1914: The War Years, #1

Warning

This book will contain large numbers of colloquialisms, phrases, and sayings that apparently make no sense at all. I assure you, I’m not utterly insane. That’s really how some of us speak in Yorkshire.

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Find out what happens to Danny Keeton as soon as you can in James Farner’s Made in Yorkshire the War Years series.

Prologue

All went quiet on the Ypres front. For the first time in weeks, the artillery had shifted and world was silent.  The ground, long turned to mud, harboured nothing but ditches and shell holes carved out over long weeks of fighting. It was as hilly as Holbeck back home on the streets of Leeds.

The Imperial German army had bombarded the British and French lines for weeks, and they’d responded in kind. Infantry attacks came and went, and still nothing moved. They’d captured the occasional trench, but as soon as they captured one trench in their sector, the Germans captured a trench in another sector.

He tried to roll over to make himself more comfortable in the darkness. Morning would come soon and someone would see him. Whether that was the Germans or his own was down to luck. He was in God’s hands tonight.

The whole mission was one designed for fools, and he’d volunteered for it. In one of the trench dugouts, he’d fought on the side of Corporal Nathan Dettmer to come out here.

You’re a fool, Private Keeton, said Braddock. You don’t stand a chance.

I want to go, he’d said in reply. We’ve not done a thing out here except wait for a shell to wipe us out. I need to do something.

Dettmer put a hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly. You can prove what you want to us. There’s no reason you can’t do this. The reward is good. Think about how your friends and family will look at you.

It’s a speculative mission put out there by the generals at the top. Nobody expects you to survive. I know the reward’s good. You’ll get a few months in leave, but it’s suicide. You will forever be a dead sack of useless crap, said Braddock.

What a load of rubbish. You know full well that this is a mission designed for only the highest calibre of soldier. And Keeton wants to prove himself to be in that elite circle. If we didn’t have soldiers like him in the army, we’d have lost this war in the first month. You’re usually so eager to send soldiers off to fight, so let him do it, if that’s what he wants.

And that’s why you’re going as well, is it? Braddock fingered the whip he so often used to instil discipline amongst the lower ranks.

Dettmer regarded him coolly. This is not my fight. You should be grateful men like him exist. You haven’t displayed any great acts of bravery yourself.

Watch that tongue of yours. I’m a sergeant and I’m not allowed to go on those missions. I have to stay back here, and it doesn’t matter how much I go on about it. Sometimes I wish I was in the position of you men.

And that’s why Sergeant Clarke was allowed to lead a scouting mission into no man’s land, was it? You’re not the pinnacle of bravery you pretend you are.

Braddock approached Dettmer until his long, thin moustache was only inches from his face. You think what you like. I’m only telling you the situation. I don’t see you volunteering for this, and you wouldn’t, would you? You’re a Hun yourself.

Dettmer licked his lips and looked at him with a smile. A German? I know what you think of me. Dettmer is not an English version of Dietermeier, and you know that. There’s not a drop of Hun blood in my veins. And even if there was at some point, my family have been English for over a hundred years. I was born in London, and so was my mother. Can’t say the same for yours, though. I think I heard a whisper that your father grew up in Dublin.

Braddock turned away. Private Keeton watched the immense frame of Braddock cast in the candlelight. Keeton can do what he likes. If he wants to do it, he can, and I won’t stop him. But I won’t have him feeling as if he has to prove something to someone, especially when you’re the one trying to encourage him. We are losing men and I need bodies.

A mission like this can alter the course of a man’s character. I’m confident in his chances. Dettmer patted him on the shoulder.

You think he can go over the top with two other soldiers, and capture a German prisoner of war? Are you mad? This is Private Keeton we’re talking about. Not a super soldier.

Dettmer shrugged. I’ve not lost my head yet. We’ve done it before and succeeded. You –

You’re trying to get the boy killed. Braddock hit the table with his fist, forcing the long shadows to ripple along the walls. He’s barely a man grown and you want to send him on a suicide mission. Is it because you’ve got a grudge against his family, or have you truly lost your head?

I have nothing else to say to you, even if you’re my superior. Ask Private Keeton what he wants to do. My friends at the War Office will make sure I don’t have to deal with any more of your court-martial threats.

I don’t care who your friends are. I’m not going to stand here and let you bully someone into something you wouldn’t go on yourself. Braddock replaced his whip under his armpit and stood to attention, waiting for the answer. I am strict in my command, but I’m not a monster, Dettmer.

Keeton didn’t like being talked about like he was a piece of meat. He’d joined the army like all the others from his area. He was as much as a man as them and he wasn’t going to let them speak to him as if he was a child.

You’re not serious, are you? said Braddock to him. I want you to know you’re under no obligation to take on this mission. You know the risks. What’s time off when you’re in no position to enjoy it?

