Wizz-bang!

A short story from my grandfather's war

Near Serre-les-Puisieux, The Somme, 1 July 1916.

For a few seconds, I drifted above the ground.

It was like a bad dream - you know, like the one where you’re floating in the clouds one minute and drop like a stone the next. Or like when you’re drowning, then wake up safe in bed, not in the middle of bleeding no man’s land like I was now.

When I opened my eyes, an Avro was circling above me. I could hear the rattle of distant machine-gun fire, and dead bodies were scattered all over the place. Some were tangled in the barbed wire, while others were in heaps that were barely recognisable from the churned up battlefield. It was a great fellowship of death, and I was the lucky one, it seemed, a hundred to one chance - the only one of my squad still alive.

The bomb crater we’d taken cover in was still smoking from the Wizz-bang that hit us. There was no warning - a Wizz-bang isn’t like that - it just hits you like a ton of bricks. And there was Albert, in two separate pieces, still nursing his precious magazine of bullets - the one he’d almost passed to Herbert.

It was all so sudden, and now our Lewis gun was twisted out of all proportion, and so was Herbert. The hot morning air stank of engine oil and burnt bully beef, and no man’s land looked like a bad day at the abattoir in Leeds where I used to work.

My three other pals, or what was left of them, had also been killed by the Whizz-bang and the ammunition they’d strapped to their webbing that morning. They’d never see Leeds again, I thought. And when I recalled their names to mind, all I could think about was that smoky pub in Aldershot where we’d spent our last night together before embarkation. Ernest was annoying a girl he was trying to impress with his new stripes, and Willy was drunk again, singing that awful song - you know, the French one where we’d always get the verses wrong. 

Yes, I was the lucky one, it seemed. Although I could see from the dark brown stains on my uniform, I’d been hit too. I’d been blown clear of the crater we’d taken cover in, but my pals had taken the full blast. I thought something had cut into my neck, but now the wound felt sort of soft and squishy—

And that’s when I began to panic.

As I lay there waiting for the pain to hit me, I remembered there was a Maxim gun in the Jerry trenches to my left. We’d tried to silence it, but now at least two hundred yards stood between me and safety. So, I carefully started to crawl backwards like a beached crab - that is, until I saw my right foot was missing.

Any minute now, I would be in agony, I thought. But somehow, I managed to shuffle between the dead bodies and the wire, thinking everything would be alright if I could reach our trenches and a first aid station.

I could tell the first wave of our attack had failed miserably. Hundreds of us had been killed within a few minutes, and hundreds more were mown down in no man’s land. The Leeds Pals were two years in the making and ten minutes in the destroying, and I suddenly realised I hadn’t said goodbye to my mam and dad. They were right. Eighteen was too young to join the army and too young to die. So you can imagine my joy when I reached our salient and saw some of the lads being patched up and put onto stretchers.

I slipped over the sandbags, followed by the thwack, thwack of bullets. The Jerry Maxim gunner had woken up, I thought. But now I was safe and looking forward to being given a dose of morphine and a nice cup of tea. Then it would be back to Blighty and—

But then I realised no one was taking any notice of me. Some blokes were stepping over me, not even stopping to ask if I needed a hand. They were all too busy with the other lads who’d been hit in the trench. So I crawled towards the first person I saw that wasn’t occupied, and by chance, it was an officer I knew from the regiment.

Lieutenant Vasey was propped up against one of the ladders we’d all just climbed over a few minutes ago. His steel helmet was tilted jauntily over his face, and all I could see poking out from beneath was a smoking Woodbine. Vasey’s head was tilted forward, resting on his chest, and he still had his revolver and whistle clenched in his bloody fist.

The Lieutenant looked like he was asleep, although I couldn't be sure of anything anymore. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. But I decided I'd bleed to death if I didn’t do something quick, so I reached out and nudged his arm.

‘Sir…can you…help me?’ I spat, blood oozing down my uniform.

Vasey took a long draw from his fag. ‘You don’t need any help, old chap. Not like those poor buggers over there.’

He waved his hand dismissively at the frantic activity at the far end of the trench. Some of the wounded were crying out for their mothers, and others were pleading for morphine.

‘A shell hit those chaps before they had a chance to climb out of the trench,’ said Vasey calmly.

I pointed at my foot. ‘But sir, can you help me? I’ve lost—’

‘Atkinson isn’t it?’ said Vasey, still not raising his head.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, Atkinson, count yourself lucky. Those lads over there’ll be going home without arms or legs. I’d say their lives are over, wouldn’t you? What girl would want a man in that state?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’

Vasey lifted his head, and it was only then I saw his face was missing.

My whole body shook, and I almost threw up. Just the cigarette end was recognisable where Vasey’s mouth used to be, and as I lurched away, I thought I’d gone mad. I felt that no one could have survived that kind of injury, but Vasey spoke to me, didn’t he?

However, feeling more alone than ever, I pulled myself together and crawled toward the stretcher-bearers. Something wasn’t right. I was seeing things, I thought. It must’ve been the blast from the Wizz-bang that knocked me for six. Yes, that was it. It was the Whizz-bang. I was seeing things?

So when I saw an empty stretcher lying on the ground, I realised it was my only chance of receiving attention. It took all my strength to roll onto it, but now I felt sure someone would eventually come and patch me up. And before I could say, Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty, an officer with a pencil moustache was staring down at me with a concerned look on his shell-shocked face.

‘Thanks, sir!’ I said to him, almost in tears. ‘For a moment there, I thought I were bleeding dead!’

The officer said nothing. He looked straight through me, and before I could say another word, he shook his head.

‘You alright, sir?’ said a corporal joining him.

‘Yes, corporal…just thought I saw some poor old soul lying on that stretcher, that’s all.’

Then I was floating above the ground again. It was like a bad dream, you know, like the one where you’re…

If you liked Whizz-bang! you might enjoy my next short story set in the Wars of the Roses.

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