Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

Johnny

In between the piercing screeches and explosions of the shells around him, Johnny’s nervous breathing and body crawling, squelching, along the ground were the only sounds filling his ears. His front was soaked with the cold, wet mud he’d been inching through for about half an hour. To make things worse, some mud had even trickled into his collar, sending occasional chills down his spine. He couldn’t tell if his hands were numb from the cold or gripping his rifle so tight, despite it’s uselessness out here. It was better than nothing though; like a child grasping a teddy bear, scared of the monster watching it from the cupboard.

    ‘What if the monster gets me, mum?’

    ‘It won’t, Johnny. There is no monster.’

    ‘Then what’s watching me? There’re eyes watching me!’

    ‘It’s the shadows, playing tricks on you. The monsters are all in your head. They’re not real.’

    This monster in front of Johnny was real, and it wanted him dead.

    Johnny reached another rise in the rough terrain and crawled up to it. He peered cautiously over the top of the rising and scanned the landscape. Looking around he got his bearings again; he’d gone a bit too east.

    Shit, he thought. This could cost him.

    He moved his head more up, to see if he could spot his target, when suddenly the patch of ground right beside his head exploded, spraying his right cheek with dirt. Johnny gave a small cry and threw himself flat behind the rising. One Kraut bastard sure had a sharp eye today.

    Johnny’s heart was going a mile a minute and his breathing was keeping pace. He couldn’t move. He was terrified. Johnny closed his eyes, hoping for it to all go away as more dirt was kicked over him by bullets.

    ‘Johnny?! Why we gotta send that chicken shit out to get them?’

    ‘He pulled the short straw. We agreed whoever pulled it goes.’

    ‘Yeah, but come on! He’s gonna make it to the nearest shell hole and cry if the Krauts don’t get him first.’

    ‘Now Johnny, you gotta make it to that listening post quick. You know those guys won’t move without orders; not with our Major Asshole waiting to shoot any deserters himself.’

    ‘Those guys are as good as dead with him doing this.’

    ‘Those guys are as good as dead without you.’

    ‘He’ll never make it!’

    ‘You gotta make it Johnny!’

    The voices screamed in his head like the shells overhead. An explosion filled the air, which was followed by a scream from Johnny. With all his will he threw himself to his feet and bounded over the rising as a bullet soared past his leg. Adrenaline and fear fuelled him as he ran for his life. He zig-zagged across the no man’s land; Johnny may have been close to losing his bowels, but he wasn’t going to lose his wits as bullets flew by him.

    His breaths and raging heartbeat were louder than anything could have been. The shells were miles away now. Running further and further, he noticed his goal of the listening outpost only a few hundred yards away. Johnny was doing it. He was going to make it, just like the Sergeant asked him to.

    A scalding hot pain shot through the left side of Johnny’s head, and he saw his world go dark and dizzying. He was still running like a man possessed, and suddenly felt the ground go from below him. It almost felt like he was floating to the ground, until he felt himself colder than before, and still floating. Johnny opened his eyes.

    He sat up slightly dazed to find he’d landed in a shell hole full of water. His heartbeat was louder in his left ear now, despite all that was there was a flow of warm blood where his ear had been. As Johnny lifted a shaking hand up to feel his mutilation, he noticed a shape in the water beside him that was the majority of another man.

    ‘Those guys are as good as dead without you.’

    ‘He’ll never make it!’

    Johnny found his gun lying on the bank beside him, and hauled himself out double time. He crawled his way forward again, desperate not to join his friend back there. Within a minute he fell over the edge of the trench into the listening outpost, panting for breath so he could deliver his words.

    ‘Holy shit!’ one of the soldiers cried, ‘Johnny! We thought we’d lost you there! Arthur spotted you coming at us, but we thought Jerry had you for sure.’ The soldier looked at Johnny; soaked, completely muddy up his front, and most his left side was bloody. He had seen better looking wounded.

    ‘Orders…to retreat’ panted Johnny, ‘Shelling…getting worse…Major…orders retreat…from…this outpost.’

    ‘Well ‘bout bleedin’ time too!’ shouted another soldier, ‘You ‘eard ‘im lads; back to the second line!’

    The few soldiers in the outpost began to climb over the edge and make their way back to where Johnny had come from.

    ‘Come on lad. I’ll ‘elp ya out.’

    ‘It’s ok. I’ll be out in a minute.’ Johnny sat back against the side of the trench, and smiled. He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it; the chicken shit had done it. Despite being freezing, soaked in his own blood and missing an ear, he felt amazing. He couldn’t stop smiling. Once he’d caught his breath, he picked up his gun once more. He hauled himself up over the edge onto the mud and began to craw—