I want to go, said Keeton.

Braddock frowned at him. You don’t have to prove yourself to me or anyone else. You’re as strong as them. And what about your brothers, the other Keetons? What are they going to say about this? Forget what I’ve said to your family in the past. This time I’m looking out for you.

He looked away from his searching gaze. Braddock had never displayed any tenderness towards him before. He knew full well what his brothers were going to say about this. Even Morgan back home with his mother would say the same thing.

It doesn’t matter. Keeton straightened his back. This is what I want to do. I’ll get back and nobody will say a word about what happened. My Mam will be happy to see me again.

Why not just think about it for a day? Say twenty-four hours and you can look at it again with a clear head. It’s a big decision to make.

Not a chance, said Dettmer from the back. "The more he thinks about it the more he’ll get cold feet. He’s ready now and he knows it. He’s stronger than he thinks.

I’ll only tell you one more time. You don’t have to do this. Your brothers won’t think any less of you. All of them would turn this down. I know that for a fact.

Private Keeton threw off Braddock’s arm. I’m doing it. Where do I go, Sergeant Braddock?

Dettmer turned towards Braddock and tipped his head at him.

Braddock’s mouth curved upwards at the sides. It was the only time he’d received even the slightest acknowledgment from him that didn’t involve a slap upside the head or an insult tacked on the end of it.

Wait. Braddock put out an arm. What...what should I tell your brothers if you don’t come back?

Keeton looked from side to side, searching for an answer. He hadn’t considered that he might not come back. No, he would come back. It was a stupid question and it deserved a stupid answer. Braddock was acting like an old mother hen. He was starting to prefer the more vicious Braddock. Tell them goodbye, if you like.

Dettmer got in the middle of them. You’re doing a good thing for your country. I never thought you’d have the courage when I first met you at training camp. You won’t regret it.

With a parting nod to Dettmer, Braddock took him further down the line to a sector he hadn’t been stationed in before – not that it was possible to tell the difference between one sector and another. The trenches looked the same. Men huddled together for warmth as rats gnawed at their clothing.

Braddock introduced him to the other two volunteers. They were Private Jackson and Corporal Brown. He had no time to exchange pleasantries with them as they were led up to the ladders. There were no whistles for them this time. Sergeant Braddock nodded to them and they went out into no man’s land in their own time. It felt more like a training exercise than the real thing.

Less than an hour later, Private Keeton lay prone in a shell hole, waiting for the dawn. Brown and Jackson kept him company. Corporal Brown, according to his rank, had charged the German lines first, and the return shot had taken him back into the shell hole, where he laid at the bottom, dead. Private Jackson had accompanied him when the machine guns swept the ground. He took a series of bullets in the chest and one in the eye.

His face looked back at him in a permanent scream. The blood obscured half his damaged face, but the part that mattered looked back at him. It pleaded with him for help. But he couldn’t do anything for now. A stray bullet had struck him in the ankle and he couldn’t walk.

Keeton needed to move soon. On the edge of the hillside all it took was a shell to knock away the ground at the other side and a sniper would have no problem picking him off.

Abandoning Jackson, he rolled onto his side. The waves of pain ripping through his ankle and up his leg told him to stop. He gritted his teeth together and kept moving. It didn’t matter how many nerves the implanted bullet damaged or how many tendons were beyond repair. His life was in danger. The winter light was on its way, and then the fighting would start again.

Keeton managed to crawl through the mud on his front. He sighed to himself each time a sharp stone or piece of metal scraped across his stomach. Brown laid in front of him. He held his face in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to see where the sniper’s bullet had taken him out.

When he was sure he was away from him, he looked up again. The steep, sheer shell hole resembled a mountain from down here. It curved gently down to the bottom, but arced violently at the top. He couldn’t get up there without the use of his leg.

Before he could think of a solution, he pressed his head into the dirt, holding onto his leather hat. An explosion tore across the already beaten landscape. When it had dissipated, his hands shook and his heart jumped around within his chest cavity. That was too close.

The chorus of artillery in the distance lit up. Maybe the last shell was hopelessly misplaced? Another shot exploded above him, forcing him down again. A cascade of dirt showered his dead colleagues down below. It must have landed yards away from his hole.

He had to go back. There was no point staying here. The mission was over. All he wanted to do was get back without losing an arm or a leg. Keeton turned onto his side and rolled down the hill like a sausage. Coming to a rest at the bottom again, he tried to shut out the whizz bangs screeching out for victims in the distance.

Keeton began to crawl back over the new layer of muck towards his own trenches. The shell hole wasn’t as steep on that side. He could play dead. He could move inch by inch back to safety. The Germans wouldn’t capture him. They wouldn’t torture him for information.

