Wipers

Passchendaele, Ypres, Belgium 20th September 1917.

Private William Shears squinted as he looked skyward into the darkness, heavy rain battered his face. He gripped his Lee Enfield rifle with grim determination. The damp smell of his uniform and dripping rainwater down the back of his neck, combined with the odour of human waste and the musty soil began to drain his morale. His leather combat boots were thick and heavy with mud; he tried flicking some excess off to no avail. His unit the 1st Battalion of the Middlesex Regiment were due to attack German lines at first light. He took a glance at his wristwatch, 1.15 am. Forty five minutes until he was relieved from his post on watch at the front line trench.

Shears looked out across the dark open fields of the Belgian landscape. He shuddered at the thought of what the day would bring. Would he ever see the nightfall again after tonight he wondered. This was to be his first taste of combat as a frontline soldier; he began to question in his own mind the reasons why he had joined the army. At just eighteen years of age he had enjoyed a comfortable life back home in England, gaining an engineering apprenticeship with a local company. Most of his friends had joined up, some of them already dead before he had even finished basic training, but most of all he had joined up to impress his sweetheart, Marion. He thought of her long dark hair and soft face.

The rain suddenly stopped falling. Shears reached into his inside breast pocket and took out his one and only photograph of Marion. He could just make out her lovely smile in the dim moonlight.

"Shears! I hope you’re keeping an eye out for those Jerries, lad!" barked a voice from the blackness.

Shears spun around to see three figures approaching. As they came closer he recognised one of them as Sergeant Bicknell, followed by another two men of the Regiment.

"These two men have volunteered to come and relieve you a bit early, Shears seeing as its your first week out here and all," explained the Sergeant, glancing at the photograph.

"Put it away lad, keep your mind on the job at hand," he gestured towards the picture.

Shears hurriedly stuffed the photograph back into his pocket.

"Oh, yes Sarge, thank you Sarge," he stammered.

"Don’t thank me lad, thank these two here," he gestured towards the two soldiers.

"Thank you," Shears nodded towards the soldiers. He recognised them as Private Fuller and Private Maxwell, both battle hardened combatants.

"Where are you from Shears?" asked Fuller.

"Hounslow, where are you from?" Shears retorted, rather glad that someone was interested in him.

"Twickenham," Fuller answered. "Cigarette?"

Shears took one from the packet and accepted a light, noticing that Fuller kept his hands cupped over the top of the flame. He puffed hard, blowing blue smoke into the night air.

"Don’t lift that fag up too high old man, we don’t want Jerry snipers seeing our position," Maxwell said in a slightly mocking tone.

Shears didn’t know whether Maxwell was serious or not but he decided to take the advice anyway.

"Right, I’ll leave you lads to it then," Sergeant Bicknell snorted, "Watch out for gas grenades!" were his final words before stomping off into the darkness.

Shears watched the Sergeant squelch away through the mud lined trench banked by walls of sandbags.