Trenchblight: Innocence and Absolution

by James McBride

Overview

August 1914, Britain is aflame with war and patriotism. Men from all over the country rush to enlist, volunteering to fight for King and country. Most are young and innocent and cannot possibly foresee the horrors that await them on the bloody battlegrounds of the Western Front. How many of them will survive?

Brothers Tom and David Duke have spent most of their lives playing rugby together. With the advent of war, however, they too choose to enlist, each for his own reason: Tom has an insatiable lust for adventure, and David simply cannot let his brother go to war without him. They become soldiers, and together will face the untold horrors of the First World War.

Their innocence and boundless enthusiasm propel them into the infamous Battle of the Somme in 1916. The following year, they face the unspeakable horror of Passchendaelle, a name that would become synonymous with the ineffable futility of the Great War. What began as patriotic adventure becomes a fight for survival. The brothers cannot escape the brutal reality of war which has unforeseen and tragic consequences for them and the people they love most.

Based on the official war diaries of the Eleventh Battalion, the London Regiment, this historical novel tells a gripping story of the true tragedy of the Great War.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781491716267
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	02/10/2014
Pages:	610
Sales rank:	579,553
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.23(d)

Read an Excerpt

TRENCHBLIGHT

Innocence and Absolution

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By James McBride

iUniverse LLC

Copyright © 2014 James McBride
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-1626-7

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CHAPTER 1

The two sets of tightly interlocked bodies smashed into each other with a shuddering impact. The clash of muscle on bone, and the echoing human grunt resounded across the pitch, the crowd reacting with a baying roar of anticipation. As if by some miracle, heads found the appropriate slots in their opponent's ranks. Slowly the pressure mounted, rippling through the tensed and buckled bodies like a tightening spring. A spiral of billowing steam rose from the straining bodies, dissipating in the fading afternoon sun.

They were in the last stages of injury time and a goal and try from the home team would steal victory at the death. With one last gargantuan effort the Blackheath front row strove for supremacy against their heavier opponents. After what seemed like an age to the bent and twisted bodies in the front row the two opposing packs were settled. On either side of the Blackheath front row were the Duke Brother's. As one they bent their legs and dipped their shoulders, just as the ball was at last fed into the straining mass. The rest of the pack sustained this slight momentum, as bent legs were straitened in unison; with a mighty roar the opposition were forced back that crucial yard. In that vital instant the ball was secured. And now the second row maintained the forward drive, gaining even more vital yards and momentum. The ball was channelled through the press of interlocking legs until at last it reached Rhys Williams at the base of the scrum.

The excitement of the crowd reached an even greater intensity, as the huge back row forward scooped up the ball in one of his shovel like hands. No sooner had the ball been gathered in, than with a final surge of power, Williams burst away from the scrum as it dissolved into chaos.

Like a rampaging bull Williams headed straight for the opposition outside half, who half-heartedly attempted to throw an arm across the Welshman's driving thighs. This effort was shrugged aside with contemptuous disdain, and more vital yards were gained. The covering defence was quickly across, at last Williams was brought to a faltering halt some ten yards short of the beckoning line, his pounding legs still driving him forward.

With one last effort Williams turned, presenting the ball to his on rushing back row colleagues and the rest of the driving Blackheath pack. Opposition arms were ripped away to secure a channel for the ball and the momentum of the drive was maintained as more bodies thudded into the heaving and straining maul.

The last to arrive, having to disentangle themselves from the opposition front row were the Duke Brothers. At full pace they lent their not inconsiderable bulks to the drive. For a few frantic seconds the ball seemed to be lost, as it disappeared in the heaving press of straining bodies. But suddenly, as if by magic, the ball appeared at the back of the maul.

Bill Aitchinson the tiny scrum half made no attempt to pass the ball away. The backs had been out played all day and if victory was going to be secured now it was going to be through the endeavours of the forwards. Rather than take the ball, Aitchinson lent his slight frame to the struggling mass, urging his forwards on. Momentum was slowed as more of the opposition lent their weight to resisting the drive. But they were five tantalising yards from the line, and the shadow of the posts rose enticingly before them.

At last spinning away from the maul, Tom the younger of the Duke Brothers, the ball firmly lodged under his arm made for the line; David his brother at his shoulder. The Richmond defence was caught flat-footed for that vital second. The first tackler was handed away with a mighty thrust of Tom's free arm. The last defender was caught between two options. David made for the outside, waiting for the try scoring pass.

But, dummying outrageously, Tom burst past the bemused defender to score under the posts. The crowd roared its appreciation, particularly one group of wildly cheering spectators who had followed the play down field. The successful conversion signalled the end of the match and victory for the home side against Richmond their London rivals, in the first and potentially last game of the 1914-15 Season.

With the flags collected the still animated crowd headed for the clubhouse bar, locked in discussion about the game. Whilst the players, one set heads bent in mute dejection, the other laughing their delight, headed for the changing rooms and the waiting bath.

"You lousy bastard, you should have passed that ball out, I was over for a certain try," David moaned, a beaming smile spreading across his sweat and dirt encrusted features.