The shells got louder and he saw a great wall of dirt rise up from the German trenches. They were coming for him. The mud thudded down, covering Corporal Brown entirely in a makeshift grave. Keeton wiped the debris away and tried to shake off the thin smell of acrid artillery smoke creeping closer.

He reached for a piece of rock to lift himself out of the hole and a shockwave threw him back. Keeton couldn’t hear anything but a sharp ringing. It hurt to listen. He screamed and knocked his head again and again at the ground to get it to stop. It was like someone had pushed a needle into his ears. When he withdrew his hand from them, blood smeared his palms. He was deaf.

Keeton pushed himself onto his back again. There was no escape, now he was back at the bottom of his hole. His limbs stopped functioning. He watched as another shell landed at the opposite end of the hole. A new monster rose out of the ground and the great brown mass slapped down on top of him. He closed his eyes and all the light went out from the world. Each time he tried to spit out the dirt, more would come in to replace it.

He couldn’t breathe. The weight of the mud steadily crushed his ribs, driving the last drags of oxygen from him. Keeton scrabbled at the top of his casket, but his nails barely dented the earth. There was nowhere he could come up from air.

Bye, Mam. I wasn’t strong enough.

Chapter One

January, 1914, and like last year I can’t feel my fingers, said Charlie Keeton.

I can’t feel mine either, said his identical twin brother Danny Keeton.

Be grateful it’s the only thing you can’t feel. Think of the poor lot who can’t get any work in the colliery. Your father was the same once when he met me, said their mother Dorris Keeton.

Can you please be quiet, I’m trying to work? Jacob Keeton poked his head out from the stairs.

Charlie and Danny both aimed two rolled up pieces of paper at his head. Their brother Jacob was the special one of the family. He was the only one who’d carried on with his education beyond fourteen.

Mind your own, son. I’ll deal with these two. You get your work done or Mr. Hardaker won’t give you your allowance this month. We need that to live on, said Mam.

Jacob shot the twins a look and departed back up the stairs again.

Danny could see his point. They lived in a house with six people permanently. Since their father had passed away in an accident down the coal mines, they couldn’t afford a house with this many rooms. It was only the local mining boss Mr. Hardaker and the small pension he paid on behalf of their father that kept them going. He’d seen how some of his friends lived, cramped with four or five in a single room. Compared to them, they lived in luxury.

You two keep those gobs of yours shut. Jacob needs his quiet if he’s going to get into university.

Danny and Charlie both rolled their eyes behind Mam’s back. She replayed this conversation most nights when they supposedly made too much noise. Neither of them could think how Jacob could really hear them all the way downstairs. He’d always had it in for them.

Whilst Danny and Charlie sat at the table in the living room, which actually doubled as both a dining room and a kitchen, Mam busied herself with making the tea. It was only a couple of rashers of shrivelled bacon again. It was all they could afford after Christmas. Even people living in the deprived Leeds district of Holbeck made a point of celebrating Christmas with presents and a dinner that was far too big for all of them.

Danny daydreamed with his fist under his chin. Charlie kicked him and he jumped.

What was that for? said Danny.

For making me finish up the cleaning at work today, said Charlie.

Ow! Charlie booted him again with the toe of his well-worn boot. And that was for not giving me a cig when I wanted one. I knew you had some.

Didn’t have a thing, and you know it.

Neither of you should be smoking at your age. Filthy habit. Mam waggled a discoloured fork at them. Your father had the same habits and it made him cough all the time. Not having you keeping me up at night when you can’t stop coughing your guts up.

Little Morgan Keeton started from his bed in the corner of the living room. Will you two shut it? I’m trying to have a kip.

Look what you two have done now. You two with all that fighting you do. You know he’s ill.

You were the one who shouted, said Charlie under his breath.

Mam slapped him on the back of the head. And we’ll have none of that. Don’t answer me back. Go and see to him, Danny.

But I’m Charlie, said Charlie.

Well whichever one you are, go and see to him, Danny. Sick of you two. One of these days I’m going to wrap you right round the earhole so I know which one’s which.

Danny got up and bent down next to Morgan. Both of them knew Mam couldn’t ever tell them apart. There were no scars or marks on either of them to mark them out from the other. They were the perfect twins. The only way to tell them apart was the mole on the back of Danny’s right shoulder blade. They’d checked if that was the only distinguishing feature many times.

Morgan whimpered for no apparent reason. For a ten-year-old he was a pale, sickly boy. Danny put it down to him being so small. It was strange considering the rest of the Keeton flock were naturally tall.

Pass me his water, then, said Danny to Charlie.

Charlie brought him the glass of water. It always had a drop of brandy in the top to send him off to sleep again. Mam always told them to do that. It was like she’d given up on him ever being fully