Free All I Have to Give by Mary Wood Page A

You’ll have seconds to
get out of range. Right, ready? Go!’
    The blast rivalled any that had been heard during the bombardment of the last few days. Stones, mud and bits of human body parts pelted Albert. But when the dust settled and he looked up, what
he saw made him want to cheer. He opened his mouth to do so, but only a croaking sound came from him, rasping in his throat and choking him. There wasn’t a German soldier alive for as far as
he could see, and their killing machine was blown to smithereens.
    Getting up, he shouted, ‘Run, lads! Get your packs and get yourselves back to our trench. But remember, this is only some of them; there’s more, so keep your heads down, and good
luck.’
    Running for all he was worth over what seemed like a carpet of bodies, Albert felt the pity of it all, as he apologized a dozen times to lads that he trod further into the mud and the bloodbath
beneath his feet. But, somehow, he didn’t think they would mind, and he could almost hear them cheering him on: ‘Run, Albert, get back for us; do it for your lads, Corporal!’
    Jumping the last yard and sliding down the sandbags, he landed in a heap, his body hitting the bottom of the trench where the baked mud made for a hard landing. For a moment he stayed still and
waited, unable to process what was happening in his mind. Then the sickening sound of screams for help and agonized moans penetrated his confusion once more. The gunfire had stopped. Looking up, he
saw so few lads – not even a quarter of those who had gone over remained.
    Orders rang out: ‘Any able-bodied men, fall in for stretcher duty. Come on! We are the lucky ones, so let us help those not so lucky.’
    Fear left him. He was needed and he would answer the call.
    Darkness had fallen before the last moan of death hailed the end of another disastrous day. Having carried countless wounded back to the trench, whilst burial parties worked at
getting the dead underground, Albert was on his last trip out. There were four lads with him. In twos, they helped a couple of wounded and set off back. ‘I’ll go a bit further.
I’m sure I heard something,’ he told them.
    Reaching the barbed wire, his white flag held aloft, he heard the sound again. Going over to where it came from, he found a young lad hanging over the wire netting. Only his torso, arms and head
remained intact. Lighting his face with his torch, Albert saw it was a lad he knew: Andy Phelps.
    The beam of light showed the agony and fear in the lad’s eyes. ‘Don’t be afraid, son. Trust in God: He will deliver you to a land of peace and ’appiness.’
How I
can say these words, and with meaning, when I cannot believe them? I do not know. But they give hope, and that is all that matters.
And Albert saw the hope. He saw the lad’s fear go and
peace take hold, just before his last breath escaped from him, never to be drawn again. ‘Rest in peace, son. You’ve done a good job.’
    Making his way back to the trench, Albert allowed his sobs to go unchecked, as his memory took him back to the time a few weeks before when he’d taken that same lad – just turned
eighteen, and one of the last volunteers before conscription – to the tent hospital. He was a nice lad, who was more concerned with the trouble he thought he was causing than for himself.
Edith had mended him and he’d been sent back for duty just this morning. Now he was gone.
    Albert reached the trench without problems. One thing could be said for both sides: they never shot at the enemy whilst they collected their wounded and buried their dead. He looked at the
huddle of defeated boys. ‘Come on, lads, we ’ave to lift ourselves. This ’as been a bad day, but we are needed. We ’ave to get all our wounded brothers to the Red Cross
clearing station. Look sharpish, and fall in to ’elp the medics.’
    As he said this, he realized that Jimmy wasn’t with them, and yet he’d seen him go over with the burial party. Calling