support from the back
areas, to arrange for a counter-bombardment.  There was some tense
muttering.  Phillip sensed a crisis and called to Redbourne.

   "Captain Redbourne, why shouldn't we be early too?  Early bird catcheth
the worm and all that.  Why don't we go now?"

   There was a rumble of assent but Phillip saw Redbourne hesitate.  He
understood the senior man's predicament.  To go early was to disobey
orders, to depart from the ordained plan.  The hesitation stretched out,
one minute, two.  Then they heard the shrill blast of whistles further down
the trench system and shouts and distant cheering.  Someone had decided to
go.  Phillip saw the relief wash over Redbourne like a breaking wave and he
put his whistle to his lips and began to blow like Joshua.  He paused for
breath and to bellow at Phillip to kick the football.

   Phillip jammed his service cap firmly in place and pushed himself to the
front of the queue for the ladder.  He tucked the football under one arm
and pulled himself over the top of the parapet with the other.  He could
hear sporadic firing from the German positions.  At least one machine gun
was still in action and was beating out its deadly tattoo.  He paused for a
second to collect himself and then, just as Redbourne emerged from the
trench to his left, he tossed the ball into the air and gave it a massive
punt towards the enemy lines.  He heard the NCOs roaring orders to keep the
dressing as the platoon formed up.  Phillip took his place in front and
waved the men forward.

   "Come on, Boys!  Ten shillings for the next man to kick theball!"

   They were cheering now and covering the ground at a shambling trot,
weighed down as they were by rifle, haversack and gas mask holder.  Steel
helmets had not yet come into service and Phillip noticed one or two men
had lost their forage caps or else had preferred to take them off.  He was
conscious of the leather band of his own cap biting into his forehead but
he could do nothing about it.  It was at that moment he realised that he
had not yet drawn his revolver and he fumbled with the flap of the holster
as he ran.

   Redbourne was capering like a maniac over to his left front, yelling
encouragement and waving a black umbrella.  He seemed otherwise unarmed. 
Somehow, this seemed to fit in the rest of the madness and Phillip heard a
huge cheer as Lance Corporal Riley caught up with the football and gave it
another healthy kick across the broken ground.

   Soon they came up to the first line of wire.  It had been flattened and
torn but still represented a serious obstacle and they dragged their way
through it painfully, with much cursing as it ripped at cloth and flesh. 
The opposition was growing now and they were starting to take casualties.
Riley was one of the first to fall.  His body was spun around like a top as
he took a burst of machine gun fire.  The man next him stumbled to a halt
and gaped at the bloody ruin of the Lance Corporal's body.  Phillip ran to
him and shoved him on.

   "Get going, man, there's nothing to be done."



   They stumbled on.  Now the ground was heavy, shattered by the shelling
and slick from the rain.  They slithered and fell, rose again and fell once
more.  Some could not get up.

   Phillip slipped heavily and crashed into a shell hole.  Water had begun
to seep into the bottom of the depression and he could smell the taint of
gas.  He hauled himself out, eyes smarting and tears starting.  He could
now make out individual field-grey shapes on the parapet ahead of him and
he roared his men on.  To his right he saw some men of another platoon
breaking into the German trenches and he angled towards them, pointing and
yelling at the Tommies to follow.  He was almost knocked to the ground by
the burly figure of Geordie Watts who leapt the parapet, delivering a
roundhouse kick to the head of a German soldier as he did so.

   Then they were into the trench and the mayhem truly began.  It was the
worst type of fighting with boot, bayonet and bomb.  They worked their way
systematically up the German line.  At each re-entrant they hurled their
homemade bombs into the next bay.  These bombs, made from old jam tins
packed with gun-cotton and scrap metal, were no match for the German
'potato masher' grenades that were hurled back at them but still they
fought on.  Gradually, the noise began to diminish and only the occasional
shot could be heard as the Tommies 'mopped up.' It was then that Phillip
realised he had never fired a single shot.

   The reserve company caught them up and they made ready to push on to
their next objective - the German support line.  It was easier climbing out
the back of the German Trenches as there was no parapet and they moved off
again.  In the distance, Phillip could see the huge steel structure that
the troops had christened 'Tower Bridge.' He could see the slag heaps of
the mines and beyond them, the open green of a country untroubled by war.
Someone had gathered up the football and kicked it ahead once more but it
was sadly deflated, punctured by the barbed wire.

   The area between the German front and support lines was a nightmare
wilderness of shell-holes that overlapped and sagged, one into another.  It
was like crossing a small outpost of hell.  The land stank of high
explosive and gas.  There was another smell too - of viscera and blood. 
The tired troops clawed their way eastwards.  The first rush of adrenalin
was past.  Now only discipline and will power kept them moving.  Over to
his right, Phillip could see flares go up.  Two reds above green, the
signal of success.  He looked left and saw the signal repeated.  His
spirits rose.  Perhaps this 'Big Push' would really end the war.

   The German supports were deserted.  Either they had all been caught in
the front line or else they had withdrawn.  He halted the men and set them
to digging in.  Tired as they were, they responded immediately.  Should a
counter-attack come, the trenches would be useless.  The parapets, what was
left of them, faced the British Lines.  New parapets had to be thrown up
and a fire step cut.  They set to with a will, dragging sandbags from the
front to the rear of the trench and digging out the sections that had been
blown in by the guns.L This resulted in a number of grisly finds and more
than one Tommy turned away retching.

