Liot Literary

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The Skylark

A blow harder than a punch from a world heavyweight boxing champion struck Smiffy in the side knocking him off his feet to crash into cloying mud. The ground shook like an earthquake. Explosions blasted debris high in the air to rain down as black hail. The staccato of machine guns and rifle fire cracked through the air above his prone body. Screams and yells as if the Gates of Hell were open rammed into his hearing. A dull ache spread through his body from the ribs on his left side. One minute he charged bayonet fixed with the Wessex Fusiliers over devastated open ground towards the enemy trench and then here he lay. What happened? Was he alive?

He tried to move. The dull ache turned to a stabbing pain. Clenching his teeth, he attempted to push himself up. No movement, only pain. The fear of paralysis began to overwhelm him. Cold mud seeped through his battledress. Why couldn’t it be a quick end? Oblivion without the intervening torture. So many comrades he had seen paralysed, blinded, made limbless or die in agony.

 Would he go home to Martha in a wheelchair, or would he never go home? What would Martha do if he were no longer whole? Perhaps flowers on his grave would be better than pitying a broken man.

No, no. Martha would never desert me whatever happens.

The stabbing pain turned to a clawing one like a creature gnawing at his side. His bladder failed.

How long he lay there he didn’t know as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Darkness crept down so slowly, though he wondered if it were his sight failing in the twilight before death.

At last, the guns fell silent, only moans, and an occasional scream filled the night air. And still the pain. The dead felt no pain, so he knew he still lived, but for how long? Would death come as a blessed relief?

I can’t leave Martha. Hang on in there Smiffy.

“This one’s still alive,” said a voice above him as if it were talking into a bucket.

“Where are you hit lad?” said a second, similar voice.

Smiffy tried to speak but nothing came out but a dull croak.

Hands roamed over his body.

“Shrapnel in his left side. Careful.”

“Cut his pack off.”

Hands pulled off his pack.

“Steady, one two three.”

Oh! The pain.

He felt himself being lifted and then laid on his back. Was it a stretcher?

Yes. Thank God.

A bumpy journey over bodies and shell and grenade pocked No Man’s Land seemed endless. He made no sound through his gritted teeth other than a whimper when the bumps came too hard.

A billion stars looked down on Smiffy as they carried him through the nightmare scene filled with the stench of cordite and death. The same stars looked down on Skylark Farm back in Blighty and Martha. He forced himself to think of her and retain his sanity. Had she secured the chickens for the night from the foxes and pine martens? She would be up early to milk the cows. Watching as she brushed her long red hair at the dressing table before bed. Desperately he hung on to his thoughts of her.

He didn’t have to join up. Some waited to be conscripted but Smiffy had the patriotic bug, and this is where it had finally caught up with him. A river in France called the Somme.

Patriotism had long since been replaced by getting through a day alive.

The stars vanished to be supplanted by a yellowish light from oil lamps illuminating a vast tent. Lines of beds four abreast stretched into the distance. All held someone.

Groans, sobbing and the unmistakable sound of a saw at work made him want to clasp his hands over his ears to shut out the world but he couldn’t move. The pain now back to a dull ache.

“What do we have here?” said a woman’s refined voice. At least he could hear now. No more talking into a bucket.

“Shrapnel, left side,” said a male voice.

“Over there,” she said.

Movement again. Now he lay on a harder surface still on his back. Smiffy stared at moths on the inside of the tent roof. It reminded him of warm summer nights with moths around the hurricane lamp when all the work was done on the farm. Smiffy and Martha would sit outside with tin cups of homemade cider and enjoy each other’s company. Sometimes he would play his penny whistle. On wet nights she would play the piano to his whistle’s accompaniment. How he longed to hear her play again.

Someone’s hand rummaged in his battledress pocket.

“Lance Corporal John Smith, service number 8091 B company, Second Battalion Wessex Fusiliers,” said a different, younger female voice.

“Easy now, John,” said a man’s calm voice.

Smiffy’s voice only croaked. He could see the man’s blood splattered white apron and his face upwards from a stubbly chin.

“Remove his clothing,” said the man.

Hands pulled and tugged at his battledress and then his vest. Someone removed his puttees, boots, and then scissors cut off his pants.

The dull ache turned back to a sharp pain like a hot iron penetrating his upper body. He continued to stare at the roof and gritted his teeth. A tear leaked.

Martha! Martha!

“Morphine,” said the calm voice.

“You’re going to be all right,” said the young woman. He couldn’t see her. A hand stroked his thigh with something cold and then he felt a needle. His vision blurred, the pain eased, he drifted into sleep.

***

 He awoke on his back on a bed in a small, tented room with five other occupied beds. Some daylight penetrated from the open door flaps. A sheet and blanket covered him. He suffered no pain other than a dull sensation down his left side.

Please God!

He moved his left arm. Relief showed on his face. He moved his right arm. More relief. And then each leg.

I’ve still got my sight and my arms and legs. Thank you, God!

