By write hand blue
Shot at Dawn
≈♦≈
Introduction.
This is the second, and concluding part, about a seventeen year old boy soldier, who was executed for cowardice during the First World War. Though this is a work of fiction, it is based on a real boy. All names are fictional.
Part 2
2110 hrs. 14th November 1915.
About thirty miles South West of Calais.
We were due to leave our trenches, and go over the top, when the artillery barrage stopped. 'The Germans will be blasted to pieces,' they told us. We had heard all this before, and knew otherwise.
Lt Jones was there, with his pistol in his hand. "Right! Everyone - up the ladder 'NOW!" he shouted.
"I'll shoot any coward that turns back!" His voice now lowered in a menacing way. We looked at one another.
We had drawn lots earlier, to work out who was to go first. The soldier with that unfortunate short straw, climbed up the ladder in full kit and a rifle. Behind him, the Lt. waved his gun, and ordered more onto the ladder.
The rat-tat-tat of the enemy machine gun was continuous. With bullets zipping by close overhead, the first man jumped up and managed to walk a few yards, before bullets scythed him down. It was against orders to run or dive for cover.
The next two, who were friends, marched in a heroic fashion, and managed about ten yards. They ended face down together, on the French soil.
There were two lads on the ladder in front of me. I was shaking with fear as the top one took two steps, and fell to one side above us. The machine gun was definitely zeroed onto our ladder.
We moved up one place on the ladder. Above me stood my friend Duncan, just two years older than me. He bravely climbed up those final rungs, like the dead man a blink of time would make him. Then he hesitated and glanced down at me, as bullets continued to fizz past above us like angry wasps.
Lt. Jones screamed out as he waved his Webley revolver in Duncan's direction. "Don't you dare stop -- Private," his excited face with spittle flowing down his chin unsettled me.
As Duncan's head appeared above the ground level, we all heard those soft impacts, and knew what they were about. He was thrown back, his life removed. Almost as if he wasn't wanted on the battlefield. I was numb with shock, as he fell down onto me. His equipment hit me on the head, and we both tumbled the two yards to the floor of the trench.
Dazed, I lay pressed into the mud, that soft comfort disapeared as I regained some of my senses. Something heavy lay across me, I had to push it off. Then the realisation hit me like a steam train. A body lay across me, I knew it had to be Duncan. Somehow I managed to push him off me, but nobody helped me and I felt sticky.
His exploded head had covered me in gore. When I had enough sense to realise what the mess was about, I vomited.
My efforts to claw him off me with muddy hands only made it worse."He spoke to me only moments ago," this thought compounded with the smell, and created in my mind an obscene despair beyond any normal understanding.
So in abject horror and completely unnerved, I tried to crawl away through the mud, to leave it behind as fast as I could, to get away, anywhere. I had no idea where I was, all I could think about was that poor lad, my friend, not much older than me. A familiar voice shouted out.
"For t** *ast time -- 'Priv*** *aker' -- *** *nto your fe** and a** ***e a man."
A strange shadowy figure loomed over me. I couldn't see very well. I rubbed my eyes with hands covered in a mixture of mud and gore, this only made it worse. Did I hear my name? Perhaps I had taken leave of my senses. That feeling of terror, I cannot describe. When would this nightmare end?
"I'll see you shot for this,"At one stage, I did remember hearing those words, as I lay there. Were they meant for my ears?...
~#~
Later, at the Court Martial, Lt. Jones kept his word.
"Private Baker showed cowardice in the extreme degree. I ordered him three times to mount the ladder and he refused, further...."
I tried to interupt, "Sir, how could I do otherwise when ---."
"Silence Private Baker. Another interuption like that and I'll have you removed."
The anger in the commanding officer worried me. Later, I had to insist on speaking up for myself.
"Sir, what could I do? I was in no fit state to fight. And Lieutenant Jones never mentioned that I volunteered, or that I had survived a full year and a half ..."
General Harding the senior Officer in charge, looked at his watch. "Yes, yes, this is L.M.F. (lack of moral fibre). You refused an order to go into battle, and we are making an example of you. It's as Simple As That!'
I never expected the verdict they had waiting for me, otherwise I would have said more.
Have I been badly treated?-- Would it have been as 'Simple As That!' if I had been General Haig's son?...
"Come from the wrong background, I do."
My spirit tumbled to new lows, as black waves of despair drowned all hope. It's so unlike me to shake like this. How pathetic I felt, sat there all clean and dry, feeling sorry for myself. While my mates, if there were any left, fought and endured those percusive explosions, that 'Hellfire' of the Boch artillery bombardments. Living from minute to minute never knowing when that final earspliting screech would signal that shell with your name on. Those seconds lived in 'extremis' giving just enough time to 'Scream.'
Or perhaps there was a lull and all was quiet; Perhaps tonight they could tend to their trench foot, caused by standing for days in water and mud in trenches with rats for company.
I took another sip of that burning liquid.
~#~
0145 hrs. I asked for the lights to be left on. I had no desire, or ability to sleep. I would be going to sleep for long enough, in a few hours.
I rocked backwards and forwards most of the night as I played out my life in my head. Feelings of guilt overcame me at one stage, when I remembered my sister, Jill, or 'Our Kid' as we say, where I come from. Much older than me, I had seen little of her during my life. This was due to her early marriage. These thoughts spurred me on, and I did manage to write a short letter to the family. In it, I apologised to them for my behaviour. The hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
~#~
At 0400 hrs. Sergeant Malone, or Andy, as I now called him, came into my cell.
"I noticed that you were awake. Would you like your priest now?"
"No, thirty minutes before will do. Never was right religious, me." I noticed the Sergeant looked tired. "Andy, you've been on duty for a long time. I feel guilty keeping you from your bed like this."
"I volunteered, a double shift. Just wanted to see you treated right."
When he said this, his jovial manner slipped for just a second, and I thought I could see hidden pain in his eyes.
He was right good to me, like a father, listened when he should. Spoke considerately to me at other times. He ignored any little slips on my face as I struggled at times to deal with the enormity of my sentence, saying nothing while I rocked backwards and forwards in that chair.
Why me, Duncan? This question I kept asking, under my breath as I remembered my friend. Perhaps, I'll see him soon. I felt comforted.
~#~
0600 hrs.
"I want no breakfast today, but you can order me one for tomorrow, if you like."
This was my answer to Andy. He smiled at me to lift my spirits.
"I managed to get some French coffee. I'll get you a mug of it."
He left without waiting for an answer, and returned in a few minutes with two mugs.
"Best coffee I've ever 'ad, is this. Won't say, 'ow I got it, though." he winked at me, and produced a deck of cards.
I suggested we could play for cash, but I would have to owe him. He nodded, and smiled. We both sat there on chairs in my cell drinking this hot drink.
"Good taste to this coffee," I lied. In reality my sense of taste had disapeared. What difference did a little white lie make now at this stage? I didn't realise how cold I was, until I held that hot tin mug.
So for the next hour, I played cards for matches. I had never played cards before. -- Well, there's a first time for everything. -- I choked at the thought, and pretended to cough.
Just before 0700 hrs., I asked Andy to take me to the washroom. The water was ice cold. I cupped my hands to wet my face. My hard army towel scraped, left me refreshed, and a little cleaner.
0700 hrs.
Reverend Richard Baldwin arrived on time, and had a few words with me. Said, he would accompany me to the end, and utter my final rights to me. I flinched at those words. I felt desperate.
"Could there be a reprieve for me?" I asked, hopefully.
The Reverend looked at the floor, and shook his head.
I lost my control for a moment, I'm ashamed to say.
"What, sort of world am I leaving, that allows this? An army, that shoots seventeen year old volunteers?"
'It's the will of God,' was basically what he said, in that language of religion.
"So God, is in on it too?" I asked.
Never would I have regarded myself as anti-religious. Indeed, I used to go to church regularly. And I must admit that Reverend Baldwin did try to give me comfort.
It's just that at this stage, I seemed to see things with clarity, as if the last few minutes of life had to be made the most of.
