Picture The Dead by John Cantwell

The man carried the three-year-old boy on his shoulders hurriedly pointing out to him as they made their slow and winding way through a crowd of smiling faces, the large bonfire, nearly as tall as a church tower.  They stood and watched with amazement a firework display burn and spark into a myriad of colours, exploding with a roar above their raised heads.  A man, meanwhile, had shinned his way like a tailless monkey to the top of the bonfire and setting it ablaze shinned back down again.  The fire crackled, building up like a silent volcano and sputtering sprouted high into the firmament with a sudden bright flash, prompting a round of applause from the enthusiastic audience gathered in the cobbled street.  High up on his father’s shoulders, the oohs and aahs of the cheering crowd made the young boy feel uneasy and he stopped his ears, peering upwards at the blue sky now becoming home to rampant streamers of black smoke, blotting the soft colours of the landscape, and the growing flames frightened him.    

He looked down through the small hole that defined the aperture of his pocket camera and released the lever.  The soft click of the shutter awoke the early morning quiet and he casually lifted his head to gaze silently at a lone wooden cross in the foreground.  He copied out the name of the dead soldier into his notebook as a matter of routine, before tucking it away in a large breast pocket of his khaki tunic.  Pausing for a moment among the wildflowers, he turned to reflect on a punctured bicycle-tyre, hearing the sound of a heavy motor vehicle coming behind him.  He gave a little wave and walked forward.  No sooner had the slow and noisy vehicle come to a halt than a friendly voice asked him if he needed a helping hand.

Kin ah hulp ye pal? 

He stowed away his bicycle in the back of the lorry and then climbed into the passenger’s seat as the narrow, solid-rubber tyres ploughed furrows through the wet and muddy country road.

Whaur is it yer headed?

Esquelbecq.

Aye, ah ken it. 

Nestled snugly in his seat, tiredness overcame him, and he began to close his eyes.  A few minutes later he was abruptly awakened by the whizz of a shell and his eyes opened wide in shock.  He threw himself forward as another covered him in a shower of earth and things pulled out of the ground.  He lifted his head slightly and looked round.  Where the lorry had just passed a big shell-hole appeared smouldering with resentment at having missed its target.  He listened with his heart in his mouth to the shrill whistle they made through the air and the boom of the shells bursting behind them, while the heavy lorry moved along the narrow road like a thing alive.   

Jerry mist hae his balloons up! 

As the old steam lorry rattled along the shell-holed road, a group of French soldiers clambered out of a trench and climbed up the rear of the vehicle.  One of them smiled broadly and handed him a bottle of brandy.  He gave a reluctant smile and took a swig quickly handing it to the driver who gladly accepted. 

Dinnae mynd if ah dae laddie.    

He smacked his lips in anticipation and drank thirstily from the bottle as if it was mother’s milk.  Then one of the soldiers, at first singing in a low husky voice, launched into his country’s national anthem.  The driver looked in his rear-view mirror and grinned his approval. 

That’s th’ gud laddie.  Keep th’ hame fires burnin’ ah say.   

An hour later he stood with his bicycle by a bridal path and waved them goodbye.  As the lorry picked up steam he heard the driver call on the soldiers for another of his favourite songs. 

A’ richt lads!  Let’s keep it gaun.  Whilk o’ ye haes the boattle?

The sound of their singing faded as he ducked his head beneath the apple boughs and walked along the flowery path impassable to motorized vehicles.  Taking in the pleasant smell of the countryside, he wiped his brow and took another step forward through the thick shrubbery with no thought of the war.  He walked slowly across the open field and saw the top of the stone farmhouse, concealed behind the occasional branches of a tree where an enemy plane had crashed close by.  The sun, meanwhile, beat down on the red slate roof as he continued to walk hat in hand under a cloudless blue sky. 

There was nobody in sight as he parked his bicycle outside the derelict house and descended down into the dusty dry cellar, converted into his dark room.  Standing over an enamel bowl, he took several rolls of film from his breast pockets and began to wash them under a cold tap.  Long strips of negatives depicting wooden crosses were soon attached to laths of wood. These would be developed into black and white or sepia postcard-sized photographs and sent back to Dear Old Blighty, at the request of wives and mothers. 

He climbed up the rickety stairs and stood in the broken-down doorway, looking up at the darkening sky while smoking a cigarette.  All around him was quiet as he planted his feet more firmly under the stone arch, filling his eyes before the cover of darkness blotted out the homely scene, and required him to recite from memory the beauty of the unspoiled countryside.  Humming softly to himself, he sent his cigarette spinning into the blackness and headed back the way he had come. 

