The transcript, p.4
The Transcript, page 4
The Shermans lurched forward, their cannons bellowing in challenge to the Germans beyond. A lieutenant looked at me and gave the order to advance. We leaped up from our hiding places and began to follow behind. The Germans began to send a hail of fire our direction, and soon the one Sherman we had been using for cover took a direct hit. It went up in a chilling inferno and we hit the ground as bull-ets whizzed overhead. Not all of us were fast enough, though, and the lieutenant took a bullet to the face, spilling blood all over my own. The noise was deafening, and terrifying, and then something stood out among the cacophony. A whistle.
It was a shrill and sharp. First one long blow, then several in a quick succession. Then the roar of several men yelling all at once. I looked up from the grass behind me to see a peculiar sight. Riflemen! Reinforcements, thank God! But then it dawned on me, they had seemingly appeared from thin air! They were coming up from behind us, which was odd, as there was no other unit there. There were no reserves to come to our aid, no new troops to be counted on. I noticed also that they were equipped differently, and their voices sounded, of all things, British.
These riflemen ran forward, beckoning us to get up and follow, firing and cycling their bolt action rifles at the Germans. One lad brandishing a revolver ran up to me, grabbing my arm, bringing me to my feet and exclaiming, “Come on, Sergeant, the Hun isn’t going to wait for us!”
I was beside myself. The man seemed to glow, as if a soft light emanated from his skin. He seemed almost translucent, ghostly even. Then the wind changed, stoking the tank’s flames and the fire cast a different light on him. Before me was a decaying corpse. I’m sure I gave him a ghastly stare. The officer slapped my shoulder and gave me a jolly shake, saying with a sly grin, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, lad.”
He ran ahead of me and I snapped out of my shock to give the order for my men to rise up and follow. The risen dead men moved quicker than us, almost floating over the ground. Bullets and shrapnel seemed to have no effect on them, I never saw a single one of them fall or flinch. But I saw the Germans growing frantic.
The undead riflemen converged their assault to a single location, and we followed closely behind. They were going to force a breakthrough of the German lines! While the German weapons had no effect on them, I witnessed Germans gunned down by rifle fire so accurate, our own volume could not compare. Once the riflemen broke the lines, they quickly got to work with their bayonets and the butts of their rifles. I witnessed a Kraut in horror pinned to the ground, run through by a ghostly bayonet, its wielder having been shot point blank to no effect.
Our ghostly saviors pushed forward into the town, but by the time we had arrived at the first defenses…they were cleared. They had vanished ahead, leaving dead and terrified Germans in their wake. As we pushed, we discov-ered more and more dead, all German, each with a look of pure terror put on them in their final moments.
As we caught up with our ethereal reinforcements, the riflemen vanished in a bright and sudden flash. With more fighting and ground to take, we couldn’t dither. We had a town to take. And take it we did.
After that day at Mons, we encircled the Krauts. They were disorganized and demoralized and finally broken. Even the Waffen SS held their heads low in and their hands high in the air. Even more amazing is we only lost 89 of our own souls in exchange for 3,500 of theirs. Over 45,000 Germans would be taken prisoner and countless pieces of their equipment were captured. The remaining Germans decided they couldn’t hold northern France and Belgium; they turned their tail and ran to hide behind the Siegfried Line. So easy was it to break the resolve of the enemy that we once had to smash with tooth and nail to push them back but a mere few steps. It seemed biblical how we suddenly overcame them. Maybe it was.
Unfortunately, the exploits and events of those days were overshadowed by bigger, more decisive engagements. The mysterious happenings of that battle were discussed often in the days that followed. However, talk of “ghosts” soon faded to obscurity, we had to focus on not catching a Kraut bullet and becoming ghosts ourselves. We rolled across Europe and into the heart of Germany herself, never seeing them again.
I rose through the ranks after Mons. Perhaps it was luck or perhaps it was skill. I like to think that my good fortunes were at the cost of the poor fortunes of better men.
