The Clearing

The forest is green, fat with green, and strangely, not many different shades of it. The trees blend with the bracken that filters the low hanging branches; the bracken with the thick broad bladed grass below. The only other colours here are the pale yellow-blue patches where on occasion, the sky is not blotted out by leaves and fronds; and the brown of trunksnot dark or ashya spring time, nature full of life type of brown. After the Front, its a revelation in itself. Its quiet too, and birds are singing casually, tweeting, cheeping the first time Ive heard that for Well, years.

Im keeping to the path just thin strips about six inches wide, as if theyre mortar dust painted on the ground. Looking down, thats the only thing in the wood that seems dull grey brown oxo mixed with milk---aggravatingly reminiscent of mud and dirty sand bags. You can see similarities in anything, youre out in the lines long enough. It is the colour of misery, and I feel something telling not to go that way, like theres really danger, not just things reminding me of it. Im wary though of falling down a sudden slope or drop hidden by undergrowth, and, in this army, not being able to return for roll call due to a broken leg would probably count as desertion. Theyd expect you to crawl. Im not meant to be here anyway, and assure myself thats why going further causes a sense of foreboding. I raise my eyes and take in the freshness in the rest of my surroundings. Who could grudge a soldier behind lines stuck in a mud hole like Dixmude a wander through here? It makes me feel more free than I have since I dreamt of exploring the mountains at home. Andy always promised wed take camp stuff and do that one day but swearing, I shut that thought off and pad quietly on

I hardly go a few yards before I hear voices. My first response is exasperation. Id come in here to get away from human beings for an hour or two: it had been as if I didnt get out in to trees and nature some time soon, Id explode; like my head would fill up with anger and frustration so much itd just go BANG Then Id found this place a haven from drab canvas tents and trivial niggles between men and officers, over-egotistic officers and men who were probably better blokes than theyd be in a million years..

I think Ive shut the voices out of my ears but something keeps trying to get through. I want to ignore it so I can carry on exploring. Exploring had always calmed me..Finding new places, new sites of interest, new. Something isnt right. Something I dont at first absorb. They are not two English voices. One is German; through the proximity of our trenches in many sectors, I had got so used to German diction that I hadnt registered it unusual, until it had dawned on me we were far behind lines I start to run, picking up more speed than I thought I could muster these days. Brain kicks in again, my running stops as promptly as my mind catches up. I could hear my heart beating and breathed deeply as I deciphered the sounds of the voices. It is the German voice which is pleading young, frightened, pleading perhaps even as young as I? It is its English counterpart that cuts through the beauty of the wood jeering, triumphant and harsh.

I am crawling low to an abandoned pile of wall, maybe four or five courses of bricks in Tudor red but much larger, falling to two or three course at the far end. I say far end, it is not more than four feet long. Beyond is a clearing, perhaps where a building stood belonging to it, now covered with more thick grass. I turn my face west and see an Officer, or NCO? He is with our regiment, I know him hate wells up my stomach he is known for his brutality and, apart from that, tried to convince the senior Officers that my shell shock after hearing about Andy and other strains and stresses, meant I was a coward and could not be relied upon. He had no evidence for this but he resented the fact that that did not stop them court-martialling me. I think my yelling that being ill did not make men cowards did not endear me to him either. Hed sent me a look that had said Watch out!-men have been done for less in this War! Thankfully hed been promoted away from our company. Some guys had it in for him after that little stunt.

I take in the whole image. He is holding a revolver in an outstretched right hand. Following the line of its barrel, I find a man about five yards from the end of it. He is kneeling, hands in his lap together as if he is about to lift them up in desperate prayer. He is still pleading, pleading, almost sobbing. He, I assume is the German: I say assume because a daze is coming over me, it blurs my sight and I wonder if Ive started having migraines like mother. In this state, the light streaming down upon him from the sun makes his uniform look as brown-green as mine, more so, like he grows out of the ground and when I hear his words, I hear them in English as if I have some power of automatic translation. I can say hes a German, but I cannot be sure. He tells of children, of home, of the craggy hill-mountains of Bavaria, of what he plans to do when he gets back. He turns to praying, then saying sorry, but as if he doesnt know what he has done but knows the man before him seeks revenge. Was this the sort of man who punished one man just because one of his country has caused him some presumed wrong? Thats what it felt like to me. The man just sneered, maddened cruel grin turning to the type of laugh you think wicked witches start their cackles with when youre a kid.

