January 2008

[Landsturm]

"Face to face"

Let's start this year properly!

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

Hmm...Looks like you picked a difficult topic, Landsturm.

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

But don't change it! We all love a challenge, and I, for one, have an idea..

[ypres1418]

They had just gone up the line, first time for most of them, so it was with trepidation that when asked for volunteers to go over the top on a raid that night they huddled together to decide who would go, Joe the oldest of the platoon had already said he would go and so the others (only four more) needed to make the decision. Bert, George, Fred and Albert decided that the time was right and this was what they had signed up for right?

The Lt had the orders, they were to go over to the German lines and take a look, the retiring Bn had reported some shifty goings on the previous night!

The six of them left at 3am and under the cover of the clouds silently made their way, shell hole to shell hole, half way there they stumbled into one large shell hole only to come face to face with the enemy who had the same idea! All the men were startled, but the Lt and Joe started firing at them before they could fire on them. The Germans quickly left and ran over the top back to their trenches. With this the Lt decided to abort the mission and head back before the Germans could start firing at them.

All Six made it back safely, but on returning to their trench found a shell had exploded and all their platoon were dead or injured. Coming face to face with this horric sight made the younger ones want to return to the mission to get those Germans they had seen earlier that night, but the Lt calmed them and made sure they got an extra rum ration before helping them to get the injured onto the stretchers that were now coming round the corner and also helped to bury the dead behind the trench.

Years later the same four young men were to gather together once more face to face to carry the coffin of their Lt who died peacefully in his sleep.

[Landsturm]

I was inspired after reading one account from the battle of Verdun 1916. Under the hellish conditions, a German soldier decided to risk his life to get some water for the wounded from a shell hole nearby. When he finally reached it, he realized he was facing an enemy (French) soldier that had came to fill his own canteen from the same shell hole. After a silent moment, the two in the honoring sense left each other in peace, took their water and went back to their own lines.

[Gunboat]

Great Topic and brilliant entries thus far

[Chris Foster]

A good piece of work, Landsturm.

Regards

Chris

[Landsturm]

But don't change it! We all love a challenge, and I, for one, have an idea..

Absolutely not going to change it! That's part of the fun! I'm waiting your contribution eagerly...

Thanks, Chris

[Michael Johnson]

Especially since Katie was mia last month.

Here's mine:

When he turned 21, Johnny went to enlist. In the course of his training, a constant topic of conversation was "what it's like over there". There were lectures by returned officers, and endless barracks discussions. But they didn't answer his question.

Home on leave, he sought out his uncle, a South African veteran.

"What's it like to be in a battle?"

"It's not something you can put into words. Besides, my war was nothing like what you will be facing. Endless marching, hit-and-run ambushes. It's different now – trenches, artillery barrages, airplanes." And we were fighting Boers, not a professional European army."

He went to the pub. Old William was there, as always. Sixty years ago, William had fought in the Crimea. Johnny had, as a boy, listened breathlessly to his stories of Inkerman and Sevastopol. There had been trenches at Sevastopol, during the siege, he recalled. And the enemy had been a professional European army.

Old William was always willing to talk to anyone with the time and the price of a pint – or two, or three.

"Well, lad, I dunno that I can help tha. Times change. Muskets it were then, muskets and red coats. Flogging if tha did owt wrong. I feared t'Sergeant more than t'enemy."

No wiser, he rejoined his unit, and made the short voyage to France.

His unit relieved another battalion, and settled into life in the trenches. His heart raced the first couple of mornings at "stand-to", but then it became routine. There were casuaties from artillery fire and snipers, but not many, and not around him.

Then word came that there would be an attack, and his battalion would be among the first to go over the top.