He thought of Martha. Not knowing the time of day, he wondered what she would be doing.

On a small table by the bed Smiffy could see his backpack. The webbing cut but the rest looked intact. Could he reach for Martha’s letter? He tried.

“Wait!” said a man’s voice. “What do you want? I’ll get it.”

Smiffy saw an orderly in uniform. He looked older than most of the men he’d come to know at the front.

“A . . . letter . . . in the, in the front pouch.” Smiffy’s throat, dry as the morning ash in the fireplace allowed the words to escape.

The orderly rummaged in the pack and pulled out a letter along with a penny whistle. He handed the letter to Smiffy and held the whistle. “You play?”

Smiffy took the letter and held it to his chest. “Not at the moment!” He managed a smile.

“You were lucky. You’ve some broken ribs and you lost a lot of blood, but they got the shrapnel splinters out. They don’t think there is any serious internal damage. You’re being evacuated.”

“Blighty?”

“Yes. Eventually but you’re going to a hospital over here first to get you fit enough to travel.” The orderly pushed the penny whistle back into the pouch. “I’d like to hear you play someday.” And with that he moved on to the next bed.

Smiffy read his letter. He’d read it so many times he could recite it.

Three days ticked by. An ambulance moved him to a makeshift hospital in a chateau away from the front. The orderly who handed him the letter accompanied the six evacuees.

“My name’s Ralph by the way,” said the friendly orderly as he and a colleague decanted Smiffy from a stretcher onto a bed in the chateau.

After a week lying in bed, the staff encouraged Smiffy to walk in the grounds or sit on the terrace in the sun. Ralph ferried patients from the field hospital to the chateau and would walk with Smiffy to pass the time and to help him along.

Smiffy enjoyed the walks. Away from the front he could hear birdsong to remind him of home. He particularly liked the skylark’s song.

“What did you do before the war, Smiffy?”

“Farmer. Dairy mainly but we have an apple orchard. What about you?”

“Mostly music business.”

“Music Hall?”

Ralph smiled. “Not exactly. I do like folk songs though.”

“Doubt you’ll ever get anywhere with folk songs, Ralph. Don’t get me wrong. I like folk songs. But you need to go bigger. Compose something that will get your name up there in lights.”

Ralph nodded and smiled again. “Good advice, Smiffy. That penny whistle of yours. I’ve heard you playing it. You’re good.”

“Thanks. I’ve been playing it since I were seven. I’ve played at some of the village fetes and people seem to like it.”

“Can you read music?”

“No.”

“How do you pick up the tunes?”

“I just listen to them and somehow it stays with me so I can reproduce them. Nothing fancy!”

“Matron has roped me in to play the piano tomorrow night. She wants to do a concert to boost morale. Are you up to playing something?”

“I don’t know about that. It isn’t Beethoven or Mozart stuff, is it?”

“No, some sea shanties and folk tunes and one I composed just before I joined up. That’s the one I’d like you to accompany.”

“All right. I’ll help you out Ralph if the old ribs can stand it.”

It didn’t take Smiffy long to master the tune after listening to Ralph on the piano though he had to go careful with the whistle and not blow too hard or it hurt his ribs.

After diligent care by Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Nursing Service and the voluntary nurses at the chateau, Smiffy was fit to be sent back to England for recuperation.

“It’s been nice knowing you Ralph,” said Smiffy shaking hands with the orderly. “One day you’ll be famous with your tunes, I’m sure of that.”

“That’s good to know Smiffy. Thanks.”

***

A train ride, a boat crossing, another train ride and Smiffy arrived at his Regimental HQ in Dorset where a doctor checked him over and gave him a chit for a month’s recuperation leave.

He cadged a lift from the baker’s delivery wagon to be dropped off at the lane leading down to Skylark Farm.

As he strolled along the lane, he hummed Ralph’s tune and watched a lark fly high above the autumnal trees.

Slipping the five-barred gate he looked down at the farmhouse resting in a fold between the gentle hills. There was Martha in her pinny hanging out the washing.

She looked up and dropped her washing basket. As best he could, he hurried to her, she ran to him. With tears flowing they stood engulfed in each other’s arms without uttering a word. None were needed.

In the cool evening, they sat wrapped up outside the farmhouse with tin cups of cider. Smiffy played the tune Ralph had taught him.

“An orderly wrote it just before he joined up. Nice bloke. He called it ‘The Lark Ascending’ which I thought were funny since we live in Skylark Farm. He should get it published one day.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Double barrelled name but he wasn’t a Toff. He’ll be famous one day if he if he survives the war. Ralph. . . Ralph Vaughan-Williams. Yes, nice bloke.”

Martha stared at Smiffy for a moment, then stood, went into the house, and lifted her piano stool lid. She took a sheet of music and went back out to Smiffy.

She smiled and showed him ‘The Wasps’ by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

“This is only one of his compositions. He’s written symphonies performed by the major orchestras. He is famous!”

“Blimey!”

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