Carry Us Home

When I got off the truck, all I saw was mud. Mud everywhere—so much, my ankles were already sinking in it. Horses were chained to artillery, heaving against the smoke that released each time one of the cannons behind them fired into No Man’s Land. This must have been a meadow, once, where families used to picnic. All that remained of its former beauty was a single oak tree.

A soldier grabbed me by the shoulders. “What are you standing around for?”

I saluted hastily. “I-I’ve just arrived, Sir. I’m a trained mechanic, and I’m looking for the tank regiment.”

“Bloody hell, they gave us a green lad, I see. What’s your name, chap?”

”Phillip Evans, Sir.”

”It’s Godfrey to you, Private,” the soldier motioned for me to follow him. “Have you ever seen a tank before?”

“No, Sir—Godfrey—but I learned a bit about them in training.”

“Did you, now?” Godfrey laughed, then bent over to retrieve two canisters of gasoline. “Grab those for me, will you, Evans?”

I hoisted a canister in each arm, careful not to lose any of its liquid.

“Meet the Mark,” Godfrey announced. I looked up, searching for the soldier he was addressing, then halted in my tracks.

A mass of metal stood in front of me like a whale that had surfaced on land. I’d heard about tanks—that they were new, impenetrable weapons of war, but to see one in person made me feel, somehow, like I’d been left behind.

I’d never seen anything like it.

“Commander Wilson,” Godfrey set down the gasoline canisters, then saluted a man in a well-polished uniform with a gold-plated insignia on his cap. “This is Private Phillip Evans. He’s here to replace Ernest.”

“This scrawny lad?” Another man practically snarled, stepping forward just to tower over me. He wore a uniform similar to the Commander’s, but his was even more muddied than Godfrey’s.

“At ease, Godfrey. Lewis,” Commander Wilson reprimanded the Sergeant, who—with a final glare—stepped away. The Commander extended his hand. ”You’re a gunner, then?”

I dropped my own canisters, shook the Commander’s hand, and glanced at the three golden stars sewn into his cuffs. “A mechanic, Sir.”

”We’re all mechanics, son, just like we’re all soldiers. We’re here to do one thing: kill some Fritzes.”

One of the tank’s side hatches swung open, and a man stepped out. “Peter! Show this lad the ropes, will you?”

Peter trotted over to us, hoisted up one of the canisters, and motioned for me to do the same. “What’s your name, lad?”

”Phillip Evans, Sir.” A bit of gasoline sloshed out as I followed him to the narrow opening.

“I knew a couple of blokes named like that,” Peter stepped in comfortably. “They’re all dead now, ‘course. Don’t mean to frighten you; it’s just the truth of things. Anyway, this here is the engine.”

Inside, the tank was like a beast with iron intestines. Shiny, golden ammo arranged each wall like a beehive, and the engine in the center took up most of the space.

Peter stretched an arm overhead, emptying his canister of gasoline into the hull’s filler cap. “Big nuisance, it is. Don’t touch the engine when Big Betsy’s on. She’ll eat you alive.”

“Big Betsy?”

“Oh, that’s my name for her. None of us can decide what to call her—Commander even says she’s a ‘him.’ I think that’s bloody stupid, I do. Got too many menfolk around here to go and invent some more.”

I opened my mouth, but I heard a sudden cooing. I inched past the engine only to find two pigeons in the back–trained to deliver messages and coordinates.

“Do the birds have names?” Caged at the entrance, one of them cocked its head, looking past me as if at the light that spilled in from the open hatch.

Peter dropped his empty canister, spilling residual gasoline onto the floor, and stepped forwards. “You listen to me, lad. You touch the burning engine before you ever touch one of those pigeons. Is that understood?”

I nodded quickly, my fists weighed down by gasoline.

“At ease, Private,” Commander Wilson’s voice sounded behind us. When Peter looked over his shoulder and stepped back, I realized the order wasn’t for me. “All in!”

The Sergeant, Godfrey, and four other men filed in. Godfrey grabbed my arm and motioned for me to pass the canisters to him.

