Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

A Somewhat Laughing Matter

Loos, France

All Saints' Day, 1915

The initial offensive at Loos had been a catastrophe for the British high command, as sixty thousand casualties had gained them not an inch of ground. Hard lessons were being learned in real-time on the Western Front, and it was going to take more than wishful thinking in the halls of leadership to break the stalemate. The men in the trenches would shoulder this burden, and the British Expeditionary Force was up to the task.

As far as the able-bodied soldiery was concerned, Private Gerald Halfworth left much to be desired. He had previously been excused from the infantry on account of being pigeon-toed, ruled out of the Ordinance Department for colorblindness, and jettisoned from the Signal Corps due to frequent spells of dyslexia. Further examination left some in the recruitment office wondering how he had managed to arrive on the continent in the first place. Nonetheless, it was on the continent that Gerald now found himself, and for all his faults he lacked neither patriotism nor compassion for his comrades, which resulted in his assignment as a runner for the Royal Army Medical Corps.

The early morning hours before the next scheduled assault saw a frenzy of final preparations, and the medical division was no exception. Provisions had been nearly exhausted caring for the thousands of previously wounded, and resupply had so far proved insufficient.

“Private Halfworth!” barked a command from inside the Advanced Dressing Station. Gerald fumbled his fresh cup of rainwater tea, spilling it down the front of his uniform. He hurried into the tent and stood at attention just inside the entrance. A tall, mustachioed figure wheeled round to face him, then removed his spectacles to deliver a dour and impatient glare. Halfworth failed to notice.

“Yes Sir!” he shouted.

“Halfworth,” said Major Sterling, the battalion’s senior medical officer. “Two of our regimental aid posts are low on field dressings. You will find more at the rear dressing station. We will also need plenty of anesthetic inhalant. Bring all you can muster back here at once.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Halfworth exclaimed with a salute, exiting the tent and heading forthwith to the rear amidst the bustling carts and foot traffic navigating the narrow, muddy road in the predawn darkness. He hadn’t made it far up the road when he was struck by a sudden bout of intestinal uncertainty.

“Oh heavens, not now,” he whispered, looking around desperately for a nearby latrine.

It was a condition of life on the front that troops knew all too well. ‘Brussels Bum-bardments’ Gerald had heard one soldier call it; perhaps the rain clouds coming from Belgium had indeed spoiled his tea. Regardless, he was soon compelled to abandon the road in search of a vacant shell crater.

Once the dreadful episode was complete, Gerald clambered out of the soggy wasteland and emerged back upon the road, though in an unfamiliar setting. Before him was a crowded intersection of several conjoining, muddy paths splintering off into the darkness. No signage was visible nor a landmark with which he was acquainted.

How did I manage to get lost? he thought, completely disoriented. He grabbed the arm of a passing soldier heading toward the front.

“Which way to the main dressing station?”

“Piss off,” the man returned and continued walking without so much as a glance. Gerald shrugged to himself.

“Can anyone tell me which way to the dressing station?” he called out desperately, searching for any kind of recognition.

“Oi!” he heard from off in the distance. Gerald could barely make out a waving hand from across the intersection. He excused himself through the traffic until he reached a short, elderly fellow standing alongside a loaded cart being drawn by a haggard, old donkey. Gerald shook his hand eagerly.

“Where ye lookin’ to go?” the man asked, practically yelling.

“The main dressing station for supplies, I’m Gerald Halfworth,”

“Nice to meet you, Hatfork,” the man replied, “I’m Sullivan and this here’s Fiona.” The man grinned a toothless smile as he patted the donkey’s hind leg. “Figured we can help each other. My cart is slipping in the mud, if you help me get her up to battalion headquarters, I’ll help you haul whatever you need to the front.”

“By Jove, I will!” Gerald said with gusto, taking hold of the reins hanging from Fiona’s muzzle and giving them a slight tug. The donkey didn’t budge. Sullivan stared at him blankly.

“She won’t walk unless you rub her belly and softly whisper her name in her ear.”

Gerald gave the donkey a confused look, then slowly leaned in toward her before the old man snatched the reins out of his hand.

“I’m messing about, you blockhead,” he scoffed, and began to lead the donkey along. “Doesn’t take to strangers. Besides, she and I are both about deaf from weeks of shelling. Can’t hear a peep. You just stand at the back and keep it from sliding to the ditch.” Sullivan shook the reins and Fiona stepped obediently.

