THE COMING DAWN by Jeff Jones

"What time is it, sergeant?" asked Private Charlie Wilson, as he paced nervously around the Spartan looking room, his dark, sunken eyes constantly flicking from the sergeant to the closed door and back again.

"About ten minutes later than the last time you asked me, Wilson," was the curt reply. The sergeant leant back precariously in his rickety wooden chair to stretch his tired and stiff body, his bulk threatening to topple him backwards onto the floor at any moment.

"So what time is it then?"

The sergeant sighed and glanced over at the third occupant of the room, Corporal Harry Masters, who caught the sergeant’s glance, raised his eyes to the ceiling, before returning to the letter he had been preoccupied with most of the night.

"It’s five past four, Wilson. Now will you sit down and try to relax?"

"Huh, that’s easy for you to say."

"Well if you can’t relax, will you at least sit down and shut up and let the rest of us try? We don’t want to be here anymore than you do son, so let’s just try and make the best of it, all right?"

Wilson briefly locked eyes with the sergeant, but his nerve quickly broke under the sergeant's cold and relentless stare. He pulled another chair out from under the table and reluctantly sat down opposite the sergeant, but there was no way he was going to be able to relax, whether he wanted to or not and how could he? No amount of bullying from the sergeant was going to change that.

The sergeant poured himself a measure of rum from the half-empty bottle in front of him and then topped up the corporal’s mug. The corporal nodded in

acknowledgement, before once again returning to his letter. Sergeant Harris calculated that Masters must have read that letter at least four times that night already.

"Are you sure you won’t have a drink, Wilson? It won’t kill you and it might help you to unwind a little." The sergeant instantly regretted his choice of words.

The corporal laughed, but didn't look up from his letter, which was just as well as the sergeant was glaring at him with daggers for eyes.

When he looked back at Wilson he found that the young soldier was looking at him and this time it was the sergeant who looked away first. Sighing once again and silently cursing the major for assigning him this duty, he made to re-cork the bottle.

"Go on then and make it a large one: may as well get drunk. What can they do – imprison me?"

The sergeant smiled and reaching for the third mug poured Wilson a large measure of army rum, before setting the near empty bottle back onto the wobbly wooden table, around which they now all sat.

Other than the table and chairs, the room was devoid of furniture. There were no pictures or intriguing photographs in which a man could become lost or distracted and Sergeant Harris suddenly envied Corporal Masters and his well-read letter.

Harris suddenly became aware that Wilson was still staring at him. "What?"

Wilson downed the last of his drink, momentarily closing his eyes to savour the sweet burning sensation as the rum, traditionally given to the men shortly before they were due to go ‘over the top’, slipped slowly down his throat.

"Where are you from, sergeant?"

The sergeant had no desire to become embroiled in a long conversation with Wilson. He didn’t like him or what he had done. He thought about ignoring the kid, or at least telling him to shut up, but realised that in the long run, it was probably

better to keep him talking at this point and besides which, it might also make the time pass quicker.

"I’m from Wakefield in Yorkshire and Masters here is from just down the road in Sheffield. What about you, Wilson, where are you from?"

Wilson seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, as if he was visualising his hometown in his mind’s eye. "I’m from Heatherington, a little village a few miles south of the north Norfolk coast."

"A country boy, eh? What’s it like there then?"

"Quiet, too quiet sometimes, especially during the winter months, but the countryside is amazing. Sometimes you can walk for miles and never see another

soul. And during the summer the beaches a few miles away are the place to be if you want to meet girls. That’s where I was when this damn war broke out two years ago, enjoying the sun, sea and …scenery."

That caught Masters’ attention. "So it’s true what they say about country girls then?" he said neatly folding his prized letter and tucking it into his tunic pocket. It was the first time he had spoken in nearly an hour.

Wilson smiled again, as if reminiscing and then blushed. "We reckon they’re the most beautiful in the world."

"Nope, you can’t beat a Yorkshire lass, can you corporal?"

"No, you can’t, sarge. You got a picture of your girl then, Wilson?"

Wilson blushed again, or was it the after effects of the rum, the sergeant wondered.

Wilson looked down at the table, not wanting to make eye contact. "I don’t have a girl waiting for me. In fact I’ve never even been with a girl." He laughed loudly, mocking himself to conceal his obvious embarrassment. "Pathetic isn’t it? Nineteen and never even been with a girl and now I never will." Wilson suddenly leapt up, his rough wooden chair crashing noisily to the floor. Tears were trickling down his face.

The sergeant and corporal exchanged glances, a certain awkwardness suddenly pervading the atmosphere.

"Come and sit back down, Wilson," said Harris, trying to regain control of the situation.

Wilson didn’t reply and stood absolutely still as if listening to something.

"Wilson, sit back down now," insisted the sergeant in the raised voice that the

men were more accustomed to hearing on the parade ground.

Wilson raised his hand to try and silence the sergeant. "Listen. Can you hear that?"

