Read Online Kipling's Choice by Geert Spillebeen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geert Spillebeen
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I'm so tired. I want to sleep. Miss Ponton? Will you bring me upstairs? My bed.
***
A motionless figure is lying in a ditch. An inexperienced English officer. He is a small detail on the battlefield at Loos that Monday, September 27,1915. The British front-line pushes a kilometer farther to the east. The Irish Guards and the Scots Guards gain some ground on this day, just barely crossing the road that rises gently from La Bassée to Lens. The Germans are still defending the area. John is lying near the road, right by Pit 14, a limestone quarry between Chalk Pit Wood and the Bois Hugo. They are strange words, marks of identification, really, like Lone Tree in the same vicinity. These are the last words that Kipling read; they were notated on his military map.
English with some French in between,
John muses.
When I was a child we mixed the languages together and called it
Franglais.
Daddo and I used that jargon when we wanted to be secretive. And my friend Oscar. Poor Oscar. "Je believe this vraiment est le grand jour, mon friend." Elsie would find it a nice mélange, Oscar too, and Daddo.
The low, dull droning of a machine gun startles John out of his dozing thoughts. He listens intently.
The
artillery sounds far away, deep in the woods. Such a poor, endless rumbling can't possibly be directed at one precise target.
He tries to concentrate on the pumping noise of the artillery. That's all he can do, but it helps him forget the pain that is welling up again.
Damned Germans,
he thinks,
they're firing blindly in order to give cover to their men who are advancing. They're trying to win back territory. Shhh. Jesus, oooh, my face. Mummy, help! I can't take it anymore. I'd rather shove my head in a bucket of boiling water. Oh, God! No!
His whole body shakes. John can't cry out, for all that remains of his mouth, nose, and throat are some holes and patches of raw flesh. With his one hand he reaches for his head, but he lacks the coordination to do so. Exhausted, he drops his hand to his side. The shaking increases until once again his body is racked with spasms. Then, as if by magic, all movement ceases. John lies there and waits. For what? For whom?
Fifteen minutes have passed. Or is it five? He doesn't know.
Rifle and pistol shots.
John awakens in a daze.
The pain is gone again. The pistol shots sound harmless and almost ridiculous compared to the heavy machine-gun
rounds. A counterattack with little toy cap guns, but it keeps getting closer.
A shot is fired back every now and then, a cracking sound from the other direction followed immediately by an echo from the quarry.
A thumping noise now, footsteps and stamping on the ground close to his ear. Dim, hurried shadows dart past the corner of John's eye. He can't turn, and from his ditch he sees only the gray-blue sky, the sparse red tops of a few trees, and two brown, hollow eyes in the questioning face of the dead medic.
Someone is panting close by. There is a rustling of leaves.
"
Guck mahl hier, ein Offizier!
" a voice mutters in surprise.
Two hands reach out for the shoulders of the dead medic, who has been hanging close to John's face all this time. John sees the bloodied head give a brief nodâ
Like a quick greeting, a wink, see you later!â
after which the corpse is rolled away, disappearing with a thud into the grass next to him.
"
Herr Hauptmann, hier legt ein Leutnant!
" the same man calls to his superior, who has caught up to him.
God, Fritzes are all around me.
John weeps silently, helplessly. Tears of pain, rage, and disillusionment roll down the remains of his tattered cheeks.
Three men in mouse-gray uniforms gather around and by turns bend over him. One man kneels down beside John.
"
Mein Gott, dieser Kerl lebt nochl
" My God, this man is still alive.
A hand waves a black Luger pistol above him. The man mumbles something in unintelligible German and searches all of John's pockets.
What are they looking for? They won't find
Â
I'm so tired. I want to sleep. Miss Ponton? Will you bring me upstairs? My bed.
***
A motionless figure is lying in a ditch. An inexperienced English officer. He is a small detail on the battlefield at Loos that Monday, September 27,1915. The British front-line pushes a kilometer farther to the east. The Irish Guards and the Scots Guards gain some ground on this day, just barely crossing the road that rises gently from La Bassée to Lens. The Germans are still defending the area. John is lying near the road, right by Pit 14, a limestone quarry between Chalk Pit Wood and the Bois Hugo. They are strange words, marks of identification, really, like Lone Tree in the same vicinity. These are the last words that Kipling read; they were notated on his military map.
English with some French in between,
John muses.
When I was a child we mixed the languages together and called it
Franglais.
Daddo and I used that jargon when we wanted to be secretive. And my friend Oscar. Poor Oscar. "Je believe this vraiment est le grand jour, mon friend." Elsie would find it a nice mélange, Oscar too, and Daddo.
The low, dull droning of a machine gun startles John out of his dozing thoughts. He listens intently.
The
artillery sounds far away, deep in the woods. Such a poor, endless rumbling can't possibly be directed at one precise target.
He tries to concentrate on the pumping noise of the artillery. That's all he can do, but it helps him forget the pain that is welling up again.
Damned Germans,
he thinks,
they're firing blindly in order to give cover to their men who are advancing. They're trying to win back territory. Shhh. Jesus, oooh, my face. Mummy, help! I can't take it anymore. I'd rather shove my head in a bucket of boiling water. Oh, God! No!
His whole body shakes. John can't cry out, for all that remains of his mouth, nose, and throat are some holes and patches of raw flesh. With his one hand he reaches for his head, but he lacks the coordination to do so. Exhausted, he drops his hand to his side. The shaking increases until once again his body is racked with spasms. Then, as if by magic, all movement ceases. John lies there and waits. For what? For whom?
Fifteen minutes have passed. Or is it five? He doesn't know.
Rifle and pistol shots.
John awakens in a daze.
The pain is gone again. The pistol shots sound harmless and almost ridiculous compared to the heavy machine-gun
rounds. A counterattack with little toy cap guns, but it keeps getting closer.
A shot is fired back every now and then, a cracking sound from the other direction followed immediately by an echo from the quarry.
A thumping noise now, footsteps and stamping on the ground close to his ear. Dim, hurried shadows dart past the corner of John's eye. He can't turn, and from his ditch he sees only the gray-blue sky, the sparse red tops of a few trees, and two brown, hollow eyes in the questioning face of the dead medic.
Someone is panting close by. There is a rustling of leaves.
"
Guck mahl hier, ein Offizier!
" a voice mutters in surprise.
Two hands reach out for the shoulders of the dead medic, who has been hanging close to John's face all this time. John sees the bloodied head give a brief nodâ
Like a quick greeting, a wink, see you later!â
after which the corpse is rolled away, disappearing with a thud into the grass next to him.
"
Herr Hauptmann, hier legt ein Leutnant!
" the same man calls to his superior, who has caught up to him.
God, Fritzes are all around me.
John weeps silently, helplessly. Tears of pain, rage, and disillusionment roll down the remains of his tattered cheeks.
Three men in mouse-gray uniforms gather around and by turns bend over him. One man kneels down beside John.
"
Mein Gott, dieser Kerl lebt nochl
" My God, this man is still alive.
A hand waves a black Luger pistol above him. The man mumbles something in unintelligible German and searches all of John's pockets.
What are they looking for? They won't find
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