Alone In The Trenches
Read Alone In The Trenches Online
Authors: Vince Cross
I Was There...
ALONE IN THE
TRENCHES
For my late grandad Bertie, who probably met my grandma while he was on army training in Thetford, Suffolk, and who, although he served during the Great War, like many of his generation would never talk about what he saw.
While this book is based on real characters and actual historical events, some situations and people are fictional, created by the author.
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014
This electronic edition published 2014
Text © Vince Cross, 2014
Illustrations by Michael Garton
© Scholastic Ltd, 2014
All rights reserved
eISBN 978 1407 14711 6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereafter invented, without the express prior written permission of Limited.
Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
The right of Vince Cross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
We’d run out of flour at the farm. Again. At six in the morning Mum was already at the end of her tether.
“You’ll have to go into Ypres. Get enough bread to last us a couple of days. And as much flour as you can carry.”
It was more than an hour’s walk. And yesterday I’d been sure I’d heard explosions from the direction of town. “Oh, Mum,” I moaned. “Do I have to? I’m so
scared…”
I was lazy as much as frightened.
“Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?” she shouted. “I’ve been up half the night with Grandma. Don’t you think we’re all scared? You’ll go
and say no more about it if you want to eat today.”
I was starting to hate living in the cold farmhouse now that Dad wasn’t there to spoil me.
In Ypres the bell on Madame Peyroux’s shop door tinkled. She hobbled from the shadows to look me up and down accusingly.
“It’s very early. And you’re on your own. Where’s your mother then? It’s far too dangerous for you to come here by yourself.”
“Didn’t you know?” I answered. “It’s just the three of us now. And Mum can’t leave Grandma…”
“But what about your father?” she began, and then broke off, realizing she’d put her foot in it.
“I’m not sure,” I said miserably. “He disappeared. With Michel. They went out and they didn’t come back. It’s been a fortnight…”
Madame Peyroux looked uncomfortable. She was probably a bit shocked she hadn’t heard any gossip, but I could see she’d misunderstood. She was thinking Dad had just walked out and
left us. People were doing stranger things just then.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, doing her best to sound as if she meant it. Madame Peyroux didn’t look well. Her cheeks had a high colour and her movements were fidgety. Her
eyes seemed small and frightened. She shoved two loaves in my hand with a few
centimes
change. “Please send my regards … my sympathy. Tell your mother to let me know if
there’s anything I can do … if we’re still here, that is!”
I couldn’t wait to get out of her poky little shop. I’d only known Madame P. a few months, but long enough to dislike her. It would be all over the city before the day was out:
“
Poor Madame Martin. I never did trust that man…
” As I shut the door behind me my chest began to heave and tears stung my eyes.
It was a very beautiful, clear November morning. When I’d left at first light, the sky had been a deep, unbroken blue shading into gold behind the silhouettes of the trees on the horizon.
A first scattering of winter frost was showing across the deep brown ridges of the ploughed fields, like icing sugar on a chocolate cake. At half past seven the streets and squares of Ypres were
still empty of people. Everything was calm and peaceful around the ancient stones of the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral. “
Where is everybody this morning?
” I remember thinking. And
then, without warning, came a terrible, monstrous sound that cut the sky in half. It sounded like a cross between the tearing of a sheet and a sudden vicious scatter of rain, but so much louder and
more sinister. On its heels was a deafening explosion that shook the ground beneath me. I staggered, and nearly lost balance. A fierce gust of wind and dirt whipped past my face. A shower of
plaster from somewhere above fell onto my hair and shoulders. I was terrified and thought that I was about to die.
Suddenly the streets were filled with men and women, heads down, tucking shirts into breeches, wiping their hands on aprons. They were running around shouting and gesturing. They gathered
buckets and brooms as if all they had to do was mop up some spilled milk. But as they swept and tidied, a second shell whined in towards the city, and then a third. It was obvious this was no
accident or mistake. Ypres wouldn’t be put back together today, or tomorrow, or perhaps ever again. The Germans had us in their sights.
“How dare they destroy our beautiful homes!” said one man. “It’s downright criminal!”
“Remember what happened in Louvain,” retorted another. “The guns didn’t leave a building standing or spare a single family. Why should we be any different?”
A church bell started tolling, and then another. An electric alarm bell began to ring somewhere close by and wouldn’t stop. In the distance a trumpeter started to play the Belgian national
anthem. Horses and carts appeared, as well as one or two motorized lorries. Overhead I began to hear the noise of an aeroplane engine. People in the street looked up anxiously. I could see the
’plane circling out beyond the
Grand Place
. There were two men inside it. One was throwing bombs down into the streets. The horses bucked and shied as yet more shells from the distant
German howitzer guns rained in. Each explosion seemed closer than the last, and even louder than before. I could hear the rumbling of collapsing walls. Men shouted. Women and children screamed.
I had no idea what to do! The doorway was certainly no place to be. I made a spur-of-the-moment decision. A covered wagon had drawn up at the kerb beside me. The horse was panicking and the
driver had dismounted to fiddle with its harness before he moved off again. I thought that if I stayed where I was I would certainly be killed. Hitching a lift would be better than running! While
he tried to soothe the poor animal, I hauled myself up into the cart among its cargo of groceries, still clutching my two loaves. As if it would keep me safe, I covered myself with a smelly blanket
from a pile that was lying there. I heard the frightened driver tell the horse to “giddy-up” and found myself being bumped away from the confusion and dust at an unsteady gallop.
Peeking out from under the covering, I could just make out the scars that were beginning to appear on the ancient and lovely face of Ypres. A corner of the Cloth Hall had been completely blown
away. Its windows were broken. Its huge wooden door hung at a crazy angle from one hinge.
Despite the blanket and my overcoat, it was icily cold in the back of the cart. I was shivering, probably from the shock of all that had just happened. I twisted my hands together to get some
warmth back into them and tried to slow my breathing down. To calm myself I set out to count slowly to a thousand.
I was still alive, wasn’t I?
Looking back now, what a clever and
brave little girl I was! Yes, but how silly and stubborn too… as you’re about to hear.
*
My name is Annette. When all this happened I was just nine years old. I’d always been small for my age, but my legs and arms were strong. I had short fair hair which I
liked, and freckles which I didn’t. My dad was an Englishman who ran away from home to find his fortune in far off countries when he was sixteen years old. He got no further than Belgium. To
his surprise, he found that his name –
Albert Martin
– worked just as well in French as it did in English. The spelling stayed the same: they just said it differently. He must
have had a very quick ear, because he was soon speaking French too – with only the slightest accent. As you probably know, Belgium is a country with two languages, but he found himself among
French-speaking people, and he never really got to grips with Flemish. It probably didn’t help that within a year or so he’d met my mother, Elise, and before long they were sweethearts.
Her
Flemish wasn’t very good either. Once they were married, my brother Michel came along quite quickly, and I followed two years later.
