Willie McBride

A tribute to one of my favorite song/poems, No Man's Land by Eric Bogle.

The wind whipped across the tattered land. No mere breeze, but almost a torrential gale was this breathe of air. The storm had been brewing for days, everyone could tell. They had hoped the fighting would be over by then, but when is it ever over? The death toll would keep rising in this godforsaken, nameless field. The only difference would be water added to the normal rain of lead. The dirt would turn to mud, and the bodies would float and sink again in the puddles. The flowers would not bloom, but the flies and mosquitoes would prosper. Death, oh glorious death, would fly on this wind. It's voice would be the one screeching and flowing through the ears of the tired and damned.

In a shell hole crouched young Willie McBride. The rain had already began to fall, and his boots would soon fill with mud and tainted earth. His eyes peeked over the crater's edge, peering as well as he could through the dense rain and fog. His rifle lay by his side, resting against a patch of earth still dry. He'd have to move it soon, or it could jam from mud clogging the barrel, or getting in the bolt mechanism. His helmet covered his mangy brown hair and rested just above his eyebrows. Willie was just nineteen, and his uniform seemed like it belonged to someone in their thirties. Sparse stubble dotted his chin and cheeks, hinting at the man he might become.

A whistle blew out, signaling an advance. Damn, thought Willie. Damn it all to hell! He might be just a kid, but he knew that it was stupid of the officer to signal a charge in this condition. The Germans had had their trenches and firing pits ready for weeks and would easily be sheltered from this downpour. There was no way Willie would be able to avoid the barbed wire and machine gun fire if he couldn't see five yards ahead of him. He wanted to stay there in that hole and just wait it out. But Willie had pride, and that pride wouldn't let him be a traitor. Besides, what would Sally say if she heard? He wouldn't let himself nor his sweetheart down. He quickly kissed the cross hanging from his neck and crawled out of the hole on his hands and knees.

Vaguely, Willie could hear his comrades crawling along the field to his right and left. At least I won't be alone, he thought. My buddies will protect me, and I them. We might not care much for whose field this is, but we gotta kick those Germans back out of France. Sloughing through the mud, Willie gathered his courage. He would have to charge once the shouting began and add his voice to it. Maybe the fierce calls, added with the insane wind and rain, will unnerve the Germans and weaken their aim. Maybe the bullet destined for Willie would miss, and he'd make it back home to Ireland. Maybes were almost as worthless as hope in a war and Willie knew this. He crawled on.

The shouting began. Slowly at first, so low and quiet that Willie almost missed it. He didn't know how far he was from the enemy lines, so he wasn't looking for the shouts. When it grew louder, he heard it. A primal feeling swelled in his chest, urging him to join his brethren in this most basic of things. He gave a sudden yell and leaped to his feet! Screaming now, he charged forward into the rain. For Ireland! For France! For Sally! His feet pounded through the mud, sloshing water and grim with every step. Heart racing, Willie felt alive. He would feel no pain, no remorse, and no shame. This was a battle, and he was a soldier.

By the time Willie had covered a few dozen yards, the staccato began sounding. The heavy, rattling noise of a German machine gun. Officially known as MG08s, the soldiers had many different names for them. Willie personally thought they sounded like bees, so he called them Bumbles. Their names, however, were irrelevant as their occupation was all the same: death. Complete, massive, reaping death. They would be mowing down his friends by now, killing them with speeding lead that ripped out their hearts and souls. He shook his head, trying to dislodge those thoughts from his young mind. I'll kill those b******s, he chose to think instead. I'll make every one of them pay! He rushed on faster.

Quickly approaching the trench of Germans, Willie raised his gun. The bayonet gleamed with moisture, hanging from the end of his Lee-Enfield rifle. Soon, Willie hoped, it would gleam with the blood of his enemy. They might have never harmed him or his kin personally, but he had to fight them. He wasn't sure why, but a lot of people from the big towns seemed upset with the Germans. Willie had signed up to do what he thought he ought to, and that was to fight the bad guys. Talk was that this war would finish up all wars forever, and that was just dandy to Willie. As he screamed one more time, Willie leaped into the trench.

The moments seemed to slow. It was as if he floated down the twelve feet into the trench and landed with a soft thud. The German next to him, realizing what happened, seemed to be a slow motion ballerina spinning around. Willie felt his reflexes work, and turned himself. Willie was faster, and thrust out his gun. He watched it slowly creep towards the still spinning German, and saw it sink itself into the man's side. The blood didn't look like it burst out, but rather crawled along the air and danced on Willie's shirt. The man's faced turned to Willie's, but he was gone already. The moments sped up as Willie realized that he had killed a man.

While he might have panicked, his training kicked in. He placed a foot onto the man and heaved his gun out. The bayonet made a squelching sound as it slid out, dripping blood and gore. He spun around, just in time, to block an entrenching tool coming for his head. The tool bit into his gun and stuck. Willie, being the son of a farmer, was strong enough to wrench the gun back, ripping the tool from his new German attacker. The power of his pull forced him a few steps back, so Willie took the opportunity to shoot the man in the neck. More blood spattered Willie, this time getting in his face.

Blinded, Willie never had the chance to reload his gun. He never saw the German come up behind his dead comrade. He faintly heard the click, but never saw that it came from a rifle loading a round into the breech. He never felt the blinding pain as the bullet rocketed out of the rifle and lodged itself into his chest. The bullet went through his left breast pocket, through the picture he had of Sally with her bright ginger hair, and through his valiant, prideful heart. He died instantly; a quick death.

The battle was nameless. The charge futile. The field worthless. But Willie died for it all the same. In the year 1916, Willie McBride died for something he didn't know about, but thought was right.

Author's Note

Input is welcome, as always.