Shot at Dawn

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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!


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