They said there would be a fall of rain during the night.

Come on, we’ll be late for dinner! 

He released the lever and heard the soft click of the shutter.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he shaded his eyes against the bright yellow sun and glanced at a nearby church standing on the opposite side of the dusty field, where the half mounds of earth rested.  It was a boiling hot day and the graves of the two soldiers shimmered in the afternoon heat.  He turned and walked towards the put-put of a motorcycle engine and clambered into a sidecar attached to its side. 

We better be careful, his colleague said.  Only yesterday a bloody lorry drove over a Mills Grenade that was half-buried in the ground.

As the motorcycle drove away, sending up a cloud of dust, he turned to look over his shoulder at a group of men clearing the ground of barbed wire, marking the boundary between the two with the pales of a brand-new fence. 

When the unit moved to a field hospital next to Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, he put away his camera for the time being and took on odd jobs such as orderly work or making crosses and digging graves.  In the evening he would go to the village pub with one or two others and try his luck with a pretty girl serving behind the bar.  The next day when the weather was fine again, he would fill his pockets with a good supply of film and cycle to another cemetery until he had run out.  Once while walking through a makeshift burial place, he stood and watched a German plane bring down one of their observational balloons.  The pilot had spotted the enemy aircraft in time and jumped to safety, his white canopy adding to a western sky free of clouds.    

The presence of Captain John Joseph Esmond made them happy, for they considered him to be one of the best and bravest officers in the army.  It was his wish to be present by their side as a barrage of mortar fire was put down along the enemy front line.  As the day dawned bright and sunny they moved further up, until they became more exposed to enemy machine-guns deployed strategically along the way.  His bookish voice kept those newly conscripted from despair as he passed, their guns ceasing to have an effect on the road ahead.  Eventually the 1^st Battalion Essex Regiment arrived and advanced further along the open road.  An enemy mortar shell, meanwhile, exploded next to where the smiling captain stood, a flying piece of shrapnel smashing through to the other side of his helmeted head, killing him outright.  With sombre expressions they buried him in a new little cemetery not far away from a small village called, St Amand.           

He felt the fierce heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he cycled towards the little village called St Amand.  An old man sitting in the shade of a large oak tree cobbling shoes looked up from his work as he approached him.  He gave the old man a polite nod and enquired about the local cemetery.  With a sweep of his hand he pointed to a meadow of old apple trees and grunted. 

Lá-bas monsieur.

He shaded his eyes and peered for a few seconds in the direction shown to him.  With a satisfied smile on his face, he thanked the old man for his help and pushed on towards the spot surrounded by the open countryside. 

Cycling up to the little cemetery, he spotted a uniformed man lean on one leg while looking down on a freshly dug grave.  Parking his bicycle outside the cemetery, he slowly walked towards him.  Perhaps he would consent to act as his guide?  Drawing near to where he stood the man turned and smiled.  There was no reason why he should have stopped and glanced over his shoulder, but when he looked back a second later the man had completely disappeared.  He looked about the empty cemetery in mild surprise and then walked across to where the apparition had stood not a moment ago.  Leaning forward, he read out loud the inscription on the wooden cross. 

Captain John Joseph Esmond, Bedfordshire Regiment, 31^ST July 1918.

He took a step back, all around him was quiet, and looked through the aperture of his pocket camera, releasing the lever.  He gave the grave a respectful salute and turning round continued along the narrow path.             

Well, you’re on your way back to Dear Old Blighty, Corporal, whether this little war is lost or won!   

The officer’s words took him by surprise as he shook his hand for a job well done.  It seemed his time as a photographer for the Graves Registration Unit had come to an end.  The war was all but over and while he continued to take photographs of numerous cemeteries, he had been kept mostly occupied with clerical duties by the inclement weather.  The days when he was not working would be spent with colleagues relaxing in cafés or rowing on the moat of the Trois Tours Château, where he happened to be based in Brielen on the north-west side of the Ypres. 

On board a cramped troopship with little opportunity to exercise, he took a number of portraits and group pictures to sell.  The last he saw of his father was when he took a photograph of him before he left Clapham Lodge, his back as straight as that of a boy of nineteen.  A mist like steam rose from the grey sea, above him a seabird’s raucous call welcomed him home.    