0720 hrs. Two immaculately dressed military police marched into the cell and came to a halt with stamping feet.
"I'm Sergeant Wills, and this, is Sergeant Ashton."
After a slight pause...
"Private Robert Baker, it is our duty to escort you to your place of execution."
With that said, they turned me round, and handcuffed my hands behind me.
"When you're ready, in your own time. There's no rush, lad," His voice low and friendly.
Sergeant Malone led the way, and I followed, with a military policeman each side of me. The Reverend behind me.
"I was good at football, played for the school, I did."
No one replied. We walked slowly down a long hall.
My knees were so weak today, it took an effort to keep on my feet. Passages from the Bible were being chanted in the background bt the priest That was unnerving.
"Scored -- yes, a goal in our last match," I said, trying to deny in my mind what I was destined for. How close was I to collapse, no one will ever know, or to be honest, -- care.
We arrived at a small courtyard, no more than ten yards across. Three soldiers stood to ease, -- smoking. Their Lee Enfield 303 rifles leant against the wall behind them, perhaps to try and hide them. But I could see them.
An officer stood next to a chair by the far wall, with his pistol at the ready in his hand, down by his side and partly hidden. Although I shook with the thoughts that flashed through my mind, I still had enough presence to say to him in a loud faltering voice.
"What's that for, Sir? You afraid I'll make a run for it?"
Shocked, he answered, "This is to make sure the job is done in a clean fashion."
If I was the type of boy, I would curse one of this Officer breed. Eighteen months ago, there was nothing, I 'hated' in this life. I had been brought up, not to even say that destructive word. But now?
I noticed that all the three Sergeants hung their heads very low. The firing squad were finishing their cigarettes, not daring to more than glance in my direction. Their job was not the best in the world, and I wished them no ill.
My thoughts flew far and wide, about such diverse things. I noticed the cracked glass in that old wooden window, its pre-war paint cracked and peeling, and that sparrow's nest in the neglected gutter, where a stream of droppings down the wall marked the spot.
My desperate attempt to distance myself, came to an abrupt stop. I was asked to sit. A loop of rope quickly passed over my head to secure my body to the chair.
"Have you any last words you want to say?" that Officer said again.
"There's plenty I could say about a certain Officer. Perhaps, I will meet him somewhere else, after this life. I would like that. Love you Mum, Dad, and our Kid. That's all." I was shaking badly by now, just couldn't stop it.
A cotton hood was slipped over my head and tied at the back of my neck. The Reverend kept his promise.
"God the Father of mercies, through the ......
The cotton hood clung to the region on my eyes. I must have been weeping for my mother. I listened to words, sounds I no longer understood, for two minutes, or two hours, I don't know.
... urrection of his Son Jesus Christ Amen.
"Not long now, Son, I'm close to you," Andy spoke softly, and his hand left my shoulder.
I felt I was not alone, perhaps I sobbed
Someone tugged at my front as the target was pinned on. Seconds later...
"Present arms."
"Aim."
My lips mouthed the word 'MUM.'
Fire, Fire, Fire, Firrrrre!
~~~~ ♦ ~~~~
| Author Notes |
Not only the condemned were victims, very little has been written about the men on the firing squads. What traumas some of them must have had to live with, perhaps for the rest of their lives we can only guess.
This story has been an interesting writing exercise for me. I thank you most sincerly for reading his tragic story. In doing so we may keep the memories alive of these 306 individuals, victims, like millions of other victims of a stupid war. |
By write hand blue
SHOT AT DAWN ~BY HIS BEST FRIEND~
1917
World War One
Lest we forget.
by write hand blue
≈♦≈
JIMMY SMITH aged twenty five years was executed for cowardice on Tuesday 5th September 1917.
Prologue.
I believe that the execution of Private Jimmy Smith, who was suffering from shell shock (now described as a type of combat stress reaction), is a story that needs to be told. He was horribly injured due to a botched execution and finally given the 'coup de grace' by his best friend, Richard Blundell.
What follows is my description of how his last hours may have been spent, based around facts that are harrowing.
Finally I would like to thank Dean Kuch, who first gave me the idea to write a sequel to my Shot at Dawn story...
♦♦
Near a chateau at Kemmel in Flanders, France.
06.00 hours on that day.
Dawn breaks and introduces fine weather for the day. In a secluded field several miles behind the front line, a small group of eleven soldiers emerges wearily from a battered twelve man army tent. White faces bear testament to their collective suffering after an encounter with a group of French soldiers the night before. Oh yes, the Calvados had flowed that night and they anxious to a man, to blot out the thoughts of the task they had been ordered to perform the next morning---took advantage of that hospitality so generously offered.
Private Richard Blundell had drunk on his own, away from the group. He was unusually morose that night; No-one had to ask why. It was, after all, his friend, that the group of soldiers were to shoot that next morning. They were Private Smith's execution squad.
♦♦
Meanwhile, in a nearby village police cell...
I'm Jimmy Smith, and 07.30 hours today will be my time.
"I don't care---no I don't.---I DON'T!" I lie of course.
Certain comfort befalls me as I sit in that dank, gloomy, death cell. Those words are like a valve, an outlet for my feelings.
"I DON'T! I DON'T CARE!"
Rocking forwards and backwards in this cell so dreary. "It's not working now as clouds of anguish; thoughts so weary---roll over me. What did I expect?---Who knows?---For what writer could write a script like this?"
"Those explosions---concussive waves of terror felt in every molecule of my body. I cannot take anymore. I have to run away---anywhere! Yes, even here is better than the front as I wait---forrrr."
Talking to myself is no help as I start to shake again; I know that I'm not right. They say to me, 'You're a coward.'
Back and forth again and again. Then I become aware of what I'm doing and stop. Yes I stop. Can that mean I'm under control?---"LIKE HELL IT DOES."---My mind is a mush, confused, with thoughts of escape.
"If I were a bird then straight between the bars and away. Oh!---How lucky to be born free."
"IF ONLY!"
Better still to be invisible...
"YES, THAT'S IT,---INVISIBLE!---IF ONLY, IF ONLY, IF ONLY, IF ONLY! I don't know if this can be heard?"
I scream inside my head, my arms flail as I try to grab reality. My battle is a lone one with this terror that dwells within myself. I try to contain it. I'm so lonely, an outcast. 'Pull yourself together,' they say.---"If only I could."
"Perhaps it's best that I be shot!" I shout out (I think).
Something wanders into my panic, the chaos that controls me. A normal voice I recognise from my regiment interrupts my thoughts. Corporal Cox speaks to me.
"Easy now, lad! Come on---easy does it."
If only I could change more of my thoughts---panic wells up inside my breast again. How can this be, a voice so soft and even?
His chair scrapes across the polished cement floor. It sounds like a dog screaming.---LOUD SOUND = PANIC---I dive scrabbling futilely for cover and safety under the bed.
Surely Corporal Cox will understand that you have to get away from those bombs and shells. I'm shaking like a leaf. Why do they say like a leaf? There is no leaf that shakes like me. My mind is in a turmoil as I examine the grime caked on to the leg of the bed. Missed every time by the mop.
"Come on back on the chair. It won't be long now---soon be over with."
The corporal's friendly hand rests upon my shoulder; I refuse to move from the safety of under that bed.
"Why am I so tortured on this Earth?" I ask the Mother Earth or nobody. My breast is heaving yet I neither cry nor sob.
Screaming rings in my ears; I cannot hear anything else. Then I know.---It's me... "Why can't they just leave me alone?"
Later.
I have promised to be brave and I will do my best. Just as I did for three years fighting on the front. Then I suffered my battle wounds, this has changed me. I can no longer face those guns. Three times absent without leave that is all it takes to receive the death sentence.
My time has come and Corporal Cox leads me out of the cell. Two Privates are waiting outside the door. They bring my chair; I know it's not for my comfort. The Corporal tries to hide the thin rope and material behind his back, but I see him.
Despite my feeble struggles, before I know it. I'm tied to that chair and blindfolded. My senses are heightened and all over the place. I recognise voices leaking through the thin wooden barn wall.
"Oh my God!"
