Tarrarra boomby ae,
This is my dying day
by Patrick Hutchison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Horrors of war, but with a twist
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Horrors of war, but with a twist
The sojer lay gaspin wi the pain. The wind hid been knocked fae him as the bullet pierced low doon in his left side. He’d fell intae the big shell hole he’d been tryin hard tae avoid fin the bullet hut. “Jesus Christ the fuckin pain!”
He tried tae move a wee bittie so he could see the damage but seering agony passed throwe his guts and made him gasp. Instead he put his hand doon tae feel the wound. He blew throwe clenched teeth as his fingers touched the wound. Thank fuck his puddens hidnae spilled oot! It wiz jist a wee hole made by a bullet and nae a shrapnel wound, that wid’ve opened him like a bliddy kipper. He gasped again as he reached for his TOS bunnet and pushed it doon atween the tap o his kilt and the hole in his guts tae staunch the bleed. He weel kent he’d need tae pit pressure on it so bit by agonising bit he turned roon so he lay ontae the wound. As he groaned he slowly calmed his breathin doon and found in so deein the pain seemed tae ease aff a bittie. But if he moved a fraction the searin agony came back wi a vengeance. He tried his best tae think the pain awa by mindin back hame but for some reason he jist couldna get that image tae hud in his mind.
He listened instead tae the sound o battle abeen him. But it sounded so far awa. Lying as he wiz in a big shell crater the noise seemed distorted, a bit like the dull sounds in deep snaa. Noo an then the brrrr brrr and shuzz shuzz shuzz o machine-gun fire wid come doon tae him fae abeen. Sound playin tricks?
He pulled his left leg up a bittie as he lay on his side. Christ but it wiz fuckin sair but he tried again tae will the pain awa intae the background. Jist as things began tae ease he vomited. Coughin and splutterin atween gasps o screamin agony he felt as if the shudders were comin fae deep inside his soul. Aifterhins he’d tae gyang throwe the whole sequence again o getting a position that the pain wiz bearable. He lay still and daurna move an inch. He didna want tae kittle aa fuckin thing up eence mair.. The stink o rotten eggs fae the high explosive and his ain spewins waffted aroon him makin him near boak again but he controlled it by breathin through his mooth. Eence mair he attempted tae think aboot hame and the crops beginning tae ripen in the fields but the image fell awa like snaa fae a dyke tae be replaced by the stinkin shell hole. Close by he could hear Jerrie stonkers (stick grenades) gan aff and hoped tae fuck yin widna land in his shell hole. That wid cow-the-gowan richt enough if yin came in tae keep him company. He curled up but nae wi the thocht o stonkers but by the gut wrenchin pain teerin throwe him in waves.
It teen much much langer this time tae get intae a comfortable position. So he put his hand doon tae check the wound and thanked fuck that the bleedin seemed tae hae stoppit. That slight movement caused even mair pain and he lay writhin and gaspin wi the pain.
Oh dear Christ, is this how it’s gan tae be? This time though the pain didna stop ava but keepit twistin intae his guts. Eence mair he started tae boak and that made things even worse. He coughed up mair rubbish and saw it wiz a reed colour. He wiz really fucked noo! He’d seen plenty men die o gut wounds afore and usually they vomited bleed at the end. He lay gaspin as waves o weakness passed throwe him. Resigned tae the end he teen a closer look at his ain teemins and saw it wisna bleed ava. That mornin him and his mates hid eaten a tin o plum jam and hard tack for brakfast. Hope surged throwe him fin he realised this and muttered, “I’m still in wi a chance here, thank fuck!”
Tryin eence mair tae think aboot hame tae tak his mind tae a better place but hame didna latch on ava. His mind wiz in war and it seemed he’d nivver kent onything else. Faces swam in front o him but nae the eens he wanted. Aa he could see wiz sojers, some laachin, ithers greetin for their mithers, some jist dying, and Big Rab Stewart tellin him how tae gyang ower the tap.Accordin tae Rab eence ye wint ower the tap ye stood up as straacht as ye could and tae hud the butt o yer rifle ower yer bawsacks. The Jerrie machine-guns were set at twenty one inches abeen the grun so that the chances were that if ye got hut the bullets wid mair than likely hit yer legs and nae yer bawsacks o puddins. Rab wint on tae say that if a bullet did hit yer rifle butt then it widna be neen worse than a kick in the cods. That wiz Rab’s theory onywye. Here the sojer lay wi a bullet jist abeen an tae the left o his groin and it wiz fuckin agony. Rab hid patted him on the back and wi a cheery look said, “Ye can live athoot a lot o bitties o yer body but nae athoot yer shot pooch or piece!”
Well here he wiz lyin in a big fuckin shell hole wi his bawbag still attached but wi a bullet intae his gungapooch and a shattered rifle butt. Jesus! Thinkin aboot it brocht the pain back tae the fore!
He could hear big shells landin a fair bittiie awa and the baff sound as the air pressure passed ower his shell hole. Some shoutin and the trrrrap trrrap o a British maxim, then followed by the faster brrrr brrr o the Jerrie gun. This wint on for a gweed fyowe minutes, mair voices and the heavy bump o Mill’s bombs gan aff. The sound o feet abeen him and gruntin as twa kilties came intae his shell hole. For a second he thocht they micht be Jerries.They were gye grim faced and oot o breath. They cairried a streecher wi them. Een said, “Aye min yer in a bit o a sotter!”
They rolled him ower ontae his back that fast he’d only time tae gasp throwe his teeth as the pain tore through his guts. Een o them looked at the wound and put on a huge field dressing an said, “Yer lucky pal anither couple o inches higher and I’d call ye deed!”
The sojer through clenched teeth said, “Anither couple o inches lower and I’d call masel Mary!”