“Today’s an important day, lads,” Commander Wilson announced. “Our orders are to cut down artillery positions on the German front lines. Henshaw! Lewis!”

”Ready, Commander!” A soldier—Henshaw—pulled a lever in the back, activating the engine. Steam and heat filled the air, making me cough and sweat at the same time. The Sergeant—Lewis—revved the engine, sending the tank straight forward.

The ground beneath my feet shook.

“Careful, lad! Big Sue takes some getting used to.”

“She’s Big Betsy!” Peter shouted over the roaring engine.

“I know what I said! Now, lad,” Godfrey turned back to me. “How quickly can you load these guns?”

I’d never done it before. Not in a tank. I knew better than to admit that, though. “Quickly.”

“Show me.”

I gulped, then nodded, going to remove a large bullet casing from the shelf.

“Gloves, lad,” Godfrey deadpanned, dangling a pair in front of me. Sheepishly, I nodded my thanks, slipped them on, and retrieved a large, brass casing. It was infinitely heavier than shotgun ammo; even with gloves on, the metal scorched my palms.

I shoved the casing into the turret’s breech, then reached for another.

”Left, Bradley!” Commander Wilson ordered, jabbing a finger at the open map. The tank careened sharply to the side. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen.”

Beside me, Godfrey inhaled deeply, then crouched beside the turret. “Keep this loaded for me, lad.”

There was bumping as we crossed into No Man’s Land. The firing was immediate, bullets ricocheting off of the tank’s armor.

A blast sounded from our gun, flooding my ears. “Load it, boy!”

With shaking hands, I shoved the bullet casing into the breech, then grabbed another, waiting for the fire.

The tank suddenly halted.

“Forward, Lewis!”

“I’m trying! She’s stuck, Sir!”

“Godfrey!” The Commander screamed. ”Dig her out! Evans, get the wood off the roof!”

Godfrey leapt to his feet, grabbed a shovel beside the entrance, and undid the hatch—slamming it shut.

”Evans!”

I shook my head, reaching for the side door with one hand. I pulled it open, ducking under gunfire. Godfrey was at the back of the tank, digging a hole beneath the track.

At my eye-level was a rusty handhold. I grabbed onto it and started scaling up the tank, panting as bullets barely missed my helmet.

I slipped a few times, relying on the strength in my legs to push myself on the roof. The beam lay tangled in metal chains, and when I tried to lift the wood, it wouldn’t even budge.

“Godfrey!”

There’s no way he could have heard me—not under open fire.

I scanned the beam desperately, as if for answers. It rested on the rails, but it was as long as each track, spanning both sides.

The roof was too slippery to ground my heels into. I squatted down and began pushing the beam towards the tracks.

A blast rattled the tank. I cursed, clinging onto the wood and coughing against smoke. Pushing with all of my might, the beam rolled forward—positioned to each track.

I laughed almost deliriously and grabbed a hold of the chain, hooking each end to the tracks.

Rotating downwards, the track carted the beam with it.

I descended the roof. “Godfrey! I got—!”

Godfrey’s body twitched, his shovel strewn left of the bloody ravine he’d dug. My boots landed beside him. “Godfrey!” When I shook his shoulder, his eyelids fluttered open.

He pointed weakly. “Watch out, lad.”

“Watch out?” I looked up—

The track made a low groan before coming down on us.

Quickly, I rushed out of the hole, tugging Godfrey by the same arm he had pointed with.

It was the only part of him that wasn’t crushed.

I screamed, letting go of Godfrey’s arm and scrambling away—at the mercy of the metal above me.

”Evans!” Was that the Commander’s voice? “Get inside!”

Bullets bounced off the tank, the enemy flanking it. They were trying to bring it down.

I took a deep breath, then forced myself to sprint towards it. Gunfire tracked my movement until I grabbed a hold of the hatch, ducking back in.

Landing in a trembling heap, the entry sealed behind me.

”Godfrey?” This was Peter’s voice.

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. I could still hear the track crushing his skin and bones into the earth.

