It’s all about imagery. Years ago I
used to paint pictures with oils. Today I paint pictures with words, and I
create the images in much the same way I created the paintings. I start with a
broad brush and block in a rough outline. Then I begin to flesh out the
important aspects of the image. I leave it there until the first draft is complete.
Then I go back to the start, I take up my small brushes and concentrate on the
detail.
This is a scene from the second book. Lieutenant
DeBoise is on the front line at the First Battle of Ypres. I’ll leave it like
this until the first draft of the novel is complete, and then I’ll start the
edit process. The detail will grow under editing, but the basis of the
narrative will remain.
Daylight filled the sky when the
cacophony of noise stopped. All along the line, men ceased their endeavours and
looked up. Even RSM MacRapper seemed momentarily taken aback by the sudden
silence.
“Listen. D’ye hear that, sir?” Donohoe
tipped back the peak of his cap. “What’s happening?”
An overwhelming silence filled the air
as DeBoise risked a peek over the trench ridge. Nothing moved, and not even
birdsong marred the peace of the autumn morning.
“I don’t like it, Billy.” DeBoise slid
back down into cover and looked along the line.
The Highlanders stopped digging and
eyed one another warily. A low murmur began to creep along the trench.
“Pick up yer guns, lads.” MacRapper’s
voice echoed along the trench. He sounded calm now, as if he knew what was to
come and he was ready for it. “The bastard Hun will be coming soon. I feel it
in me water. They’ll be expecting a weakness in the line here, but we’ll show
them how a Highland regiment fights.” He raised his bolt-action Lee Enfield and
felt in his pack for ammunition.
“There they are!” A lone voice rang out
from the end of the line.
DeBoise peered again over the top of
the trench. He flinched and grasped his Webley pistol tighter. The enemy were far
off, but they were advancing towards the Highlanders. A hoard of grey uniforms
emerged from the mist, hundreds of them, seemingly showing no hesitation.
“Stand to! With ten rounds, load!” An
authoritative voice came echoing through the haze. It had to be an officer’s
voice, firm and decisive with an educated accent. All along the line, the men
stood to and pressed the first five rounds into their magazines. The voice
continued with no sign of hesitancy. “Load carefully. Don’t rush it.” The
second five rounds were loaded and then the bolts pushed the top round into the
chamber.
“Safety catches off! Look to! Watch
your front!”
The enemy were getting close now,
almost within target range, but the regiment held their fire. DeBoise realised
he was holding his breath. He tried to breathe normally.
“Now, lads! Now!” MacRapper didn’t wait
for the officer’s voice to give the order. “At six hundred yards… independent
fire! Let the bastards have it, lads!” He leaned forward against the side of
the trench and began to shoot.
DeBoise saw two German soldiers fall in
quick succession. The Highlanders raked the enemy line with rapid fire, picking
off targets as they came into range. Some men fell in quick succession as the
machine gun was brought into play. Others fell one by one. The Scottish
riflemen worked their bolts with precision, firing off one round in each four
seconds or less. The empty brass cases soon littered the floor of the trench.
The German officers waved their swords
to urge their men forward, but the formation was breaking as man after man fell
dead on the ground. The lucky ones were now only three hundred yards away.
“Sights down, lads! Carry on firing,
and hold fast!” MacRapper shouted even as he fired. And, all along the line,
other guns continued to spit out a lethal barrage.
Donohoe fired rapidly and then drew
back to reload. “D’ye know how many soldiers the Hun army has, sir?” He pulled
more bullets from his kit.
“Seven million,” DeBoise replied. He carefully
aimed his Webley at an advancing German, pulled the trigger and watched the man
crumple to the ground. “Less one,” he added.
Donohoe took aim again. “Jaysus, seven
million, d’ye say? Reckon the whole bloody Hun army is after our blood right
now.”
“Shut up and keep firing, Billy.”
There was no concept of time. The
attack could have lasted a minute, an hour, or a day. DeBoise loaded and fired,
loaded and fired and concentrated solely on making each shot count. He knew he
was killing people, but the morality of it was lost behind the essential will
to stay alive. The noise became a background blur, the grey-uniformed enemy
kept advancing, and yet they seemed never to get any closer to the trench. As
fast as they came forward, so they were mown down by the withering fire of the
machine gun and the Highlanders’ rifles. The killing became a routine.
Sometime in the conflict - DeBoise had
no concept of when - British artillery began a murderous response to the German
attack. Crests of flame and fire appeared and disappeared amongst the German
troops. Brown and grey crumples of mud rose up like ghosts from out of the
uneven ground. The mist remained, or was it smoke? A line of naked trees was
silhouetted on the horizon, like ethereal ghosts with their thin arms caught
rigid in the throes of death. Behind them, a dirty grey sky was splattered with
bursting shells, fiery rings quickly turning to black smudges.
Figures continued emerging from the
smoky mist. DeBoise no longer thought of them as real people. They were grey,
shadowy visitors from hell, dancing against the grey background. As exploding
shells burst behind them they grew wings, yellow for a second and then grey as
the flames died and turned to smoke. Then they became flying devils. They flew
forwards with their arms spread wide in front of the grey, smudgy wings, and
they fell onto the rippling, rumpling mud and were gobbled up by the hellish brown
sludge. They were lost forever, quickly replaced by more shadowy figures, more
grey devils from hell.
The noise continued. It was not
consistent, but varying between sharp jolts of rifle fire and the booming
background of the artillery barrage. The flying devils seemed somehow detached
from the noise. They appeared, they flew, they fell. Behind them, the misty
background spawned yet more to take their place. More brief yellow bursts of
flames were followed by more splodges of dirty smoke, and more devilish Huns
with grey uniforms, grey helmets and grey faces.
It wasn’t real, DeBoise tried to tell
himself as he reloaded and fired again and again. How could all this possibly
be real? Real meant human flesh and blood being ripped apart. Real meant people
suffering. This had to be an illusion. It would stop in a moment and he would
wake up.
But it didn’t stop.
Each shot from his pistol sent another
enemy soldier to his death. Each artillery shell explosion sent more devils
with wings flying through the stinking air. And then one figure, a lone German
soldier, appeared out of the mist only ten yards in front of him, screaming as
he ran. DeBoise fired automatically and the soldier crumpled to the ground.
It wasn’t real.
It was wrong, very wrong, but it wasn’t
happening to him.
