A Bloody run Home

By Baby Boomer

A buzzing noise filled his ear, and a hand quickly slapped him across the head. A soldier in khaki, and his Enfield rifle slung over his back, walked in front of him. A swishing noise behind him told him that someone was coming from behind. The group of soldiers who had rescued the Captain and Jack were fighting to get through a thick swamp of water, infested with mosquitoes. The man in front of the Captain literally punched himself in the head, and was left to rub the spot where he’d punched. The sound of rifles came from behind him. The Captain held a Webley hand gun in both hands and was scanning around him, and the whole group seem to startle when a bang sounded from behind them.
“Grenades.” Muttered someone as the water floated around them, and large weeds gripped them. The swamp was surrounded by a forest, and was covered by a heavy fog. Dead bodies occupied some lonely spots, as the Captain found when he stumbled and found himself lieing to a decayed body. He quickly scrambled up out of the hole and joined the group. They all saw light flash out of the shadows ahead, and the leader looked at it hopefully and pulled out a hand gun. Another grabbed his arm,
“Don’t, they might hear you” He said, and the man regretfully lowered the gun into its holster. More bangs and gunshots erupted from behind, and as the Captain looked back he saw people gradually filling into the swamp.
“Over there, there coming!” He said, the group looked back as a bang sounded and light temporarily flashed behind them, then he looked over. Other groups of British soldiers were opposite them, on either side, and trailing them.
“Over there, you British?” asked the leader, an answer came back and he nodded, they were. A bank rose ahead of them, made of thick weeds. As the leader climbed, it gave the Captain opportunity to look behind them. Hundreds of British soldiers were walking through the weeds, while on the banks next to them hundreds more were fighting to get up the bank. He watched the troops in the swamp make there way, and then it happened. A single figure came out from the woods, raised its gun and fire a shot, and the Captain watched as a soldier dropped dead. More came, and more until they lined the forest. And they fired,
“Bloody hell!” cursed the Captain,
“GO! GO! GO! IT’S A BLOODY MASSACRE!” roared someone, and yells started to erupt from the group. The Captain turned and jumped up onto the hill, his eyes following the progress of the soldier in front. He could hear crying and yell behind him, screams as men were bayoneted. A man swore behind him, and a bullet chipped the soil where he his hand had been moments before. The man in front staggered and then screamed as a bullet punctured his lungs, and the Captain skidded sideways to avoid the stream of blood. A hand pushed him up and he was climbing over the dead body. A crack and then a flame went into the air, shot from a gun. He watched it but had to jump to not be bowled over by a falling body. A man was bawling on the ground near by, and another one cracked his nails as he scratched the road, dieing. The whole group was flung down as a grenade blew up nearby and they ran on as a man cried over the loss of his leg, which lay in a pool of blood some metres away. A man next to him, the one who had helped him, groaned as a bullet hit his leg, and the next soldier jumped over him. The Captain grabbed the mans arm and pulled him to his knees,
“Help me!” He asked rudely to the next soldier, the other man pulled up his arm and the three staggered up to the top of the hill. A bullet made his hat and heart flutter, and he dropped the wounded man (Who screamed in pain) as a flame seemed to erupt in his thigh. They were over the hill.
The Captain gasped as he saw lines of Belgian ships docked up against the beach. Already many ships were chugging away to the British coast. He felt shells crackling like pork fat under him, and other soldiers were rushing past while looking behind them. There was screaming and bangs coming from behind, and the Captain looked behind. The water was red and hundreds of bodies floated around. He stared determinedly at the beach and the three of them ran, or hopped, their way to a boat. There were flames everyway, soldiers running past them as bullets gradually took them. A grenade clunked nearby and a soldier went to kick it, they all ducked as it blew up, and the Captain looked away as he saw only half of the men there, his insides hanging out. They raced to a boat, a Belgian man stood there, fear in his eyes.
“Which one man?” Asked the Captain, the Belgian looked at him, and steered him towards a boat which was basically full. The Captain could feel him shaking, and then he screamed as a bullet thudded into his shoulder, which had dislodged. The Captain spared him a glance, as the man lay in the water, as they hopped onto the boat. A doar shut and then;
“Full steam away!” roared a voice from the front, and the whole lot of them fell backwards as the boat suddenly pounded away from the shore. The Captain wiped his head, and felt his shaking hand.
“We made it.” He said weakly to his cupped hands, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you.” Muttered a voice, the Captain looked, it was the wounded soldier,
“You saved my life back there.” He continued, the Captain muttered something about ‘duty’. A twinge sounded from the steel post next to him and he looked at it curiously. More etched themselves across the steel railings. Him and the wounded man were the ones on the very edge, including two others, and the water was rapidly swelling behind the boat. On the shore the ones not lucky to get onto a boat were slowly raising there hands in surrender as hundreds of ferry’s carried the rest to Britain. The Captain watched a car stop near the shore, and what was behind it. A cannon. It unraveled while a machine gun was deployed and the Germans prepared to fire. Flame and smoke engulfed the cannon and they heard it disappear and then come back to earth with a cry like a banshee. The water next to them exploded as if a giant hand had come from beneath the waves. There was a rattling as if sweets against a cup. The water skipped like pebbles were being thrown at it, the Captain threw himself to the floor as the dead body of a soldier fell over the boat and into the waves. The Captain looked over to the ferry next to them, the shielded his eyes as it exploded in a burst of oil and flames, the flames seemed to be scratching the sky. The boat was slowly engulfed by the sea, and it rapidly disappeared as a single burnt body floated by. There was more sounds of incoming shells, and another landed just behind the boat, spraying them with water. The man behind the Captain fell and as he choked on blood grasped the side uselessly before letting out a final choking breath of blood and froth.
The shore was disappearing, and then the whole fleet of ferry’s seemed to burst their foghorns as it split the skies. The crew and soldiers cheered until heir throats were hoarse tears gushed from their eyes. They’d made it from hell, they’d made it through Mons. The Captain watched as the British coastline approached, he watched as the last few weeks dreams of a bed, a meal and to be healthy came at them, and he could imagine the feeling.
Home.


He sprang from the bed and fell to the floor in a tangle of sheets and pillows, clutching his face as tears fell from it. I made it, I made it, I made it He kept thinking over and over again. He found the strong base of the bed and pulled himself onto it, with his sheets, and fell asleep again. He never noticed the presence of hi father in the doorway, watching he whole thing and thinking how he destroyed such a life. Then bowed his head and walked from the room, closing the door gently behind him. He had, the day he had sent his son to the local Army station, already killed his son.