   Redbourne appeared, hatless, red faced but still clutching that bloody
stupid umbrella.

   Phillip called out, "Where's the second wave?"

   Redbourne shrugged and glared back towards the British lines.  Nothing
moved.  In the lull in the fighting they could hear birdsong.  The Captain
threw himself down on the makeshift fire step and pulled out his pipe and
tobacco pouch.  He filled the bowl with quick, practised movements of his
stubby fingers and hummed a little tune to himself.  He patted his
battledress pockets for matches and finding none, called to a
nearbysoldier:

   "Private Jenkins, might I trouble you for a lucifer?"

   The man grinned and tossed Redbourne a box of matches bearing the Union
Flag and the legend 'England's Glory.' With his pipe well alight and
drawing nicely, Redbourne turned his attention back to Phillip.

   "Well, young W-B, we got this far.  Casualties?"

   "Nine dead sir, four wounded.  Chapman's the worst but he should be all
right, the medic says.  I think we got off lightly.  Half the bloody wire
wasn't cut."

   Redbourne nodded.  When he replied, his voice was pitched low so that
only Phillip could hear.

   "Do you know tomorrow's my birthday?  26th September.  I shall be eight
and twenty.  Who'd ever have thought it?  I can tell you now, old fellow, I
never expected to see it.  Not after Ypres.  So!  We must think of some way
to celebrate."

   He raised his voice so it carried to the platoon in the trench around
him.  "Any of you chaps know how to bake a cake?"

   He was rewarded with laughter.  Redbourne was popular with his men.  His
cultivated madness reassured them as it was intended to.  Some of the older
men had seen it all before but recognised, despite their increased
cynicism, that the newer hands needed the Captain's antics.  It helped to
persuade them that things could not be all that bad.

   "No bakers, what?  Damned shame!  I was counting on you lot.  Looks like
it will just have to be jam roly-poly again, eh chaps?"

   This too raised a laugh.  The infamous tinned stodge that, along with
'corned dog' and the unidentifiable canned meat known as 'dead baby,' was
the staple ration.

   "Maybe you'll get a parcel from home," Phillip said.

   Redbourne gave him a sharp look and then shook his head wearily.

   "I don't think so, W-B.  No people at home to send one.  What about you?
Anyone waiting in Dorset with bated breath for the telegram boy?"

   "Just my parents.  I had a brother.  He died when I was quite young.  I
don't remember him at all."

   Redbourne looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

   "We ought to be pushing on now.  The longer we delay, the more time
we'll give the Huns to organise their defences.  What's keeping them?"

   He leapt to his feet and strode off down the captured trench, stopping
every now and then to crack a joke or pat a shoulder.  Phillip heard his
booming voice recede around the traverses and he felt again that wave of
inadequacy.  Redbourne was a true leader.  He could fire the men or calm
them as the situation required.  He, Phillip, lacked that touch.  He didn't
delude himself.  He wasn't the stuff of heroes - he just tried to do his
duty.

   The sky darkened and a light rain began.  Phillip stood on the fire step
and watched the magical play of Very lights as they blazed and fell in the
black bowl of night.  The harsh white light flattened everything into a
two-dimensional relief.  The spectral glare compressed distances.  He found
it impossible to judge how far away the old front line was.  He felt he
could reach it in a couple of steps; yet, that morning, it had seemed as
distant as Africa.  From his left he heard the persistent crump of
artillery and saw the distress flares lazily arcing upwards.  Someone was
catching it.  The men were quiet in the trench beneath him.  He understood.
The fighting and the sudden relaxation of tension had drained them.  He
often found himself yawning prodigiously immediately after moments of high
danger.  At the same time, he would be too wound up to sleep.  No doubt
there was some physiological explanation for it.

   It was past midnight when he eventually turned in after a final check on
the sentries.  He had been barely been asleep a few minutes before he was
roused by a summons from CaptainRedbourne.

   "Another attack has been scheduled for eleven ack emma." Redbourne used
the phonetic version - ack emma for a.m., pip emma for p.m.

   "Why so late?"

   "Delays in bringing up reserves, cavalry not in position to exploit any
breakthrough, the usual.  Ours not to reason why, young W-B."

   "Yes, sir.  Still, it does seem like handing the advantage to the Hun."

   "Indeed.  However, between thee and me, old fruit, I rather think we did
that today when everyone pulled up a bit too sharpish.  Some of the lads
got clear into open country but had to come back for lack of ammunition. 
Anyway, Brigade says they were held up on the left and our flank was open.
So we do it all over again."

   The dawn was chill and grey; a thick mist clung to the battered
landscape and left pearly droplets of moisture on men and weapons.  The
mist cleared slowly as the morning wore on and soon they could make out the
new German defences.  Artillery preparation was to be minimal.  Very few of
the bigger guns had any shells left after the initial bombardment.  A
ten-minute barrage was all that could be managed.  Phillip checked his
watch for the twentieth time that morning.  An overwhelming lethargy had
seized him.  His limbs felt leaden, detached from him in some inexplicable
way.  The men seemed to be feeling the same.  They stood as patient as
oxen, blank faced.  It was as though they were all resigned to their fate.
There was none of the nervous edge that had been present the previous
morning and no rum ration to impart any cheer or 'Dutch Courage.'