Regardless, I found myself a young officer by battlefield promotion by the end of the war. By the time the Russians had raged into Berlin, the war in Europe was over. But war was still raging elsewhere, and the fight was not yet done. I found myself transferred back to London, attached to a quartermaster unit overseeing the transfer of equipment and soldiers to the Pacific Theater.
I confess I had pushed the events that happened at Mons into the back of my mind by the war's end in 1945. Such is the result of trying to survive.
But then one day, I strolled into a pub off the beaten path to drink my thoughts away. It was there that I came across a British lad in full dress, a soldier by the name of Patrick Johns. The drunken bastard was already several pints drow-ned, but upon seeing me in my own uniform, he shouted in joy and beckoned me over. I can still hear his cockney accent, “Oi, Yank! Come let me buy you a drink!”
And so, we struck up a barside friendship that only a war and strong drinks can bring.
We began to regale in our drunken excitement the war stories, hostage the bar was to our tales! It turned out he was a paratrooper who took a crash landing at Arnhem. His time in his army was now limited to maintaining weapons and blowing his paycheck at any pub he could crawl into. It was a jolly encounter, I had not laughed and smiled as much as I did that night in ages. The beer was helping me remember things I’d forgotten (or, more plausibly, pushed mightily down).
Johns’ mood shifted once I began talking about Mons.
Once I mentioned the strange events of that day, he suddenly seemed to sober up and his voice became a whisper. He asked me to retell the story, again and again, each time asking for more details about the riflemen. Pest-ering me about every little nuance I could remember. Getting slightly perturbed, I finally asked why he was so interested.
He proceeded to tell me that his father, an officer in the British Expeditionary Force, fought in the Great War against the Huns at Mons. His father would later tell his son about an incredible incident during the battle. And as Johns began to dive deeper, I felt the freezing of my blood.
He spoke how his father under the steel rain of artillery, made preparations with his men to “go over the top” and storm the German trenches. It surely meant death for many of the men in the trench who readied themselves. Johns’ father in dire need of divine protection began to recite a prayer to Saint George. Hearing him, his men began to recite the prayer as well. The prayer ended as the whistle was blown and the men began their mad dash over the trench into no man’s land.
But instead of a hail of German bullets, the soldiers witnessed bowmen firing arrow after arrow into the German lines. They were English longbowmen. Johns’ father called them angelic. And they rained a devastating volley on the German lines. Arrows that seemed to be made out of nothing pierced Kraut hearts with deadly accuracy. John’s father and his men stormed the trenches, fighting side by side with these ghostly archers. When the Germans were pushed from the trench, Johns’ father said they vanished in a flash of light. Other soldiers would witness a similar event unfold across the front.
John’s father claimed they were English longbowmen from the Battle of Agincourt called back to earth as angels to fight on the fields once more. To those who witnessed them, they became known as the “Angels of Mons.”
I sat there flabbergasted, then I began my own questioning. Johns’ father had spoken little of the war, other than the incredible events that happened at Mons. He had survived the “War to End All Wars” only to be later killed during Hitler’s damn Blitz. So many questions were left unanswered. But Johns was adamant that his father believed he witnessed angels fighting.
Breaking through my shock, I remembered the ghostly officer who’d waved us forward. The bastard’s face was seared into my memory, having been pushed deep down or not. And a part of me had known it all evening: I was staring at the face of his son.
Our time together came to an end. We embraced as brothers and soon parted ways as strangers in our own stor-ies. I never did see Johns again. But I soon became obsessed with finding answers to explain what I saw at Mons. Not surprisingly, there was not much to find.
Over the years, I found scraps of writing and articles that detailed the Angels of Mons, ghostly archers appearing to turn the tide of a battle over trenches. Vague accounts and dubious conjecture. Just a strange footnote of the First World War. I never found a single mention of my own experience, and not many of the surviving members of my unit who were there that day were eager to discuss the topic. I would never regain contact with my former compatriots. I kept my story close to my heart, and I felt no one could believe the story that I had. I would be considered a charlatan! An in-valid! The war had robbed me of my sanity! Ha! Maybe it had!
