| War and History Non-Fiction posted January 2, 2015 | Chapters: |
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A chapter in the book "OUT OF THE BLUE"
SHOT AT DAWN pt3 BY HIS BEST FRIEND
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...
***
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...
***
 Recognized |
|
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....
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 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....
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