Flashback Monday, 15th July 1918 was going to be a bad day. Percy didn't see the 'Moaning Minnie' but he heard it. The ‘Jerry’ shell, a minenwerfer, hit the back of the trench. Its blast hurled him into the dugout. He awoke face down on the mud floor. He couldn't see or hear anything. As he felt around with hands and moved his legs, he realised he was surrounded by earth and splintered wood. He gathered himself into a kneeling position. His back scraped against soil and wood. Pulling a Swan from his right breast pocket, he closed his eyes then flicked his thumb nail against its hard end. He opened them after the hiss of the initial flare. A charred boot and Tilley lamp shared the small cavity engineered with the remains of the dugout. He didn’t bother to stretch out with the flame. It was obvious that if he had a cat, he wouldn’t be swinging it. ‘If a Minnie gets yer, make sure it kills yer,’ his section NCO had once laughingly told Percy and his mates. ‘Well I only cut my finger,’ he wanted to tell him. He didn’t shout. He wouldn’t have got a reply. ‘No need to panic, they must know I’m in here,’ he reassured himself. He couldn’t sit without hitting his head so he lay on his side in the warm, wet mud. ‘Bugger!’ he cursed as the expiring match scorched his thumb and finger, ‘trust me to get into this bloody mess.’ Percy knocked and walked into the Justice’s office. ‘Name?’ ‘Percy Massingham, sir’ he replied. ‘You’ve checked your Attestation form?’ the Justice asked. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Are you ready?’ the Justice asked. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Take the Bible in your left hand, raise your right hand and read out the oath.’ ‘I, Percy Massingham, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, his Heirs, and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, his Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, his Heirs, and Successors, and of all the Generals and Officers set over me. So help me God.’ He had felt intensely proud as he fumbled his way through the words, straining to hold back the parasitic fear that was gnawing at his insides. On that warm June day in 1916, the broadsheets had proclaimed as they did every day, the numbers of dead, missing and those whose bodies had been re-sculpted by metal and fire. His brother Harry, who everyone called Jock because of his taste for cheap whiskey, had come back the previous year from ‘Wipers’, the savage but apt nickname given to Ypres. He had left a foot back there. Jock looked up from the bench as Percy walked out of the office. Percy was trying not to show his anxiety, but the look on Jock’s face told him that he understood. He knocked his pipe, against the replacement wooden stump. ‘Don’t you lose bits of yer legs Perce,’ Jock joked, ‘you’re short enough as it is.’ ‘What’s that bloody awful pong?’ Percy mused. He hadn’t washed for a couple of days. The persistent August rain, beating down like drumsticks on his tin helmet as he tried to shelter in his funk hole, had worked its way to his skin and had provided some cleansing relief from the constant torment of coarse underwear, khaki and lice. Alright, he knew he stank, but that wasn’t it. ‘Jesus, it smells like petrol!’ He thrust his arm to where he thought he had seen the lamp. His hand scraped against the boot and then hit the lamp. It was on its side but the glass felt intact. He picked it up and sniffed at it like a dog. He shook it. There was no reassuring swish of fuel. He could feel that the filler cap was missing. ‘Can’t even chuck yer’ he told it, ‘yer might bounce off the wall and smack me one,’ he moaned. He turned onto his back and stared into the impenetrable blackness and the loneliness it reflected. He could feel the slow beat of his heart. He could even hear it tapping the insides of his ears. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t scared to death. ‘What’s that?’ He sat up without thinking and cracked his head against timber. The darkness was suddenly ablaze with flashes of light. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ he yelled, angry at his stupidity, angry at being helpless and angry that like the many thousands before him, he was going to die in his early twenties. ‘There it is again!’ he whispered, this time remaining stiff and horizontal as the timber he had encountered earlier. He felt the almost imperceptible kiss of air on his neck. Amy turned to face him. He could never get out of that stupid habit of sneaking up on her to tease the soft, blonde, down on her nape when there was bad news. He had brought a small piece of beef from the shop in Kensington where he worked as a journeyman butcher. It was hard to get and very expensive. Once again, the kiss meant trouble and the meat had sealed his fate. ‘Tell me,’ she ordered. He couldn’t look into her eyes. ‘Please Percy,’ her tone softening. ‘My papers have come,’ he replied. Amy gave her nose a little wipe with the back of her finger. ‘Say something,’ he pleaded. ‘When?’ she asked. ‘Today of course?’ She flashed him a look of impatience and then ire. ‘Oh. Right. They want me to be a sniper, but I’m going to appeal. It’s too cold blooded. I’ve seen too much blood in my job and I’m only goin’ to kill someone if I really have to.’ ‘So what does that mean then?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a week, until 8th of June. I have to take the oath by then, whatever the appeal outcome.’ He felt for his right breast pocket and took out his small moleskin notebook. It felt so soft and warm in his fingers that it could still be a living thing. It was a present from his Amy, given to him the day he had left the flat in Maclise Road, West Kensington for training at Catterick. He touched the two small photographs she had put inside. He started to go for another match, then pulled back. Only one was left. There was also one Woodbine. He wanted to take a look at his young family, but the match could be important. The Woodbine was critical. ‘What is that bloody smell?’ he said to himself. Putting the notebook safely back, he rolled over and then up on to all fours. Again, sniffing like a blood hound, he tried to find where the draft was coming from. The air would help to sustain his life. He wondered if it could be mustard gas that would shorten it. ‘I’m going to miss Amy and little Bob,’ he thought. It was Friday, October 8th 1915 when the hospital had sent a messenger to the butcher shop. ‘Go!’ his boss had yelled at him. Amy had been taken into hospital two days earlier because she had been showing blood. Everyone had said that it was going to be alright. Now the message had come that Amy had delivered the baby, a month early. He stood quietly next to her bed. She was exhausted and he didn’t want to wake her. She looked like a stick at the best of times but now it seemed as though she could snap with the smallest movement. ‘Percy,’ she groaned, opening her eyes into one of her toothy grins. He gently lifted her hand and softly stroked the damp, cool skin. ‘We’re going to call him Guy,’ he laughed. ‘He should have been born on bonfire night!’ Amy smiled at his attempt to lift her out of her pain and lethargy. She came home with their son a week later. They both agreed that he would also be called Robert after Percy’s dad. Percy picked tiny Bob up and held him to his chest. ‘Thank God you’ll never have to go through anything like this,’ he whispered into Robert Guy’s ear. He closed his eyes and began to rock his yawning son. ‘I must have been asleep,’ he thought as he snapped his eyes open. He was on his back and he was wet. He quickly felt his breast pockets. They were dry. He put a finger into the liquid floor then cautiously touched it to his dry lips. He explored another wet finger with his tongue. ‘Tastes okay. A bit gritty,’ he muttered, ‘but no petrol.’ He twisted round so he could gather a palm full of the liquid and took several licks. He hoped that it was muddy rainwater that he was drinking and not raw sewage that had seeped in from the latrine pits behind the trenches. It was drinkable. He lay on his back again. He was already wet and the liquid floor was warm. There was some comfort in the dampness that was seeping through to his body. ‘How much bloody longer ‘til they find me?’ he screeched at the emptiness around him. He wanted to look at his watch but he had no intention of wasting a match to find out the time. ‘I’m famished,’ he groaned. He felt for his pouch, remembering that like his mates, he always carried a few of his iron rations. They never knew how long they would be hanging around waiting for orders to go over the top, so being able to nibble something kept hunger and boredom at bay, if only for a while. ‘What’s for dinner then? Or is it breakfast?’ He felt for the cube of cheese he had put away that morning. It was difficult to pull out because of his cut finger. ‘Only a small prick,’ his best man smirked. ‘Cheeky sod!’ Percy laughed. ‘C’mon, Perce, watch that blood on yer Uncle Bert. Yer should have let me put that rose in yer button hole,’ Henry admonished. Percy sucked his finger then took a drag of his half smoked fag. He could tell that Henry had something to say. He was his best mate and he was Amy’s brother, but he was being unusually furtive for a Cockney who never bit his tongue. ‘C’mon, spit it out,’ he said. Henry looked straight into Percy’s eyes. ‘Alright then. Why are yer rushing into this?’ Henry asked. ‘You know why. I’m bound to get called up soon and we’ve wanted to do this for ages.’ ‘That’s cobblers, Perce. You told me it were goin’ ter be donkeys. At least ‘til yer’d finished yer apprenticeship.’ ‘Leave it alone, Henry. Please?’ ‘Look into me mincies Perce and tell me she’s not up the duff,’ Henry probed. Percy couldn’t answer, nor could he look at Henry. ‘Luv a duck, Perce. She is, isn’t she? Tell me, you ‘ampton,’ Henry pressed. ‘Alright. Alright!’ Percy replied through clenched teeth. ‘When?’ Henry asked. ‘November.’ ‘Blimey mate, yer leavin’ it a bit late!’ Henry replied. ‘It’s not like that Henry. I love her tons, so it just made sense. Anyway, I reckon I could be made up to journeyman soon. That’d mean more money and some perks.’ Henry’s eyes bored into his. Then that mischievous smirk spread across his face. ‘Aw, it’s alright mate. I knew what was goin’ on. I were just pullin’ yer leg. Just make sure yer look after ‘er. Or else!’ They both took a last drag then flicked the stubs away as Amy and Flo walked towards them. ‘Lovely day, little sisters,’ Henry chuckled. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Flo asked. ‘He knows,’ Percy replied. ‘Does ma?’ Amy countered. ‘Look, if I knew, yer don’t think ma doesn’t, do yer?’ Henry responded. ‘C’mon,’ Flo ordered, ‘let’s get this over and done with.’ ‘Oh, thanks a bunch, ‘Amy replied angrily. ‘Nah, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m lookin’ forward to me pie, mash and liquor. The weddin’s just an excuse for a knees up and nosh!’ Flo giggled. Percy chewed slowly on the waxy cheese. It didn’t matter whether he opened or closed his eyes. Overwhelming blackness prevailed. It pressed down on him, like the soil and timber would do if it could. He felt for his matches. He needed to see a glimmer of light, a glimmer of hope perhaps. He needed to find where that draft was coming from. He needed to know that he was still alive. He poked about in his pocket for the last match and scraped his finger against his lucky charm, his medal. He took it out and rubbed his thumb over its smooth but undulating surface. He felt the back with his thumb nail. He could feel the etching on the back. He could picture it. ‘Percy Massingham – 1907,’ it said. ‘Massingham, get up, stop larkin’ about,’ the referee shouted. He opened his eyes. His head hurt where the football had hit him. He looked up into the faces of the referee and most of his team mates. ‘You alright, Perce?’ Jock asked. ‘Yeah, I didn’t see that comin’ Percy replied. ‘You’ve been out for a couple of minutes,’ Jock told him. The referee and Jock helped him up. He removed some lumps of mud from his hair. His head was throbbing now he was upright and he felt a bit wobbly. He wanted to keep hold of Jock but he had no intention of alerting him or anyone else to his condition. He had heard the whistle just after his head had deflected the ball. He knew that he saved the penalty kick. He knew then that his team had won the championship. To cheering and applause, he cautiously climbed onto the podium to collect his award. It was slightly smaller than a halfpenny. A shining crown on the top and centre shield were the same copper colour. On the blue enamel circle that encompassed the shield, white capitals proclaimed ‘Lynn Borough Junior League 1907.8’. ‘I’m going to get it inscribed,’ he told himself. He struck the match and touched it to his cigarette. He took a long puff and then gently blew out the acrid smoke, being careful not to extinguish the match’s waving, yellow flame. He looked at the charred boot. It wasn’t totally burnt. He touched the match to a piece of the unburned inner lining and nodded in satisfaction as the tinder accepted the flame and began to burn. It didn’t emit much light but he could now look around. At least he no longer felt as though he was buried alive. He took out his notebook and opened it at the page where the photographs were resting. He smiled as he took a final drag on the Woodbine. Notes: All characters are family members except the NCO and referee Uncle Bert - shirt Donkeys - Donkeys ears - years Mincies - mince pies - eyes ‘ampton - Hampton Wick - prick