The End

Picture The Dead

The man carried the three-year-old boy on his shoulders hurriedly pointing out to him as they made their slow and winding way through a crowd of smiling faces, the large bonfire, nearly as tall as a church tower.  They stood and watched with amazement a firework display burn and spark into a myriad of colours, exploding with a roar above their raised heads.  A man, meanwhile, had shinned his way like a tailless monkey to the top of the bonfire and setting it ablaze shinned back down again.  The fire crackled, building up like a silent volcano and sputtering sprouted high into the firmament with a sudden bright flash, prompting a round of applause from the enthusiastic audience gathered in the cobbled street.  High up on his father’s shoulders, the oohs and aahs of the cheering crowd made the young boy feel uneasy and he stopped his ears, peering upwards at the blue sky now becoming home to rampant streamers of black smoke, blotting the soft colours of the landscape, and the growing flames frightened him.    

He looked down through the small hole that defined the aperture of his pocket camera and released the lever.  The soft click of the shutter awoke the early morning quiet and he casually lifted his head to gaze silently at a lone wooden cross in the foreground.  He copied out the name of the dead soldier into his notebook as a matter of routine, before tucking it away in a large breast pocket of his khaki tunic.  Pausing for a moment among the wildflowers, he turned to reflect on a punctured bicycle-tyre, hearing the sound of a heavy motor vehicle coming behind him.  He gave a little wave and walked forward.  No sooner had the slow and noisy vehicle come to a halt than a friendly voice asked him if he needed a helping hand.

Kin ah hulp ye pal? 

He stowed away his bicycle in the back of the lorry and then climbed into the passenger’s seat as the narrow, solid-rubber tyres ploughed furrows through the wet and muddy country road.

Whaur is it yer headed?

Esquelbecq.

Aye, ah ken it. 

Nestled snugly in his seat, tiredness overcame him, and he began to close his eyes.  A few minutes later he was abruptly awakened by the whizz of a shell and his eyes opened wide in shock.  He threw himself forward as another covered him in a shower of earth and things pulled out of the ground.  He lifted his head slightly and looked round.  Where the lorry had just passed a big shell-hole appeared smouldering with resentment at having missed its target.  He listened with his heart in his mouth to the shrill whistle they made through the air and the boom of the shells bursting behind them, while the heavy lorry moved along the narrow road like a thing alive.   

Jerry mist hae his balloons up! 

As the old steam lorry rattled along the shell-holed road, a group of French soldiers clambered out of a trench and climbed up the rear of the vehicle.  One of them smiled broadly and handed him a bottle of brandy.  He gave a reluctant smile and took a swig quickly handing it to the driver who gladly accepted. 

Dinnae mynd if ah dae laddie.    

He smacked his lips in anticipation and drank thirstily from the bottle as if it was mother’s milk.  Then one of the soldiers, at first singing in a low husky voice, launched into his country’s national anthem.  The driver looked in his rear-view mirror and grinned his approval. 

That’s th’ gud laddie.  Keep th’ hame fires burnin’ ah say.   

An hour later he stood with his bicycle by a bridal path and waved them goodbye.  As the lorry picked up steam he heard the driver call on the soldiers for another of his favourite songs. 

A’ richt lads!  Let’s keep it gaun.  Whilk o’ ye haes the boattle?

The sound of their singing faded as he ducked his head beneath the apple boughs and walked along the flowery path impassable to motorized vehicles.  Taking in the pleasant smell of the countryside, he wiped his brow and took another step forward through the thick shrubbery with no thought of the war.  He walked slowly across the open field and saw the top of the stone farmhouse, concealed behind the occasional branches of a tree where an enemy plane had crashed close by.  The sun, meanwhile, beat down on the red slate roof as he continued to walk hat in hand under a cloudless blue sky. 

There was nobody in sight as he parked his bicycle outside the derelict house and descended down into the dusty dry cellar, converted into his dark room.  Standing over an enamel bowl, he took several rolls of film from his breast pockets and began to wash them under a cold tap.  Long strips of negatives depicting wooden crosses were soon attached to laths of wood. These would be developed into black and white or sepia postcard-sized photographs and sent back to Dear Old Blighty, at the request of wives and mothers. 

He climbed up the rickety stairs and stood in the broken-down doorway, looking up at the darkening sky while smoking a cigarette.  All around him was quiet as he planted his feet more firmly under the stone arch, filling his eyes before the cover of darkness blotted out the homely scene, and required him to recite from memory the beauty of the unspoiled countryside.  Humming softly to himself, he sent his cigarette spinning into the blackness and headed back the way he had come. 