On the appointed morning, the whistles blew, and he scurried up the ladder and into no-man's-land. He drew comfort from the crash of the artillery barrage ahead of him, and the shapes of his fellow soldiers around him. It was scary, and his heart pounded, but it was no worse than racing down the scree-sides with his mates when he was young. He scarcely noticed the shapes that dropped beside him. His only goal was the German trench ahead. He found a gap in the wire, where for once the artillery barrage had done its work. The bombers lobbed in their grenades, and he jumped down as they exploded. A German rose to attack him, but dropped as one of his mates snapped off a shot.

As he headed around a traverse he was knocked off his feet. His platoon surged past him, the last man turning quickly to see if he was alright. "Lucky beggar – you've got a blighty. Half your luck, mate! Sit still and the stretcherbearers will be around for you." And then he was gone, leaving him alone with the dead.

Johnny tied his field dressing on the clean shot wound in his leg. He lit a cigarette. He'd been face to face with war, and he was alive.

[ypres1418]

Nice one Michael,

Mandy

[George Armstrong Custer]

Charlie Harrison, an Australian infantryman, told of a face to face encounter with a German in a trench raid.

'I lunge forward, aiming at his stomach. It is a lightning, instinctive movement. In that second he twists and reaches for his revolver. The thrust jerks my body. Something heavy collides with the point of my bayonet. I become insane. I want to strike again and again but I cannot. My bayonet does not come clear. I pull, tug, jerk....I hear him shriek....We are facing each other - four feet of space separates us. His eyes are distended; they seem all whites and look as though they will leap out of their sockets. There is froth at the corners of his mouth which opens and shuts....He joins me in the effort to withdraw....I kick him off. He shrieks....I kick him again and again....It is too much for me. Suddenly I drop the butt of my rifle....he collapses, his hands still gripping the barrel....'

Harrison then ran away, but becoming apprehensive at being unarmed, he returned to the German.

'I move to sieze the butt of my rifle....he grabs the barrel with a childish movement which seems to say: "It is mine, you may not take it away!"....My tugging and pulling works the blade in his insides. Again those horrible shrieks....Suddenly I remember what I must do....and pull back my breechblock. He stops his screaming; he looks at me, silently now. He knows what I am going to do. A white Verey light soars over our heads. His helmet has fallen from his head. I see his boyish face....he looks like a Saxon; he is fair under the light and I see white down against green cheeks....I pull my trigger....'

Harrison had the extraordinary and unnerving experience of taking prisoner the brother of the man he had killed and of watching the living man with his dead brother. His account of the incident is one of the most moving and truthful in all the history of war.

Source: Jackboot: The Story of the German Soldier pp. 133-134, by John Laffin, published by Cassel, 1965 (The dustjacket of which features Fritz Erler's haunting portrait from 1917 of a young German stormtrooper not unlike Charlie Harrison's description of the one he met face to face).

[susanhemmings]

Well done all, some good entries here. Thoroughly enjoyed reading them all.

Face to face across the space

Whilst all around the bullets race

And whiz-bangs fly

The sound of guns and the smoke

Has already blackened the sky

The verey lights that light each face

To face the enemy across that space

And each one wonders in that place

What are we doing here?

The line stands still, the whistle blows

Each man climbs out and, shaking, goes

To god only knows where

Each carrying their own despair

Some fall where bullet makes connection

Others dive in shell holes for protection

All are afraid, no-one dares say

They thought that this may be their last day

No-one dare boast……..

The fight goes on until the end

Their lives, their honour to defend

Sadly most………………

Departed this life, departed this place

In fatal combat, face to face.

Susan.

[ypres1418]

Susan,

that is lovely,

got to the heart, especially the end few lines,

Mandy

[Ozzie]

Mandy!! Well done.

Love the artwork of the story Landsturm.

Great effort Micheal.

Thanks for the story George, will have to look into this one.

Susan, as usual your poetry hits the emotions.

Cheers

Kim

[ironmarc]

Nice topic!

