The Summer Before the War

by Helen Simonson

  As an unofficial visitor and lower-ranking officer, Hugh watched the stamping about and marching discreetly from a shady patch of ground to one side of the stage. It was surreal how similar the proceedings were to festive military parades at home, and Hugh almost expected to see ranks of ladies with sunshades and children waving flags as the units marched past the tiny stage. Only the occasional crump of unseen artillery reminded him that they were in an active theater of war.

  After the marching, the Brigadier and his entourage were invited to inspect the troops and went slowly up and down the ranks with Colonel Wheaton leading them and Captain Wheaton bringing up the rear. The band took a break during inspections, and in the quiet, Hugh heard the flapping wing beat of a lone crow flying across the valley. He had not seen many birds recently, as they seemed to have an aversion for the blasted landscapes created by men, and so he was busy watching as a commotion broke out in the cookhouse by the barn.

  A gray form came cantering from the tents, and Hugh could see it was a huge dog with an immense joint of roast beef dripping in its jaws. The appetizing smell of the hot beef caused many eyeballs to swivel in the heads of men frozen to attention. A piercing whistle from the ranks caused the dog to stop, turn, and trot obediently towards one of the rearmost ranks, where it dropped its prize at the feet of Private Dickie “Snout” Sidley.

  “Bad Wolfie,” said a boy’s voice, carrying across the open space as Snout caught the dog by the collar. “Where have you been?”

  “What is that scurvy animal doing on a British army parade ground?” growled the Brigadier, moving swiftly in Snout’s direction.

  “Sorry, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I’ll take him away, sir,” said Snout, directing his plea towards Daniel as a child might turn to the adult he knew. He bent down and picked up the meat in his two hands.

  “Do not speak unless spoken to, Private,” said Colonel Wheaton. “And for goodness’ sake, someone take away this beef.” One of the cooks, who had hurried from the kitchens, stepped forward with a dish and took the piece of meat.

  “It’s ruined, sir,” he said. “Not fit for anything.”

  “Can I have it for Wolfie, then?” asked Snout. “He likes a bit o’ beef.”

  “Is the boy an idiot?” asked the Brigadier as the cook gave Snout a cuff around the ear and hurried away. “Do we recruit imbeciles?”

  “Captain Wheaton?” asked Colonel Wheaton.

  “Lieutenant Bookham?” asked Captain Wheaton.

  “With permission, sir,” said Daniel. “The boy suffered in the shelling and the dog was thought lost. They are both recovering, sir.”

  “Injured in the shelling, sir,” said Harry Wheaton.

  “I am not deaf,” shouted the Brigadier. “I can hear what the Lieutenant said.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said both Wheatons together.

  “Lieutenant, is this animal an officially registered military animal?” the Brigadier asked.

  Daniel raised an eyebrow at Harry, who replied, “No, sir, Brigadier.”

  “Was that government supplies he was carrying in his mouth, Captain?” asked the Brigadier, turning to Harry.

  “It did appear to be part of the regimental dinner, sir,” said Harry. “Though to be fair, the dog and his cart were instrumental in Private Snout’s duties concerning the procurement of many parts of the said dinner.”

  “I want it destroyed,” said the Brigadier. “It’s a disgusting mongrel and a disgrace to the name of the regiment.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Colonel Wheaton. Harry Wheaton looked upset but said nothing.

  “Permission to speak, sir?” asked Daniel.

  “Lieutenant Bookham—Daniel Bookham—I believe?” asked the Brigadier.

  “The dog was sort of commandeered when Private Snout found him abandoned, sir,” said Daniel. “He pulls a heavy cart, sir, and he has been rather useful.”

  “Lieutenant, why does it not surprise me that you speak up for such egregious lapses?” said the Brigadier. “The dog is a thief and his upkeep is a misuse of resources. We are not going to win this war without standards.”

  “He’s no thief,” said Snout, turning very red. The insult, thought Hugh, hit close to home for the boy. “He’s been lost for days and he was starving. He only eats scraps normally.”