   The guns began promptly at ten minutes before eleven.  Phillip's
practised ear noted the lack of 'heavies' - the flatter crack of the
18-pounder field guns predominated.  Time seemed to both stretch and
compress.  Each minute seemed interminable yet, when the guns ceased and
the whistles blew, he could scarcely credit that ten minutes had passed so
quickly.  Heavy-footed, he stumbled out of the trench and began to advance.

   Of course, it was a disaster.  German reserves had been rushed to the
fighting overnight.  There were now seven times as many enemy troops as
there had been twenty-four hours before.  The German High Command had
responded energetically.  Phillip covered less than a hundred yards before
being slammed to the ground.  His first reaction was one of total wonder.
He could not connect the smashing impact of the machinegun bullets across
his thighs as having anything to do with himself.  There was no pain.  He
dimly recognised that this was due to shock but still it seemed unreal.  He
tried to stand but his shattered legs would not obey him.  He rolled slowly
onto his back and gazed up at the blue, cloudless vault above him.

   The noise of the battle seemed to be coming from a great distance, like
the tolling of a church bell on a summer Sunday morning.  His attention
wandered.  High above him he saw a faint shape, delicate as a dragonfly. 
He thought he could hear the hornet hum of its engine as it made its
stately progress across the heavens.  It seemed to come to him like a
revelation.  That was where he wanted to be; flying in the clear air above
where there was no gas, no lyddite fumes and, above all, no mud.

   The tumult was slackening now.  The attack had failed.  A handful of
soldiers made their way back past him.  He craned his neck to see where the
rest were.  The untidy hummocks of khaki littering the broken ground told
their own story.  There weren't any others.  Over half of the troops that
had climbed from the trench scant minutes before were either dead or
wounded like him.  Rough hands seized his shoulders and he felt himself
lifted onto a broad back.  He was still in that strange dreamy state.  He
hardly felt the jolting as Geordie Watts carried him at a stumbling run
back to their own lines.

   He woke to darkness and pain and cried out.  The memory of being hit
returned slowly but this time he could connect with it.  His legs were on
fire.  A haggard medical orderly loomed out of the darkness.

   "All right, sir, all right.  You've copped a Blighty one and no
mistake."

   "Where am I?" His voice was hoarse and he cursed inwardly at the
tremulous note he heard.

   "Battalion aid post, sir.  We'll be taking you back when the ambulances
get here."

   "What time is it?  I mean, how long have I been here?"

   "Just coming up eight O'clock, sir.  You've been out for about six
hours. The MO gave you something, sir.  For the pain, like."

   Phillip nodded and asked for water.  The Orderly shuffled off into the
gloom before returning with a canteen.  Phillip could taste the rum in it
as he drank and was sincerely grateful.

   "How bad is it?" He hardly dared to ask.  The Orderly grunted.

   "I've seen plenty worse, sir.  You'll be fine once you get to the back
area.  Clean beds and proper nurses, they 'ave.  You'll be dancing again in
no time."

   Phillip gave a chuckle then gasped as the pain flared.  He didn't feel
the needle slipping into his arm but relished the fuzziness that followed
as he slipped from consciousness once more.



   ************************************











   November 1915 The Home Front

   He woke to the wan sunlight that insinuated itself through a gap in the
curtains.  His legs itched madly under their plaster sheaths and Phillip
groaned aloud, then cursed himself.  Others on this ward were far worse off
than he.  The officers' hospital was a converted country house called
Bentley Hall.  Non-ambulatory cases such as Phillip were accommodated on
the ground floor.  He shared the former library with five other young men.
Three had lost a leg, one both.  Phillip thought his fifth companion the
worst off of all of them - he had been gassed.

   All six had taken their wounds at what was now being called the Battle
of Loos.  Phillip had heard that the church bells had been rung for victory
after the first day.  Like the others, he dismissed this as
incomprehensible madness.  The veterans, those who had been out since '14,
no longer believed in victory in the conventional sense.  Phillip had
formed the view that the war would go on, consuming men and money until the
Great Powers finally ran out of both.  Yet already the newspaper talk was
of another 'Big Push' next year when the New Armies recruited by Lord
Kitchener would be ready for action.  More madness.

   He had made his journey home by stages.  From the battalion aid post he
had been taken by solid-tyred ambulance over the jolting pavée to a casual
clearing station in the rear.  There he had been subjected to the routine
triage and sorted as a potential survivor.  After that he spent a week in a
tented hospital near Boulogne before the hospital ship had brought him to
Dover.  His parents had met the ship and were allowed a brief reunion
before Phillip was once more embarked on a hospital train and had completed
his journey to the hospital by ambulance from London.  Now, after six weeks
of inertia, he felt ready to go completely insane.

   A small cabinet stood beside his bed and from this, Phillip picked up
the letter from Captain Redbourne and re-read it for perhaps the twentieth
time.

