The Longest Way Home
RAY O’BRIEN
After the first day at the front no one says “That was a close one!” anymore. Each thump of an exploding shell is either a direct hit or a close one, and Henry knew one of those options doesn’t give you time to think. No, he would say nothing about the near miss, or the Captain’s optimism. He sat in the dugout and dusted off the small spill of earth that landed on his shoulder as the lights dimmed and the earth shook. He looked at the lines on the map with second-lieutenants Percy and that quiet chap Mayhew, while Captain Neville stood and spoke.
“The artillery will reach a peak at 5:45am and pound Fritz’s lines for fifteen minutes,” the Captain said. He tapped a stick on the map for emphasis. “Then at 6am get your men to fix bayonets, go over the top and get across and take their trenches. The bombardment will take care of the barbed wire, and probably bury the buggers. You may get across unopposed.”
Henry looked at his fellow officers. Were they as sceptical of the artillery’s accuracy as he was? All along the lines officers would be hearing the same words, and would then go tell their men what was coming in the morning – The Big Push. Overrun the German lines along a fifteen-mile front, then chase them all the way back to Berlin.
Later, when they’d relayed the news to their men and come back to the dugout, the three officers sat while Percy poured cups of rum. “Good luck gentlemen,” Percy said, and raised his cup.
“Oh god, this is it,” Mayhew said. “Don’t know if I have the stomach for it.”
“We have to,” Henry said. “Our men are depending on us. We can’t show any fear in front of them. And it’s our duty to King and country and all that, and everyone back home.”
All three stared into the distance. Percy stood and walked towards his bed. “Must at least try to get some sleep,” he said.
But sleep would be impossible. Henry reached to an inside pocket as he went to his bed and lay back on the rough straw-filled bedding. While he was strong and fearless in front of his men, thoughts of home were on his mind now. He pressed the letter to his nose and inhaled. The perfume was faded, but still there. Kitty had reminded him of his promise to her in the letter, and he took the locket and kissed her goodnight. He remembered the kiss in the conservatory that night back in May.
*
Henry walked out of Sloane Square station to a warm spring evening. His reflection in the glass of a shop window told him what he already knew – he looked smart in his officer’s uniform, buttons sparkling and shoes polished. There were admiring looks and nods on the street on the way to Kitty’s house. But was there also a hint of sadness in those looks? Two years in, more than two hundred thousand dead, and still no end in sight. There was talk of a major offensive against the Germans in the summer that would mean even more casualties, but Henry didn’t dwell on it. He would go to France in two days’ time and do what needed to be done.
Large searchlights were set up in the gardens at the centre of the square. Deadly airships had brought the reality of war to everyone’s door. The Hamilton’s door was large and imposing. Henry strode up the steps and was surprised to see Kitty’s father open it himself.
“Well, young man, you’ve finally decided to do your duty?” Charles said. He looked Henry up and down and nodded. “Good. Come in.”
“Good evening, Charles,” Henry said, as he stepped into the hallway. He put his hand out but Charles had already turned towards the sound of female voices coming from the drawing room. The lady of the house and her two daughters emerged.
Kitty gasped when she saw Henry. “My dear!” She rushed over and clasped his arm.
Henry noticed her catch the twitch of disapproval on her father’s moustache, before she turned back to Henry and stroked his cheek affectionately. He heard Mrs Hamilton clear her throat and speak to him in that high-pitched upper-class way. “Your parents must be very proud of you to get an officer’s commission, Henry.”
“They are, Mrs Hamilton,” Henry said, thinking of the way she emphasised the word “proud”. In the Hamilton household, Kitty had told him, the word was “surprised”. Was the war going so badly that even bank clerks were now becoming officers? Whatever next?
He turned to Kitty’s sister. “Good evening, Eleanor.”
“Come into the dining room and let me get you a drink,” Charles said.
Dinner was polite conversation that didn’t dwell on the war. Afterwards, Kitty suggested she and Henry go to the conservatory. They walked inside the hothouse of exotic greenery and made their way to the back.
“I will so miss you my dear. And worry for you,” Kitty said. “You must promise to come back.”
“I do promise,” Henry said. He stared at Kitty’s beautiful eyes, the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip, her small delicate nose. He leaned down and kissed her neck where it was exposed by her pinned-up luxurious brown hair and inhaled that wonderful perfume. “I want to remember you exactly as you are tonight.”
“You don’t need your memory,” Kitty said. She took her necklace off and opened the locket to show him. “Look, miniatures of our photographs.” She wrapped his hand in hers. “Please take it and keep it and yourself safe.”
“I cannot take–”
“Yes you can my dear. Keep it until you return.” She placed the locket in the front pocket of Henry’s tunic and took his hand again.
Henry looked down to where the locket had been, then blushed when he realised his gaze had lingered there. He looked back to Kitty. “I’m sorry, my dear, please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to apologise for,” Kitty said.
Henry noticed her breathing had quickened and her small nostrils dilated.
“It’s so tragic,” she said shakily.
“What is?”
“So many young men killed in the war, and they will never know love.” She looked back towards the conservatory door. “No one will come in.”
Henry felt his heart thump.
The sudden crash of a falling pot plant startled them. A cat flashed across the floor. Henry looked up through the glass and saw the twin searchlight beams crisscross the sky. He dropped to his knees, clasped Kitty’s hands, and stared at her imploringly.
“Oh, darling Kitty, will you marry me? I could ask for your father’s permission right now.”
