Barry Prize Short Fiction Co-Winner - Gold Flake Farm

One low, guttural blaring note from the organ roused the congregation from their semi-conscious state in the aftermath of the sermon. The families, closely huddled among delicate oak pews stumbled to their feet for the final hymn. The choir were joined by the warbling voices of the older women, and several seconds later by the admittedly less courageous yet earnest, low voices of the men, “What a friend we have in Jesus, All our sins and griefs to bear”. A baby snuggled in her mother’s arms still miraculously asleep despite her mother’s attempts to reach the high C. Samuel rolled his eyes at James as their mother’s voice cracked. James had to hold his nose to stop laughing. Their father took notice of this behavior and elbowed Samuel firmly in the ribs as he held his hymnal. “Quit that”, he barked. The older woman in the pew in front, Mrs. Wilson the Sunday School superintendent, slowly turned to glare at the boys without missing a beat, “Oh what needless pain we bear, All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.” With one long triumphant note from the organ, the hymn came to a close. The minister strode down the aisle, his surplus gliding behind him and gave a side eye to the boys on his way past. He would give them a particularly firm handshake at the door.

“Samuel, Samuel, look, there’s the port.” James gently shook him by the shoulder as the foghorn blew proudly announcing their presence. “That’s France, lads,” a Ballymena accent called from the back of the ship. Another voice laughed, “I can’t wait to taste the wine.” “Would you wise up, Harry,” Samuel said “Sure, your mother would kill you!” “I’ve heard they have some of the prettiest girls in Europe,” said the Corporal as he nudged the man to his left.” “Would you catch yourself on,” another voice called from somewhere in the clump of cotton green uniforms, “I’ll be taking no notice of them, sure, didn’t I just get engaged.” “Yeow!” The boys cheered, followed by an uproar of laughter, applause and wolf whistles. An authoritative voice spoke up “Thank you, gentlemen, that’s enough. Remember who you represent.” The Captain waded through the crowd to the front of the boat, “Now, when we get there, I want you all to be on your best behavior. We are here thanks to the hospitality of our allies. We will make camp here and I will notify this company when we are called to the front. As you know you will have a two weeks on, one week off rotation, so rest and feed up while you can.” James whispered “It’s not so bad, Samuel. What am I supposed to tell the grandchildren? I just took a wee trip to France on the boat?” “Aye, James, you’ll make something up, sure, you always do. Like that time in Sunday School when Mrs. Wilson caught you…” “Alright, thank you very much, let’s move on,” James interrupted. They hoisted their packs and their rifles and made their way down the docking ramp. “Be careful where you swing that thing, George, honestly you nearly took my eye out there.” “Would you be quiet, Tommy, and get a move on.”

As they walked across the cement of the docks towards the fields, a voice yelled “Make way!” A saber rang out as it was drawn from its sheath. The Marine Captain, with his velvet black uniform and red epaulettes, his gold buttons glinting, his stainless white boots and white gloves were topped with a white pith helmet that seemed to cover his eyes. He had a perfectly clean-shaven face and looked only onwards, taking no notice of the men except to turn his chin slightly outwards as if to distance himself. A company of one hundred and fifty followed behind him, their marching boots beat like drums that cleared their path while the snare and the bass drum rattled and pounded so loudly that Samuel and James wanted to cover their ears. Several of the marines used their shoulders to shift the infantry men to the side. “Make way for the King’s Marines,” a lieutenant announced. “Well, excuse me,” Samuel muttered. The Marine’s head turned sharply as if he had locked onto his prey. “You ought to watch your tone, Private,” said the educated voice from behind the golden chin strap of the white helmet as he pressed Samuel’s collarbone with his baton. Then they marched on.

“Did you ever see so many men in the one place, Samuel?” whispered James, glancing backwards as more boats breached the shore. Green and brown and blue uniforms neatly organized in columns began to form and go their separate ways with the overlapping of voices from France, England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. There were some accents they had never heard before. The Scottish pipes faded into obscurity as they marched past the Scottish assault division making their way to the front. “Their legs must be freezing in those skirts!”, George laughed. “At least they’re better suited for the sunny weather than these here trousers.” “Aye, but those knee-high socks are a wild looking dose. You wouldn’t catch me dead in them,” Tommy replied accompanied by an uproar of laughter. After talking to the Colonel, the Captain had acquired his instructions and led the men to their designated location. Shortly after they made camp in their field. The chefs went immediately to work wrestling the local farmer’s geese. Within moments, a game of football had begun.