I was inspired after reading one account from the battle of Verdun 1916. Under the hellish conditions, a German soldier decided to risk his life to get some water for the wounded from a shell hole nearby. When he finally reached it, he realized he was facing an enemy (French) soldier that had came to fill his own canteen from the same shell hole. After a silent moment, the two in the honoring sense left each other in peace, took their water and went back to their own lines.

Landsturm, do you know the source of this account as well? I know that I've read this story as well

[Landsturm]

Custer, is that your entry? What I mean is that, is it yours, you have mentioned a source, and different author?

Landsturm, do you know the source of this account as well? I know that I've read this story as well

Don't remember the source, some book, I'll try to relocate it.

Great entries so far!

[Guest soren1916]

Well done everyone, here's my entry:

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/passchendael...931132702671586

A Brit soldier face to face with a Dead German Stormtrooper

[susanhemmings]

Stunning Soren. Detail is (as always) excellent

Susan.

[squirrel]

A variation on "The Soldier's Prayer".............

Lord, you know what I must do today;

if I forget thee, I pray thee do not forget me.

Give me the strength to do what I have to do,

so that whatever may befall,

If I must meet you I may do so face to face

knowing that my duty has been done.

[Michael Johnson]

The first part is the prayer of Sir Jacob Astley before the Battle of Edgehill, 1642:

"Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me."

One of my favourites, and one that has great application in today's world.

[squirrel]

Michael,

thanks for that. Have seen and heard a couple of variations on it and wondered where it came from.

[susanhemmings]

Squirrel / Michael,

That is a wonderful opening and I have never seen it before. Will go look it up.

Thank you for the explanation

Susan.

[Ozzie]

OK, I am going to take an option here, as something I wrote, and posted in another thread does qualify as Face to Face.

So, transferring it over to here.

Yeh, I know, but hey! I'm pretty stoked with this one.

The Woman who Waits.

I sit here by the fire, writing in my treasured diary, my thoughts, and they are of you.

Are you safe and well?

The night before you left, before you traveled all those miles, I looked into your eyes, and saw you. You put your arms around me, and gave me a hug, and bade me a good night, but what were you thinking when you said those words?

I saw you off the next day, a final parting, so sad that you were leaving, but surrounded by others, I could not speak what was in my heart.

We, who had met only a few times, but knew each other instantly. You, the gentleman, I, the one who asked so many questions. You were so patient with me, I the upstart girl, so unladylike, my mother’s constant worry.

You sat at our table, and fitted in so well. My family were taken with you, and ask me how you are.

But you do not write.

You answered the call, joined up, off to do what duty decrees. Where are you now? Are you in the front line, or are you in a safe position, where you can return here one day?

I wait for the mail, dreading the news. Always in hope that it will be from you, but fear it may be bad news.

Am I terrible to expect the worst?

Are you safe and well?

I know the touch of a man, and your touch, that last hug, although that of a gentleman, gave me hope that there may be more. The look you gave me held promise, but promise of what? I am but a woman, left at home, while the men march off to war.

What do you do there?

I know the enemy is to be defeated, and that it takes the lives of our brave boys, but are you amongst it? Do you want to be amongst it? Or do you hold a safe position, well behind the lines.

You do not write me, so I sit here wondering, what it was that you meant by that last look.

I read the news, of our losses over there, and I hope and pray that you will not be one of them.

Oh, but for plain speaking. I might have told you of my hopes and dreams, but we do not do that, do we? We keep our worries to our selves, so as not to burden a man about to do his duty.

I do not know where to write you, for if only you would write, then I might return with a reply. My angst, and my worries would be laid to rest, and at least I would have hope. Hope, that you might come home to me.

Oh, diary, if only I had spoken, said what was in my heart. Then he would know that I am here for him. If only he would write, and tell me he is safe and well.

Dear Diary,

It has been some time since I last wrote in this book, of my emotions and thoughts. Since last I wrote, I felt, for so long, that a page of white paper could not help with what my heart was feeling. But after revisiting you, I realize that it is only to you that I can speak, as there is no other alive that could understand what I have been through.

