For King and Country
written by: Jim Wilson-Storey
Having little motivation to climb out of his warm, albeit flea-infested, bed, Eli Cox began musing the previous week’s events. His mother’s death had been drawn out and repulsive, what with listening to her continued bouts of coughing, spluttering up phlegm, and lung-churning wheezing. Frustrated by her resistance to her final demise, he had contemplated placing a pillow over the ailing woman’s face, until she stopped breathing, but he’d not had the necessary backbone to do the deed.
Once she had finally faded away, to who knows where, he’d sat on the edge of her bed, curiously studying the still, silent body. She had lived an unremarkable, argumentative life, struggling with poverty, ceaseless years of pregnancies, and a constantly depressed husband. He had felt no sadness, no compassion, no pity, nothing. His mind simply churned over the notion of death, whether it was a final step, or just a footprint on a journey to some other distant place, over the horizon?
Eventually, he had gone to the cottage next door and given the kid, a half-penny, to fetch the doctor from the nearby small town, so a death certificate could be issued. The doctor had eventually arrived, grumbling about having missed his dinner. Showing little interest in the deceased woman, he had not asked any probing questions or raised any suspicions. His work done and having been paid for his time and inconvenience, he had departed.
The following Thursday morning, Eli stood beside his young wife in the rain, as they laid his mother to rest. The two of them were the only mourners. His sister, who lived just down the lane with her husband and two children, had refused to attend. Years of relentless bickering and major disputes, usually over their mother’s treatment of their father over many years, had caused the mother and daughter to sever their relationship.
“No! I won’t be at her funeral; I hope the old hag rots in hell! I don’t know why you stayed? Why you cared for her? You’re a good man, Eli, but you let people take advantage of you.” She had told her brother.
Eli’s two older brothers, who had both escaped to Canada some years previously, could not, of course, be aware of their mother’s death; but he told himself, he’d write and give them the news, if he could find an address for them. There had been other siblings, of course, Claude and Charlotte, the young twins. But they had both died of measles, fifteen years previous, when Eli was just seven years old.
“Do dead people attend funerals of family members?” he’d asked himself, thinking about the deceased twins, as the priest had read his sermon by the side of the open grave.
Walking home, in the rain, no words had been exchanged between the couple. Eli, not wanting to miss out on a whole day’s work, had immediately changed into his work clothes and wasted no time hurrying down to the farm, where workers and their families were busy picking spuds. But his plan, to work a half-day, had been scuppered, when the rain became far heavier than earlier in the day, making their labor near on impossible. It was the farm-owner, not known for his warmth of character, or generosity, who finally stopped the workers’ efforts,
“That’s enough! Get off home. I’m not paying you lot for doing piss all!”
Despondent and wet, Eli had made his way back home. His first thought was to go upstairs and check on his mother, until he realized, that would be one task he’d not have to undertake again. But, when he heard muted voices coming from upstairs, he quietly climbed the old wooden staircase and listened to the hushed chatting and intimate moaning coming from his mother’s former bedroom. Hesitantly, he opened the bedroom door. What he saw stunned him, his wife, on the bed, her legs out wide, and Jack Lester, a local good-for-nothing, having his way with her. Eli stood watching, until his presence was detected. The two adulterers initially froze, but then Eli’s wife began to snigger, before breaking out into a loud mocking laugh. Shutting the door, he retreated back downstairs, without saying a word.
When Eli’s wife and her lover eventually came downstairs into the kitchen, they didn’t know what to expect. Ely said nothing, and Lester quickly departed, without a single word being exchanged. But his wife, was not going to let Ely take the moral high ground with her, well, not without a few choice words of her own,
“I know that look! Don’t you dare blame me, Eli Cox. You’ve never given me any attention! We never talk. I didn’t know, when I married you, you were so stingy, so penniless! You never give me any nice things! Is it surprising I look …”
Eli had heard enough, he didn’t let his wife finish. Picking up a carving knife from the kitchen table, he snarled,
“Go! Get out! Or I’ll….”
She instantly realized the danger she was in and without allowing Eli to finish, she bolted, out of the rear kitchen door and away, never to be seen in the village again.
As the small house calmed, Eli sat, watching the ambers of the kitchen’s coal fire fading and wondering if there would be any spud picking, the following day. It was his stomach rumbling that prompted him to pull himself together, put on his jacket and cap, and set off to walk the two miles into the village, thinking he’d buy himself a pie and a pint of ale at the White Swan.
Walking into the ancient pub, Eli leant against the bar, but before he could attract the attention of the barmaid, two military types, spotted him. Their aging, whisker-covered, chiseled faces broke into smiles, exposing their broken, yellow teeth.