For several days, the boys watched as more troops gathered. All the waiting was not exactly what they had in mind. Between the drills and target practice, they played cards and wrote letters home. Billy even began to whittle a horse out of wood and some of the boys smoked cigarettes and watched him in a drowsy silence. A man in a strange tan coat was talking to the Captain. He carried some kind of box on a tripod with two large reels mounted above it. This created a lot of curiosity among the boys. Most of them knew it was a camera, the likes of which they had never seen before. For this one was larger and much more sophisticated. The Captain called the division over. The man explained he was gathering footage for documentaries and news reels for everyone back home. The men happily obliged and formed into position as he slowly panned his video camera, cranking the lever that turned the wheels. “Look boys!” announced a voice from the back row, “We’re in the pictures!” Just as they had finished, the clouds broke and it began to rain. All of the men huddled underneath the tarp and watched the silhouette of the destroyer looming on the edge of the horizon as smaller boats went to and fro, as if they were the attendants of the mighty mother ship. Samuel rested his head against the wooden pole as the cold, fresh rainwater dripped down his neck. The sound of voices from the beach, the crashing of waves and a distant fiddle lulled Samuel gently into a dark, dreamless sleep. He began to drift back to consciousness when he heard familiar sniggers and felt a light pressure on his woolen cap. “Ugh, Harry, don’t wake him, I’m trying to get a tenth card to balance on his head.” “You’ve been at that for a good twenty minutes, James, that must be a record. Is anyone keeping track?” A bell rang out, rousing the men to their feet. They knew what this meant.

All of a sudden, the field came to life as each division scurried to their officers for their briefing. And before they knew it, they were back in columns, marching again. The grass reached just above the mens’ ankles and still felt damp underfoot. The pearls of rain on the blades of grass caught on their trousers and burst to leave patches of water whilst others lingered for a little longer. There was a sense of weight to the air and still mizzle could be felt tickling the mens’ eyebrows. They momentarily slowed down to vault over a stile to cross the field which proved to be quite laborious especially with all the extra gear. With scattered chatter, laughter and groans the march continued. A low buzz began to rise in pitch shattering the silence and a light tan colored plane with blue markings broke through the clouds emblazoned with a large blue circle with a smaller white circle inside it and a red dot. “Don’t worry, boys, that’s ours,” called the Captain. The boys looked up in awe. They began to wave and cheer hoping the pilot would see them. The plane made a U-turn and gave them a barrel roll before heading back for re-fueling at shore. Suddenly the day had become more interesting, and the promise of excitement started to build.

As they walked on, new sounds began to emerge from beyond the crest of the green hill. There were sounds of chatter and shouting, an officer barking orders, sandbags being laid and even the faint clacking of a typewriter. As they walked over the crest of the hill, they had reached their Command Post. A Union flag waving in the soft wind beckoned them to the camp. “I’m tired of looking at bloody tents,” said a weary soldier “We haven’t seen a German yet let alone even shot one.” Samuel replied, “The closest thing I’ve seen to a German is those sausages we had for breakfast!” The men sat down on the wet grass as their Captain went on yet another errand. They watched another group with unfamiliar voices and uniforms playing rugby. They wore long khaki trousers with suspenders, and a hardy blue collared shirt. Most of them were happy without the shirt in the heat. They paused to watch. When they heard “Bloody hell, mate, are you tryin’ to kill me? This is supposed to be for fun. Save it for the bloody Boche!” they immediately knew these were the Australians. The man who had fallen onto all fours in the grass was greeted with a boot to the rear as two teammates leap frogged over him. They all began to laugh.

The Captain returned and told them they were going to relieve the British soldiers at the front for their two week shift. James turned to Samuel and said “Well, we’re on our way now.” The Captain took out the button on his left chest pocket, and pulled out his pocket watch. It was silver, real silver but it had started to rust around the edges and had turned a dark grey. He flicked it open with his thumb and shielded it from the glare of the afternoon sun. “Alright, everyone, we’re slightly ahead of schedule. Finish your letters and pack your things.” They did so. They followed the Captain across the grass towards what looked to be a well worn path littered with planks of wood and scraps of cloth in an attempt to lift it above the damp ground. As they walked, they passed the green and white hospital tents. A surgeon walked out to a barrel of water. From the tips of his fingers to the top of his well-built, tired shoulders was painted in blood, and Samuel caught a glimpse of a soldier or what used to be one. He was partially conscious and writhing like a worm. His eyes and his legs were covered in white bandages. Samuel looked away without a word.

