When I was a child, my granddad told me a story about the first world war. He wouldn’t tell me about all the death and violence. He wouldn’t go into detail about the battles or how it seemed like the end of the world. Instead, he would talk about the trenches and the people inside them. He would talk about their poems, the songs they sang, and how people from all ages and upbringings were finally united.
“The only time we were truly together, was when we were all shaking hands with the Grim Reaper.” He would say often say. He even claimed to have met J.R.R. Tolkien at the Battle of the Somme, but I would need to find out if this is true.
The last story he ever told me was different from all the rest. He was on his deathbed; we were permitted to see him one last time before the end, as he had only hours left. We all surrounded him when he asked to speak to me alone.
“There one story that must never be forgotten.” He looked past me into the corridor, scared, like he was staring at something in the doorway. He starts babbling like he needs to get out before it’s too late. He was stuttering and repeating sentences, trying to dig deep into his mind and remember what was once lost.
It was the final great assault, the battle of Ancre. He returned from leave after being injured and joined the fifth British army. The higher-ups who hid in their bunker delayed the attack due to poor weather, but eventually, after a seven-day bombardment. They charged.
It was dawn, early in the morning. A Mist covered no man-land, making visibility almost nill. My grandfather was running ahead, and he kept running and running and running. Everyone was gone until he stopped, and all gunfire had ceased.
He turned in a circle, looking for anyone, listening for the sound of battle that never came but was just silent. He would walk in a straight line for hours, thinking he would eventually reach something. He kept shouting until his voice was hoarse, and he couldn’t speak.
Eventually, he just collapsed; during his time in the war, there were multiple times when he accepted that he wouldn’t make it alive. That at any second, a rouge bullet would snuff his life away. But he didn’t expect to die like this, entirely alone with no battle in sight—just the empty fog.
He collapsed crying onto the floor; he didn’t want to die like this, slowly dying of thirst, crying, and calling himself a coward. A small groan echoes throughout the mist. My grandfather looks up to see someone in the distance, seemingly standing still.
With his last bit of energy, he pulls himself up and drags his feet slowly. At first, he was cautious, making as little sound as possible and walking on his toes. But as he got closer, the need for human contact took over, and he just wanted to ask anyone what was happening.
My grandfather started sprinting, digging up mud behind him, using the last of his crooked voice to shout for help. He didn’t stop running, even when his lungs screamed at him, and his eyes begged for sleep. However, no matter how fast or long he ran, the figure never got closer or farther away. It was almost like he was keeping pace with him, but it never moved. It didn’t move its arms or legs; it stood perfectly still yet was moving away from my grandfather.
After what felt like hours, he slowed down and started walking towards the figure instead. He had to be close enough by now. He tried shouting again while slowly taking each step forward. The atmosphere somehow echoed noises behind him. With every step he took, the squash of wet mud would sound like it was coming from behind him. He quickly turned around to find the source, but the noise stopped; everything around him was still the thick fog suffocating everything.
Shaking, he started moving towards the figure again; just like before, the patting came from behind him. Now catching his breath, he started running towards the man, still in the same position. My grandfather heard slamming behind him; instead of being in line with his feet, it was more complex and faster than him.
My grandfather swung his gun around and pointed it behind him to see this man. He wore a German uniform, and the bared wire wrapped around him broke and opened his skin. Blood was still flowing from his body like someone had slashed open his neck.
What scared my grandfather the most was that he wasn’t just wrapped in barbed wire as he fell into it. But it looked like someone grabbed the wire and deliberately wrapped it around his body. Wire stabbed into his neck and body as it’s been wrapped around him several times and ended with a rusted bow.
My grandfather screamed, falling backwards and started crawling away. Just as he did, the wrapped figure opened its bloodied eyes and fell forward. He was falling on top of him. He screamed as several hands held him down; he tried to escape but couldn’t move. He eventually realised they were speaking English, and his eyes adjusted to see nurses and other soldiers surrounded him in the ward. Cries of pain echo throughout the area, and a grim reaper feast fills the air.
He was sent home and didn’t get called up again. My granddad held my hand, begging me to keep the secret safe; I promised I would only utter a whisper on my deathbed.
He died only a few hours later, and I never told anyone about this until now. I know I’m breaking my promise by telling everyone about it, but I’ve seen the wrapped wire around the German soldier. I’ve felt the blood pour onto me as it trapped me underneath it, whispering in my ear to tell the world. I’m sorry, I am so so sorry. I tried to hold it off, but I couldn’t. As soon as I upload this post, I can rest in peace.