Run Hard
“Here’s ya tea mate.” Cobb handed me the steaming tin mug, “No sugar left I’m afraid.” And he shook the rusty tin that should have held it.
“No milk too I guess?” I joked.
“No sir, no milk, no cheese n crackers, no scones with jam nor cream neither.” He laughed.
“Bet those bastards out there have got all that.” I said and looked out from our rat-hole dugout on the cliff side at the command ships anchored nice and safe in the bay, just beyond the reach of the Turk’s artillery.
We sat on wooden crates at a table made from wooden crates in our dirt hole, like a kid’s backyard hideout, barely enough room to turn around and not even half high enough to stand up in, it was one of dozens strung along the bluffs above the beaches. From the ridges came the racket of gunfire and shell bursts, so constant we hardly noticed it, like waves breaking on a shoreline. Depending on the wind we’d get the stink of the latrines below us and though that was bad enough it was nothing compared to the stench of those poor dead buggers still lying out in no man’s land. We’d notice the smells, was impossible not to, but no one ever mentioned it, what was the point?
“Wouldn’t surprise me if they do,” Cobb agreed, “reckon those Pommie buggers have got the works, comfy bunks, beers, brandy n all.”
“Yeah, bet they do.”
And we sat in silence for a long time looking out at the sea. Sparkling in the sunlight it was pretty and yet it didn’t look right, like it should have been a scene from someplace else, somewhere at home perhaps, not these Godforsaken bloody awful diggings.
“Whatdya reckon it’ll be like?” I asked Cobb.
“What do I reckon what’ll be like?” he asked back though he knew exactly what I was getting at.
“Tomorrow I mean, we’re up this time, going over.”
“Oh, that!” he said as if he’d forgotten about it, as if I was talking about a doctor’s appointment that had slipped his mind, “We’ll be alright mate,” and he looked square at me and said it, looked me right in the eye, “we’ll come through well enough, you’ll see.”
That was the thing about Cobb, he was the kind of chap who could always cheer you up, he never said a bad word, made jokes of everything, he could make you laugh even when there was nothing amusing for miles around, when you’d seen nothing in weeks that could be called funny. Cobb made you feel, just for a moment maybe but moments were all we had out there, that everything really was going to be alright and that we really would come through well enough.
“You’re not scared are ya?” he asked, laughing again and sounding like a cocky young lad daring another to jump off a bridge into the swimming hole below.
“Scared?” I joined in the act, “Nah mate, not me!”
“That’s the story!” he said and lent over our packing crate table and gave me a mighty slap on the shoulder. But then he looked away, turning back to the sea as the smile faded from his face for the first time I’d ever seen and we sat in silence again.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said breaking the quiet, “I dunno why, but I’ve been wondering what I’ll hear, you know, what I’ll hear when we go over tomorrow.”
“Hear?” Cobb scoffed, “I’ll be hearing Johnny Turk taking to his heels and yelling back to me that he’ll shout the bloody beers and the bloody sheilas in Constantinople if we promise not to blow his brains out! That’s what I’ll be hearing!” And he made me laugh again, that’s just what Cobb was like.
“Whatdya think you’ll hear?” he asked me staring into his mug.
“Well…” I began, “I dunno really.” Though I did know, I’d been thinking about it for days already, thinking about what sound would be in my head in the final moments. It wouldn’t be the roar of exploding shells, like I said, that was so run-of-the-mill there, had been since we landed, that I wouldn’t even notice it. And it wouldn’t be the screams of those falling around me, not the cries and groans of my mates as we all got cut to ribbons by heavy Turkish machine gun fire.
And we all knew what was to come, just as the Fifth Battalion knew when they went yesterday, just as the Mounted Rifles knew when they went the day before, just as the Aussies knew as they readied themselves to go in the trenches far above the dugout where Cobb and I sat with our mugs of tea. Most of them would still out there when our time came and we would step over them as we went, we would fall among them, joining them in the dirt.
Cobb poked a few more sticks into the little hobo-stove we’d made from an empty kerosene can and put the billy back on to boil.
“Might as well finish this up.” He said matter of fact, though he was still waiting for my answer.
“I think I’ll hear my mother’s voice.” I said at last.
“No kidding?” Cobb asked quietly without looking away from the stove.
“Yeah, I had a dream the other night,” I went on, “well, not really a dream, more of a memory I guess.”
“Yeah?”