It had only been several minutes, but the landscape began to change. The grass faded away and turned into a thick, dark sludge. The boardwalk became more defined. At this moment, they met the column of returning solders who stumbled past them. Some of the men called out “How did you get on, boys? How did it go?” but none of the soldiers responded other than with the occasional, blank stare. A younger soldier stopped and looked at them. “It is so loud. Why did they make it so loud?” he asked. James patted him on the shoulder because he didn’t know what to say. The Captain gave them a signal with his hand. They took off their woolen caps and unclipped their helmets from their packs, fastening them to their heads. They moved forward and came close to engineers repairing boardwalks and laying wire. They caught part of the conversation when an older man with a moustache and short stature pointed his shovel toward a foxhole directing “In that trench, over there.” Now they could hear the distant sounds of cannon fire which quickly came close as they walked past artillery batteries. Samuel and James covered their ears. Samuel looked at the artillery operators. Most of them were shirtless. Their hands were calloused and burnt. They had wax in their ears and worked consistently and methodically as if they were part of the gun. They did not look up nor take notice of their bleeding hands and torn nails. The artillery Lieutenant tapped the man on his right on the shoulder. The man passed the message on. The Lieutenant handed out new coordinates on a slip of paper. The men adjusted the arc of their Howitzers accordingly. The boys continued to walk, relieved the din had come to an end only for it to resume moments later. Shaking the ground, the vibrations punched through their ribs and rose from their feet to strike deep in their stomachs. They passed a mountain of used shells that was as tall as a house, and they watched as weary men and screaming horses pulled a fresh Howitzer into position. They fought with all their energy and used everything they had to pull it out from under the mud. They used shovels, rocks, sticks and even their bare hands to force up the weapon's massive wheels.

The division came to a split at which the soldiers had jokingly erected road signs which in fact were quite helpful to point the men to the correct trench. Each trench line was given its own name whether after a street from home or after a sergeant or Captain. They fell into single file as they followed the Captain through the narrow, tight trench which was just the beginning of the network which stretched as far as they could see. The spindly, narrow trenches connected to large, broader ones which split gently into long, organized lines like a vine would grow on a wall. “So much for a holiday” groaned James. Quickly their trench deepened and widened. They were ankle deep in a mixture of mud, cement and wood. Immediately the rest of the soldiers who were being relieved, without a word, handed over shovels and pickaxes to Samuel and his friends, along with sheets of corrugated iron. An older Captain whose green uniform had dulled to a disappointing greyish brown started to clap violently, giving them directions. Almost on cue, the rain began to fall again. The hardened Captain, his sergeants and lieutenants began to bark orders at the fresh troops. They were to dig and line the trench with corrugated iron and wood before the rain caused too much damage. The floor turned from a somewhat firm mud to an intolerable, freezing cold soup. Samuel told James “These boots leak. My feet are absolutely soaking.” James nodded in sympathy. The rain was cold. It seeped through their clothes immediately as if they wore nothing at all, and the cold clung to them. Shivering, James looked up at his older brother and confessed “This is not quite what I imagined.”

Samuel set down his shovel and climbed several feet up a ladder to peak both his eyes barely over the trench line. He could see that they were near the back of this large system of interlocking tunnels and trenches. He saw the grey wire, the grey steel, the dead, grey trees. He looked up, only to see the grey sky. The pounding of the cannons resumed. The thunder of the cannons became part of the background of daily life. Rumors began to spread about a big attack. The officers said that the German fortifications would be flattened by the two weeklong artillery barrage. The weather cleared. The mud dried. Rations were in good stock, and spirits were quite high. Yet, there was a nervous expectation in the air. It must have been their eighth day. Samuel and James had got used to the rhythm. Wake up. Dig. Eat. Patrol. Dig again. Clean your guns. Dry your boots. Go back to digging. The nights were quiet except for the occasional rifle crack across the open lands which were interrupted from time to time by the squawk of a crow or the squeaking of rats. The artillery barrage came at different times each day and each night in an attempt, Samuel thought, to catch the enemy off guard. While the cannon fire was loud, they were after all quite safe in the back line. Out of reach of enemy guns and enemy troops, they could rest easy for a while.