“You’ll have to load and shoot for us, then,” the Commander grabbed my elbow, pulling me to my feet.

Heat and metal consumed me. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered, already reaching for a casing.

There was thudding against the tank’s walls. I loaded the hatch, blasting the ground beneath an incoming batch of Germans, but the pounding came closer—from the roof.

“Can they get through?” I asked.

“Accelerate! Drive them off of us!”

“This is the fastest she can move!”

When a window burst open, a rifle prodded into the tank. There was a blast, then Henshaw collapsed–the ground’s hot, metal surface boiling his blood. The gunner and loader on the other side of the tank took aim, firing at the intruders, but soldiers were already pouring in from above.

“The pigeons!” The Commander tossed me a key, firing at the soldiers who’d broken through. “Send out the pigeons!”

“No!” Another gunner shouted. “You free those pigeons, and we’re all dead! DO YOU HEAR ME? WE’RE ALL—!”

I sprinted to the back, pulling open the port. Light spilled in, allowing me my first real breath.

“NO!” Peter roared, pinning me against the wall. One of his hands curled around my neck.

I struggled against him, my breath escaping me as I clawed at his arm. From the corner of my eye, his other hand raised to strike me.

A blast sounded. Peter’s fingers stiffened around my throat. When I shoved him off of me, he collapsed in a puddle of his own blood.

Sergeant Lewis heaved, smoke lingering off the barrel of his gun. I stared at him, my ears ringing, then at Peter’s limp head, rolling towards the engine.

The Sergeant’s voice, once so loud, was muffled. “Do . . . it! Send . . . them out!”

I stumbled towards the cages. The pigeons’ wings were flapping wildly. What would it be like if they could take me home with them?

I thought of Godfrey, squashed into the mud, and of Henshaw and Peter, whose blood was imprinted into the soles of my boots. Then of the key, clenched tightly in my palm.

I inserted it into the nearest cage. If the lock clicked, it was drowned by the ringing in my ears. Cradling the pigeon, I held death in my hands. It was soft against my gloves. Light.

And it came alive, released into open air.

I scooped up the second pigeon. Behind me, the crew might have been shouting—some of them bleeding, dying. But the second pigeon nuzzled its neck against my thumb.

When I opened my hands, it flew away immediately.

All I could do was watch, through a sliver of light, as the birds faded. They soared above tanks, planes, and bombs, but I wondered who was more frightened: them, or us?

Slowly, my hearing registered bullets bouncing between four walls. Even amidst this gunfire, a long silence overcame us as we looked between each other for the last time.

“Gentlemen,” the Commander tipped his hat to us—to me. “It’s been an honor serving with you.”

“See you soon, boys,” the Sergeant added.

The whirring of the missiles flooded our ears. We ducked for cover even with nowhere to hide.

~

I smelled smoke in the air, my head pounding and my vision weak. When I propped myself up, there were bodies strewn around me—half-coated in metal and half-coated in mud. Big Betsy had lost her front view, leaving me totally exposed to the enemy. Except for the intermittent creaking of a still-open cage, there was silence.

Then gurgling.

My ears turned, and I dragged myself towards the sound. The Commander was wedged in the back of the tank, his stomach shredded with shrapnel.

I shook his shoulders. “Commander Wilson!”

“Evans,” the Commander mumbled groggily. “What—what happened? Where are we?”

“Big Betsy—Sue—I don’t know what to call her, Sir, but she’s been shredded to pieces.”

“Who’s alive?”

My throat thickened. “Just me,” I admitted. ”Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.”

When the Commander began coughing, dark blood—nearly black—spewed from his lips. “Son, I’m going to ask you to do the hardest thing I’ve ever asked anyone to do. Because I trust you.”

“No–you don’t even know me.”

“I know you can get us back to our trench. Back home.”

”I don’t know where—”

“I do. There’s—” a choking sound came from the Commander, like his own mouth was drowning him, before he retched out even more blood. “Escape hatch. In the back.”

“Don’t talk too much, Sir. Can you walk?”