When last I left you, I had not heard from him. He, that had gone across the seas to fight an-other's battles. For weeks, then months, I waited for word; such was the feeling that I had, that he meant something by his last embrace, that I felt sure he would send word of his welfare, if nothing else.

But, no, not a word.

Then, along the village grapevine came the news that he had been wounded, that he lay struggling for life in a hospital in France.

The news came from a friend of a friend of the family, and for that reason, I looked upon it with doubt. It was not until I met his sister in a coffee palace in a nearby town, and heard the dreadful news from her own lips, did I realize that this man, who had become so dear to me, may not return to his beloved mountains.

She said that his officer had written them a letter, full of praise for her brother, his bravery and his loyalty to the regiment, undoubted. But, she had whispered, the officer had also intimated that we would not find him on his return, what he was when he left Australia.

I asked what was meant by this, but she looked fearful, as though she had said too much.

My nights were full of dreams, of a strong and daring man, laid low by a wound that kept him bedridden, keeping him from me. As the days became weeks and the weeks became months, I contrived to visit with his sister again, but, she was never at home, or, at least, that is what the maid told me.

A passing remark, that I heard said in low tones, under the oleander tree, after church one hot summer morning, alerted me to the news that he was back in Australia, albeit still in hospital. My fingers picked at my dress, as I unashamedly listened in on the conversation of two old ladies, but the women gave me the information I craved.

He was in Sydney, at a sanatorium for returned soldiers. I made up my mind there and then to visit, as I had to be sure that he was receiving good treatment, and that he would be soon home to the mountains.

It took a few white lies, and a new found interest in an Aunt in Sydney, but I was soon on a train to the big smoke. After arriving at Liverpool, I arranged for a horse drawn cab to take me to the sanatorium. I had a choice of transport, but to me, the horse was a closer link with him. No belching black shuddering beast for me.

I gave the driver the address, ignoring his quizzical look, and settled back, imagining what my first words might be.

How naive I was. How pathetic was I, to imagine that he would be glad to see me.

I arrived at the gates, where a uniformed, short, fat man informed me that no visitors were allowed, unless it were family.

I claimed that I was his sister, and knowing the family, made a convincing line of it.

He signed a chit, explaining that I was to present this chit at the office, which was to the left of the gardens ahead.

I lifted my skirts, my pace being one of quickness, even though I tried to slow my steps, my heart was forcing my feet forward. White uniforms helped grey clad figures about the garden, while other patients sat on wooden bench seats amongst the flowers. I observed these people, without registering their actions, nor their expressions, such was my hurry to see him.

On entering the office, I was met by a tall imposing woman, her veil so white and stiff, it seemed to float above her.

I presented my chit, and tumbled forth my continued lie of being his sister, come from the country to visit with him.

Her expression was one of pity, but it was quickly overtaken by a stiff lip, as if an instant decision had been made behind those piercing blue eyes.

She sat me down and offered tea. Indian tea she said. What did I care for tea at that moment?

This matron spoke of the injuries to soldiers, and how their loved ones were often not prepared for what their men had returned as. But what she spoke of was all so vague, and could not apply to the images I had of my man, so tall and strong, carrying a wound, or even an amputation. I had not delved any deeper than that, some how, my mind had made itself up that this is all it would be, nothing could be worse than that.

How could I know of the horrors that could befall the men in those war torn parts. It was never mentioned in the papers. Yes, we had casualties, and deaths, but some how they were always glorious deaths, no one ever told of the pain and suffering.

It was at this point, as I now look back, that I was delusional. I had built myself such an unrealistic ideal of my man, that nothing could prepare me for what I was about to learn.

I pushed away the cold tea, thanking the Matron for her time. She gave a sigh, and rang a little bell. An orderly came, tapping softly at the door before entering.

Matron gave him orders to take me to the courtyard, where my man, ‘my brother’ would be brought to visit with me.