I thrash about in despair, but I cannot move.
"Get this over with quickly," I scream as I rock and pull against the bonds.
"Oh Mother! help me..."
♦♦
Meanwhile.
Richard Blundell speaks.
We had been given our orders the day before to form an execution squad at 07.30 hours.
Private Jimmy Smith is known as a nice ordinary lad, and done a lot of fighting too for his country. Just back from recovering from some wounds. We all know he has shell shock--and who can wonder with what he has been though. He doesn't deserve this. None of us is happy about it.
Anyway it's 07.25 hours and we are having a last smoke before...
I can hear Private Smith on the other side of the wall and put my finger to my lips. If we can hear him, then he can hear us.
Quietly we move away and draw four short straws to select who is to fire the shots. I had the bad fortune to draw one. We are all led through the connecting door into the small yard at the back of the police station.
Without a word we line up and await the command. My companions are as shaky as myself. In fact standing next to me, Private Fletcher's face looks distinctly green. That Calvados last night was not a good idea.
Poor Jimmy is loud and incoherent under that blindfold.
"Hurry up for Christ's sake," I say under my breath.
His screams are a torture to us all.
Eventually the order for fire comes. Shaking---we all aim to try to miss, aware that court martial awaits us if we all do so.
Four badly timed bangs ring our ears.---It is a good few seconds before I realise what that terrible screaming means. Poor Jimmy is badly wounded.---Screaming, he writhes in agony sitting upon that chair.
Now it's down to a rather nervous subaltern to put him out of his misery. He draws his Webley revolver with a shaking hand. Jimmy's movements are too violent for him to aim
I stand in horror, my knees weak. The urge to vomit is almost overwhelming. My head reels for this loss of humanity.
"For the love of God---fire you bastard!" I shout.
Major Armstrong, who is standing to one side as a witness takes charge. He shouts something to me that I cannot hear above the screams. I know that he wants me to end Jimmy's suffering.
I rush over and grab the gun. Try as I might Jimmy's head is moving far too much. I'm struggling to keep on target. This has to be a clean shot.
Jimmy's screams from the depths of hell have an indescribable effect upon me. With some difficulty I grab his shoulder with my left hand and wipe the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my gun hand. My mind races. I have an idea, born by the desperate circumstances. I shout out something that I know will haunt me.
"Jimmy!---This is Richard!---Don't worry, I'm here now!"
Somewhere in his subconscious he recognises my voice. His movements cease momentarily to acknowledge me. That is all I need. I release him. Move back a little, aim and pull the trigger. All done in a second. My friend's head jerks away from me and a small red fountain indicates that I have hit him in the right spot. He is dead and past all the torments of human life.
Jimmy's last thought was my name. I know that my torment has just started and will never leave me...
***
| Author Notes |
I know this may be confusing but this is chapter 1 part three of 'Shot at Dawn.' of the book 'OUT OF THE BLUE...
06.00 hours = British military time. Calvados is a local produced apple brandy. Private Jimmy Smith was one of only a relatively small number to survive Gallipoli. He was awarded two good conduct medals and fought for his country for three years before being seriously wounded. It was after this that his troubles started. He quite simply had, had all he could take. I know that things are different in wartime, but surely he should have been given a place to work behind the lines far from the noise of war. Less than 10% of soldiers given the death penalty were actually executed. Private Richard Blundell died some seventy years later. And was troubled throughout his life right up to his deathbed, by the fact that he had to shoot his best friend. I sincerely thank all who have been so kind as to read this. Finally I wish to acknowledge:- www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2785764/Shot-dawn-best-friend.... |
By write hand blue
by
Write Hand Blue
Part Four
A Day in the Life...
of
~ Private Herbert F. Burton ~
7th March 1915
0800 hours.
Location = The Allied front line
Ypres, France.
We all heard and knew what was coming.
Sergeant Fowler shouted, "This one has our name on it!"
I pulled down hard on my helmet and sank to my knees. Icy trench mud soaked the thick uniform material.
~~~
I watched on a distant ridge the German guns fire at our lines.
One distant bang registered and a 155mm howitzer launched another one hundred pound contact shell.
Like a hundred wolves in unison a terrible howl, a portent of nothing good rent the skies. It faded as if all danger had been dissolved by the power of good as the shell slowed down and reached its apogee. Oh! The disappointment as that monstrous black bomb showed itself for but a fleeting instant and started its journey back to earth.
A familiar whistle turned so rapidly into a dreaded screech of detestable form. A sound that a half throttled anti-Christ thrown from a large building would make. They say you hear this sound of a banshee just before oblivion. My blood pounded in my ears as I lived out this obscene man-made nightmare. I looked down unbelieving at that black mud of despair, "Is this real, am I really he—?" my question cut off, as—.
The blast wave penetrated my face and body like a huge invisible fist and ripped the air painfully from my lungs—needles pierced my ears.—The earth shook. I was thrown against the coarse scratchy sand bags—THUD—ZIP—FIZZ—SWISH the shrapnel spread out mostly overhead. Thick brown acrid smoke from the RDX explosive enveloped me. I coughed and spluttered for a second. I tried not to breathe. I felt done...
Then came the shower of earth from the near miss, just ten yards from the front of my trench. I yelped! Large and small stones rattled off my thick pressed steel helmet and made it sound like a baked bean can. My knuckles were cut and bleeding. Then that big one.—'Whack.'—I was really out of it.
As I slowly recovered my senses I became aware that I was questioning whether I still had to endure the tribulations of mortal life. Or was I somewhere quiet with angels, where the sun always shined. I wished for the latter.
A horrid metallic taste inside my mouth interrupted my thoughts. Though much worse. This reminded me of the slight taste of a large aluminium mixing spoon when I was a small boy.
Memories flashed and the sun disappeared. This was replaced by a picture of my smiling Grandmother. She passed me her mixing bowl and spoon. The sweet mixture I scrapped from the sides and greedily licked from that large spoon. "You'll get worms if you eat too much," she warned.
I always felt, "Ugh!" when she said that.
"Why the Hell am I thinking these stupid thoughts."
Reality slowly crept over me like a new day dawning.
We should be accustomed to this they told us. I had remembered to keep my mouth open while I held onto the rim of my helmet and to cover my ears with the palms of my hands.
Nearby my friend Donald Slaughter tried not to shake—but he did. The blast had left him in a deplorable state and blood trickled from his nose and ears. Blown off his feet; he sat in no comfort. The mud was a foot deep.
"You OK Donald--Donald?"
I realised he hadn't heard me. He couldn't have, because I had been unable to even hear myself. My ears rang like bells. And a mist of grey headache danced behind my eyes. I felt silly to have spoken.
I saw the vacant look in his red eyes and followed his gaze. Just above where my head had been; imbedded in a sand bag lay a large chunk of steaming shrapnel. It had missed me by the length of a cigarette packet.
Had I not dropped to my knees the shrapnel would have gone through my heart. It was my turn to shake. I noticed that my nose dripped blood.
~~~
That morning I spent some time with Donald, who had caught more of the blast than me. I wanted to send him to a first aid station. With only bruises to show, he was afraid of being accused of lingering behind the lines. He looked like an old man to me, and just twenty years old. Being short and younger, I looked like a boy next to him.
We missed breakfast today, because the cook was killed by the blast from another shell. Not a mark could be found on his body. Just one of those things. It took some time to clear up all the porridge that had been blown everywhere. We didn't give a dam about the mess, just didn't want to attract the already fat rats.
Most of us couldn't bring ourselves to eat the second lot they brought us. All except fatty Arnold of course; who eats everything.
We cursed that shell...
~~~
Lunch was cold bully beef, soggy cabbage and half cooked whole potatoes. We had to rush down this wonderful meal, because our Commanding Officer Major S Hawkins, decided to put in an appearance.
He stood looking immaculate. Wearing a monocle and with his riding stick under his arm he addressed us. I got the impression that he was miffed at having to get his mirror bright boots muddied.
