Alone In The Trenches by Vince Cross

CHAPTER ONE
    We’d run out of flour at the farm. Again. At six in the morning Mum was already at the end of her tether.
    “You’ll have to go into Ypres. Get enough bread to last us a couple of days. And as much flour as you can carry.”
    It was more than an hour’s walk. And yesterday I’d been sure I’d heard explosions from the direction of town. “Oh, Mum,” I moaned. “Do I have to? I’m so
scared…”
    I was lazy as much as frightened.
    “Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?” she shouted. “I’ve been up half the night with Grandma. Don’t you think we’re all scared? You’ll go
and say no more about it if you want to eat today.”
    I was starting to hate living in the cold farmhouse now that Dad wasn’t there to spoil me.
    In Ypres the bell on Madame Peyroux’s shop door tinkled. She hobbled from the shadows to look me up and down accusingly.
    “It’s very early. And you’re on your own. Where’s your mother then? It’s far too dangerous for you to come here by yourself.”
    “Didn’t you know?” I answered. “It’s just the three of us now. And Mum can’t leave Grandma…”
    “But what about your father?” she began, and then broke off, realizing she’d put her foot in it.
    “I’m not sure,” I said miserably. “He disappeared. With Michel. They went out and they didn’t come back. It’s been a fortnight…”
    Madame Peyroux looked uncomfortable. She was probably a bit shocked she hadn’t heard any gossip, but I could see she’d misunderstood. She was thinking Dad had just walked out and
left us. People were doing stranger things just then.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, doing her best to sound as if she meant it. Madame Peyroux didn’t look well. Her cheeks had a high colour and her movements were fidgety. Her
eyes seemed small and frightened. She shoved two loaves in my hand with a few
centimes
change. “Please send my regards … my sympathy. Tell your mother to let me know if
there’s anything I can do … if we’re still here, that is!”
    I couldn’t wait to get out of her poky little shop. I’d only known Madame P. a few months, but long enough to dislike her. It would be all over the city before the day was out:
“
Poor Madame Martin. I never did trust that man…
” As I shut the door behind me my chest began to heave and tears stung my eyes.
    It was a very beautiful, clear November morning. When I’d left at first light, the sky had been a deep, unbroken blue shading into gold behind the silhouettes of the trees on the horizon.
A first scattering of winter frost was showing across the deep brown ridges of the ploughed fields, like icing sugar on a chocolate cake. At half past seven the streets and squares of Ypres were
still empty of people. Everything was calm and peaceful around the ancient stones of the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral. “
Where is everybody this morning?
” I remember thinking. And
then, without warning, came a terrible, monstrous sound that cut the sky in half. It sounded like a cross between the tearing of a sheet and a sudden vicious scatter of rain, but so much louder and
more sinister. On its heels was a deafening explosion that shook the ground beneath me. I staggered, and nearly lost balance. A fierce gust of wind and dirt whipped past my face. A shower of
plaster from somewhere above fell onto my hair and shoulders. I was terrified and thought that I was about to die.
    Suddenly the streets were filled with men and women, heads down, tucking shirts into breeches, wiping their hands on aprons. They were running around shouting and gesturing. They gathered
buckets and brooms as if all they had to do was mop up some spilled milk. But as they swept and tidied, a second shell whined in towards the city, and then a third. It was obvious this was no
accident or mistake. Ypres wouldn’t be put back together today, or tomorrow, or perhaps ever again. The Germans had us in their sights.

    “How dare they destroy our