“It was ‘sports day’ at my primary school, I must have been seven or eight and all the mothers and fathers had been invited to go along and watch the races, to cheer on their sons and daughters.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cobb said, still staring at the fire.
“Yeah, I lined up on the starting line for my race with all the other boys, we stood there tensed like little springs waiting for the teacher with the whistle to signal the start, I can still remember the sound ‘peeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’ And then we ran, eyes straight ahead, fists and bare feet pumping as we raced across the grass towards the finish line marked by two other kids holding the white tape. I remember how badly I wanted to be the one to run through that tape first, to get the prize, a little certificate with fancy writing and signed by the headmaster, to put on the mantelpiece at home where I could show it to my father.”
“Yeah.” Cobb said, now looking away from me altogether, just watching the sea.
“And all the while I could hear my mother calling to me ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ My mother always called the same thing on sports day, that’s how I knew it was her, ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ I reckon she’d done the same for my brothers at sports days before mine, ‘Run hard! Run hard!’”
Cobb didn’t say anything, he rolled a smoke and lit it with a splinter from the fire as if he was trying to keep himself busy.
“All the mothers were yelling,” I went on, “it must have been quite a din but somehow I could hear my mother’s voice so clearly as if she was the only one. So I ran hard, I ran as hard as I could and I hit that white tape first and got that little certificate with the fancy writing and the headmaster’s signature and I showed it to my father that night when he got home from work, proud as could be.”
“Yeah.” Cobb said, though there was a strain in his voice now.
“So, I reckon that’s what I’ll hear tomorrow when we go over, I’ll hear my mother calling to me ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ And I’ll run hard, as hard as I can.”
Several minutes passed and neither of us spoke a word, finally Cobb finished his smoke and said “There won’t be any white tape at the end this time.” though he was more talking to himself than me.
“Nah, and there won’t be any blimmin prize either.” I replied.
‘Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’
The sound drifted down from the ridge above, followed by a cheer from the Aussies as they went over, then the ‘tat-tat-tat-tat-tat’ of the Turkish guns.
Cobb rubbed his eyes, he must have got dirt in them, or smoke from the fire. He handed me my tin mug again without turning round.
“We’ll be alright mate,” I said, “we’ll come through well enough, you’ll see.”
Ian D. Robinson
2nd May 2013
Kobe, Japan
“Here’s ya tea mate.” Cobb handed me the steaming tin mug, “No sugar left I’m afraid.” And he shook the rusty tin that should have held it.
“No milk too I guess?” I joked.
“No sir, no milk, no cheese n crackers, no scones with jam nor cream neither.” He laughed.
“Bet those bastards out there have got all that.” I said and looked out from our rat-hole dugout on the cliff side at the command ships anchored nice and safe in the bay, just beyond the reach of the Turk’s artillery.
We sat on wooden crates at a table made from wooden crates in our dirt hole, like a kid’s backyard hideout, barely enough room to turn around and not even half high enough to stand up in, it was one of dozens strung along the bluffs above the beaches. From the ridges came the racket of gunfire and shell bursts, so constant we hardly noticed it, like waves breaking on a shoreline. Depending on the wind we’d get the stink of the latrines below us and though that was bad enough it was nothing compared to the stench of those poor dead buggers still lying out in no man’s land. We’d notice the smells, was impossible not to, but no one ever mentioned it, what was the point?
“Wouldn’t surprise me if they do,” Cobb agreed, “reckon those Pommie buggers have got the works, comfy bunks, beers, brandy n all.”
“Yeah, bet they do.”
And we sat in silence for a long time looking out at the sea. Sparkling in the sunlight it was pretty and yet it didn’t look right, like it should have been a scene from someplace else, somewhere at home perhaps, not these Godforsaken bloody awful diggings.
“Whatdya reckon it’ll be like?” I asked Cobb.
“What do I reckon what’ll be like?” he asked back though he knew exactly what I was getting at.
“Tomorrow I mean, we’re up this time, going over.”
“Oh, that!” he said as if he’d forgotten about it, as if I was talking about a doctor’s appointment that had slipped his mind, “We’ll be alright mate,” and he looked square at me and said it, looked me right in the eye, “we’ll come through well enough, you’ll see.”
That was the thing about Cobb, he was the kind of chap who could always cheer you up, he never said a bad word, made jokes of everything, he could make you laugh even when there was nothing amusing for miles around, when you’d seen nothing in weeks that could be called funny. Cobb made you feel, just for a moment maybe but moments were all we had out there, that everything really was going to be alright and that we really would come through well enough.