This leaves me with this final entry. A secret I’ve held close to my heart. I am now eighty-nine years of age. I have lived a good life and dammed if I am to be judged now.
In my quiet studies, I could never find an explanation of what I saw that day. At worst, it was a hallucination or a hoax. But that day changed me. I had begun to consider the world in a new light: at best it was a miracle, and an act of God intervening in the despicable world of men.
But one thing haunted the back of my mind, and still haunts me, even now in the twilight of my life. Johns’ father witnessed archers from Agincourt. I, in turn, witnessed his father and his men from the First Great War.
When the time comes to defend Mons once again, will I be called back from the realm of the dead? Shall I be ex-pected to hold my rifle one more time?
Will I be among the next Angels of Mons?
The Phone Call
It was the Saturday morning of an otherwise forgettable long weekend in Oceanside, California. Many of the Marines and Sailors of Camp Pendleton had decided to kick things off with copious amounts of alcohol; and in the early morn-ing, many were crawling back into their barracks room beds to sleep off the hangovers.
However, Martin “Marty” Finnegan had long retired from weekend benders. At this moment, he had been fast asleep next to his wife. Had been, because the sound of a buzzing cellphone next to his head ripped him from his blissful realm.
He cracked his eyes and squinted in the darkness. The clock read 0302. Too goddamn early. Half asleep he turned and reached to grab his phone, preparing himself for the revelation of some shenanigans that his Marines had gotten into. Shenanigans that he would have to deal with person-ally.
“Who’s calling, hun?” whispered his wife, annoyed. She didn't even open her eyes.
Martin’s eyes burned as they adjusted to the blinding light of the screen. The name “Hayden Attoway” was dis-played.
He sighed a breath of relief. No first sergeant was telling him to pick up a Marine from the local drunk tank. “It’s Hayden,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you up, babe. I’ll go take this out back.”
“It’s ok, just please don’t wake the baby,” Jenny said. His newborn daughter started to stir and coo in annoyance in the bassinet next to her mother.
He quickly denied the call and texted Hayden: Hey man give me a second. Lemme call you right back.
Martin rolled out of bed and closed the phone screen. Stepping carefully, he crept past his daughter. As he walked out of the room, he stole a glance behind him. Both mom and baby were back fast asleep. Crisis averted.
He shuffled through their house towards the backyard. He grabbed a beer from the fridge on his way outside. Fuck it. I’m not working today, it’s Memorial Day. Might as well, he mused. The Marine Corps had fried any ability for him to go back to sleep after being jolted. The baby would soon be up anyways. Nothing coffee and nicotine couldn’t later fix.
As he shuffled to the back patio, he was already plan-ning out the day’s events: watching football and grilling meat in the California sun while killing the thirty pack in his fridge. Well, twenty-nine pack. Between sips, he tripped over his boots he’d thrown on the ground to air out when he had come home on Friday. He picked them up and carried them back inside to the closet in the laundry room where he kept all his uniforms, dropping them next to a pile of dirty cam-mies and silkies. He paused to make sure the girls were still asleep before trying his best to creep back to the patio.
Martin paused when he caught a glance at a clean uniform hanging in the closet, focusing on the three chev-rons and a rocker that adorned the collar. It seemed like yesterday he was a boot walking nervously into his first unit. But now, 2007 seemed ages ago, and he wasn’t a boot any-more. Martin took another sip and headed out to the back yard.
The dark early morning was quiet and cool. If he tried he could almost hear the waves; perks of living in Camp Pendleton’s Del Mar housing.
He opened his phone and wondered why Hayden had called so late. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time. Usu-ally it meant he needed to go grab him because Hayden’ project motorcycle crapped out somewhere in Fallbrook. But usually a late night call was Hayden just wanting to drunkenly bullshit over the phone. Any time he called; Mar-ty always obliged. What are best friends for?