Luckily for Gerald battalion headquarters was just up the road, he knew that if he didn’t return soon there would be hell to pay from Sterling. The men quickly unloaded the cart, after which Sullivan, a man of his word, led Halfworth to the dressing station. There he found the field dressings needed at the front, as well as dozens of cases filled with canisters of nitrous oxide for anesthesia. They loaded up the cart and ushered Fiona down the road, sloshing their way slowly through the mud toward the front lines.

As they arrived at the advanced station, the men pulled the cart to the side of the road and out of the way of oncoming infantrymen, whose numbers were growing by the minute as they streamed toward the trenches. Gerald entered the tent and was immediately met with admonishment from Sterling.

“Halfworth, what took so damned long?” he yelled.

“I have it all, sir!” Gerald saluted with a smile.

“Place it in the corner there, hurry now,” said Sterling, pointing to the far side of the tent.

Just then several loud explosions rang out from the front lines. Everyone in the tent froze in unison, waiting for a follow-up volley. None came. Shouts could be heard coming from the road mingled with the neighing of horses undoubtedly startled by the blasts. Gerald emerged from the tent and looked to where he had left Sullivan and Fiona, but they were nowhere to be seen. In a panic he ran along the road frantically searching for them, unable to discern a familiar face amidst the uproar caused by the shelling. Just as he was beginning to lose hope, Gerald caught a glimpse of a loaded cart in the gap between a couple of troop tents and ran over to it in jubilation.

“Sullivan?” Gerald called, but he received no answer. He examined the cart, which indeed had crates that were full of canisters. He then looked at the donkey. It certainly looked like Fiona, though he supposed all donkeys looked alike in the dark. Gerald gazed intently into its dark eyes.

“Fiona?” Gerald whispered. The animal stared at him for a moment and twitched one of its ears.

“Are you mad?” a voice called out. Gerald wheeled around, a young soldier unknown to him had been watching as he inspected the donkey and its cargo.

“I don’t think so,” Gerald said, “but I can’t be sure if this is my donkey. Well, not my donkey, but the correct donkey.” The soldier stared at him, speechless. Gerald reached into one of the crates and pulled out a single canister. It was marked by a cross, but given the dim moonlight it was difficult to discern any other markings. He held the canister out to the soldier.

“Can you tell me if this cross is red?” Gerald asked. “I’m colorblind.”

“It’s two o'clock in the morning, mate,” he replied, “we are all colorblind.”

The soldier left Gerald and the animal alone and marched away toward the front lines. Gerald called out once more for Sullivan, but upon hearing no response finally grabbed hold of the reins and hurried back toward the medical station.

The British artillery barrage kicked off at 4 a.m. and was unceasing until sunrise. When the firing finally subsided and the prevailing winds were accounted for, the orders were given across the front lines to proceed with the release of chlorine gas. The troops donned their protective masks, opened up the containers and watched as the wind quickly carried thick plumes of yellow, noxious vapors across the barren plain toward the German trenches. The countdown then began for the infantry to follow.

Anxiety within British headquarters reached a fever pitch once the whistles sounded for the ground assault to commence. The stopwatches began ticking, and shortly thereafter so did the sound of defensive German machine gun fire. The seconds slowed down to what seemed like hours.

All of a sudden, a lieutenant burst into the command tent, out of breath from sprinting the distance from the telegraph depot.

“We’ve had a breakthrough, sir!” he exclaimed. “We forced a gap in the German line, one hundred yards wide!”

The general stared back at the man in astonishment then checked his watch, it had only been five minutes since the first wave went over the top.

“How is that possible?” the general stammered. “How did they set up communications so quickly? What about casualties?”

The lieutenant suddenly looked insecure. “Zero casualties reported, sir,” he said.

“Zero?” The general was flabbergasted. “What do you mean zero?”

“The battalion that reached the German lines did so without resistance sir,” the lieutenant continued. “They have captured four hundred German prisoners and six gun positions. Reported that the enemy were unaffected by the shells or gas, but that they appeared to be intoxicated, in some kind of stupor. They were—”

“Were what?!” the general bellowed.

“Giggling, sir,” said the lieutenant. The entire staff looked about the tent at one another speechless.

News of the breakthrough had started to spread rapidly back from the line. Rousing cheers began to ring out amongst the ranks, eventually reaching all the way back to the medical tent. The nurses hugged one another, the orderlies chanted with elation, and Gerald ran outside to soak in the first good news in weeks. His delight was cut short when he suddenly heard Sterling shout from back inside the tent, “Holy Mother of Manchester, what are all these chlorine canisters doing in here?! And where the devil is all the laughing gas? — HALFWORTH!!”