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Authors: Geert Spillebeen
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John squeezes his own eyes shut. He has a terrifying thought:
It's the Angel of Death who has come for me!
The motionless face hangs over the edge of the ditch, a half-meter from his very soul.
Is this the end?
John thinks. So
fast? Don't took at me like that! Jesus, I can't move, I can't even turn my head away.
Blood oozes from the dead mans ear. The drops roll over the grass and are immediately absorbed into the pink, chalky soil.
Could that be me? Am I already dead? Is it a bad dream, an image of myself? Say something, you creep! Why is this Grim Reaper so quiet? God, what's happening to me? I can't talk, my mouth doesn't work. And that horrible fellow doesn't say a word either! He won't budge. Everything is spinning around me, everything is black...
***
I'm living, I'm still breathing. Where was I? Oh, that wretched man. He's still lying there. His eyes. Go away! I can't do anything for him. Hmm, look at that, his arm. There is a white band on his sleeve, a red cross. That's the medic who wanted to help me. He's dead. That can't be, can it? Twoâthere were two of them. Could the other one be dead, too?
Listen! Someone is calling for help. Voices. Someone is crying. Why don't I feel anything? I can't feel a thing! Maybe it's better this way, without pain.
Listen! The road. Army cars are driving past. Ambulances, perhaps. Can they see me? No, they keep going. Patience, have patience, they will come. Above all else I've got to stay awake, I mustn't die.
There they are again. Engines chugging, autos are riding past me. Did I fall asleep, after all? Stay awake, think, fight, that's what I must do. Those cars. Think about home. What's it like in Burwash now, at Bateman's, our house? I wrote to them just last week about cars and such. Maybe they're reading my letters right now.
Â
Dear Mummy, Daddo, and Ebie. Or should I say Phipps these days? Yes, Ebie, I hear from Daddo that
you have a new nickname. By the way, how is my car? I wish I were a fly in East Sussex, dear sister, so I could watch you parade around in my Singer. Daddo writes that you already can handle it rather well. Is it true that he is considering leaving the
Green Goblin
in the garage for the rest of the war? You've become his permanent chauffeur, he says. Those Singers have proven to be useful in France, too. At the Divisional Headquarters I've seen two and they're exactly like my
Car-Uso.
I've got to restrain myself from getting in one of them and tearing off with it. If I'm lucky enough to survive this adventure...
Â
Did I really write that? "Survive?" God, no! Don't let me die. I knew that this might end badly, but I didn't think I would die. No, not that! They
will
find me here, won't they? I don't want to die. They can't just leave me here, can they? No, someone will come looking for me soon. I've got to control myself. Calm down, Kipling. Quiet, you're not an officer for nothing. Oh, I feel so tired and empty, I want to sleep. No, old chap, pull yourself together. Wellington School, drill, discipline, Brentwood, Warleyâkeep at it. Don't sail away now, stay awake,
you've got to think. Those letters. Think for a moment. What else did you write?
Â
If I'm lucky enough to survive this adventure I'm going to get myself the smartest two-seater Hispano-Suiza that can be bought. What a splendid car it is! And what a sharp engine it has under that graceful hood! But what I want more than anything else when I get back is a nice hot bath. You people at home can't even begin to realize what excessive luxury surrounds you. We're killing ourselves with endless marching and I've had quite enough of it, with all the dust and the bugs. And when it's not boiling hot, the rain pours down incessantly. We're fighting against the mud, lice, and rats. Those rough Irish boys in our regiment can withstand this abominable outdoor life better than we boys from wealthy English families. What I'd like first and foremost when I come home
John squeezes his own eyes shut. He has a terrifying thought:
It's the Angel of Death who has come for me!
The motionless face hangs over the edge of the ditch, a half-meter from his very soul.
Is this the end?
John thinks. So
fast? Don't took at me like that! Jesus, I can't move, I can't even turn my head away.
Blood oozes from the dead mans ear. The drops roll over the grass and are immediately absorbed into the pink, chalky soil.
Could that be me? Am I already dead? Is it a bad dream, an image of myself? Say something, you creep! Why is this Grim Reaper so quiet? God, what's happening to me? I can't talk, my mouth doesn't work. And that horrible fellow doesn't say a word either! He won't budge. Everything is spinning around me, everything is black...
***
I'm living, I'm still breathing. Where was I? Oh, that wretched man. He's still lying there. His eyes. Go away! I can't do anything for him. Hmm, look at that, his arm. There is a white band on his sleeve, a red cross. That's the medic who wanted to help me. He's dead. That can't be, can it? Twoâthere were two of them. Could the other one be dead, too?
Listen! Someone is calling for help. Voices. Someone is crying. Why don't I feel anything? I can't feel a thing! Maybe it's better this way, without pain.
Listen! The road. Army cars are driving past. Ambulances, perhaps. Can they see me? No, they keep going. Patience, have patience, they will come. Above all else I've got to stay awake, I mustn't die.
There they are again. Engines chugging, autos are riding past me. Did I fall asleep, after all? Stay awake, think, fight, that's what I must do. Those cars. Think about home. What's it like in Burwash now, at Bateman's, our house? I wrote to them just last week about cars and such. Maybe they're reading my letters right now.
Â
Dear Mummy, Daddo, and Ebie. Or should I say Phipps these days? Yes, Ebie, I hear from Daddo that
you have a new nickname. By the way, how is my car? I wish I were a fly in East Sussex, dear sister, so I could watch you parade around in my Singer. Daddo writes that you already can handle it rather well. Is it true that he is considering leaving the
Green Goblin
in the garage for the rest of the war? You've become his permanent chauffeur, he says. Those Singers have proven to be useful in France, too. At the Divisional Headquarters I've seen two and they're exactly like my
Car-Uso.
I've got to restrain myself from getting in one of them and tearing off with it. If I'm lucky enough to survive this adventure...
Â
Did I really write that? "Survive?" God, no! Don't let me die. I knew that this might end badly, but I didn't think I would die. No, not that! They
will
find me here, won't they? I don't want to die. They can't just leave me here, can they? No, someone will come looking for me soon. I've got to control myself. Calm down, Kipling. Quiet, you're not an officer for nothing. Oh, I feel so tired and empty, I want to sleep. No, old chap, pull yourself together. Wellington School, drill, discipline, Brentwood, Warleyâkeep at it. Don't sail away now, stay awake,
you've got to think. Those letters. Think for a moment. What else did you write?
Â
If I'm lucky enough to survive this adventure I'm going to get myself the smartest two-seater Hispano-Suiza that can be bought. What a splendid car it is! And what a sharp engine it has under that graceful hood! But what I want more than anything else when I get back is a nice hot bath. You people at home can't even begin to realize what excessive luxury surrounds you. We're killing ourselves with endless marching and I've had quite enough of it, with all the dust and the bugs. And when it's not boiling hot, the rain pours down incessantly. We're fighting against the mud, lice, and rats. Those rough Irish boys in our regiment can withstand this abominable outdoor life better than we boys from wealthy English families. What I'd like first and foremost when I come home
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