“You’re not scared are ya?” he asked, laughing again and sounding like a cocky young lad daring another to jump off a bridge into the swimming hole below.
“Scared?” I joined in the act, “Nah mate, not me!”
“That’s the story!” he said and lent over our packing crate table and gave me a mighty slap on the shoulder. But then he looked away, turning back to the sea as the smile faded from his face for the first time I’d ever seen and we sat in silence again.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said breaking the quiet, “I dunno why, but I’ve been wondering what I’ll hear, you know, what I’ll hear when we go over tomorrow.”
“Hear?” Cobb scoffed, “I’ll be hearing Johnny Turk taking to his heels and yelling back to me that he’ll shout the bloody beers and the bloody sheilas in Constantinople if we promise not to blow his brains out! That’s what I’ll be hearing!” And he made me laugh again, that’s just what Cobb was like.
“Whatdya think you’ll hear?” he asked me staring into his mug.
“Well…” I began, “I dunno really.” Though I did know, I’d been thinking about it for days already, thinking about what sound would be in my head in the final moments. It wouldn’t be the roar of exploding shells, like I said, that was so run-of-the-mill there, had been since we landed, that I wouldn’t even notice it. And it wouldn’t be the screams of those falling around me, not the cries and groans of my mates as we all got cut to ribbons by heavy Turkish machine gun fire.
And we all knew what was to come, just as the Fifth Battalion knew when they went yesterday, just as the Mounted Rifles knew when they went the day before, just as the Aussies knew as they readied themselves to go in the trenches far above the dugout where Cobb and I sat with our mugs of tea. Most of them would still out there when our time came and we would step over them as we went, we would fall among them, joining them in the dirt.
Cobb poked a few more sticks into the little hobo-stove we’d made from an empty kerosene can and put the billy back on to boil.
“Might as well finish this up.” He said matter of fact, though he was still waiting for my answer.
“I think I’ll hear my mother’s voice.” I said at last.
“No kidding?” Cobb asked quietly without looking away from the stove.
“Yeah, I had a dream the other night,” I went on, “well, not really a dream, more of a memory I guess.”
“Yeah?”
“It was ‘sports day’ at my primary school, I must have been seven or eight and all the mothers and fathers had been invited to go along and watch the races, to cheer on their sons and daughters.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cobb said, still staring at the fire.
“Yeah, I lined up on the starting line for my race with all the other boys, we stood there tensed like little springs waiting for the teacher with the whistle to signal the start, I can still remember the sound ‘peeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’ And then we ran, eyes straight ahead, fists and bare feet pumping as we raced across the grass towards the finish line marked by two other kids holding the white tape. I remember how badly I wanted to be the one to run through that tape first, to get the prize, a little certificate with fancy writing and signed by the headmaster, to put on the mantelpiece at home where I could show it to my father.”
“Yeah.” Cobb said, now looking away from me altogether, just watching the sea.
“And all the while I could hear my mother calling to me ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ My mother always called the same thing on sports day, that’s how I knew it was her, ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ I reckon she’d done the same for my brothers at sports days before mine, ‘Run hard! Run hard!’”
Cobb didn’t say anything, he rolled a smoke and lit it with a splinter from the fire as if he was trying to keep himself busy.
“All the mothers were yelling,” I went on, “it must have been quite a din but somehow I could hear my mother’s voice so clearly as if she was the only one. So I ran hard, I ran as hard as I could and I hit that white tape first and got that little certificate with the fancy writing and the headmaster’s signature and I showed it to my father that night when he got home from work, proud as could be.”
“Yeah.” Cobb said, though there was a strain in his voice now.
“So, I reckon that’s what I’ll hear tomorrow when we go over, I’ll hear my mother calling to me ‘Run hard! Run hard!’ And I’ll run hard, as hard as I can.”
Several minutes passed and neither of us spoke a word, finally Cobb finished his smoke and said “There won’t be any white tape at the end this time.” though he was more talking to himself than me.
“Nah, and there won’t be any blimmin prize either.” I replied.
‘Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’
The sound drifted down from the ridge above, followed by a cheer from the Aussies as they went over, then the ‘tat-tat-tat-tat-tat’ of the Turkish guns.
Cobb rubbed his eyes, he must have got dirt in them, or smoke from the fire. He handed me my tin mug again without turning round.
“We’ll be alright mate,” I said, “we’ll come through well enough, you’ll see.”
Ian D. Robinson
2nd May 2013
Kobe, Japan