Martin and Hayden had been best friends for a while, the Corps and war had forged them into brothers. Which was hilarious considering at one time Hayden had been his team leader and hazed the then boot Martin relentlessly when he joined the fleet in 2007. It wasn’t until Martin choked Hayden out in a bout of “combative reconditioning,” did he elevate himself from “piece of shit” to one of the guys. Hayden had reluctantly accepted him before offering to share cigarettes with Martin at the smoke pit. Martin had been part of the brotherhood ever since.
Martin hit call and raised his phone. “Hey man, what’s up? You good?”
“Maaarrrtty, it’s me Hayden,” slurred Hayden on the other end. It sounded like he was still drinking the previous night away. Not surprising, knowing Hayden.
“Dude, what’s up? You good? Where you at?”
“Yeah man, I’m fine, and I decided to party at home this weekend. Just me, myself, and I.”
“Well what’s up? It’s like 0300, too, man. I haven’t heard from you for a while.”
“Yeah, my bad man. Been busy, you know? Just wanted to have some alone time. You know how it goes.”
Martin felt a little guilty. Even though he considered Hayden his best friend, they’d grown a little distant recently. He’d been caught up being a new dad, and hadn’t found the time to spend with Hayden like he used to. Hayden had his own family and had been moved to another unit on Camp Horno. Martin hardly saw him unless it was on the odd weekend. The two inseparable friends suddenly found the-mselves quite apart.
“Yeah man,” Martin said. “I know how it goes. I’ve been shitty at communicating too, man.”
“Shit sucks since Betty left with the kids,” Hayden slurred through the phone. “But what can I do?” Martin thought he heard a sob.
“Shit, man, I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.” Martin was caught off guard, he knew that Hayden and Betty were having issues, but he didn't know she’d left! He realized it had been longer than “a minute.” He felt pretty shitty con-sidering the two worked on the same base and lived only twenty minutes apart. It suddenly made Martin’s heart ache and his beer taste sour.
“It’s whatever, man. It’s whatever. But…I wanted to ask you a question, Marty.”
Hayden was happy to change the subject, mainly to get his mind off his building guilt. “Yeah, man. What’s going on?”
“Do you remember Jake?”
Martin paused; he hadn’t thought about the missing member of their trio in a while either. Jacob Hayes was their friend and former squadmate. The three of them used to be inseparable. Best friends. Brothers. He was killed on their first deployment to Iraq. Like all friends’ deaths, Jake’s was hard to move on from. And maybe that was why Martin’s mind had eventually chosen to do something like forger.
“Yeah, man. I remember Jake,” Martin said regretfully.
“You remember how he died?” Hayden asked.
Martin again paused. As much as he wanted to forget, he couldn't. He had been there when it happened. Their platoon was conducting a patrol in Ramadi, practically look-ing for a fight with whatever Iraqi wanted to kill them that day. The streets were quiet besides the wind and the Marines footfalls. Martin remembered how he clutched his M16 as he watched for movement in dark windows and obscured alleyways. They had been in country for a few months and were well accustomed to the dangers of the raging insur-gency.
It happened when they entered a bazaar. Hayden was on point when they halted just inside the tents and booths. The people were eerily absent, looking like they simply dropped what they were doing and disappeared. There was even food left; half eaten, and on the ground. Jake volunteered to take point when the Marines started moving again, striding out in front of Hayden as they walked further into the bazaar. Jake Hayes had been the first to welcome Martin into the tribe, and the man who brought Martin and Hayden together. Three amigos. He was a man who smiled in the face of an otherwise cruel world, strong enough to be gentle. Jake Hayes was a natural born Marine who was no better friend in war. He was a man who seemed like he would survive all that combat could throw at him. The last Martin and Hayden had saw of Jake Hayes alive was him engulfed in a geyser of fire. He had stepped on an IED. In one instant all that was left of Jake was a mangled body and a shattered rifle.
Martin took a long swig, it was sour now and burned his throat. He said plainly, “Yeah, man. I do.” Martin’s eyes were looking back into a place far away. A place in another time. A place that was nothing but painful memories.