On the ninth morning, there was a noticeably large build up of troops, both hardened and fresh. The Captains updated their divisions and notified them that they were going to be moving to the frontlines. The French troops would attack with all their strength accompanied by the Australians and Canadians on one side. The rest of the allied troops would attack in overwhelming numbers from the front. The German fortifications were assumed to be flattened and destroyed. Their defenses rendered useless from the hail fire that had descended over the last two weeks. A man in a kilt, with a black and gold badge on his cap, blew on his whistle. He grabbed the boys by their shoulders and directed them down another small narrow trench to move them quickly to the front while maintaining cover. They moved low and swiftly as they were instructed. Their Captain occasionally signaled with his whistle to let them know the division was in the right place. After twenty minutes of scrambling through the network, they reached yet another large trench. This one, however, was different. Samuel and James both noticed the machine guns placed on tripods at relatively even intervals at the edge of the trench.

They came face to face with the veteran troops, most of whose weaponry and uniforms were unrecognizable from what Samuel and James wore. Some had cow skins draped over their uniforms like aprons, as a poncho. Others carried no rifle at all. Instead, their chests were loaded with belts strapped with grenades while they carried revolvers and knives. Some had also used scraps of helmets and metal and even old grenades and turned those pieces into clubs, axes and even flails. Some of the other troops wore what looked to be like an old-fashioned cavalry chest plate and some even wore chain mail. Almost all of them had ditched their bayonets and shortened the length of their gun. They came face to face with the British Captain, his once vivid cap was fatigued. His chest was covered in one cast iron piece of steel, and it had several dents in it. He carried a flare gun and a revolver. He was a well-built man with black hair. His eyes were blue, but like everything around him, his eyes had found a way to fade. He told the division with a heavy sigh that they would be waiting there until morning and were to wake and be ready at 7am.

After a sleepless night for both Samuel and James, the morning came. The trenches were even fuller than the day before. James turned and uttered the first words that had been said for some time, “There must be more than eleven divisions in here with us, so there are.” Samuel nodded “You couldn’t swing a cat in here, could you? I can barely move.” There was a tense silence, apart from the shuffling of boots and the occasional, accidental squeak from a bag pipe. It was so quiet that Samuel could hear the officers’ pocket watches ticking in unison.

Now that Samuel had finally come to the moment he had been waiting for, his legs refused to move. James fidgeted nervously with his rifle beside him. An older sergeant looked over and reached towards James’s gun. Without removing it from James’s arms, he pulled back the bolt, still as clean as the first day it had been handed to him. He loaded the rifle correctly and tightened James’s bayonet for him. “There you go, son” he said, with an encouraging tap to his chin. “Your girl at home will be proud of you,” he added with a wink. He looked at Samuel and whispered “Stay together and move fast, you two. Keep that boy’s head down. Try to zig zag. And you’se will be grand.”

Unannounced artillery began to rain down in front of them, only several meters away. Every thirty seconds or so the explosions advanced gradually further away, moving methodically towards enemy lines. The older Captain explained it was called a creeping barrage that would give them cover as they advanced. As the dust around them settled like a whisper, the officers pulled out their pocket watches or turned their wrists. With their whistles in their mouths, they drew their pistols and revolvers. Samuel watched as his Captain pulled back the hammer of his revolver. The weapon clicked and the second after felt like an eternity. In unison, the officers blew their whistles. The shrill sound pierced the soldiers’ ears. Immediately behind them, the bagpipes screeched out the first note as they began to play “Scotland the Brave.” James whispered, “That is some racket.” Tommy agreed, “Bloody Scots.”

The officers hauled themselves up the ladder and out over the trench as the barrage moved far ahead of them. The rest of the troops followed. Samuel went first and turned to help his brother up. He glanced to his left and saw hundreds upon thousands of soldiers rising from under the earth, along the line. They spilled out across the landscape and took up a light jog in pace with their officers. The ground grinded like chalk against their feet, and they had to weave among the potholes left behind by the shells. There was a light mist covering the once grassy, rolling fields. The Captain yelled words of encouragement to let them know where he was and how to stay close. Samuel’s eyes scanned the landscape for potential danger but so far there was emptiness as far as his eye could see, with the exception of the slowly advancing mass of bayonets. It went on like this for some time as they jogged and sometimes walked toward their supposed objective. They came to crest in the terrain beside the remains of a farmhouse.