"I'm imp-p-pressed with you lot. England has high expectations of the rank and file.--Sniff.--We know that we c-can depend on you to keep the Boche at bay. Not long now,—WHAT!—Just another few days and we will have you lot back behind the lines for a little R and R. You know hot s-showers and the like—WHAT EYH? (posh stuck up voice) Any Questions?" Without waiting for a reply he slapped his thigh with his leather gloves in a fashionable manner and turned to leave.
With little time to think, I just piped up.
"Why do we have to eat this pig swill,—Sir?"
As I motioned with my hand to the plates of half eaten food strewed about the rough wooden benches. I knew that I had said the wrong thing. All had gone strangely quiet. Even the gunfire had stopped. I was more aware of that, than what this clown had to say.
He turned to me and I felt doomed.
"WWWHAT--DDDO you mean?—This is far better than the food the Germans gget to eat."—Sniff—Sniff.
"Bollocks!" I half muttered under my breath so only he could hear.
The Major looked at me in flustered bewilderment. With a shake of his head, he turned to Sergeant Fowler and said in a low voice.
"Who is that—tttrouble maker?"
That is Private Burton Sir. But don't worry, he's marked his card now and I will deal with him.
"Make sure you ddddo, and most severely. We can't have this: next they will want sssilver ssservice. Dear!—Oh dear!"
With that he marched off because he knew that to leave me where I was, would be a bigger punishment than he could give. For the moment at least.
I knew I had gone too far and that I was in 'for it'. I do tend to speak without thought sometimes. With what we had been through, at that moment I was past caring.
"I'm watching you now laddie."
The Sergeant looked, caught my eye and just nodded. A feeling or something, sent a shiver down my spine—that look.
Sure enough, I was given an extra long watch of guard duty from 2000—0600 hours. He warned me. If I fell asleep I would be court-marshalled. I laughed out loud. I stood in that rain and welcomed it into my face. It trickled down my neck then my back and finally down my legs into my boots.
Despite the fact that I did nothing wrong, he accused me of smoking on duty. And ordered me to perform twenty push-ups on the mud floor. This left me filthy as well as uncomfortable for the rest of the night. He warned me that I had to be ready with immaculate kit for inspection at 0800 hours.
When the time came I knew what was in store for me. The Sergeant didn't disappoint and I ended up on jankers peeling potatoes. I hadn't had any sleep yet and wasn't sure how much of this I could stand. And I still had the shakes from that near miss from yesterday. I was worried where all this might end...
≈♦≈
| Author Notes |
On the 21st July 1915. Seventeen year old Private Herbert Francis Burden, of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was executed for desertion.
The 'Shot At Dawn' statue is a likeness of Herbert. This fictional account has been written under the name 'Burton' in memory of Private Herbert Francis Burden and is not meant to be interpreted as his personal actions. Only a scenario that may or may not be near the truth. To execute any soldier for this sort of crime is in my opinion reprehensible, even in war time. But a boy of seventeen is beyond understanding. Perhaps he was sensitive and not suited to battle, or perhaps he was like the one in the story and didn't give a shit. Because of his size he would have been bullied by upper ranks. And perhaps made an easy example to the rest of the rank and file. Or perhaps the reverse is true and he got under their skins. It may seem that I have singled out officers for criticism in my story, but they bear the responsibility for those detached, incompetent, maladroit and I suspect murderously spiteful executions. No officers were executed during WW1. If they suffered from shell shock it was described as something like neuralgia and sent home. This was blatantly different to the treatment of the rank and file on the front line, were this disease didn't exist (it wasn't allowed). I know that officers had a proportionally high attrition rate. But there was a huge difference in the way the two classes were regarded and treated. This writing could be regarded as a memorial to all men who lost their lives during WW1. Once again I humbly thank you for reading my work. :) Mel. |
By write hand blue
King Richard III 1452 -- 1485...
PART TWO
of
~ The Awakening ~
Next day we both (Carol, and myself, Julia), awaited the evening with some trepidation because we were due to start our first attempt to contact King Richard...
***
We decided not to talk about the subject at work during office hours. So it was while we had lunch that we made plans to try and record close beside King Richard's remains. This we would do after work when we were on our own. I could tell Carol was nervous because she left most of her sandwich and her hand trembled a little. Those four and a half hours dragged by.
Instead of locking up the department and going home as I have done for the past eleven years, we locked ourselves inside. This gave us the privacy we needed. The building was strangely quiet now that everyone had gone home.
From a cupboard in the unlocked storeroom we removed a large nondescript cardboard box, unremarkable but for the white label stuck on the side. On this label written in blue biro read the words, King Richards remains. I placed the borrowed voice recorder, a much larger and more complicated device, on the table.
The coffee from the vending machine was not very nice, I have always disliked the taste of those cheap white plastic cups, but it did seem to calm us. We tried to pass some time with idle chatter, both of us sat next to 'that' box. We were determined not to hurry.
I took a notepad and pen out of my bag and as I was about to say something to Carol, that familiar feeling rolled over my shoulders like a cloud, my hair did actually stand on end. She noticed my shudder and nodded I could see she felt the same. -- 'Watched.'
"Right, as we agreed I will ask one question, this I will write down."
I steeled myself, she gave the nod and I turned the recorder on. I managed to keep my voice even as I asked him.
"King Richard, why do you want to communicate with us?"
I held my breath as we watched the analogue meter on the side of the recorder for a sign of movement. This would give us an indication of when it recorded a sound. Barely a minute passed -- then the pointer on the meter started to jump about as if alive. Even though I sort of half expected it I jumped too. I remember Carol giggled, due to nerves I think. I can't describe how I felt as my heart raced and my ears roared with shock.
She wrote a note on my pad. "Wait for the activity to stop then ask the next question."
Seconds later all was still again.
"King Richard, have you any message for us?"
Again the meter indicated that sound was being recorded. I looked at her and she shook her head in disbelief. This indication lasted longer and we waited for a while to make sure nothing was missed..
**
Back at our apartment John and Andrew were waiting. I introduced Carol and we sat down. With the formalities over, John with his characteristic forward personality wasted no time.
"Well what have you got for us?"
Andrew was already wiring up the recorder.
"God, that was spooky! Twice it recorded something in answer to my questions."
We were not really prepared for what followed. Why was I perspiring?
**
In answer to my first question, 'Why do you want to communicate with us?' -- We heard this.
♦♦
"I I mmuuu-- I must make, make great (effort?) This (is not) easy for I have no victuals here..." (some gibberish followed).
♦♦
The words didn't register with me at first, above the roaring in my ears.
"Are you alright Julia? You swayed and seem out of it."
I realised that John had his hands holding my shoulders to steady me. He passed me a glass of water. After a few minutes we continued. My second question drew this response. He seemed to be able to express himself in a better fashion and we only had to edit a small amount of the text.
♦♦
"Greetings, ~ greetings to you fair ladies." [a pause of a minute or two].
"Awake I be, the sleep of many centuries past ~ I do speak to you ~ as if through some shinny bronze (mirror) ~ or some other devil's work. ~ I beg of you to listen. ~ Yes I, once a King, do beg ~ tis true ~ the years make it so."
♦♦
Andrew showed us how to play back the recording so we would be able to hear King Richard's voice almost as he spoke. This enabled us to converse in a more natural fashion. I worried about his mention of devil's work. At our second meeting some more words were said that made no coherent sense. Then we heard this.
♦♦
"My wish is for all to be Frome [known?] ~ mmussss, must, must, must, must."
♦♦
At first we had some interference with the words. Then gradually it became apparent that we had established a kind of rapport with him, a channel of communication that became much clearer. One of our early questions was. 'What do you miss the most?" we found his answers revealing.
♦♦
"I miss my only son snatched from mortal life at but five years of age. And I miss my dear wife who suffered from consumption and died not long before me. ~ Her fear that I caught her contagion forced her to insist that I kept away from her in her last days. ~ She also insisted that I search immediately for a new wife before her death, so as to secure my future kingship. This did cause me much pain and heartache, she always occupied my mind."
"I also suffered illness that must never be shown. Lest mine enemies grow bold with the knowledge. This be the reason for my pallor, that pale countenance so often commented upon."