Kitty sobbed and pulled him up. “Not yet my darling Henry. I couldn’t bear it. Wait until you come back.” She looked back towards the main house. “Father will not approve of this. I know you must do your duty, but please, please,” she squeezed his hands tight, “my darling, do not do anything reckless. Do not put yourself in unnecessary danger.”
Henry nodded and leaned down to embrace Kitty and kiss her on the lips, and this time it was her knees he felt give way.
*
The noise was incredible as all three officers stood in the trench in the cool morning. Five more minutes and the big guns would stop and it would be their time. Their section of the line was divided in three – Mayhew in the middle with Henry and Percy on each side.
Henry extended his hand. “Good luck, chaps, let’s get this business done with.” The three shook hands. The fear was still strong in Mayhew’s eyes, but he appeared to be holding it together in front of his men, thank god.
The men turned to him and nodded as Henry walked down the line. He noticed the bombardment had stopped. A shout went along the line. “Fix bayonets!”
A sigh escaped Henry’s lips as he faced the parapet next to the ladder. He checked his wristwatch, then glanced down to Mayhew, and Percy beyond. He nodded and blew his whistle.
Henry clambered up the ladder and saw Mayhew had beaten him to the top. But not for long. When his fellow officer’s head rose over the parapet a shot went through his forehead and blew the brains out the back of his head.
“Keep going!” Henry shouted.
He scrambled over the top and saw flashes of rifle and machine-gun fire from the trenches opposite. Damn the artillery. He raced across no-man’s-land with his revolver drawn and his men behind. Bullets whizzed by his head and put-put-putted into the soft ground beside him.
The shell hole was there and Henry jumped into it without a thought. Four of his men reached the hole and ran around it. Henry shook his head and wondered where the involuntary dive of self-preservation had come from. He jumped out and shouted to his men as he ran to catch up. “Come on, we’re almost there!”
The whizz-bang! of a landing shell came out of nowhere. Henry felt himself fly and turn over with a snap. Was that his neck broken? Was this how it would end? He landed with a thud in a cloud of earth and smoke and noise. He lay facing back toward his own lines and saw his men running towards him, steely-eyed, bayonetted rifles thrust forwards, screaming to the German trench.
“That’s it boys!” Henry shouted. “You’re almost there, take the line!”
And then he suddenly felt weak, and everything went black.
*
It was the smell of the sea. And seagulls. He was with his family on the pebbly beach at Brighton on a beautiful summer’s day. Then the ship’s horn blared and woke him.
Henry opened his eyes to a blue sky and a large turret belching grey smoke. He looked around. He was on a stretcher on the deck with hundreds of other men, on their way home. An orderly at the clearing station said it was a Blighty – a broken leg and some shrapnel wounds and partial deafness in one ear – wounds serious enough to be sent home to recuperate, but not enough to maim him for life.
“Hello old chap.”
Henry recognised the voice. “Percy.”
His friend kneeled. “Good to see you Henry,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “We made it after all.”
Henry hugged Percy and noticed he only had one arm. “So good to see you. Mayhew never even made it out of the trench?”
Percy shook his head. “Here, I have a letter for you. An orderly shouted your name and I realised you were on board. I took it for you. I need to see to some of my men. See you later old chap.”
Henry smiled and looked at the letter. His heart soared at the thought Kitty knew he was coming home to her, until he noticed his mother’s handwriting.
London
10 July 1916
Dearest Henry,
We are so glad to hear you are coming home and your injuries are not too serious.
But Henry I am afraid I have some terrible news! There was a Zeppelin raid over London and the Hamilton’s house took a direct hit from a bomb. The whole house was destroyed. Mr and Mrs Hamilton were at the theatre, but Kitty and Eleanor were home. Eleanor was pulled from the rubble and is expected to recover, but tragically your dear Kitty was killed! Your father and I attended the funeral.
I am so sorry to bring you this dreadful news, especially in your condition, but we felt you should know as soon as possible. We promise to come see you in the hospital as soon as we can.
Your loving parents.
England’s green and pleasant land was not far away now, but it was not the homecoming Henry wanted. He took the locket out and kissed Kitty’s beautiful face. Was there a trace of sadness there he hadn’t noticed before? He observed the sea of broken men around him. This damned war had destroyed everything – soldiers, families, homes. Henry bunched the letter in his fist and held it to his forehead and sobbed.
A nurse came by and knelt beside him. “Here,” she said, “some morphine for the pain.”
Henry felt the effect immediately. That’s the thing about morphine, he thought. The pain is still there, but in the background. What if he survived this awful war and went on to get married to someone else, and have children? He squeezed the letter. His future life with Kitty would now be a lifetime without her, but he would never forget.
He imagined many years into the future, hundreds of years even. Someone would walk into a country churchyard on a beautiful Spring day and see his name on an old weathered gravestone. And the names of his future wife and children, who would by then be long dead too. But Kitty would be with him still, in a small epitaph at the bottom, carved in stone forever. Only five words. But it would be enough.
HOME AT LAST MY DEAR
Remembering my mother’s uncles:
Private Laurence Kinsella, 1st Battalion, Irish Guards. Killed in action, 1 November 1914. Aged 26 years.
Private Martin Hackett, 2nd Battalion, Royal Munster Fusiliers. Killed in action, 21 August 1916. Aged 18 years.
Ray O’Brien left Ireland as a young man, did the work in London/wander the world/settle down thing, and landed permanently in Australia in the early 2000s. His short fiction has appeared in online publications including flashquake and AntipodeanSF. He lives with his partner and daughters at the northern end of Sydney.