"What and let you get all the bloody glory. You must be joking," Tom laughed back.

"You'd have dropped it anyway," he added dismissively.

David grabbed his brother round his broad shoulders.

"Well done. That certainly gave it to the cocky sods."

"Yeah," Tom smiled back. "And now I need a bloody pint."

"Sounds good to me," David agreed.

At first sight the two brothers appeared to be the mirror image of each other, both in size and silhouette. They walked together, their shadows interlocked. David was the elder by nearly two years. At twenty seven he was reaching the peak of his strength and experience. His burly frame concealed a soft stomach that hinted at too much beer and good living. David's dark hair was beginning to recede and was cropped short around his cauliflower ears, revealing thin traces of various scars, testament to the hardness of the game he loved.

David was certainly not handsome in the classical sense, but he had a rugged quality, with his strong jaw line and clear green eyes set deep below his thick eyebrows, hinting at hidden depths.

There was no difference in size between the two brothers, but Tom boasted a thick head of raven black hair accentuating his chiselled features and good looks; his stomach was still flat, lending to his athletic appearance.

Whilst from a distance it was virtually impossible to tell the brothers apart, close up the difference was clear. Tom's demeanour was far more carefree, a constant smile lighting up his features, and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. In contrast David features appeared reticent and serious. His smile seemed almost reluctant, as if it was restrained by some inner reserve, though there was a bright glint in his eyes; that hinted at a hidden lightness and joy.

As they were walking towards the changing rooms a group of running children caught up with them, a swirling mass of swinging arms and pounding legs, racing to reach the two brothers. There were eight of them, three boys and five girls of varying ages. The girls ran holding onto their bonnets to stop them falling off, their pretty white dresses swinging about their knees in a most unladylike fashion. The boys ran unencumbered, their caps clasped tightly in their hands, gleefully trying to outpace the girls. Panting they encircled the two brothers, laughing their joy.

"Uncle Tom that was a great try," Robert the eldest of the boys gasped, clearly in awe of his mother's younger brother.

Tom delighted in the adulation of his young nephew.

"What about me?" David chided, ruffling the ten year olds mass of unruly red hair.

"Yeah Daddy was the best," another voice countered.

It came from Rose, at five the youngest of the group. She grabbed her daddy's hand.

"Thank you Rose, Daddy thinks you're the best as well," David replied pulling her up under his arm.

"Am I the best as well Dad?" another of the boys cried.

"Yes Jon, you're the best as well."

In one fluid motion Jon was also plucked under David's arm, his booted feet kicking happily in the air.

"Carry me uncle Tom," Daisy, another of the girls pleaded.

"And me."

"Me, me," the children cried in unison clutching at Tom.

"Hold it, hold it, I can't carry you all," Tom feigned trying to push his way past the press of young bodies. Laughter and screams filled the air.

"Calm down now," a stern voice rescued Tom.

"Come on your uncles want to get washed and changed."

Maisie the eldest of the Duke Sisters entered the fray. The reaction was instant. The children knew better than to cross their mother and aunt. Maisie was the eldest of the Duke children; some five years older than David. And even David did what he was told by the sturdy matriarch of the family, who grew more like their mother with every passing year.

"You will see your uncles tomorrow," Maisie placated the drooping lips and tearful eyes.

Two more women approached, taking command of the group of children; Maureen, the second Duke Sister and Mary, David's wife.

"Did you enjoy that?" Mary asked, taking the two wriggling children from her husband's arms.

"Yeah it was great—how about a kiss for your handsome husband," David puckered his lips.

"Sod off. Handsome—I wish. You can keep your sweaty body to yourself," the response was instant and playful.

"Typical—I don't know, what's a man to do?" David laughed, grasping his wife round the waist.

"We're going to take the kids home now, they need to have an early night, they've got a big day tomorrow," Mary replied ignoring David's attempted affection.

"Yeah of course, can I have a kiss then Rose; and you Jon?"

David bent down and hugged his two children.

"You won't be late—will you?" Mary asked; the tone of her voice more serious.

"No—I'll just have a couple of pints."

"I've heard that before, just remember it's an early start tomorrow and we've got a lot to do."

David nodded.

"Don't worry—it will all be sorted."

Mary shrugged.

"Just remember."

With that parting remark, the woman shepherded the downcast children away.

CHAPTER 2

The changing room was steaming, the moisture dripping from the damp walls. Bellowing their pleasure the home team headed for the bath. For some this would be the only bath of the week, but only for some. The majority of the team came from a reasonably affluent background, as Rugby Football particularly in the prosperous south was predominately a gentleman's sport, with a few notable exceptions.

But the need for water after hard toil and the exhilaration of a hard fought victory was a great class leveller, and the moist air was soon full of boisterous laughter and feckless banter.

The two Duke Brothers were sat in the corner, savouring the hot water, letting it soak into their aching joints. It had been a hard first game of the season, and bodies softened during the summer were feeling every knock. The battle in the front row had been particular fierce and their shoulders and necks were red raw, testament to the ferocity of their endeavours, the hot water stinging the braised skin.

But the talk was not of pain, but of the game, each twist and turn was discussed, each tackle made and ball dropped. Every pass missed and scrum won.