They said there would be a fall of rain during the night.

Come on, we’ll be late for dinner! 

He released the lever and heard the soft click of the shutter.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he shaded his eyes against the bright yellow sun and glanced at a nearby church standing on the opposite side of the dusty field, where the half mounds of earth rested.  It was a boiling hot day and the graves of the two soldiers shimmered in the afternoon heat.  He turned and walked towards the put-put of a motorcycle engine and clambered into a sidecar attached to its side. 

We better be careful, his colleague said.  Only yesterday a bloody lorry drove over a Mills Grenade that was half-buried in the ground.

As the motorcycle drove away, sending up a cloud of dust, he turned to look over his shoulder at a group of men clearing the ground of barbed wire, marking the boundary between the two with the pales of a brand-new fence. 

When the unit moved to a field hospital next to Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, he put away his camera for the time being and took on odd jobs such as orderly work or making crosses and digging graves.  In the evening he would go to the village pub with one or two others and try his luck with a pretty girl serving behind the bar.  The next day when the weather was fine again, he would fill his pockets with a good supply of film and cycle to another cemetery until he had run out.  Once while walking through a makeshift burial place, he stood and watched a German plane bring down one of their observational balloons.  The pilot had spotted the enemy aircraft in time and jumped to safety, his white canopy adding to a western sky free of clouds.    

The presence of Captain John Joseph Esmond made them happy, for they considered him to be one of the best and bravest officers in the army.  It was his wish to be present by their side as a barrage of mortar fire was put down along the enemy front line.  As the day dawned bright and sunny they moved further up, until they became more exposed to enemy machine-guns deployed strategically along the way.  His bookish voice kept those newly conscripted from despair as he passed, their guns ceasing to have an effect on the road ahead.  Eventually the 1^st Battalion Essex Regiment arrived and advanced further along the open road.  An enemy mortar shell, meanwhile, exploded next to where the smiling captain stood, a flying piece of shrapnel smashing through to the other side of his helmeted head, killing him outright.  With sombre expressions they buried him in a new little cemetery not far away from a small village called, St Amand.           

He felt the fierce heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he cycled towards the little village called St Amand.  An old man sitting in the shade of a large oak tree cobbling shoes looked up from his work as he approached him.  He gave the old man a polite nod and enquired about the local cemetery.  With a sweep of his hand he pointed to a meadow of old apple trees and grunted. 

Lá-bas monsieur.

He shaded his eyes and peered for a few seconds in the direction shown to him.  With a satisfied smile on his face, he thanked the old man for his help and pushed on towards the spot surrounded by the open countryside. 

Cycling up to the little cemetery, he spotted a uniformed man lean on one leg while looking down on a freshly dug grave.  Parking his bicycle outside the cemetery, he slowly walked towards him.  Perhaps he would consent to act as his guide?  Drawing near to where he stood the man turned and smiled.  There was no reason why he should have stopped and glanced over his shoulder, but when he looked back a second later the man had completely disappeared.  He looked about the empty cemetery in mild surprise and then walked across to where the apparition had stood not a moment ago.  Leaning forward, he read out loud the inscription on the wooden cross. 

Captain John Joseph Esmond, Bedfordshire Regiment, 31^ST July 1918.

He took a step back, all around him was quiet, and looked through the aperture of his pocket camera, releasing the lever.  He gave the grave a respectful salute and turning round continued along the narrow path.             

Well, you’re on your way back to Dear Old Blighty, Corporal, whether this little war is lost or won!   

The officer’s words took him by surprise as he shook his hand for a job well done.  It seemed his time as a photographer for the Graves Registration Unit had come to an end.  The war was all but over and while he continued to take photographs of numerous cemeteries, he had been kept mostly occupied with clerical duties by the inclement weather.  The days when he was not working would be spent with colleagues relaxing in cafés or rowing on the moat of the Trois Tours Château, where he happened to be based in Brielen on the north-west side of the Ypres. 

On board a cramped troopship with little opportunity to exercise, he took a number of portraits and group pictures to sell.  The last he saw of his father was when he took a photograph of him before he left Clapham Lodge, his back as straight as that of a boy of nineteen.  A mist like steam rose from the grey sea, above him a seabird’s raucous call welcomed him home.    

John Cantwell

Image by Bruno from Pixabay – an old camera in a brown leather case on a wooden background with a leather notebook alongside.