“Now here’s a likely looking lad!” The older of the two military recruiters said, loudly.
The conversation was short-lived, Eli’s excuses for not fighting for king and country, were quickly swept aside; the experienced recruiters having heard all the excuses under the sun, many, many times before. The following day, Eli signed his life away, for the grand designated signing on fee of two shillings and nine pence.
Desperate for more lads for the meat grinder, Eli and hundreds more naïve young recruits, received minimal training, before finding themselves on steam ships, bound for Boulogne, France.
Once landed in France, and without rest, Eli and all the other young lads had found themselves marching north, into Belgium. Arriving in the vicinity of Ypres, the newly arrived recruits were put to work, digging front-line trenches and latrines. It being November, the wet conditions made the ceaseless toil, backbreaking, all while being bombarded by the enemy’s murderous artillery.
Day after day, the relentless downpour mingled with the thunderous barrage of artillery shells, transforming the landscape into a hellish nightmare of mud, blood, and chaos. Eli’s booted feet, quickly succumbed to trench feet, them being constantly submerged in the freezing sludge of his designated trench. But it was the thick stench of rotting flesh and gunpowder, mingling with the screams of wounded lads echoing along the trenches, which caused him constant agony. What made the situation inhuman, was the rats scurrying over the bodies of fallen comrades, gnawing at any exposed flesh. The sight of mangled limbs and lifeless eyes haunted Eli, making each passing moment a living nightmare.
In December the weather improved, as if to celebrate Christmas. The rain, which had been persistent in November, stopped. On Christmas Day, the guns on both sides of no man’s land, went quiet. It was as if enemies were reflecting on their dire situation. Then, as the winter sky began to darken, German soldiers began singing, just one or two initially, but then others joined in. Recognizing the hymn, the Yorkshire lads, the length of the front line, not wanting to be outdone, joined in,
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
’Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace….
It was a moment of genuine connection between enemies. Tears began to fall silently down cheeks.
Throughout January and February, Eli toiled with the other lads, doing their best to maintain the trenches, empty latrines, and remove decaying bodies. Little did anyone know, bedlam was about to descend on them. Exhausted, whenever the sergeant wasn’t looking, Eli’s gaunt body would slump down onto a sandbag or two, or anything else that offered space for his scrawny ass. One early morning, Eli was sat, slumped over, his eyes looking down at his boots, half-submerged in the wet sludge, when he heard an educated voice ask,
“I say, Sergeant, is this hapless fellow part of your esteemed battalion of warriors?”
“He is, indeed, sir. Though I sometimes wonder if he’s actually a civilian in disguise.” Came the familiar sound of Eli’s sergeant’s, quick reply.
“Where pray tell, does he fancy himself to be, Sergeant?”
“I daresay, sir, he believes he’s frolicking upon the illustrious sands of Scarborough.”
“Well, Sargeant, it might behoove you to gently remind him that this is not, in fact, an extended vacation at some delightful seaside resort.”
“Oh, I will, sir. I will indeed.”
Without lifting his head, Eli watched, the polished brown boots of the officer and the sergeant, continue along the mud-filled trench, seemingly without a worry in the world, neither of them, ever to be seen again.
By May, the Germans, were using their new weapon: poisoned gas. When the first greenish-yellowish smog rolled over no-mans-land, Eli and the rest of the Yorkshire lads, watched in fascination; that is, until the poisonous vapor reached the first trenches. Sergeant’s screams of, “gas, gas,” were heard, up and down the line, followed by panic, especially amongst those, who, for whatever reason, had abandoned their gas masks. But not Eli, he had stood, maskless, wallowing in the deadly fumes, his lungs freely consuming his newly found savior.
As the sun began to set, Eli was laid down, amongst red poppies and the other lads, each still, each dead still. They were laid in army regulation rows, like butchered beasts. Gone were his blinding stinging tears and his painful wheezing. Gone were his nightmarish fears. Gone was his yearning to live a life, unfulfilled.
With the last remnants of the day departing, Eli heard mumblings, from left and right of him, from his fellow privates, sergeants, and officers. Floundering like drunken men they stood, then began marching away from the obscene horror, towards the last silver lining in the darkening sky; all were now schooled in the delinquency of war. It was then, they began singing, singing goodbye, to all those who would, grow old,
Goodbye-ee, goodbye-ee,
Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee,
Tho’ it’s hard to part, I know,
I’ll, be, tickled to death to go.
Don’t cry-ee, don’t sigh-ee,
there’s a silver lining in the sky-ee,
Bonsoir, old thing, cheer-i-o, chin, chin,
Nah-poo, toodle-oo, Goodbye-ee.
- SHIMLA - December 8, 2025
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