   --------------------------------------

   What Ho, W-B,

   Thought you might like to hear how the workers at Mars's Mill are faring
while you take your ease in Blighty.  The battalion were withdrawn on the
28th and we're now in Divisional reserve awaiting our master's pleasure. 
Censor won't let me say where we are, of course, but you will remember that
grubby little estaminet where Madame wore the most hideous shade of yellow!

   The boys are all in fine fettle and we have had a couple of drafts but
are still a bit short of full establishment.  A friend of yours has joined,
by the way.  St John Thomas by name, claims you were at school together and
that you were always a frightful slacker even then!  (Ha ha)

   One bit of good news, Private Watts has been given a gong for pulling
you out.  The CO put him up for the VC but they settled on an MM.  Our
rotund rogue is delighted of course but overcome by martial modesty
whenever it is mentioned.

   A little bird told me you're in Hampshire.  Can't be too far from your
home, can it?  At least you'll get lots of visitors.  Find a pretty girl
for me, won't you old chap?  Anyway, there isn't too much more one can say.
The front has quietened down after our last little effort to liven things
up.  The Hun is as beastly as always but not misbehaving too much at
present.  No doubt waiting for your return so he can have another crack at
knocking you off for good!

   Take your time and make sure the old pins are well and truly mended but
do come back soon, you're sorely missed.

   Best wishes,

   Brian Redbourne.

   ----------------------------------

   Phillip folded the letter again and felt guilty.  As soon as he was fit
enough he intended to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps.  The thought of
returning to the trenches horrified him.  He didn't consider himself a
coward but felt sure that he would crack up completely if he ever had to go
back to the front again.

   He tried to rationalise his fear but his mind always seemed to circle
and evade the issue.  Phillip had enjoyed the companionship of the army. 
He'd never dreamt of doing anything else.  He joined the army in 1912 and
had been gazetted as a second lieutenant at the end of the following year.
He had imagined service overseas -India, perhaps - with the odd skirmish
just to make life interesting.  Then Arch-duke Ferdinand had been
assassinated in Sarajevo and the world had progressed inexorably towards
war like lemmings rushing at a cliff-top.  Of course, Phillip had been
swept in the excitement.  Marching through the streets behind the
regimental band through cheering crowds that thronged the street, he felt
ten feet tall.  The men had joked and sung as they made their way into
Belgium, feted by the local populace wherever they went.

   The reality of Mons and Le Cateau had brought them all down to earth.  A
year of trench fighting had squeezed all the military ardour out of his
spirit.  He felt drained before the fighting in front of Loos.  He saw his
wounding as a blessing.  It had given him the separation he desired.  He
would not have to face Redbourne or Geordie Watts or any of the others.  He
could simply vanish into the RFC like a summer cloud.

   "And how are we feeling this fine morning?"

   Phillip's reverie was interrupted by the fruity tones of Sister Hallam
who ruled the ground floor wards with an iron will and unrelenting
heartiness.  She was what was termed a 'handsome woman.' Phillip supposed
her to be in her forties.  She was tall, carried herself erect and was
preceded by a starched bosom that could best be described as stately.  Her
patients were a little in awe of her and she positively terrified the staff
nurses.  Yet she was not unkind and certainly not without feeling.  Phillip
had seen her weeping silently soon after he arrived.  A young officer with
terrible burns had died despite her best efforts.  Now, as she approached,
Phillip mustered a smile.

   "Good morning, Sister.  Can't complain other than my legs itch like the
very devil."

   "Language, Mr Worrell-Barnes, language.  Need I remind you that the
staff here are ladies?"

   "Of course not, Sister, sorry.  My legs do itch frightfully, though."

   "Hmm.  Well, we'll just have to see about that.  Another two or three
weeks and those casts will be coming off anyway.  Nurse Meredith!  Mr
Worrell-Barnes needs a blanket bath.  Attend to it directly, if you
please."

   And with that she strode away.  Phillip groaned inwardly.  He hated the
indignity of blanket baths almost as much as the routine of bedpans.  His
legs were encased in plaster from ankle to hip and the bulky casts
prevented him from wearing pyjamas.  Instead, he was clad in an
old-fashioned nightshirt that he hated with a particular venom.

   Nurse Meredith was a sweet young F.A.N.Y.  from West Wales who spoke
with a soft singsong lilt.  She was darkly pretty with large brown eyes and
fair skin.  The officers teased her whenever they got the opportunity just
to see her blush.  It was very easy to make Bethan Meredith blush.  She
wheeled her bathing trolley up to him and pulled the screens around
Phillip's bed She approached him like some wild creature sensing a trap. 
Pulling back the covers, she helped Phillip into a semi sitting position
and stripped off the hateful nightshirt.  Averting her eyes, she began to
wash his body.

   As she moved the sponge over him, Phillip began to get aroused.  His
penis twitched and rolled slightly to one side as the blood engorged it. 
Nurse Meredith gave a little shriek and thrust the sponge into his hands.
She turned her back on him and allowed him to wash his own genitals.  Both
were scarlet with embarrassment.  He tried to mumble an apology but his
mouth was dry.  By now his erection was in full swing.  He gritted his
teeth, willing his unruly member to subside.  It was so hard it hurt and
this added to his mortification.