The Captain signaled for them to slow down and called for the machine guns to be brought forward. Several groups in teams of two ran up to the front of the formation beside the officers and prepared their machine guns to be set down. For a few seconds they waited while once again the officers checked their watches. They gave the orders as they scrambled over the small ridge where they saw another system of trenches. There was still dust and debris flying in the air over the enemies’ fortifications. Harry whispered, “It looks completely flattened.” They began to pick up speed as they charged towards the trenches. They heard commotion, and voices calling in cold, efficient words that they did not understand. All of a sudden, grey uniforms and grey helmets rose up from under the dust, moving swiftly to their positions. The soldiers in grey began to set up machine guns and mortars. James yelled, “What are they doing, Samuel? What are we supposed to do?” Before he had time to answer, the sky was filled with sounds of screeching light artillery.

Suddenly, several meters to his left, Samuel saw soldiers in green fall one by one from left to right. Small clouds of dust were kicked up as streaks of light bounced off the ground and tore through the bodies of the young men. Samuel immediately grabbed James by his sleeve and pulled him to the ground. They covered their heads with their arms as the humming and popping got louder and then receded. A Sergeant from behind screamed, “Get up, boys, we have to reach their trench line.” Samuel and James ran together in an erratic pattern from tree to rock to ditch, as the grey forms continued to fire in their direction. It was utter chaos but there was no longer fear in Samuel. He knew in that moment all he had to do was protect his brother. A third of the division had already fallen. But Samuel caught sight of their Captain in a foxhole ahead of them and knew he was going in the right direction. They threw themselves out of one foxhole down onto their stomachs and into the next. A few of their division had made it to the same foxhole.

They lay down with their backs against the ridge of the divot. James was in tears, quietly sobbing. The Captain told them “Pull yourselves together, boys. Do you want to live?” “Aye, we do, sir, we do,” they replied. “Wait for the break in machine-gun fire, boys…When they are reloading, toss your Mill’s bombs as far as you can. They have better rifles than us but maybe we’ll get lucky... They’re working their way from left to right. If we move fast enough, they won’t bother shooting at us.” He looked at James with a fatherly glance, “Ready boys?” he asked more softly. They nodded. “On three” he shouted. “One…” Samuel felt the earth begin to give way beneath him as he gripped his brother’s sleeve. “Two…” a tree to his right was hit and shattered, sending splinters everywhere. “Three…” They scrambled over the edge of the ditch, pulling the pins of their bombs, and hurling them as instructed, as far as they could.

This was the first time that Samuel had seen the face of his enemy. Time slowed down and he saw the faces of the machine gun crew. The gunner’s face was concealed by a red knitted scarf and the loader looked panicked as he tried to pull out a jammed round. His dark brown eyes met with Samuel’s just before the grenades went off. Immediately upon hearing the explosions, a squad of German soldiers in the trench took notice. One of the men tapped the other soldier’s helmet on the left and they turned to lob stick grenades at the advancing divisions. More explosions than he had ever experienced filled the area around him and his ears rang with a deep pain. Blinded by dust and heat, Samuel fell to the ground and rolled into the trench under a pile of dirt. As he tried to get up, he could hear panicked orders in their language and in his own. He could hear gun shots and the screams of pain which he couldn’t tell apart. He swiftly got up, his rifle still in his hands and his finger on the trigger. He saw the trench was overflowing with his allies.