"Mortal life, to live and breathe again, to experience a few summers, yes, I miss that. ~ A chance to rid my kingdom of that usurper 'Henry Tudor' ~ I miss not suffering pain from the injuries or perhaps the memories of them. My complaints are few and just. But most of all I miss Malmansy wine. ~ I jest...Tis my wish you call me Richard as my friends did on informal occasions."
♦♦
He expressed a desire to tell his side of the history that surrounded him. Over the next six weeks we interviewed Richard many times. One or two of our questions elicited humorous answers.
For reasons of clarity we have left out most of the questions. The minimum of editing was used on his text, so it may read a little disjointed in places. Certain archaic words have been substituted with the modern equivalent. And please note that the following writings are not exhaustive, there are more facts and conversations we are keeping for further publication/s...
♦♦
"I was King of England for only two years, crowned at a time of political unrest, when peace was in a delicate balance. My brother King Edward IV had recently died and left the country in political turmoil. ~ My great intention was to be known as the King of Enlightenment ~ of Peace ~ to that end I did plot and scheme for the people of England to be brought together in peace. To consign to history The Wars of the Roses."
My early demise had always saddened me.-- I was the last English King to die in battle on English soil, to protect (his) just title. ~ I had such plans."
♦♦
At first Richard showed an understandable reluctance to talk about the actual details of his demise and the actions leading up to his injuries. I pointed out to him that his injuries were there for all to see, and it would help his cause no end, to reveal to us how he came to lose his crown and his life. He answered using my name for the first time.
♦♦
"Julia, tis true as you say, and my wish is for all to be revealed. To describe that terrible time I will steele myself and in no small fashion for ~ again ~ I must endure again, all that I suffered."
♦♦
| Author Notes |
One of the medical discoveries regarding Richard was the evidence that he suffered from round worm. This unpleasant parasite makes you vomit, etc and gives to flu like symptoms. It could well have been the reason for his pale face so often commented on.
Once again thank you for reading. Richard has a lot to say in part three... |
By write hand blue
The reconstructed face of ~ King Richard III 1452 -- 1485 ~
PART THREE
of
~ The Awakening ~
Due to the suffering and injuries King Richard had experienced, he was a little reluctant to describe his last battle. He spoke to us about his earlier life when he had to flee with his brother George to France. This he blamed for his condition, 'The bad Paris airs.'
He called me by my name for the first time.
♦
"Julia, tis true as you say and my wish is for all to be revealed. ~ So to be able to describe it, I will steele myself in no small fashion for ~ again ~ I must endure all that I have suffered."
♦
PART THREE
≈ The two sides of Richard ≈
♦♦
Sleep was difficult on that last night . Again I was troubled by fever and a night sickness. ~ I awoke with certain worries and memories of a dream, where my departed wife Elizabeth had bid me use caution today. This haunted me in those early hours, and as I lay in my bed. I can still remember how I listened to the birds call while sleep evaded me.
For the last time I arose to a clear sky that seemed to bid good fortune for our cause. I took some time in prayer, in my private chapel to receive the grace of God.
I broke bread, then had my wine sops in solitude.
I was well used to being on campaign in past years. But now I had been King of England for two years and with all the feasting I undertook, I was not in good condition in spite of weekly sword practice. Only the anticipation of a quick victory occupied my mind. I had to finish Henry Tudor with all speed, my fears were of an extended fight and being forced to fight out of saddle.
Cheered by the thought that there was no need to kill the serpent's body, and all we needed to do was cut off it's head. ~ This would have bountiful rewards; A quick action to dispatch Henry would save so many good true Englishmen. Wives who waited would have their husbands back safe and in fair health.
Inside me today dwelt a sickness and 'tis true I appeared pale on that morning when I called that early meeting. My knights Sir John Buck, Sir Robert Brackenbury, Sir John Howard Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard Earl of Surrey and Henry Percy Earl of Northumberland all arrived out of armour due to the early hour. We spoke our minds and with the discourse we had, I truly believed my intentions were known within my command. Battle was nothing new to us all and I issued my orders .
Later, cartloads of cannons arrived, brought in haste from the tower, to be taken and chained in line with good array. These were dear to my heart and I did linger to confirm the sighting of these weapons.
Some small details spring curiously to mind. When my esquire fitted my armour I recall how easily my breast plate fitted and with some comfort. Work under my guidance had recently been carried out by the armourers at Greenwich Armoury. My armour was something of a problem to me and needed careful fitting due to my upper body shape ~ a necessary support that provided easement for my body.
I also remember that I did so enjoy the comfort of my new purple gloves. These were made of special chewed kid leather. I remember that I was to reward the maker at a later date.
I toured my troops upon horseback with my basinet removed ~ so they may gaze upon the face of their King and behold the truth of my words ~ I was received by many cheers. I did address them so...
"Good men of England we all salute you. By today's end with victory before you, ~ 'God Willing,' ~ you will be happy to return to your homes with little blood on your hands. ~ Henry Tudor is but a weakling and the cause of all ills in England today. With heads held high we will today dispel this menace and the traitors before him. Our cause is just, and, righteous before God."
They rallied forth, as they shouted and hailed their true King.
♦♦
It was late afternoon as we both nursed our coffee, we were seated at the table in the storeroom, prior to one of our meetings to contact Richard. I noticed that Claire had produced her black notebook, this led me to wonder, ~ something was in the air. She'll not mind me saying this, but she is an 'inveterate' note taker (goes with the job I suppose) and there is usually something afoot when 'that' book appears. She sucked on her old worn red pencil lost in thought.~ I waited.
"Julia, what do we know about Richard?" Claire looked at her open notebook.
I shrugged my shoulders, "I've read most of the books about him. Dunno really, I certainly don't trust that Shakespeare version of him, that physical description of him was way off the mark. Was he really murderous as well?"
This stirred her to comment and without raising her eyes, "There are references to his temper. He must have been aware that he was not popular in some quarters. Although there are conflicting, contemporary accounts, ~ I want to ask him." ~ Claire paused and changed tack.
"He has been charming to us and shown himself to be a good person. Perhaps there is more to learn about our Richard. I would like to ask him a couple of questions."
"What questions?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," she scribbled something in that book.
I didn't pursue the point, she was my superior after all.
On this particular interview we got a reaction out of Richard that confirmed some of the accounts of his behaviour. Claire asked him two questions.
"Richard what were your feelings about the popular Henry Tudor? And what would you have done to him, had you ever met him on his own?"
I would never have agreed to those questions if Claire had asked me first.
♦♦
"Popular! ~ POPULAR! ~ What say you? If I had met him? ~ "IF I HAD MET HIM?" (shouting now) That Traitorous scum would have tasted the fine steel of my sword. If I had my hands on him I would murder him! Murder him! Murder him! Murder, Murder, Murderrrrrr himmmmm. (screaming). Down the gardrobe! Yes that's it dowwwwnnn the gardrobe. HANG TIL DEAD! ~ DEAD! ~ DEAD!...
♦♦
Out of control, his rants projected a mental picture of evil menace. Tantrums worse than any spoilt child. Unnerved we listened, ready to bolt from the room.
Then an electrical plug jumped out of a wall socket with a crack.
"Right that's it!" I almost shouted.
"Wait, don't leave me behind!" Claire screamed, as she fought me to be first out of the door. We had left the recorder running.
I phoned John, and a short time later he led us back into the room.
"There's nothing wrong with this," he said, as he replaced the electrical plug. The red light of the coffee machine came back on.
We thought it best to let Richard work off his anger by himself. And the next day he spoke to us as if nothing had happened...
( part 4 is next, a correction for below)
| Author Notes |
Basinet = steel helmet.
Gardrobe = toilet. This is a work of fiction, I have no beliefs regarding the supernatural element of this story. I have tried to create the type of dialogue that Richard may have used in this story. Finally, I offer you my sincerest thanks for taking the time to read and hopefully review my work... |
By write hand blue
The reconstructed face of ~ King Richard III ~ 1452 -- 1485
PART FOUR
of
~ The Awakening ~
King Richard speaks...