   Bethan Meredith was overcome with confusion.  She was a recent volunteer
to the F.A.N.Ys and had little experience.  She liked Mr Worrell-Barnes. 
He didn't tease her as much as the others and seemed a gentle sort of
person.  But then his thing had reared up like one of those snakes from
India that she had seen in a picture book.  She knew what it meant all
right.  She wasn't a farmer's daughter for nothing.  She'd seen the old Tup
doing his business with the ewes enough times.  Now it seemed Mr
Worrell-Barnes wanted to tup her!

   She risked another quick peek between her fingers.  It was huge!  How
did something like that ever fit in a woman?  Then, catching herself even
thinking about it, she grew even redder, gave a little cry and fled. 
Phillip lay back on the pillows and felt wretched.  He hadn't meant to get
a bloody erection, it just happened.  And it wouldn't go away!  His
knowledge of sex was somewhat second hand.  He had never been with a woman.
Nice girls didn't do that sort of thing and he had seen enough of the
soldiers who had 'caught a dose' to be terrified by the very idea of going
to a whore.  His limited knowledge of female anatomy had been gleaned from
late-night conversations and those 'dirty postcards' he had sometimes had
to remove from the personal effects of a dead or wounded soldier.  It
wouldn't do for their loved ones to receive that sort of thing among their
beloved's belongings!

   The screens parted once more and Sister Hallam charged in.

   "What have you been..." she started to say then spotted the root of the
problem.

   "Ah.  I see.  Well, we can soon deal with that."

   She flicked the tip of his glans with a solid fingernail and looked up
at him triumphantly.  Phillip turned his face away, unable to meet her
eyes. She looked back, sure that her sovereign remedy would have done the
trick.  Phillip's erection stood firm.

   "I see this calls for somewhat sterner measures."

   Phillip groaned aloud and coloured again.  He dreaded to think what she
might do next.  He was taken by surprise when her hand curled about the
base of his shaft and gently squeezed.  He gasped.  The sensation was
nothing like he had ever felt before.  He had masturbated, of course, but
tried very hard to avoid doing so.  After all, it could cause you to go
mad. The feel of someone else's hand on his prick was unbelievable but oh,
the guilt!  Sister Hallam hesitated for a moment.  She had intended to give
the young man a good hard squeeze and tell him to stop this nonsense but
she sensed his vulnerability.  Compassion flooded through her and she
changed her mind.

   Phillip became aware of the soft stroking and his eyes opened wide in
utter amazement.  What was she doing?  Her other hand reached down and
cupped his sac and she gently manipulated his balls as her finger tips ran
up and down the length of his hardness.  She looked into his eyes and this
time he did not turn away.  Her face was serious but spoke volumes of
kindness.  She raised a finger to her lips, warning him to make no sound.
He nodded dumbly.  She resumed her ministrations, firmer and swifter now.
He gave himself up to the pleasure coursing through his body and lay
quiescent in the narrow bed.  Something urgent was happening.  It seemed to
begin near the base of his spine then spread through him, as pervasive as
sleep.  Electricity jolted through his prick and her hands became a blur as
she pumped him.  Her fingers kneaded his balls and he almost fainted with
the unexpected pleasure.  Then he was swooping towards orgasm.

   He felt himself contracting and ropes of thick, white semen spattered
his chest and stomach as his entire being was concentrated for a few brief
seconds in the bundle of supercharged nerves that appeared to have usurped
all conscious thought.  Her hand slowed and her touch became lighter as she
pressed out the last few drops from his engorged member.  Phillip came to
himself to find his hand had clamped on that starched bosom and he felt the
softness underlying the whalebone armour.  Sister Hallam said not a word
but simply removed his hand and placed it back on the bed beside him with a
soft pat.  She then completed his bath in her usual efficient and
matter-of-fact fashion, wiping away the pooled semen with the sponge.

   "There!  All clean."

   She handed him a fresh nightshirt and bustled away with the bathing
trolley as if nothing had happened.  She seemed so completely normal that
Phillip was forced to wonder if he had imagined the entire episode.

   It was never repeated and never mentioned but once or twice she visited
him in dreams.  He would wake just as he ejaculated, in fact as well as in
dream.  Perhaps that was why he never had another erection during his
blanket baths.  Maybe, he thought, Sister Hallam had known that.  He
wouldn't put it past her.

   In December he was moved to a convalescent home.  He could walk now,
with the aid of crutches.  His leg muscles had severely atrophied and he
was told it would be a long while yet before he was fit again.  His right
thigh had taken two bullets, the left only one.  They had left angry purple
pits and the skin around the wounds seemed unusually thin and hot to the
touch.  But the bones had knitted well; the surgeon had been skilled.  He
was assured of a full recovery, given enough time.



   February - March 1916 The Student

   Phillip worked hard through the winter to restore himself to full
fitness.  He was discharged from the convalescent home just in time for
Christmas and spent the six weeks following driving himself remorselessly.
At first with the help of a stick and later, unaided, he walked the Dorset
hills from morning until night in every kind of weather.  He was sustained
through this self-inflicted ordeal by his deep and abiding love of the
countryside he saw stretched out below him as he walked.  This, he thought,
this is worth fighting for.  And as the grass cushioned his feet and the
rain washed him, it seemed the land returned that love.

