Private Duffy

by Basil Davies

The tiny, pale flame survived only seconds in the cruel cold of the morning before it began to shiver. For a few agonising moments it flickered in and out of existence whilst his hands wavered nervously around it. Then he blinked, and found the flame had vanished to be replaced by a tiny column of smoke that was instantly swept away. He gave a grunting sob of frustration and clumsily shifted his bulk in front of the wind to begin again.

All around him the day dawned and the sun climbed onto the lip of the world, exposing a raw, frozen earth. Mud stretched away in all directions, broken only by the occasional scorched black trunk standing stark and alone. Night had spread a sheet of ice over the puddles that had gathered at the bottom of the shell craters scattered across the dead, blasted landscape.

But he saw none of this as he crouched in his trench, head bent and eyes fixed. He only saw his fingers, fat numb sausages, blotched purple with the cold as they tried to coax some heat from his makeshift stove that sat unsteadily on the rotting duckboards, teetering ominously.

Eventually a splint managed to stay alight long enough for another one to take. He reached out and slowly curled his fingers round a half empty tin of corned beef and pried it out of the mud that had half consumed it. He knew he wouldn't find a spoon so he reached his fingers deep into the grey mush and began to claw it out and into the small tin foil pan.

Around him other men were silently rubbing down their bayonets and checking their rifles. There was a smell of oil and leather and the foul damp rags used for that kind of work. Bracey, his face drawn, was fumbling with the straps of his bag, trying to fasten them but his fingers kept slipping. Pickering rummaged through his ammunition pack and re-tied his boot-laces.

Bracey looked up from his rifle. 'Hey, Duffy. What the fuck are you doing? Why don't you let us use that heat for something useful?'

Duffy kept his head down, bent over the little stove. He stared into the pan at the cold grey meat. Bracey lurched over towards him. 'What do you think you're doing? What's the point in stuffing your fat face now? We're all going to be dead in five minutes.'

Duffy said nothing; he kept on staring into the pan. He hunched closer so that the meat and the little pan filled his whole vision. He stayed there, trying to keep it like that; trying to blot out Bracey's voice, the stink of his whisky breath.

'Not scared are you, Duffy? Not scared that you're going to be dead in five minutes?'

Again Duffy said nothing. He felt that if he said anything he would lose his connection with the corned beef, with the business of cooking it, and he knew he musn't do that. But Bracey kept on speaking, his words stirring the fear in the pit of Duffy's stomach so it bubbled up inside him, filling his chest and catching at his throat. He kept staring at the pan, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He knew Bracey was frightened too. He could smell his fear on his whisky breath. He knew Pickering was frightened, he'd seen him throwing up in the mud ten minutes ago. They were all frightened. He knew that.

'Line up.'

All around him there was the clatter of bayonets and the squelch of boots moving in the cold sloppy mud. The corned beef was beginning to bubble a little now at the edges.

'Fix bayonets.'

A darker, brownish crust was beginning to form in places on top of the meat. It was bubbling quite fiercely now. It smelled good.

The whistle cut through the dawn, but to Duffy, when it came, it was muffled and seemed very far away.

And everyone went. Bracey and Pickering and all the others. In a thunder of boots and soggy heavy coats and bayonets they went and as soon as the first were over came the sound of the machine guns. Duffy saw his own rifle lying in the mud. He knew he had to pick it up now. He knew he had to pick up and go now with all the others but he couldn't move.

He couldn't move when the military police came, shouting at him, telling him to move it. The smell of the corned beef was strong now. It was nearly ready. They kicked him in the back of the knees, pushed his rifle against his chest, told him to move it, now. In another minute the corned beef would be ready. The gun they put to his head was cold. One of them kicked the stove, sending the pan into the mud. The corned beef spilled out in a slow bubbling tide. Now Duffy was down in the mud too, cramming it into his mouth, the meat and the mud, and they were kicking him and telling him it was time to go.