I followed the white clad orderly down the cool shaded pathway, which opened upon a lawn surrounded by white standard roses. I was guided to a wooden bench, which resided in the shade of a Lemon Gum. The heat of the day affected the leaves, and gave off a hint of Eucalyptus.

As I sat and waited, my thoughts flitted to and fro. A deep fear in the bottom of my stomach tried to rise, but my stubborn nature forced it down. I saw bees hovering over the white rose petals, landing clumsily on their centers, to take of the nectar. It came to me that the white rose was a symbol of Innocence, Secrecy and Silence. My eyes were drawn to other parts of the garden, and it was then I realized that the garden had been laid by someone who knew of the language of flowers, something my Mother had taught me.

The tree underneath which I sat, was a Eucalyptus, protection. The garden beds were laid at their edge with Violets, Calming, Pansy, Love, interspersed with Thyme, Strength and Courage. The leaves of Irises, their blooms fading, denoted Faith and Hope, while the low hedge of Bay Trees, Strength, stood at the rear of the bed, but still it did not register with me.

The sound of crunching gravel made me turn. I watched as an orderly wheeled a cane chair towards where I sat. A skeleton, clad in flannelette, lolled about like a cotton reel doll, underneath a mohair rug.

The skin upon its head was stretched tight, white, and pink, with tufts of coarse brown hair lying over, seemingly carefully combed to cover the shiny skin.

Brown irises stared out of red veined whites, engraved with idiocy, made more startling by the lack of lashes.

My eyes tried to fall to my feet, but horror kept them firmly upon the face of this unfortunate soul. My heart was racing, and my throat constricted as my rude stare took in the nose that resembled that of a swine, leading down to lips drawn back forever in a grimace of tightened muscle, that would never smile, or speak words again.

At once it became too much, and my eyes dropped to the ground in front of me, my mind reeling with the horror of the image, burned in my mind, of that which was once a man.

My head jerked upwards as the chair with this creature in it, was pushed in front of me, my eyes reaching for, and finding, the face of the orderly that had dared to place this wretched soul before me.

He must have seen my shock, as he said very gently,

“Ma’am, your brother won’t hear what you have to say, he is deaf, and even if he could hear you, I very much doubt he would understand. But if you hold his hand, and spend time with him, then, God willingly, it may give him peace.”

My gaze was drawn, as my mind screamed in fear, towards the wreck of the human that I had once loved, and whom had lived in my mind as a vital, strong man, and who would one day, become my lover.

It must have been only minutes, but passed as an hour, while my brain struggled to comprehend what sat before me. Pictures of what it had been, raced through my mind’s eye, while at a deeper level, a stirring started in the pit of my stomach. It was a pain, a deep sharp pain, and at a lower base level, my soul recognized as grief. It exploded out of me in stifled screams, as I forced my fist into my mouth. My body shook with convulsions, as wave after wave of emotion made its way through my living tissues.

I drew my knees up under me, hugging them close, warding off the despair and grossness of the creature that sat in front of me. I don’t know how long it was, I have no recollection of time during that afternoon, but slowly, with the most gentle of fluttering, much like the whisper of butterfly wings would feel like against the skin, an urge to reach out, to connect with what once was, but now was ruined, took hold of me, and I stretched out my arm, my fingers shaking, to touch his wretched and deformed face.

I sat bolt upright as his bony fingers suddenly tightened around my wrist, drawing me towards him. He released his grip, and his fingers played with mine.

Fear tried to stop my eyes from leaving my lap. But curiosity, if I must be truthful, curiosity of the man behind the horror, drove my eyes upwards, till they met with his.

It was then that I knew true and utter pain, as I saw for just for a fleeting moment, comprehension in those brown eyes, and I hated myself for my revulsion and rejection, of a man, because of his image, instead of his soul, his soul that I had loved.

Kim

[susanhemmings]

Magnificent Kim. It really got to me.

Susan.

[marina]

me too. The description of his face is so vivid,

Marina