   When he visited the hospital again for a final check-up, they were
astounded at his progress.  He had the merest trace of a limp and that only
when tired.  On the advice of his parents' housekeeper he had rubbed his
scarred flesh with goose-fat every day.  The scars remained but the
appearance of the wounds was much improved.  He had no idea where the
determination to drive himself so had come from.  It had become an
obsession.  The months of inactivity had changed him.  A restlessness had
been born that would never subsequently leave him.  He lost weight; the
final softness of youth deserted his features.  He was leaner and harder.
The personal victory over his pain had left him altered in subtle but deep
ways.

   Neither had he neglected his ambitions to fly during his convalescence.
He had applied and been accepted for training as an observer in the Royal
Flying Corps.  Of course, he had had hopes of volunteering as a trainee
pilot but had been persuaded that his chances of a successful transfer from
the infantry would be greatly increased if he undertook a spell as an
observer first and foremost.  They had only just relaxed the rule that
pilots had to be qualified before they applied.  Phillip had heard of some
officers taking private lessons to get their 'ticket' while awaiting
posting or even when home on leave.

   Thus, at the beginning of February, he had been passed fit by his final
Medical Board and was sent to a training school near Oxford to begin his
training.  The duties of an observer were many and various.  He had to
learn navigation, gunnery, how to operate a camera and, in case of an
emergency, the rudiments of how to pilot the aeroplane.  Four weeks of
ground school learning about vector triangles and magnetic variation
dragged by.  He wanted to be airborne.  There he was, a member of the
Army's newest arm, and he had never been so much as an inch off the ground.
Still, he willed himself to take in every pearl of wisdom the instructors
tossed his way.

   To his fellow students he appeared aloof at first.  He could not bring
himself to join in with the wild games after dinner in the Officers' Mess.
The high spirits of the others eluded him.  More than once he was taken
aside by one of the staff and told not to be so serious, to relax a bit. 
He could not.  He was haunted by the idea of failure, of having to return
to the trenches.  After a while the students accepted him as simply being
reserved.  Some put it down to the trauma of having been severely wounded.
The staff were less sanguine.  Phillip would have been alarmed to learn
that more than one instructor had privately questioned his suitability to
the RFC.

   Everything changed with his first flight.  Even though the AIRCO De
Havilland 1A was obsolete and took over eleven minutes to climb to just
3500 feet, Phillip was thrilled to the core.  The 120 horsepower Beardmore
engine blared and grumbled behind his head as the pilot played with the
throttle.  The wheel chocks were pulled away and the machine began slowly
to move over the grass.  As the aircraft was of the 'pusher' variety, that
is to say, the propeller was at the rear of the fuselage, Phillip had an
unobstructed view in front of him.  After a choppy run of about eighty
yards, the tail lifted and the motion became easier.  The pilot held the
nose down for a few more seconds and then, as he eased back on the stick,
the venerable old aeroplane gave a slight lurch and clawed its way into the
air.

   The racket from the Beardmore was deafening.  Communication of any sort
was only possible if the pilot leaned forward with his mouth close to
Phillip's ear and shouted at the top of his voice.  For this reason, most
exchanges were made with standard hand-signals.  Phillip turned in his seat
as the pilot tapped his shoulder.  The man then pointed upwards and circled
his hand, indicating they were going to climb.  Phillip nodded vigorously.
He turned back and smoothed his maps out over his knee then hung over the
cockpit coaming, attempting, without much success, to identify landmarks.
The aircraft's instruments were basic in the extreme.  There was an oil
pressure gauge, a bubble variometer, which indicated whether the machine
was climbing or diving, and a rev counter.  Phillip threw out one of his
weighted streamers to judge the wind direction.  There was no compass
fitted so he made do with a hand-held model he'd purchased in a Boy Scout
Shop in Oxford.

   He slowly began to make sense of the map and relate it to the landscape
he could see below.  He picked up the course of the main Oxford to London
railway line, assisted in no small measure by the plume of smoke sent up by
a speeding express.  The forward nacelle rattled and shook as the pilot
tried to squeeze every last ounce of power from the complaining Beardmore.
Phillip found it almost impossible to focus and was relieved when at last
the pilot eased back the throttle and the plane levelled out.

   They made their way across the clear sky at a stately sixty miles per
hour.  The De H 1A had an absolute top speed of a fraction less than 80 mph
but even those modest speeds were now beyond this tired example of the
breed.  Phillip didn't care.  He was scarcely even aware now of the droning
engine.  He put up his head and was buffeted by the wind and laughed out
loud in pure delight.  This was how things should be, clean, pure, somehow.
He was detached from the earth, hanging between the heavens and the baser
elements like a cloud.  The pilot was tapping his shoulder again and gave
the signal for directions.  Phillip hurriedly gathered his wits and
indicated a quarter turn to the right.  The plane banked into the turn and
Phillip's heart sang with the joy of it.

   An hour later, considerably sobered by the experience of having been
'lost,' Phillip stood in silence as the pilot debriefed him on his first
flight.