♦♦
Fighting started in earnest about the eighth hour, when pike men on Henry's right flank advanced towards us skirting a large patch of marshland. I settled myself easy into my battle saddle ~ crossed myself then kissed my bible and handed it back to my chaplain . My humour darkened as always before battle, my anger towards Henry Tudor knew no bounds.
His Welsh pike men came under a hail of our arrows. Then the thunderous roar of my cannons started an uproar among that rabble. The whistle of the shot sounded like the wind and did tear multiple destruction of the enemy in a scattering of bloody limbs. ~ Checked now, their short lived charge melted back into disarray .
I saw my chance, and with sword held aloft ~ I signaled my mounted retinue of House Knights to charge ahead onwards towards his right flank. My intention was to steer around the marshland then turn directly towards the area where 'HE' that Traitorous Dog, sheltered in hiding. But, I made a disastrous mistake that fair morning. Determined and impatient to remove 'that 'Henry' once and for all. I should have waited for both our archers and cannon thus giving them more time to take effect, then, taken a much larger force with me.
Only a small patch of marshland separated us ; I did watch and could see that he appeared to be greatly fearful. As he retched upon the earth and near to panic his bodyguard had to give a hand to him. On foot he walked mere yards from here to there, and wrung his hands in anguish. Here was a man of little or no battle training, his years in France spent in hiding and flight ~ not in fight. This spurred me to make even greater haste. My wish was to settle this traitor once and for all.
With full reign given to my horse ~ unleashed, it leaped forward into a full gallop. At the head of my retinue I charged towards Henry's bodyguard; a group of knights small in number. I was close to him now.
Hard trained was I by the best, to be fast, and, inventive with my long sword. ~ Two feints with my sword then one stroke of some force followed and William Brandon, Henry's standard bearer was quickly despatched with a cleft to his head,.
Sir John Cheyney, a giant of a man¹ who accompanied the standard bearer, sat mounted and faced me with his broad sword drawn and ready. His horse was nervous.
"Help me. -- Oh Lord!" His call muffled from behind his visor of steel.
"Ahhhh!" His grunt of effort accompanied a 'swish' sound that passed close by my head. I had parried his sword and using the same movement followed through with a slash, this took my sword to his breast plate; dented by the force of my blow, he rolled back in his saddle. His horse reared up. As he fell forward with the horse, my sword swung again as I answered and I did thrust forward and sliced deep into his visor slit, with a resounding clang. Our short engagement ended when this traitor slid out of the saddle senseless upon the ground in a tangle with the standard of Henry now trodden into the mire.
A minor knight stood in my way ; with one stroke, my sword blow connected and disabled his sword arm. I had no time to dispatch them. They would pay later. I had bigger game in my sight. We were closing in on Henry now, and two more knights fell before my sword. By now I was within one sword length of 'that' traitor and barely harmed.
My left flank had thinned out in the race to reach Henry. Separated, we were on our own. Sir Stanley had been watching the battle and had refused to fight up until now. At this time he seized his chance to perform a cowardly attack at my weakest point, my left flank. His well trained men streamed in to attack. This gave Henry's guard time to re-group.
By now my retinue was cut off from all support. We were a group fighting on our own. ~ Our advance petered out as we fought to protect our rear. We were surrounded on three sides and vastly out numbered. To protect our right flank we had to retreat a short distance to the marshland. There we made our stand.
"Afore ye God we prove our mettle," I did but shout to my troops.
♦♦
During one of our pre - Richard meetings Claire said this to me.
"I believe that Richard could be guilty of murdering the two princes in the tower."
This statement didn't surprise me at all. By this time we were both very much involved with these revelations. I regarded myself as on the fence in my attitude towards Richard. His outburst on reflection didn't have as much significance to me, as it did to Claire.
"Claire, after over five hundred years he is going to need to let off a little steam. Can you imagine his feelings towards Henry Tudor after all this time?"
"I know Julia, but he did seem as if he could kill someone in a mad rage."
"Yes, yes, he could and did kill. He was a warrior King. The last in English history. He did kill in combat, and ordered several opponents to be executed. This was survival, kill or be killed. In this respect he was not without a blemish to his character."
I surprised myself at my depth of feelings about the subject. I knew that there were two opinions about Richard. My field of expertise embraced the Plantagenet period, of which we have still much to learn.
"I have to speak up because there are no accounts of Richard harming innocents, eg women, children and innocent people. Indeed he is recorded as being lenient and forgiving towards several of his enemies."
Our opinions were to lead to some interesting responses from him. I asked Claire to try and keep neutral in front of Richard and despite Claire's slight attitude, he seemed to trust us with his feelings. I didn't want to lose his co-operation.
♦♦
With but twenty good men left about me we had to fight in a fashion I had never intended. The bodies piled up as we fought for our lives. I had to be careful on horseback. We relied upon our archers who were loosing volley after volley at Stanley's men. Our horses started to fall to Welsh pikemen and soon our numbers did dwindle.
A forward pike-man approached me too close and his pike glanced off my breast plate with much force and a loud clang. He in return suffered his pike haft to be cast in twain by a stroke of my sword. I followed this with a well practiced fast return sweep, I leaned well forward and down, I twisted my wrist to give life and extra power to that sharp blade, his arm followed the haft in an eye's twinkle. His screams joined the battle noise, and the ground ran with blood.
Bloody and at a high price we edged ever nearer to that boggy ground. My House Knights arranged about me fought well, but we were hopelessly out numbered and cut off from my main forces.
Then disaster ~ a pike inflicted a deep wound into the hind quarters of dear 'WHITE SYRIE'~ my magnificent palomino horse. This caused him to scream, rear up, and jump deep into the marsh. ~ WE WERE STRANDED ~ I was greatly saddened to see him suffer in such manner, a creature worth ten of the traitorous scum before us. In normal times it would be merciful to end its suffering. This could not be considered on this sad day.
My training held me together, because otherwise this would have maddened me. With my mount lying on its side I was stranded with one leg trapped, stuck in the mire due to my leg armour. The rush was such that there was no time or way to undo my leather securing straps.
♦♦
Richard's description of the beginning where his horse became bogged down was an accumulation of several attempts by him to describe it. We gained the impression that he was definitely attached to that horse in a similar way that we would be to a family pet. So at a further meeting I asked him if I had touched a raw nerve with a question about his horse (actual words used). He showed a change of mood and humour, with this answer.
♦♦
"This horse, a favourite of mine was gifted to me by the King of France years before and since then much trained ~ I lost a good friend that day...
You touched not my nerve as much as I wish to touch your duckys [breasts]. I jest in the way of my court, though tis true this was rarely uttered by myself. And only when I had a fair lady of good issue to address, such as yourself."
♦♦
Spoken as a complement from a bygone age, I indicated that he made me blush.
♦♦
"I can see that changes over time are few in these matters..."
♦♦
≈♦≈
To be continued in part 5.
Part one indicted below is incorrect...
| Author Notes |
Sir John Cheney was reported to be 6 feet 8 inches tall.
Historical names are authentic for the characters. Richards horse would most likely have been named 'WHITE SYRIE' in the fashion of the times. |
By write hand blue
The reconstructed face of ≈ King Richard III ≈ 1452 ~ 1485
"I lived as a Christian King and died, slaughtered by the swords of traitors.
© Richard III 2014
PART FIVE
OF
~ The Awakening ~
Background...
King Richard's voice talks from the grave; where he describes his final battle to Dr Carol Buckley and Dr Julia Appleby. He was the last Warrior King of England to die in combat defending his title.
I would humbly suggest that you read the first part A, of the writers notes before continuing to read the story...
The Final Battle.
King Richard speaks...
♦♦
With no escape possible from this mire we were quickly overrun by the sheer numbers of that rabble. Many of whom had no stomach for fighting true, and, did stab and run. This caused me to laugh and shout forth.
"Come closer and feel my blade you products of whoring mothers and fathers of poor issue."
I have taken certain comfort in the fact that Squire George Ellis although having been hard pressed, did help me onto my feet and offered his horse. This I declined and shouted--"May God forbid, that I retreat one step--I will either win the battle as a king--or die as one."