I cannot let him make that shot. I must do something. The thoughts rushed through my brain until even that seemed breathless. I couldnt tackle the officer, I was still to weak from my illness and what the army calls food for recovery (grey floury soup, if youre wondering because I had no physical wound this time). Shouting was no good because he might still shoot his captive in panic. There is a Clearing Station (13CCS) not far through the clearing, across a gritty track road but by the time I could get to them without doing something that would tip him off, he would be finished his crime and they might not help. I was a sure shot, even after my illness but I had no rifle with me. The only thing I could do was run: run further into the forest and make one hell of a noise so he would know someone had seen or heard him: make him think twice about his plan in case they told someone all the details or stood witness.

I get half up carefully, quietlyI dont want him to see who I am, or know someones there yet, because that would spoil the effect. I creep a few yards,

stomach hollow, terrified, then spring up and go crashing through the trees, and bracken like theres a whole German cavalry troop after me. Its only then I wonder what will happen if Im caught Shaking inside if not out, I think of what was happening to the bloke on the grass and sprint, jumping over broken logs and roots as fast as I can.

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I lift my head and neck stiffly. My hands are roped tightly behind my back so tight they dont even hurt. The German got away. Now Im the soldier kneeling: scared yet still able to find it ironic that this was happening in the leafy wood with its greens and soft thick grass. The pistol is aimed at one side of my forehead not the side of my head, just inches off centre of my brow. I want to LIVE. I want to see my ma again and tell her Im sorry for coming when she asked me not to. I want to Live. But Ive tried pleading. His eyes register no sign of his even hearingI half begin to pray, to go through the Lords prayer to ask for strength, for HELP. Suddenly I feel resigned but as if its God whos telling me I can do that. As if he is holding me so I can take it, can lean my weight of sorrow back on him. He takes the sorrow away. I open my eyes. Eyes cast down, I see them; my target for all the resentment I can pour towards them. A pair of shiny officers brown boots.

To this day, I feel resentment towards those boots when the image comes into my mind. I guess they symbolise all the trivial, stupid things the higher classes did to remind you they had some sort of power to boss you around. That they thought it their right. I hate that kind of snobbery now, and, I hope, always will. Today I have two dents in my skull where I was shot back then: when I was born, I had a birth mark that side of my forehead like dried blood colour, that would have been just where the patch soaked through red on my bandage when I was taken into the field hospital next morning. The Officer, I believe, put out a rumour I was shot for desertion.

When Im very upset, have a migraine or am ill, my head always hurts in that place and feels like its bleeding right there inside my skull I dont know if this is memory is related German who came to thank me when I was ill in 1996, who I found sitting on my bed watching me, or one other.A young German was in hospital when I was with my knee. He was very lonely, no one would speak to him and he was the only German in the place. I can picture him there in the corner of that section of yellowy tent, right next to the partition with the next section; I would stand or sit at the end of his bed. I dont know how he came to be in there, but his cheeks were very red, and something had gotten into his lungs, it might have been gas. I have a feeling it was him, because I believe, later, he became my uncle Clive. Clive died in the fifties before I was born he was nine years old---people say his face was bright red and something mysterious had happened to his lungs Nobody could work out what My Mum, my other uncle and my grandmother never found out. The only person who may have had some explanation off the doctors was my grandfather, and it seems he didnt tell anyone. I strangely, also have some of what we believe can only be Uncle Clives memories in my brain. Weve been told that him telling me hes ok, still around I think he likes to watch over my mum, the sister he thought so much of.