War diary: 19th June 1916. In trenches: Captain F. J. Somerton killed 2:10 a.m. (sniped whilst examining enemy line through glasses)

Have you ever wished you could take back time? I wish it figuratively and literally every passing day. I long to unburden myself of the time I took from Captain F.J. Somerton in the manner of his pocket watch. It was made for one of his ancestors in 1755 and passed down through the family. I only know this because he mentioned it on more than one occasion and consulted the watch often in the long, cool, and tedious nights we spent on our bellies in the trenches of Arras in the early summer of 1916.

The nights of the 16th and 17th of June had been very exceptionally quiet. It was as if the Hun had all gone home. By the Sunday night, it being the Sabbath, I suppose we had become a little too relaxed. It was in the early hours of Monday. Somerton climbed out of the trenches with his field glasses and surveyed once more the barren pitted landscape that formed the enemy line, watching intently for signs of life.

Unfortunately for Somerton he found it. From nowhere a bullet tore through his tunic and he fell back some five feet into the trench. I don’t know what would have hurt more; the searing heat of the bullet or the fall backwards onto hard, cold mud. Somerton didn’t have long to feel anything much. He pointed upwards out of the trenches, at what I don’t know, but before he could tell me I could see the life slip from his eyes. War hardened, I didn’t hesitate to rummage inside his pockets and take from him the pocket watch and the key. When you see hundreds of men each day fall dead before you, the emotion of it leaves you fast. And when you take a family heirloom on to the battlefield, well, you risk it being lost or mislaid.

My troubles began just six days later. We were taking strong enemy fire. Men were being mown down to the left and the right of me. In an instant I felt burning pain along my left thigh and fell to the ground, my leg ripped open.

In England recuperating, my injuries were sufficient to ensure that I would not be returning to the front. If I was lucky I would get to keep the leg, if I was very lucky all I would suffer would be a pronounced limp for the rest of my days.

Following two months of rigorous and painful leg exercises it was decided that a walk along the country lanes of Suffolk might be just the tonic. Equipped with a walking stick and a pair of stout Derby boots, I ventured into the early September sunlight. It was thrilling to feel the breeze on my face after so much time confined to the ward, but there was no mistaking the fact that walking was hard going. Pretty soon I had worked up a sweat with the effort of moving my left leg, and my arm grew tired from having to put my full weight on the cane. However I was determined I would overcome my incapacity.

It was as I pressed on through the country lanes, and passed under a canopy of leaves and branches that I first felt a presence behind me. Someone was following me slowly and deliberately. Somehow their presence had managed to give me a sense of unease even in the full blaze of what was a glorious Indian summer afternoon. I risked a brief glimpse behind me and witnessed a stooped and shadowy figure in the light of the clearing. I tried to walk faster. When I turned round to view him once more he had gone. Had he taken cover in the woods, or walked across a field?

After some minutes of labouring at my walking, I was relieved to see the turning for the hospital. I was about to turn along the path when suddenly the same stooped figure was in front of me. How had he managed it?

As I have mentioned, I had seen death on a daily basis those last two years, and when I looked into the face of this…this creature, I saw the still, pallid mask I have seen on so many men when they fall upon the battlefield. Accustomed as I am to the presence of death, believe me when I tell you this man chilled me to the bone.

By way of distracting myself I reached into my pocket for the pocket watch. As I held the watch in my hand I sensed a small flicker of interest in his dead eyes. It was ten past two.

Later, in the comfort and easy companionship of the ward, I enquired if anyone had seen such a man before. I imagined that perhaps I had just encountered the local village idiot, but my description jogged no memories.

If ever there was a moment when a man’s life changes, for me, it was this encounter. There followed a period whose length I cannot precisely measure and during which I was able to make no progress in the difficult, dizzying experience of releasing myself from the acquaintance of this chilling vision. But time has passed since that first sighting of him. I have advanced myself, I have a dependable but undemanding managerial job in an office. I am walking with the aid of my stick, but it will never again be a speedy process for me. Weeks can go by, even a month or two, and I will not see him, but then without warning this creature will reappear, stooped, shadowy and silent; following, watching; with that blanched pallor and those dead fish eyes. He plays havoc with my moods, casting dark clouds on even the brightest summer day. The most distressing thing is, I know that no one else can see him.

However time is short and I must press on with the story. Sometime after leaving the hospital I treated myself to a handsome pocket watch stand in Bond Street and placed the pocket watch upon it when I retired to bed.

The first two nights passed without incident, but then, as if something in the ether had alerted this apparition to my new purchase, on the third night I awoke with a chill down my spine which caused me to sit bolt upright. Glancing at the pocket watch, I was dismayed to see it swaying on the stand, and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I noted the time; ten minutes past two. Whether by day or by night, he always appears at ten minutes past two. I caught sight of him in the corner of the room, his mournful eyes transfixed upon the movement of the pocket watch. I shouted to him to take the infernal watch, but once again he just melted away, saying nothing. It was the first time he had entered my home, and it made me feel all the more wretched.

Anxious and vexed I could not sleep again that night. As the greater part of the fearful night wore away my mind was turning, trying to work out a way to rid myself of this shroud of vapid misery that had descended upon me.