Perhaps I should have taken the horse. Would history have taken another course? We'll never know.
I allowed all my energy to flow into the sword. I felt no fear, perhaps I should have.
I, with my small surviving guard stood alone. Where were all my men? Positioned just a half cannon shot away. Troops rewarded so well to fight for their King. Perhaps in the melee, sight of me was lost.--Then Stanley's men swarmed against our ranks--it bears well for them that I be slain--for had I not been, then the Stanleys and others would have paid an expensive price, commiserate with their treachery.
♦♦
At this point we felt his sense of his anger and frustration as if still fresh, after all this time. I did point out to Carol that the temper was not there as before. As the story unfolded this was crucial because Richard was now fighting on foot and as he said it would have been difficult to see the rest of his army. He described with scorn the quality of some of his adversaries.
♦♦
"Come on you traitors of England," I taunted all those cowards that hung back...
Still, do I remember the foreign tongues of Henry Tudor's rabble. Then disaster--a cowardly blow delivered from behind by a halberd penetrated my bascinet (helmet) and the top of my head. Wracked by an agony I can't describe, I still remember the warm feeling of that stream--as blood flowed over my right eye and down my face. With my left arm curiously weakened I regained my feet and ever forward I struck out with my sword. My damaged helmet cast aside.
"God still favours our cause," I shouted as a rally to my men.
My personal guard were valiant in their stance and by then much reduced in numbers they fought on. Slowed down a little and unable to grasp my dagger with my left hand. Still the enemy swarmed to us. With my grievous head wound I knew that all was lost. Tis most true I gave good account of myself. This I know has been recorded in certain accounts.
Meanwhile a pathetic Henry Tudor stayed safe yards away 'cowering' behind the traitors that surrounded him.
I exercised my trusty well balanced main sword in the manner taught to me by Dino Alffeti the Italian master swords man. My right arm moved by intention to save me, no thought was needed, my blade lived out a life and death dance of its own. And did provide danger to anyone brave.
Left and right I inflicted terrible injuries. With my restricted movement, most of the rabble behind me escaped my thirsty sword.
Alas I was taken again from behind, by those cowards--to be butchered like a dog. My unprotected head invited some mighty sword strokes of terrible force, the agony I cannot describe. From all directions blows came this way--that way--at last I succumbed to a slicing blow to my lower head. It was in this fashion, unfit for a warrior trained for battle that I was put to death. In my last moments on earth I did scream my final words ...
"Traitors, traitors, traitors."
♦♦
We thought it appropriate to mention, that Richard was screaming on the recording as he re-lived those last moments. Our hearts went out to this articulate and sensitive man who was merely defending himself and his crown. The session ended.
♦♦
No great credit was due to Henry for having allowed such cowardly indignities to be performed upon my still warm corpse. Nor, for the public display of my body, so mutilated, my shame covered by not so much as a clout, then dumped callously in an unmarked grave in Grayfriars Church. Hallowed ground though it was...
Why was I treated so?--Did I not defend my crown in honourable fashion? Was any recognition and expression of decency just too embarrassing for him? For he be the one who did nothing--but ready himself for cowardly flight.
Through time my name has been sullied so. To become as if history errant; so devoid of truth, as to be like some macabre fairytale for all to behold. Believed by the unquestioning and a travesty of any sense, or honour.
I became regarded by many as an ogre.--That demented murderous cripple as described by Shakespeare. His performances--those nasty presentations,--so deeply influenced by political fantasy and required for the survival of the author under the reign of Queen Elizabeth I.
It has pained me deeply to be despised by all--imagined to be so deformed in body and mind. This be untrue and unfair, I have a celestial want--a compulsion perhaps, to put these matters right.
We all be born, created to the Lord's wishes. Despite having but a slight frame, and an infirmity now so well shown in my grave, I trained in special ways and fought on occasions as well as any knight in the saddle. T'was only on foot that my strength was limited for reasons I well know. Pain was my penance and did tire me most, that was why I worked hard to become fast with [the]sword.
During my mortal life I followed certain Christian virtues. Perhaps at times I did behave with a soft and sometimes too forgiving heart. Especially concerning my dealings with that traitor Sir William Stanley.--For, tis a fact that my kindness in allowing him to live, even, after his earlier traitorous conduct, was the reason for my untimely demise.
Perhaps you may be interested to know that King Henry eventually had him executed in 1495.
Born from a line started by a bastard of John of Gaunt; Henry Tudor usurped my rightful title and became King Henry VII. During his reign he slaughtered many of his subjects, including all excepting one female of the remaining members of my Plantagenet family.
Henry VII proved to be a miser, unloved throughout England, a King who died with his coffers full and mourned not, by his subjects.
***
With their father's marriage declared invalid, the two princes Edward and Richard were charged as bastards and forfeited of any claim to the throne of England. Thus they became no longer any threat to my crown.
The assumed murder of the two princes in the tower, Edward and Richard, and so long charged against me was the only sully against my name.
In August 1483, I allowed myself to be influenced by my chief advisor. I commanded my two young cousins be sent far away from English shores in secret. Had it not been in secret it would have been pointless. Because they would forever be the focus for rebellion. I wanted nothing more than peace in my reign.
During my extensive travels I came across a certain monastery in Tuscany, Italy. Well impressed with the life there and the fact that they welcomed new converts, refuges, etc. I considered this a perfect place to send them. Ample monies were provided to give them a good new life in the service of God, and to want for nothing.
To this end I entrusted Sir James Tyrell who smuggled the boys out of the tower and the country disguised as two peasant girls. He escorted them eventually reaching safety in Italy, this took forty eight days.
He made a personal oath to me never to speak of this matter. He was loyal to me, and only revealed the truth to King Henry VII while under torture on the rack. He did not confess to any murders, as reported by Henry.
If, anything happened to the two princes, then I must ask you. Who would have had a hand in harming them?--Henry knew where they were living not long after my death...
Did the Tudors have any interest in murdering them? Would he have allowed the two last Plantagenets to live. Shifting the blame by sullying my name? It was so important to them that Shakespeare was commissioned by Queen Elizabeth I to write that odious play about me. Words that seemed to gain credence with time, the more repeated the more believed.
So pleased am I to see my true form shown to all. Though tis a strange feeling to have my bones examined, in such manner. In my times only witches were interested in human bones.
If there could be flesh upon my bones once again then I would show myself in combat and on the chess board the equal of any man.
I believe it to be my time to thank my dear Ladies, 'Julia and Claire' for this opportunity to turn a little part of history back onto the rightful course to truth. Had I the means then they would be titled. I can only communicate my many thanks...
Although your world has many wonders, tis not now the place for me, though tis true, I could wish for the chance of mortal life. My estates, large forests where I hunted during my time on earth, are now nearly all gone, used in so many ways.
I have learned that I'm soon to be put to rest in Leicester Cathedral as befitting a King.
But may I now rest in PEACE? Or perhaps there be more to tell; I did have an eventful life, little of which has so far been preserved for posterity.
With time for discourse to soothe my tragic soul ~ time ~ time, this I have in abundance, an eternity, of ~ time.
♦♦
We have kept in touch with Richard and are in the process of writing a book to include his earlier life. If all this seems unbelievable, then just remember that truth is stranger than fiction. He indicated that all profits are to go to the Richard III society. He has pledged that if able, he will make donations to certain descendants of his subjects in the future.
A note from the editor Violet May.
When we receive a story like this one, if the writer has heard the words directly from source and without proof, then we generally question the need for psychiatric evaluation. In this case the nearly inaudible voice was recorded on electronic equipment, and verified by witnesses.
I have been privy to a playback of the main part of this story. This has shocked me to the core; my preconceptions have changed in a similar fashion to the co-writers of this article Miss Carol Buckley and Mrs Julia Appleby.
It is impossible to over estimate the importance of this contact with the past. Much is to be learned about this largely unknown period of history ~ 'THE DARK AGES'.
~~ # ~~
| Author Notes |
PART A...