  “Destroy it now,” said the Brigadier, nodding to Harry Wheaton. He had already turned on his heel to move along when Snout dropped to his knees and flung his arms around the dog’s neck.

  “You can’t kill him, you can’t,” he cried. The dog licked his weeping face with an improbably large tongue. “He ain’t done nothing. He’s just a dog.”

  “Captain,” said the Brigadier. “Destroy the dog and put the private on charges for disorderly conduct. Make sure he’s thoroughly thrashed for his behavior.”

  “Sir, he’s just a boy, sir, and he’s been hit by a shell,” said Daniel.

  The Brigadier turned back slowly, and a smile with no humor in it twisted his lips. “Colonel, it appears your lieutenant wishes to be also brought up on charges,” he said. “I would be delighted to accommodate him, but I am prepared to overlook his insubordination so as not to dampen the festivities.”

  “Permission to remove the private, sir,” said Daniel, looking to Colonel Wheaton.

  “Yes, yes, do it quietly,” said the Colonel.

  “No, no, you shan’t kill him,” screamed Snout as Daniel signaled two corporals to drag him away.

  “Snout, do as I say, it’s for the best,” said Daniel, coming close to the boy’s face and placing a hand on the now growling dog. Whether Daniel had some plan to rescue the dog, Hugh could not say. He was hurrying around the edge of the parade ground, trying to get to Snout and Daniel in an unobtrusive manner, when Snout got an arm free and punched Daniel squarely on the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  The Brigadier motioned to someone in his own entourage. “Take the private into our custody and put him with the other prisoners,” he said. “Striking an officer is a capital offense. Boy or man, he will answer for it at dawn.” The soldier assisted the corporals, and it took all three of them to drag the screaming, kicking youth away.

  “I’m unhurt,” said Daniel as some of the men helped him up. “It was just an accident.”

  “What a pity,” said the Brigadier, coming close to Daniel and leaning in to lower his voice. “Once again you cause the end of a young man’s life.” He gave a short laugh and drew away to signal the Colonel.

  “Harry?” said Colonel Wheaton, giving his son a nod. Harry drew his service pistol and walked over to the dog.

  “Steady there, boy,” he said, and rubbed the dog’s ears. To Hugh’s surprise the dog stood very still, almost as if he knew, and Harry shot him cleanly behind the eye. As the gray body slumped to the ground, Snout, being dragged beyond the barn, let out a howl every bit as animal as a dog’s and haunting enough, thought Hugh, to affect the hardest of hearts.

  “Good,” said the Brigadier. “Let’s dismiss the men and get to our dinner, shall we?”

  Daniel would have spoken again, but Hugh reached him in time to grip his arm very hard. Harry Wheaton holstered his pistol, his face a little pale but otherwise seemingly unperturbed.

  “Best ask for any clemency after dinner,” he said. “Pass the port and then ask your boon of the king, so to speak.”

  “The men are our responsibility, Wheaton,” said Daniel.

  “Standing in the breach is all very well,” said Harry. “But do try to avoid getting cashiered or worse for insubordination, Bookham. I know you have past animosities with Lord North. Let’s be jovial over the junket and I’ll try and put the Brigadier in the mood to be merciful.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” said Hugh. “You persuade the powers that be, Harry. I’ll keep an eye on the boy.”

  —

  There were five prisoners in the old, roofless sheep pen. They were all so dirty and scabby that it was hard to tell their ages, ranks, or even that they
were British. Each huddled alone, sitting with knees hugged to chin, or lying curled in a ball, scratching casually at the lice that plagued most Tommies. They were not shackled, but their faces showed an apathy that suggested they were no threat to the two privates guarding them. One man had begged a cigarette, another example, thought Hugh, of how the lowly cigarette had become the last small flame of humanity.

  “Medical inspection,” said Hugh, showing his large medical bag and hoping his rank and RAMC insignia would hide his lack of official permission to approach the prisoners.

  “Yes, sir,” said the guards, stiffening into an apathetic sort of attention. Their salutes would not have passed muster with the Brigadier, and Hugh wondered if they knew how thin the line was between them and their prisoners.