Even as I looked at the metal pieces protruding from his stomach, I had my answer. “Give me one second. I’m not leaving you, I—I promise.”

I crawled back to the other bodies. “Forgive me,” I whispered, unbuttoning Henshaw’s shirt. When I tore it off, the sleeves got stuck on his fingers. I shuddered, stripping them off—making him colder.

Peter was next. I tried to remember his fingers squeezing the air from my throat, but all I saw was blood on his lips—fresh, like the Commander’s.

After I came across a few German coats, I grabbed the sleeves of each uniform, knotting them together.

I dragged myself to the Commander’s side. “I need you to wrap your arms around my back.”

The Commander climbed on top of me, as ordered. “Now,” I gasped, tossing him the makeshift rope, “tie this around us as tightly as you can.”

He shifted on top of me. “It’s on.”

“Where’s the hatch?”

~

The way back to our trenches was quiet—eerily so. There were distant screams from further out, crying for help. My whole upper body trembled from exhaustion, my forearms encased in mud. I couldn’t see anything.

”Keep going, son,” the Commander wheezed shallowly in my ear. “Wire ahead. Keep right.”

My head spun.

“Other way, lad.”

My fingers landed on something squishy, my hand slipping off of it. Buzzing filled my ears as flies latched onto my skin, like they did with all dead things.

I slipped into the mud, landing face-down. For a moment—just a moment, I breathed deeply. Then I turned my head.

There was a face in front of mine. Half of it was streaked with blood, both eyes bulging out of their sockets. Encased in mud, I couldn’t tell what color they’d once been.

I bit back a scream.

“Son,” the Commander whispered gently in my ear. “Close your eyes and listen to my voice. I need you to crawl and not stop.”

“Sir, I—”

“Close your eyes.”

I squeezed them shut, the darkness enveloping me.

I heard the Commander’s voice. “You’re not alone.”

”The crew,” I dragged us past the dead boy. “Godfrey. I left him, Sir.”

“No, lad. You’re just going forward.”

Moments stretched into years, my forehead drenched with sweat and the Commander’s blood. “Are we almost there?”

“Go left.”

”I can’t, Sir.”

“Son, remember home. What’s waiting for you at home?”

“My mother,” I croaked, my heart suddenly longing for her. She used to read to me every night before I fell asleep. “Are we almost there?”

“She’s close,” the Commander whispered.

A sudden shuffling made my head raise. “Stay low,” Commander Wilson pressed his palm between my shoulder blades.

The Commander raised a hand, keeping one of them over my eyes. “Don’t shoot! This is Commander Wilson with the 7th in the tank regiment. We need medical attention!”

“Get in here—quickly!”

German voices raised, followed by rifle rounds, then machine gun blasts. I screamed, trying to embed myself within the earth.

The Commander’s fingers suddenly reached for the fabric tying us together, untethering it.

I froze, my vision bleary. “What are you doing? Sir?”

”You’re going to get yourself home, son.”

“Sir? Where are you going?”

The Commander rolled off of me, unstrapping his handgun from his belt. “You keep going! Straight forward! Close your eyes and don’t stop!”

”Sir, please—”

“I’m still behind you, son!” He promised, shooting at the German lines.

I closed my eyes, crawling forward. I could breathe this way. The Commander was with me. He was coming.

“Get ‘em, boys! Bring ‘em in!” I heard voices shouting, their hands reaching for me. Their limbs were actually alive.

The Commander’s body was laid to rest in the trench, his stomach loaded with bullets. I dragged myself towards him, catching his hand in mine.

“I knew you could do it,” he rasped.

My heart sank. I looked at my hands, bathed in the blood of my brothers in arms, my comrades, and now . . . my Commander. “I didn’t. I killed you, too. What was the point?”

The man lifted his bleeding arm, caressing my cheek. “Isaiah 6:8, son. Do you know that verse?”

I shook my head, my lower lip trembling.

The Commander’s gaze wandered to what little he had left of the sky. “And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’” He looked back at me and smiled. “And I said, ‘Here I am. Send me!’”