He tried tae move a wee bittie so he could see the damage but seering agony passed throwe his guts and made him gasp. Instead he put his hand doon tae feel the wound. He blew throwe clenched teeth as his fingers touched the wound. Thank fuck his puddens hidnae spilled oot! It wiz jist a wee hole made by a bullet and nae a shrapnel wound, that wid’ve opened him like a bliddy kipper. He gasped again as he reached for his TOS bunnet and pushed it doon atween the tap o his kilt and the hole in his guts tae staunch the bleed. He weel kent he’d need tae pit pressure on it so bit by agonising bit he turned roon so he lay ontae the wound. As he groaned he slowly calmed his breathin doon and found in so deein the pain seemed tae ease aff a bittie. But if he moved a fraction the searin agony came back wi a vengeance. He tried his best tae think the pain awa by mindin back hame but for some reason he jist couldna get that image tae hud in his mind.
He listened instead tae the sound o battle abeen him. But it sounded so far awa. Lying as he wiz in a big shell crater the noise seemed distorted, a bit like the dull sounds in deep snaa. Noo an then the brrrr brrr and shuzz shuzz shuzz o machine-gun fire wid come doon tae him fae abeen. Sound playin tricks?
He pulled his left leg up a bittie as he lay on his side. Christ but it wiz fuckin sair but he tried again tae will the pain awa intae the background. Jist as things began tae ease he vomited. Coughin and splutterin atween gasps o screamin agony he felt as if the shudders were comin fae deep inside his soul. Aifterhins he’d tae gyang throwe the whole sequence again o getting a position that the pain wiz bearable. He lay still and daurna move an inch. He didna want tae kittle aa fuckin thing up eence mair.. The stink o rotten eggs fae the high explosive and his ain spewins waffted aroon him makin him near boak again but he controlled it by breathin through his mooth. Eence mair he attempted tae think aboot hame and the crops beginning tae ripen in the fields but the image fell awa like snaa fae a dyke tae be replaced by the stinkin shell hole. Close by he could hear Jerrie stonkers (stick grenades) gan aff and hoped tae fuck yin widna land in his shell hole. That wid cow-the-gowan richt enough if yin came in tae keep him company. He curled up but nae wi the thocht o stonkers but by the gut wrenchin pain teerin throwe him in waves.
It teen much much langer this time tae get intae a comfortable position. So he put his hand doon tae check the wound and thanked fuck that the bleedin seemed tae hae stoppit. That slight movement caused even mair pain and he lay writhin and gaspin wi the pain.
Oh dear Christ, is this how it’s gan tae be? This time though the pain didna stop ava but keepit twistin intae his guts. Eence mair he started tae boak and that made things even worse. He coughed up mair rubbish and saw it wiz a reed colour. He wiz really fucked noo! He’d seen plenty men die o gut wounds afore and usually they vomited bleed at the end. He lay gaspin as waves o weakness passed throwe him. Resigned tae the end he teen a closer look at his ain teemins and saw it wisna bleed ava. That mornin him and his mates hid eaten a tin o plum jam and hard tack for brakfast. Hope surged throwe him fin he realised this and muttered, “I’m still in wi a chance here, thank fuck!”
Tryin eence mair tae think aboot hame tae tak his mind tae a better place but hame didna latch on ava. His mind wiz in war and it seemed he’d nivver kent onything else. Faces swam in front o him but nae the eens he wanted. Aa he could see wiz sojers, some laachin, ithers greetin for their mithers, some jist dying, and Big Rab Stewart tellin him how tae gyang ower the tap.Accordin tae Rab eence ye wint ower the tap ye stood up as straacht as ye could and tae hud the butt o yer rifle ower yer bawsacks. The Jerrie machine-guns were set at twenty one inches abeen the grun so that the chances were that if ye got hut the bullets wid mair than likely hit yer legs and nae yer bawsacks o puddins. Rab wint on tae say that if a bullet did hit yer rifle butt then it widna be neen worse than a kick in the cods. That wiz Rab’s theory onywye. Here the sojer lay wi a bullet jist abeen an tae the left o his groin and it wiz fuckin agony. Rab hid patted him on the back and wi a cheery look said, “Ye can live athoot a lot o bitties o yer body but nae athoot yer shot pooch or piece!”
Well here he wiz lyin in a big fuckin shell hole wi his bawbag still attached but wi a bullet intae his gungapooch and a shattered rifle butt. Jesus! Thinkin aboot it brocht the pain back tae the fore!
He could hear big shells landin a fair bittiie awa and the baff sound as the air pressure passed ower his shell hole. Some shoutin and the trrrrap trrrap o a British maxim, then followed by the faster brrrr brrr o the Jerrie gun. This wint on for a gweed fyowe minutes, mair voices and the heavy bump o Mill’s bombs gan aff. The sound o feet abeen him and gruntin as twa kilties came intae his shell hole. For a second he thocht they micht be Jerries.They were gye grim faced and oot o breath. They cairried a streecher wi them. Een said, “Aye min yer in a bit o a sotter!”
They rolled him ower ontae his back that fast he’d only time tae gasp throwe his teeth as the pain tore through his guts. Een o them looked at the wound and put on a huge field dressing an said, “Yer lucky pal anither couple o inches higher and I’d call ye deed!”
The sojer through clenched teeth said, “Anither couple o inches lower and I’d call masel Mary!”
About the Author
Patrick Hutchison was born in New Deer, Aberdeenshire, in the mid-Fifties and has lived all his life in the North-East of Scotland. Now retired, he loves the stories and folklore of the area and writes all his own stories in the Banffshire Doric. His first collection of stories, Sanners Gow’s Tales and Folklore of the Buchan, is available in paperback from the unco online bookstore.