  “At ease,” said Hugh. “Who are these prisoners?”

  “Criminals, malingerers, and deserters, sir,” said the shorter lad, who had a pimply face and a curling lip. “All court-martialed and to be shot in the morning, sir.”

  “Usually the Brigadier has ’em shot on sight, but he was coming here, wanted to make a bit of a show of ’em,” said the second guard. “To boost morale in the rest of us or something, sir.”

  “Have they had food and water?”

  One guard looked blank and the other shrugged. “We just took over, sir,” said the taller. “We just watch ’em, sir.”

  “They may be criminals and deserters,” said Hugh. “But they are British soldiers and we are British soldiers. Perhaps you’ve heard our Brigadier insist that standards must be maintained?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the taller one. The alarm in his face suggested he knew of the legendary wrath of the Brigadier.

  Hugh decided he was the more amenable to orders, and he put on his best frown to speak. “The condition of these prisoners is your responsibility, Private. Go to the kitchen immediately and fetch a billycan of tea and some bread and butter.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the private and saluted briskly before jogging off.

  “I’ll be looking them over for injuries and any contagious infection,” said Hugh to the remaining guard. “Do you need to escort me?”

  “I’ll be able to see from right here, sir,” said the guard. His lip lost its curl of disdain, and he looked suitably anxious. “Contagion, sir? You be careful there, sir.”

  Hugh made a cursory stop by two of the men. One had a nasty cut over his eye, suppurating at the edges. Hugh gave him a small bottle of iodine and a handful of gauze and told him to clean himself up. The soldier with the cigarette had trench foot as bad as Hugh had seen: strips of wrinkled white flesh peeling about the ankles, toes bleeding and black with broken scabs. A strong odor suggested the beginnings of gangrene. Hugh gave him a packet of morphine for the pain and a pair of clean wool socks to cover up the sight of the feet. If he were not shot in the morning, he would need a proper infirmary or risk losing his feet.

  The other two seemed dirty but unhurt and were dozing comfortably, and Hugh moved on to his real objective, the corner of the pen where Snout lay crumpled and unconscious in a patch of weeds. He had a black eye, a split lip, and blood still seeped from his nose. When Hugh reached to turn him on his back, he groaned and struggled feebly.

  “Keep still, Snout,” said Hugh. “It’s me, Hugh Grange. I’m going to clean you up.” The boy nodded his head slowly. He kept his eyes closed, but tears leaked from under the lids and down his bloody cheeks. Hugh felt for broken bones and checked the boy for internal injuries. He had taken one or two blows to the stomach, but there was no blood under the skin. The soldiers who had dragged him away had made the boy pay for his struggling and lashing out.

  Hugh used gauze and water from his canteen to wipe off the boy’s face and then dabbed his cut lip with iodine and gave him a water-soaked pad to hold over his bruised eye. Finally, he helped him to sit up, his bony back propped against the stone wall.

  “They shot Wolfie, sir,” said Snout, his lip trembling. “Is he dead, sir?”

  “He’s gone, Snout,” said Hugh. “He went quietly, like a good dog. You should be proud of how you trained him.”

  “It were all him, sir,” said Snout. “I didn’t do nothing but buckle him to his cart.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hugh.

  “He made me feel brave, sir,” said Snout. “The war is nothing like they say it will be.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Hugh. “It’s not quite the glorious classic epic of Virgil, is it? But you needn’t be ashamed of feeling fear, Snout.”

  “Miss Nash gave me her own Virgil,” said Snout. Hugh closed his eyes a moment to better hold on to a fleeting image of Beatrice’s face, conjured in a ruined sheep pen. “But it got blown up,” he added.

  “Right now, you are in a lot of trouble, Snout,” said Hugh, opening his eyes and doing his best to snap both of them back to the present circumstances. “Do you know you hit Lieutenant Bookham?”

  “Did I?” said Snout, looking astonished. “He’s a good man, the Lieutenant. Always gives Wolfie the crusts off his sandwiches.” The boy seemed to fall asleep, and Hugh shook his arm gently.