   "You have to pay more attention to drift, old chap.  In France, the wind
almost always is blowing towards Hunland.  You didn't notice that the wind
got up once we hit 4000 feet.  You only launched one streamer.  You need to
do it about every fifteen minutes or so.  Look here!"

   The pilot pointed upwards.

   "Can you see how fast that cloud is moving?  Yet down here there isn't
enough breeze to ruffle a milkmaid's apron.  Don't worry, though, you'll
get the hang of it.  First time is always a little shaky.  You did well
enough for a new boy."

   With that he strode away leaving Phillip, a forlorn figure, to follow in
his wake.

   The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity.  Phillip learned to
strip and reassemble a Lewis gun blindfolded.  He learned also to check
each cartridge carefully before loading the drums.  Lewis guns were
temperamental, prone to jamming.  As one of the instructors said:

   "If you're under the guns of a Hun when the bloody thing decides to call
it a day, you are cold meat, old son."

   They practiced firing at moving targets on the ground at first.  An old
truck had a De H 1 nacelle mounted on its back.  They took turns firing at
a square target towed by another truck that would weave and swerve around
the airfield.  Phillip took to gunnery far more easily than navigation.  He
had owned a shotgun since he was twelve and readily understood the need to
lead a target.  Changing ammunition drums on the Lewis required the use of
both hands and he rapidly learned to wedge himself tightly up against the
coaming and to brace himself against the bucketing movement of the truck.

   "Drop a drum over the side, old chap, and you're cold meat."

   Only a few of the instructors had actual combat experience.  Phillip
learned that many of them had been civilian instructors before the war and
had been pressed into service to help meet the demand for extra aircrew. 
The Royal Flying Corps had entered the war less than two years before with
only four squadrons of twelve aircraft each.  Now, in early 1916, there
were thirty-eight squadrons, eight on Home Defence and the rest in France.
Still more were being formed.  All of this expansion was additional to the
replacement of the inevitable, and heavy, combat losses.  The air war had
started as a leisurely affair.  It was some months before opposing aviators
had seriously starting shooting at each other.  Violence is insidious,
though, and during 1915, aerial combat had become the rule, rather than the
exception.  Now the Hun had found a way to make a machine gun fire through
the propeller.  Early British experiments to fit steel deflector plates to
the wooden airscrews had ended ignominiously but rumour had it that a new
and effective solution had been found and would be available shortly.

   "Still, can't beat the old 'pushers.' Much better all-round vision and
the Scarff Ring allows you to fire through 270 degrees."

   It sounded convincing enough to Phillip's inexperienced ears.

   He 'graduated' in the middle of March and was sent home on embarkation
leave with orders to report to the Aircrew Pool at Number One Aircraft
Depot, St Omer, on the 28th.  Ten glorious days stretched out in front of
him but he didn't have a clue what to do.  One of his fellow students,
Peter Riley, mentioned he was going to Hampshire to visit a wounded comrade
in hospital at Bentley Hall.  For want of a better alternative, Phillip
agreed to accompany him.  Both now sported the winged 'O' badge of the RFC
observer.

   Little had changed at the hospital in the four months since he left it.
Patients had come and gone, of course; some had died and some, like
Phillip, had recovered.  Sister Hallam still ruled the ground floor.  She
greeted a furiously-blushing Phillip with a mere nod.  Bethan Meredith, on
the other hand, flushed an even brighter shade of scarlet than did he.  He
approached her diffidently, avoiding her eyes.

   "Hello, Nurse Meredith."

   Her reply was barely audible, her face averted.

   "I've been wanting to speak to you.  To apologise for what happened.  I
know it was unforgivable of me but I am so sorry I offended you like that.
I wouldn't wish to distress you for the world."

   She turned towards him, still pink with embarrassment but smiling
faintly.

   "Please don't think of it, sir.  Sister Hallam explained it to me and I
know you couldn't help it."

   "Nurse Meredith?  Oh, would you mind awfully if I called you Bethan? 
Look, the thing is, frankly, I am at a bit of a loose end.  Would you do me
the honour of having supper with me sometime?  I mean, if we were in
London, I'd invite you to the Theatre or something but, well, the 'Bull' in
the village does have a passable table and I would consider it the utmost
kindness if you'll agree."

   Bethan tilted her head and raised her large dark brown eyes to meet his.
She was confused.  Her first instinct was to run but she knew that was
silly.  Apart from that incident, Mr Welford -Barnes had always been a
perfect gentleman and he was quite good looking in a sort of pale English
way.  Even so, she was about to decline the invitation when Sister Hallam's
voice boomed in her ear.

   "Of course she will!  Pick her up at seven o'clock and make sure you
have her back by ten.  Don't be late!"

   Phillip nodded dumbly and whirled away, elation surging through every
fibre.  Sister Hallam glared shrewdly at Bethan.

   "It's just what you need, young lady.  And just what that one needs. 
All work and no play, my girl, is no good for Jack - or Jill!  Now go and
change the sheets on number three, we've a new one arriving this evening."

   "Yes, Sister.  And thank you."