If you are thinking to yourself why not simply dispose of the watch let me assure you, I am well ahead of you. I have had three years to set my mind to the task of what to do about my problem. I took it to a watchmakers, and asked to have it appraised. They could tell me all about its technical operation, but nothing as to its history. The watchmaker bought it from me for a modest sum. Imagine my delight when I walked from their premises. Even burdened with my cane, I felt like skipping through the streets. I had rid myself of my demon. But then imagine my horror upon my return home that evening. The exact same pocket watch was swinging on the stand, and there in the corner the stooped and shadowy apparition watched it intently, casting his cold and deathly malaise upon my chambers.

I have tried throwing it away, it did not work. I have tried giving it away, it did not work. I have tried destroying it, but it continued to work. I have consulted watchmakers, they could not help, I have consulted psychiatrists, they could offer no cure. I have implored this phantom to be gone, but he does not leave and he does not answer.

I curse you Somerton, I curse you for bringing this dark cloud into my life. I realised I had to do what I should have done a long time before. I have to return this accursed pocket watch to the Somerton family.

This proved to be no easy matter. The War Office are still inundated with requests for information on those that had gone to the Great War and never returned.

It took fully three months to receive an answer, but finally I had in my hand the address of the family seat of Captain F. J. Somerton, deceased. Now the apparition could rest his bones knowing that his watch had been returned to his family.

I was finally going to take back time.

I had my driver take me in my Austin Tourer to the village of Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. The outward journey sorely tried my patience due to the freezing cold and the windy, rutted and narrow lanes my driver and I had to traverse.

From a 6am start we arrived at around tea time. Rounding the corner I was expecting to see a mansion and a long drive taking us to the country seat of an aristocrat, but to my dismay, the address ‘Broadlands’ turned out to be little more than a country cottage.

The lady of the house was middle aged, polite and deferential. I had fully expected to be the one minding my ‘p’s’ and ‘q’s’, but I quickly surmised that in terms of social standing I was the superior.

My driver was accommodated in the kitchen with the parlour maid while I had tea with Mrs Somerton. Once I had warmed my bones by the fire and made several soothing noises about the bravery of her beloved son on the battlefield some years earlier, I chose my moment and grandiosely produced the pocket watch from my waistcoat. I knew her eyes would light up with joy at the sight of this long lost family heirloom.

“It gives me great pleasure to return this to you” I announced with beaming pride. But something was not right. I could read in her face a look of incomprehension and uncertainty as she stared first at the watch, and then at me.

“What is it, Sir? she asked.

“Why Mrs Somerton, it’s the pocket watch Captain Somerton had on his person when he died. He was always talking about it.”

She shrugged and smiled nervously. “I fear you have come all this way for nothing, Sir, this watch does not belong to our family. I have never laid eyes on it before.”

I could not help myself. Completely deflated I literally made a sound like air escaping from a tyre and dropped my head into my hands.

Somerton, the bounder, the absolute cad, he must have stolen it from some other poor soul who perished on the battlefield, and now the link was truly broken.

I suddenly felt restless and uneasy. I announced to Mrs Somerton that we were to leave at once. She invited us to stay the night, but I would not hear of it. I felt somewhere deep within me there was a need to hurry. I had her summon the driver, and throwing on my scarves and great coat once more, we began our journey home in the Tourer.

There was total silence between us as we drove. My mind was full of misery as I groped in an intellectual darkness for a clue to my maze of doubt and frustration. Uninvited, the recollection came to me of what time it was when Somerton had been shot on that early June morning – 2:10am. I know now to what he was pointing. Why the man was as cursed as I.

On and on into the night we drove. We stopped to eat and took a couple of hours rest at a lodging house along the way, refuelled the big tank and the fuel cylinders and began our journey again. I knew Glover, my driver, was tired, but I really wanted to be home for morning.

We had done very well. We were on the last stretch of country lane when it happened. To his credit, Glover had done a splendid job in staying awake during these long tiring miles of empty, pitch dark roads.

It was then that I glanced up and saw him, silhouetted by the headlights like a cloud of freezing fog. My stooped and shadowy nemesis was standing in the middle of the road; his spectral face blanched to an even whiter hue by the glare of the lights.

I would like to tell you I had the presence of mind to run right through him, but instinctively I yelled to Glover to stop. The suddenness of his movements locked the brakes and brought our heavy vehicle into a spin. We careened violently into a deep ditch.

And that brings us to the present.

I cannot rouse Glover, and the deep gash on his forehead suggests to me that he is most probably dead. I for my part am stuck in the back of this crushed vehicle, my weakened left leg trapped. There is a strong smell of leaking petroleum.

I am lying here this past half hour. How biting is the cold; colder than the trenches, colder than the grave. And the demon that has haunted me these past years stands there yet, watching and waiting.
I pull out the pocket watch. I dimly notice it attracts his attention. I glance at the time, but I already know it; 2:10am.

Now my sorry tale is told and an overpowering desire for sleep overtakes me. The pocket watch slips silently from my grasp.

In my last conscious thoughts I wonder who will be the unlucky fellow who finds me here and tries once again to take back time.