Ahead of him a soldier in his grey uniform was trying to stand up and reach for his rifle. His face was covered by a gas mask. Samuel took fright at his otherworldly appearance. The soldier was still recovering from the disorientation of the explosions, so Samuel aimed down sights center mass and fired one round. Immediately the enemy slumped and folded. He lay with his head pressed against the concrete lining of the trench in a grotesque and unnatural position as he began to gag and twitch under his mask. He clawed at the mask with his right hand as if something clung to his face preventing him from breathing. Samuel quickly recoiled. Catching wind of a familiar voice, that of his Captain, he ran past the soldier on the ground, but the figure caught his ankle and cried out “Bitte!” Samuel shook the hand off, and ran on, afraid. The grey uniforms, upon realizing their trench had been lost, immediately in a synchronized and organized fashion packed up their equipment at speed and ran to their next trench under the cover of mortar fire. As they ran, they fired backwards and threw grenades into the trench they were leaving, causing confusion and chaos to cover their escape. By the time he looked up, Samuel realized they had repositioned and were already setting up their machine guns under the shouts of their commanding officer in a black helmet emblazoned with a skull. “They’re setting up again, James,” he said, “I can’t believe we’re going to have to do it all again. Our cannons did nothing.” There was no reply. “James?” he called. He looked behind but the trench was littered with bodies. The Captain blew his whistle to order the men to form up. Samuel ran to his Captain, blinded by tears, grabbed his sleeve “Sir, where’s James?” he cried “He was right here, right beside me, I swear.” Samuel began to break down. “That’s the one thing he told me I had to do. He said we would be fine. It’s all my fault.” The Captain responded, “Come on, son, there’s more work to do here.” “What am I supposed to tell my mother,” Samuel asked, “That I lost him?” But the Captain had already begun to move on. Tommy came from behind and pulled Samuel along with him. “I have to go back,” Samuel cried. “Our own lads would shoot you, Samuel. They’d think you’re deserting. Come on, we have to go,” Tommy pleaded. Samuel reached down and put his left hand on the bolt of his rifle. Slowly he pulled it back, pushed it up, and watched the casing eject letting off some steam. He put the bolt back into place, ready to fire again. With a deep breath, he followed his Captain down to the next line.

With all his strength, Samuel ran and dove and fired in the general direction he was ordered. His fear had turned to rage, and he no longer cared if he lived or died. With their overwhelming numbers, they pushed the enemy back. He no longer thought, he simply obeyed. The push went on for hours. They reached yet another trench and Samuel had lost count of how many. He let off as many rounds as he could into the retreating grey mass that fled before them. The Captain gave the order to hold and Samuel’s legs fell from under him. There they stayed in that trench for months. Sorrow was his Captain now. They were to wait until the rest of the divisions had achieved their objectives. Samuel watched as bayonets were abandoned in favor of clubs. He watched as horses transformed into hulking monsters made of metal that breathed smoke and could heave over trenches with ease. These new machines were called tanks. They were to give the allies the advantage for this offensive. He watched as the summer warmth faded. The tanks growled and roared as they ploughed across the now ice-covered no man’s land. Samuel thought, “Hell is not full of flames but rain and ice.” He no longer knew if there was a God, never mind a hell. But if there was a hell, then this was it. “Yes,” he thought, looking up at the clouds watching distant planes duck and weave firing at each other, one bursting into flames. “God is real… And he hates us.” The snow began to melt as new grass stretched towards the spring. Another summer faded and brought in the embrace of another cold and deathly winter. The snow melted once more.

“Sergeant Fenton,” a voice called. “What is it, Private?” Samuel replied. “The Captain wants to see you, Sir.” Samuel quickly moved into the Captain’s makeshift office in the corner of the trench. “Did you hear, son?” the Captain greeted him, “the war is almost over.” “Respectfully, Sir, they told me that when I arrived,” Samuel responded. “This time, I think they might be right,” the Captain said with a rye smile, “The enemies’ numbers are dwindling. The French have pushed them to the brink. And we just need to push them out of the country once and for all. Even the Americans have joined in.” Samuel chuckled. They would need to clear out the last pockets of resistance in the French countryside and the place they were assigned was of particular strategic importance. It was known as Gold Flake Farm.

Samuel ordered his squad to pack up and get marching. He wondered out loud where the idea of gold flakes came from. “It’s a bit of a stupid name, isn’t it?” someone chimed in. The Captain turned and said “I hear its because the farmer found flakes of gold in the stream among the pebbles when he was fishing.” “Imagine that” Samuel said “Maybe we’ll go home rich, boys,” he joked. The other men laughed. They soon arrived at the staging area. The Captain used his binoculars to scan the farm and look for danger. He indicated there was one enemy machine gun in the top floor of the farmhouse and another at the cellar window. There were at least two mortars protected by several squads in grey behind sandbags, and the glint of a scope gave away a sniper in the barn. The Germans would have a portable phone, most likely in the kitchen. They had to move swiftly so the Germans had no time to call for reinforcements. “Captain, what are those?” Billy asked, pointing at a group of soldiers patrolling the grove between the barn and the house. The Captain drew a breath and looked at Samuel with a knowing glance. “Those are storm troopers,” he said. “Well, they look like lobsters to me,” Billy laughed. He was referring to their armor. “Those are no lobsters, son,” Samuel replied, a serious look in his eye.