   Sister Hallam smiled at Bethan's retreating back.  'Such a pretty girl,'
she thought, 'and such a pleasant young man.' In different times they might
be made for each other but the War hung over everything, blighting the
simplest of pleasures.  She had noted the new RFC observer's badge.  Flying
was, well, unnatural, somehow.  She stalked off to chivvy up some other
nurse, vaguely wondering why the young ex-patient had blushed so much on
seeing her.

   Phillip caught up with Peter Riley and explained his arrangements for
the evening.  Peter shot him an envious grin and they agreed to meet back
at the 'Bull' for a last drink after Phillip's date.  They spent the rest
of the afternoon chatting to Peter's wounded friend and some of the other
young officers on the ward but Phillip found himself increasingly
distracted.  His thoughts kept straying to the pretty Nurse and more than
once Peter had to repeat himself to get Phillip's attention.

   "You've really got it bad, old chum," he said.

   Phillip smiled.  "D'you know, Peter, I rather think I have."



   Phillip would always remember that night.  They had both been shy at
first and reacted in contrasting ways.  He had babbled incessantly and she
had barely spoken.  The Bull Inn was typical of its type.  A seventeenth
century coaching Inn with a wealth of low, black oak beams and an inglenook
fireplace in which logs popped and hissed and emitted as much smoke as
heat. Another consequence of the war, Phillip mused.  Coal was needed for
the warships and difficult to get.  Still, the food was good and plentiful
and the Landlord kept a reasonable cellar.  Bethan eschewed alcohol as a
rule - a consequence of her Methodist upbringing - but she did agree to a
glass of fine Burgundy with the excellent venison.  She loved the deep ruby
colour of the wine and held up her glass to swirl the heady vintage in the
lamplight.

   They slowly relaxed.  Phillip prattled less and Bethan emerged from her
shell to talk about her home and her family.  She made him laugh with
stories of life on the farm and the characters that inhabited her native
village.  Most of them were in the army now, of course.  She wondered aloud
what it would be like when the war was over.

   "I mean it must be different, see.  Before the war, now, well, no one
really travelled, did they?  Now, when they come back, well, they'll have
seen things most wouldn't care to, isn't it?  How will they settle then?"

   "I know what you mean.  I used to worry about what I'd do when it was
all over.  Now, well, it doesn't look likely to end anytime soon.  The ones
I feel most sorry for are the Reserve Officers.  I'm a Regular; there will
always be a place for me in the Army even if it means I have to go back to
the regiment when this lot's over.  The RO's, though, some of them
interrupted their education or had already embarked on a career.  It will
be far harder for them to settle again."

   "And what about all the volunteers?  My Dad has to get women now to help
run the farm and what about them?  They aren't going to be willing to run
back into the kitchen just like that once they've been earning wages, are
they?"

   "Bethan, do you know you finish every sentence with a question?"

   "A question, is it?  I don't know, it's the way I talk, see?  I didn't
speak any Sais until I was ten or so.  We always speak Welsh at home."

   "Sais?  What's that?"

   "It means Saxon, really, but it's our word for you English.  Like the
Scots call you Sassenachs - Saxons again, see?"

   "Could you really not speak English until you were ten?"

   "My part of Wales is mainly Welsh-speaking.  There was no call to speak
English until I went to the Grammar School, was therenow?"

   The evening passed all too quickly and Phillip was horrified to find it
was nearly ten o'clock when he settled the bill with a crisp white
five-pound note.  He pocketed the change and ushered Bethan from the dining
room.  They hurried back to Bentley Hall.  Bethan had to take his arm in
the darkness and the contact flared through him like fire.  They arrived at
the door to nurses ' quarters with barely a minute to spare.  Both were
flushed from the effects of the wine and the brisk walking.  The door
opened to reveal the ample figure of Sister Hallam.

   "I trust you had a pleasant evening?  Good.  Two minutes, Nurse
Meredith."

   She closed the door again and Bethan was seized by a kind of panic. 
Suppose he wanted to kiss her?  What would she do?  Before she had
formulated an appropriate response, Phillip took her hand and raised it to
his lips.

   "Thank you for a most wonderful evening, Bethan.  I'm off to see my
people in Dorset tomorrow and then it's France, I'm afraid.  I would dearly
love to see you again but time isn't on my side.  Would you mind awfully if
I wrote to you sometimes?"

   She gathered her scattered thoughts.  The gentle brush of his lips on
her fingers has sent a thrill of electricity through her.  She gazed at him
for a moment, unsure of what he'd asked.  Then she ducked her head and
nodded as realisation dawned.  Without thinking she leaned forward and
kissed him softly on the cheek.

   "Yes, please write, I'd like that very much."



   She spun on her heel and shot through the door without another word. 
Her heart was racing.  Who would believe she could have been so bold!  She
danced a few steps along the empty corridor unaware that Sister Hallam was
watching through the open doorway of her room.  A smile passed briefly
across the older nurse's features and she nodded to herself.  It was just
what the pair of them needed.

   Phillip stood outside, rooted to the spot.  He stared blankly at the
door for a full minute before turning slowly and walking away.  His pace
increased and there was a distinct spring in his step as he walked back to
join Peter Riley in the 'Bull' for a nightcap.  She had kissed him!  And
she said he could write!  What a wonderful place the world had become!  And
its most magical creature gloried in the name of Bethan Meredith.

   Continued in Part 2