  “I need you to understand what is happening, Snout,” he said. “You need to be ready to face a court-martial in the morning.”

  Snout’s eyes opened and he smiled a dreaming smile. “Thank you for having us to tea, sir,” he said. “Wolfie liked it.” The boy fell fast asleep, and though Hugh shook him again, he would not wake up. Hugh laid him gently on the ground and took from his bag a small blanket, a paper bag containing a bread roll, and a canteen of water. He wrapped the blanket around the sleeping boy and tucked the supplies under it, hoping none of the other prisoners would notice. The boy breathed quietly, and his pulse was steady and strong. Hugh could do nothing more for the moment. Reluctantly he left Snout to sleep.

  “The boy over there is underage and injured,” he told the guard at the gate. As they were speaking, the second guard returned with a large can of tea and a box of sandwiches. Hugh frowned at both guards. “He has also not yet been court-martialed. If anything happens to him I will hold you both responsible and you will answer to the Brigadier. Are we clear?” He left both guards muttering and suitably cowed—but whether by Hugh’s own authority or by the mere mention of the Brigadier, he could not guess.

  —

  Hugh was lying on the ground in Daniel’s tent, trying to ensure his greatcoat stayed in place on top of his blanket and pulling extra socks over his gloves against the bitter cold, when Daniel came into the tent drunk and shouting for joy.

  “The sentences are commuted!” he said. “The regiment asked publicly to honor the occasion with clemency and the Brigadier did his full wise Solomon speech and got a standing ovation for his trouble.”

  “I am so very relieved,” said Hugh. “Is the boy free?”

  “I expect there’ll have to be a hearing in the morning,” said Daniel. “But given the night’s precedent, Harry has full faith we shall get him back in the ranks with a few weeks’ pay docked for his impudence.”

  “Who did the asking?” said Hugh. “Not you?”

  “Oh, I kept well out of the Brigadier’s sight,” said Daniel. “But Harry Wheaton actually took on the job. Threw in one or two entirely fraudulent Latin quotes and several metaphors involving fox hunting. God help him if anyone wrote it down—because I’m sure it would be unintelligible to those who were not drunk on champagne and good roast beef—but it did the trick.”

  —

  Dawn broke ugly and red in a sky swelling with dark clouds and so cold the mud froze in the rutted lanes and the water was solid in the washing jugs. Instead of birdsong, the boom of large artillery greeted the sun, and the encampment was soon full of urgent, shouting men, the stamping of horses, and roaring engines. As the sound of exploding shells and smoke began to drift down towards the village, Hugh, hurrying to the barn headquarters, wondered if perhaps the parade, and in particular the brass band, had been such a good idea. The Germans seemed to have
recalibrated the range and direction of their artillery, and already a shell had landed in the river and another whistled overhead to explode in the already-ruined church.

  Inside headquarters, the Brigadier had a scowl on his face that implied a headache of monumental size. He was not inclined to be flexible in his plans when it was suggested he leave immediately for safer ground.

  “We will not win this war if we duck and cower at every fresh bombardment,” he said. “Let them understand that we are the oncoming tide and their efforts are no more than small boys tossing pebbles into the waves.”

  “I would be derelict in my duty if I did not insist on taking appropriate measures to protect such a vital part of our command,” said Colonel Wheaton. “You and your aides must be able to command from a secure place.”

  The Brigadier was not entirely immune to flattery. “Then let us adjourn to the cellar and make this quick,” he said. Tables and lanterns were quickly carried into the adjacent cellar, a small outbuilding half built into the ground, with thick stone walls and a roof of grass sod. Hugh moved quietly to where his cousin was standing with Harry Wheaton to ask what was happening.

  “I’m afraid the Brigadier regrets the appearance of softness in offering clemency to the prisoners,” said Harry Wheaton. “Since he cannot go back on his word to the regiment, he has decided to make an example of the one prisoner who has not yet been sentenced and therefore did not receive clemency.”