They planned and launched their attack. Samuel took his group of men and moved with stealth through the tree line to get behind the barn. A second drew fire from atop the hill as the third and final group led an assault on the farmhouse. They lay low as a patrol of three men passed by the tree line. They were smoking and chatting and didn’t notice the rustling in the hedge but suddenly heard the gunfire and moved swiftly to counter the attack. Samuel heard the tell-tale voices of the machine guns spitting bullets and he knew they had to move fast. He broke down the door of the barn with the men close behind him and quickly shot a soldier in grey who was firing between two planks in the barn wall. The rest of his team continued to clear barn. He took aim at the sniper in the loft and fired two rounds through the haystack into him. Two of his men took position in the barn. Samuel and the rest of the group moved to complete the pincer movement on the farmhouse. They breached the back door and were met with an overturned table that two men were using as cover. Both groups yelled and fired furiously at each other. There were screams. Grey and green bodies fell to the ground. The chaotic, close quarter fight for the farmhouse continued. He met the Captain in the hallway as they moved up the stairs. The machine gun crew had turned the weapon to face the door. They fired indiscriminately through the walls in the hopes of fending off the attack. An Irish soldier on the landing caught a bullet to the knee and fell down the stairs in front of Samuel. He and the Captain lay down on the stairs and kept firing. After several magazines had been fired through the door, the sounds of German voices and gunfire went silent. Samuel and the Captain breathed with relief. “Shall we see if the rumors are true?” Samuel asked. “The river, you mean?” the Captain responded, “I’ll follow you after I bandage this boy’s knee. At least they didn’t kill him!”

Samuel made his way down the tree line to the stream, and he stood on the bank, glad to bathe his face in some fresh water. He dried his face with his cap and picked up his rifle. There was movement and rustling along the tree line and Samuel prepared himself. Two storm troopers who had fled the farmhouse came face to face with him. He immediately fired at the torso of the enemy closest to him. The bullet made a ping on the metal armor. Samuel quickly chambered a new round and fired again. This time at the first soldier’s leg. The soldier cried out and tumbled down the steep riverbank. The second soldier shot two rounds into Samuel. He felt like he had been hit by a freight train, and his legs were unsteady beneath him. Samuel fired his rifle again, and this time the bullet went straight through the soldier’s armor. The soldier looked at him as he dropped his pistol, holding his chest while blood seeped down his legs from under his body armor. He stumbled and put his hand out against a young tree growing from the riverbank. He fell down and lay against the tree as he gradually lost consciousness. Samuel stumbled backwards into the shallow stream and lay face up as the water caressed his shoulders. The first soldier limped over and knelt beside him. He took off his black Stahlhelm and his brown eyes gently glowed in the sun. He reached to his belt for his knife and then paused. Instead, he drew his canteen and held it to Samuel’s lips. He screwed on the cap and mounted it back on his belt. Quietly setting his hand on Samuel’s chest, he stood up and limped away.

Like flames in the water, the blood from his wounds flowed downstream and Samuel looked to the sky. “My wee sister Lily will be nearly seven now,” he thought as his eyesight began to darken. He turned his head and reached for something in the river. He felt the comforting smoothness of the pebbles in his hand and as he let them go he caught sight of a glint under the water. “Gold in the river,” he chuckled, “Imagine that, James. Gold in the river.” He closed his eyes and heard the singing of familiar voices in the distance. “In his arms he’ll take and shield thee. Thou wilt find a solace there.”

In 1916 my great grandmother Elizabeth’s two brothers Samuel and James Fenton volunteered to serve in the First World War. They were 15 and 17 years old. This story is based on letters from Samuel and military reports. The records show James died on the first day of the Somme offensive (there were 19,240 casualties in the initial engagement and more than one million total on both sides). Samuel was killed in the last month of the war at the battle of Gold Flake farm. Lily, as they called her, lived until she was 102, and we knew her well.