Rhys Williams was the last to enter the bath, a pint clutched in his huge fist, a cigarette perched precariously in his mouth. Delicately Williams lowered himself into the steaming water between the Duke Brothers.

"Fuck, am I going to ache in the morning," the Welshman groaned, stretching his long legs through the wriggling press of slippery bodies.

"You and me both," David agreed, flexing his tender neck muscles.

"Thanks for the try," Tom acknowledged, taking a mighty gulp from the Welshman's pint.

"Should've made it me self, I'm getting too old for this malarkey see."

David laughed.

"You've been saying that for last five years. You're still be playing for years yet, you daft sod."

"That's assuming I live much longer. The way I feel at the moment I think I'll be dead before I'm thirty," The Welshman retorted pulling his pint away from David's extended lips to salvage the last of his beer.

"You'll live forever you old soak, the amount of beer you drink—your bodies bloody pickled."

The Welshman smiled as he downed the last of his pint.

"Yeah and here's too many more, I feel better already."

As if on cue two large trays of frothing pints were lugged onto the side of the bath, to be grabbed by eager hands.

"A thank you from Sir Royston," John Ford the head coach laughed. "That was a good effort boy's. Shame about the first twenty, but you got going in the end."

"As I keep telling the girls, it's the end that matters," a cry came from the back of the bath.

"Yeah, and in your case Aitch the end comes very quickly," Ford replied.

John Ford was totally at ease with the players many with whom he had played during the last years of his career. A knee injury had ended his playing days prematurely, just as he was on the verge of an England cap. He was still finding the transition from player to coach difficult. He found it frustrating watching and yelling instructions from the sideline, when he still yearned to be out there himself.

The trays were soon emptied, and tongues loosened by the beer were raised in jubilant song, which shook the dripping moisture from the ceiling.

It was sometime, and several pints later, that the players made their way into the clubhouse. In ones and twos they entered the bar, heads held high, enjoying the adulation that swelled around them. And no one enjoyed it more than Tom Duke, for whom the praise was especially aimed. David smiled as his brother positively beamed in the glory, acknowledging every handshake and pat on the back. Slowly winding his way through the throng, David made his way to a small group sat round a table away from the bar.

"Good game son. Well done," John Duke welcomed him, the pride in his sons positively shining from his face.

"Take a beer."

"Cheers Dad," David replied enjoying his dad's endorsement.

"It looked tough up front—they were big lads," John Duke continued.

"Tell me about it, me shoulders are blooding aching—I dread to think what they'll be like in the morning."

"But you had em in the end."

David looked up from his pint. "We certainly did," he smiled.

John Duke was in his early fifties, the first traces of silver were beginning to show around the edges of his jet-black hair. The twenty years of his rugby career were etched into the craggy strictures of his face, his ears squashed into tight cauliflowers, his nose twisted out of joint. But he retained a rugged youthfulness, although his paunch now swelled over his belt, he carried it well, set against his thickset chest and broad shoulders.

The other members of the group were James, at sixteen the youngest of the Duke Brothers, and Bill Carey and Andy Clinch, David's two brother-in-laws.

"That was a great try, from Tom," James said, unable to conceal his pride at his brother's glory.

"Yeah—but he should have passed it to me, the greedy bastard," David replied.

At length Tom joined them; dragging himself away from the praise he so delighted in. Tom pulled up a stool and grabbed a spare glass.

"This mine?"

John Duke nodded, taking a pull from his pint.

"Yeah."

"A good start to the season," Andy Clinch offered. "But I guess the question is—is there going to be a season?"

"Nobody seems to know. I was speaking to old Harry Marsh, the fixtures secretary before the game and it seems it's all up in the air. Everyone seems to be joining up. London Scottish have cancelled all their fixtures, apparently the whole club has joined up on mass, all four teams. So everybody's waiting to see what's happening in France before they're willing to commit to more fixtures," David replied.

"It's going well, is the latest news. Seems there's been a big battle at some place in Belgium called Mons. The news is that we gave the Germans a good thrashing," said Bill Carey.

"We might have given them a thrashing, but we're retreating apparently, or at least that's the news as I understood it," John Duke countered, sliding his pint back on the table.

"Any news of our Bob?" Tom asked, referring to his cousin who was serving in the Army. "No—I was talking to Mick this morning; he's not heard anything since they set off for France. But it seems that the West Kent's were involved in the fighting at Mons, according to the papers they fought against some German Brandenberg Regiment or other, sorted em out good and proper apparently."

"But Dorothy's worried sick, checking the casualty lists every day. Every time the post boy comes, she's in a right state. Can't blame her really, but he'll be right, he can look after himself," John replied.

"That's as maybe, but I've heard the casualties have been bad," said Andy.

"It's difficult to tell what's going on, but it certainly seems that the talk of it being over by Christmas was a bit optimistic to say the least," David replied, taking another pull from his rapidly diminishing pint.

"Well perhaps we'll get a crack at the Germans after all," Tom retorted eagerly.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from TRENCHBLIGHT by James McBride. Copyright © 2014 James McBride. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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