First of all my apologies for a story of this length and the delay between the parts. You may find it worthwhile to look up episode one, if you have not already read it. Available on my front page. During my studies of this man I felt a certain compulsion to put right some of the unfair criticism that has been leveled at him over the centuries. He was no saint, but my studies show him to have been of a better behaved character than his usurper Henry VII. I'm offering an incentive to those who spend the time and review this final part. Finally as always I humbly thank you for reading my work, this is always appreciated. PART B... I have assumed that the pointed weapon that failed to penetrate through the top of the skull missed damaging the central corpus callosum and affected only the right hemisphere of the brain. This controls the left side of the body. The slicing sword, or halberd wound to the lower rear head, is believed most likely to have been delivered while Richard was on his feet. This took a four inch slice out of Richard's brain and has been described as non-survivable. I have described this as Richard's death wound. There is another stab wound that penetrated right through the side of his brain. My feelings are that he was prone on the ground at the time but we can't be sure. It's believed that Richard's body was treated no different to the way any other royal person would have been treated. No hearses or coffins were used at battles, all but Kings were usually buried where they fell. He was carried on the back of a horse ridden by his personal servant. It was important for Henry to preserve Richards facial features so he could be identified and to prove that he was dead. So certain orders must have been given to guard the body. I have much more to write about this subject but space forbids. I acknowledge the two books as being my main source of inspiration but there are others to a smaller degree. 'The Last Days of Richard III and the fate of his DNA.' by John Ashdown Hill. 'THE KING'S GRAVE' by Philippa Langley and Michael Jones. Once again many thanks for reading this far... |
By write hand blue
~OUT OF THE BLUE~
A book of stories
Chapter two part one
by write hand blue
............................
King Richard III 1452 -- 1485
"I lived as a Christian King and died, slaughtered by the swords of traitors."
© Richard III 2014
~ The Awakening ~
The following article has been downloaded from The SUNDAY MAIL, October 12th 2014 first edition page one Headline:-
'New revelations' -- The 'VOICE' of King Richard III ? Read all about it on page three.
****
Page three...
This breaking story has been scooped by The Sunday Mail. Stories of this type are normally assessed and passed on if appropriate to other publications. What has made this one so different is the eminence of the co-writers Dr Carol Buckley and Dr Julia Appleby and the verification they have given us. Please read this and make up your own mind.
(The following syntax has been partly adjusted to conform to early 21st century standards).
♦♦
"Greetings... greetings to you fair ladies" ... [pause]
Awake I be, the sleep of many centuries now past ~ I do speak to you ~ as if through some shiny bronze [mirror] ~ or some other devil's work. I beg you to listen. ~ Yes, I, once a King do beg, ~ tis true, the years make it so."
♦♦
These words were recorded on the eve of our very first interview.
Please let me explain, my name is Dr Julia Appleby, and I'm a Professor of Human Bio-archaeology at Leicester University UK.
King Richard III's remains were found on June 15th 2012 below a municipal car park in Leicester where they had lain undisturbed since August 1485. I was on the original team of three, working with lead archaeologist Dr Carol Buckley and Dr. Stephen Johns, when we unearthed them on the first day. As soon as the exciting news broke, experts came to join us from all over the world, including America. It was rated as the find of the century. We were thrust to the forefront of our profession in a manner that overwhelmed us all at first.
With help from these eminent persons, all experts in their associated fields, we were able to undertake a long and detailed study of this well preserved skeleton. The procedures we used have been well documented, so I won't repeat them here.
What has never been reported up until now, were the feelings experienced by two people on several occasions whilst they handled King Richard's remains. I was one of those two.
July 10th 2014.
On the evening of this day something happened that will soon be explained. I discussed it with my husband and we decided to confide in Dr Carol Buckley, who is senior to me. I have known Carol for years, and retain the greatest respect for her abilities. She is also the other person who has experienced exactly the same strong feelings as I. Of a presence, as if someone else was in the room looking over our shoulders -- watching us!
The next day.
I worked with Carol all day on the skeletal remains, I had kept quiet about what was running around in my mind. -- At last it was near the end of our working day, the time had come.
"Carol, would you like to join me in a glass of wine down at the Uni. bar? I've something to show you."
"Yeh! Why not? We're nearly finished here."
A little later.
We both used small voice recorders to record notes during our work, this was to help us later to type out our reports. I had mine ready to play.
"Now I want you to listen carefully. In the background before I speak, can you hear a faint voice?" I tried to be nonchalant as I re-set the digital playback. "There, I'll play it again for you. It only lasts for about five seconds."
"Sounds like a man's voice, really deep -- too deep in fact. Now, this is not what I think it is. Is it? -- I mean with the feelings that you and I..."
Her sentence made all the more poignant by the words left unsaid.
Now some concern showed on Carol's face as she put her glass of red wine down on the table between us. I looked at her and I knew her well enough to be able to see signs of her internal conflict, her face glowed slightly and the cause wasn't the wine.
"Carol, you have known me now for years, so you know that I don't have any deep beliefs about ghosts and the like?"
"No, of course not, I've always regarded you as level headed."
She watched me patiently.
"Well last night at home I started work on my weekly report. Like you, I heard this indistinct background sound. With my mind filled with what I intended to write, I didn't think anything of it. It was my husband John who picked up on it."
"Jewels," (believe it or not, this is John's pet word for me) "There's something--."
I looked up from my work and wondered what he was on about.
His attention was focused on trying to find the right cable as he rummaged through a drawer full of them. After a short delay he had the sound routed through our high quality speaker system. And guess what? A clear low frequency voice spoke for a few seconds. It sounded as if it had been slowed down. This grabbed my attention, my report forgotten for the time being. Next thing, John is on his mobile phone talking to his friend Andrew."
"Andrew, guess what? Have you got a minute?"
"After filling him in on the situation, John turned to me and said."
"He'll be here in 10 minutes, so I'll put the kettle on for a brew."
Andrew arrived with a small case, and soon the two of them were playing about with more cables. After he recorded the first few seconds on his machine, further time was spent as we listened to several play-backs.
"It needs speeding up and the volume increasing to fifteen."
He made the adjustments then we heard this.
♦♦
"Tis my wish [noise] eak to you [noise] this strange [noise] orld."
♦♦
My emotions fired up as my heart raced. -- For an instant I was overcome with fear. The kind you get as adrenalin kicks in when confronted by the unknown, for that dreaded, 'first', primeval experience. The seconds passed as I composed myself. Even so my first words were rushed and an octave higher than normal.
"Oh my...! Can that be him?" I eventually gasped.
John looked a little sheepish as he shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a man's voice, who else could it be?"
"King Richard III of course," Andrew had a half serious smile on his face, "He wants to talk."
We looked at one another. Nothing was said for a while. Then Andrew chirped up again.
"Julia, I've another sound recorder, more sensitive than yours..." He looked at me, "I'll lend it to you, then we'll know..."
*
And so it was, Carol had just bought us a second glass of Chilean red. I think we both needed it. I had just played Andrew's altered recording; those nine words. She looked pale-faced. The silence lasted a good two minutes as we both stared into our glasses of wine. Carol spoke first.
"First of all we have to be careful here. I've always been told that it's dangerous to meddle with the occult. We must keep this a secret for now. At least until we can be sure of what we are dealing with."
Carol looked determined. This was no surprise. I had expected this, so I knew what I was going to say.
"Yes I agree. We have to be careful not to bring public ridicule upon us, because there will always be those sceptics about. I'm one myself, or at least I was, before all this. I would like to see how far we can communicate and complete a study, before we even think of going public."
"Yes, we have to proceed with caution, and in a scientific way."
Carol was adamant.
"We will start tomorrow."
The mere thought made my heart beat fast.
| Author Notes |
The heading picture is a reconstruction of King Richard III's face using a computer generated copy of his skull.
I wish to thank my readers for reading this my first part. My English is UK by origin and ask you to bear that in mind. First of all this is of course a work of fiction. A tale that I felt had to be written. Although I have researched this work fairly extensively, I would like to apologise for any errors. More extensive notes will appear with the following parts. |
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