"Can I hear what?" replied the sergeant, failing to hide his irritation.

"That."

Very faintly and some distance away, a bird of some description was heralding the coming dawn and as they all listened, more birds slowly joined in.

Wilson looked up at the small window high up in the back wall, just as the

first fingers of sunlight crept through onto the floor. Harris looked at his pocket watch anticipating Wilson’s next question.

"It’s twenty to five, Wilson. Why don’t you come and sit back down and have another drink?"

Wilson looked at the two men sat at the old table before glancing longingly back at the small window, through which a now unassailable shaft of light was pouring, illuminating the bare room in which the three men had seen out the night’s darkest hours. Wilson wished that he was tall enough to reach up and look out of the

small window, but it was a forlorn hope for a man of his size. Sighing, he righted his fallen chair and joined the men back at the table. "Looks like it’s going to be a lovely day," he said almost as an afterthought.

The sergeant divided the remaining rum out between the three men, silently wishing that the remaining time would hurry up, or that someone would come and

relieve him. Deep down he knew that neither was going to happen and that he was just going to have to see this duty out like all the others in his long and fairly distinguished career. He'd seen some things in his time in the army and had been ordered to do stuff that he was ashamed of and would never talk about, but this particular duty put them all in the shade for unpleasantness, as far as he was concerned.

"Who’s your letter from?" Wilson suddenly asked Masters, breaking the silence between the three soldiers.

"My wife," replied Masters smiling.

"Can I read it? I’ve never had a letter from a sweetheart."

"No, you bloody can’t. It’s personal between a man and his wife and that‘s how it should remain," snapped Masters. Instantly regretting his rebuke, he added, "But you can look at a photo of her if you like."

"I’d like that," said Wilson quietly before downing the remainder of his rum. This time it slid down quicker and easier and Wilson thought that in other circumstances he could actually get to like the drink and regretted all the occasions he had declined the offer of a tot of rum in the trenches.

He leant forward to take the photo from the corporal and looked down at a

stunning brunette in what he guessed was her early twenties.

"She’s lovely."

"I know," replied Masters proudly.

"What’s her name?"

"Edna."

"You’re a lucky man, corporal." added Wilson, as he reluctantly returned the photo to Masters.

"I know that too."

By now the dawn chorus was in full swing and Wilson listened as he happily recalled waking up on his family’s farm to just such a song on many, many occasions.

"Can I have a smoke now please, sergeant?"

Without answering, the sergeant took a woodbine out of his packet and handed it to Wilson before lighting it for him.

Wilson leant back in his chair and inhaled deeply before suddenly and violently coughing and spluttering.

"Your first cigarette?" asked Masters.

"And my last it would seem."

"Just as well, mate - these things stunt your growth."

Wilson smiled and took another long puff of the woodbine, almost as if in one last act of defiance against life. Extinguishing it in his now empty mug, Wilson opened his mouth to say something to the sergeant, but was suddenly distracted by the sound of several pairs of boots crunching their way along the gravel path outside. He listened intently as they grew ever nearer. He estimated that there were at least four people heading in their direction.

Harris and Masters heard them as well and after exchanging a knowing look,

they stood up, extinguished the candles, straightened their uniforms and put on their caps.

The footsteps stopped directly outside the door to their building. Moments dragged like hours and Wilson stood up and nervously backed away towards the rear wall, petrified of whoever was about to enter their building. His heart was racing and he felt like his chest was being crushed by a great weight.

The door swung open and a dark silhouette filled the doorway. After briefly looking around, the shape entered the room and Wilson recognised a captain from his own regiment, but whose name he couldn’t immediately recall, followed by two soldiers carrying rifles, whom he didn’t recognise. Most frightening of all, however, they were followed in by the regimental chaplain. The gravity of his situation finally won the battle against denial and the sergeant watched as the colour drained from Wilson’s face.

"No, no, I won’t come," screamed Wilson backing ever further into the corner.

The chaplain was saying something to him about confessing his sins and making his peace, but Wilson couldn’t hear him. Didn’t want to hear him.

"Come along now, son, don’t make things any harder for anyone than they have to be," said Harris.

"I don’t care, I won’t go. I haven't done anything," shouted Wilson, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The captain nodded to the two soldiers and after a brief struggle, they unceremoniously grabbed Wilson and dragged him out of the room, screaming and cussing as he went.

Harris and Masters watched him go and followed the party out. They were relieved that their job was finally done.

At the top of a small hill in front of them, stood a solitary wooden post about ten yards in front of which stood a detail of ten soldiers, each with a rifle containing

just one bullet. Wilson was being led up the incline screaming and crying for his mother, his fate in front of the firing squad a certainty.

Harris heard Corporal Masters vomiting behind him, but decided not to admonish him. Some things in this world make you sick to the pit of your stomach, thought Harris and executing a boy of nineteen for cowardice was one such thing.