Again the expectant silence. But this time the nature of the silence saved Lothar from immediate answer. Something was missing from it.
‘That’s funny,’ said Evans. ‘Strother’s shut up.’
Pushing his way through the men, Lothar hurried to the chamber where Strother lay. It seemed unlikely that Viney would have gone straight from his recent encounter to do the man some harm, but not even the Australian’s stability could be relied on after a year in these conditions. Strother was still alive, however, and he was alone. There was an expression of faint surprise on his face.
His eyes, huge in his wasted face, turned to Lothar and he said in wonderment, ‘It’s stopped ’urting. Just like that. Ain’t that fucking marvellous?’
‘Yes,’ said Lothar. ‘Marvellous.’
Something in his tone may have communicated itself to the dying man, or perhaps he had reached the same conclusion independently, for he smiled wanly now and said, ‘This is it, then? The big push.’
Lothar nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’
He sat on a stool close to the bed and bathed the man’s forehead with a cloth taken from the bowl of water by the rough pillow.
‘You’re OK, Fritz,’ said Strother. ‘No bullshit. You were right about me when you said I had the smell of death on me. That’s a sad talent you’ve got there, Fritz. Don’t know as how I’d like a talent like that.’
He pulled his hand weakly from under the blanket. He was still grasping the bayonet. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Won’t need that no more, will I?’ he said. ‘Here, you’d better have it, Fritz. You keep a weather eye open for that Viney now. He’ll ’ave you if he can.’
He dropped the bayonet into Lothar’s hand and closed his eyes.
‘I’ve had a funny life,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t know whether it’s been worth it or not.’
He then fell so silent and still that Lothar leaned close to see if he was dead.
But the huge eyes suddenly opened wide. In each of them a tear swelled.
‘Tell you what, Fritz,’ whispered Strother. ‘I don’t ’alf wish I was at ’ome.’
And, turning his head away, he died.
2
There was an atmosphere now of approaching crisis in the Warren. It was not necessarily coming fast, but it was coming certainly, and it gave a new vitality to their existence, a sense almost of urgency.
News had reached them via the newcomers of the war’s progress, or lack of it. They heard of the muddy horrors of Passchendaele; of the strange land dreadnoughts called ‘tanks’ used at Cambrai; of the first appearance of twangy-voiced, fresh-faced Americans in the Allied lines. But none of these things meant a great deal beside the tensions and rumours and groupings of the Warren.
Josh felt himself for the second time coming back to life. He was continually in Viney’s company, but since that time in the abandoned truck, there had been no sexual contact between them. Had Viney made the attempt, Josh would not have resisted. The big Australian roused no desire in him, but he did rouse gratitude, and admiration, and loyalty.
And he was also a certain protection against Lothar.
Yet the new mood of confrontation touched him too. One day Lothar encountered him in the company of Arnold Tomkins. Their conversation stopped as soon as they saw Lothar but when the little clerk scurried off, Josh did not follow but defiantly stood his ground.
Lothar, desperate to talk to his friend, took this for encouragement not challenge.
‘Josh,’ he said urgently, ‘I must talk to you before it is too late. Please, listen. You must understand. I did not seek Nicole that night. She found me. She was, I think, looking for her mother. She was in need, Josh, in need of comfort, of reassurance, of warmth. I was to her a source of these things; not me, Lothar von Seeberg, as a person, you understand, but as the headman of the house, its strength, its authority … these are strange things to explain Josh. Sometimes there are such needs … think of yourself after your brother died … No! Stay and listen Josh! I was not, am not, never can be Wilf. But in your need I was some of him. To Nicole I was grandfather, father, brother … and lover too. Yes! It had to be. I was there. In any case, how could she turn to you at that moment, you who had killed her brother? I took her to her bed. She clung tight, so tight. To make her let go would have been to let her fall into darkness. To have refused myself would have been …You must listen!
‘I had a brother too, Josh. A twin brother, dear to me as Wilf to you. He was called Willi – almost like Wilf, is it not? He died. This war … And after his death, his wife, my sister-in-law, Sylvie … she turned to me – for strength, for comfort, for reassurance. And I turned her away. Out of loyalty. And out of shame that I had always wanted her. She died, Josh. She took her own life. Perhaps it was inevitable, perhaps she was on that course beyond diversion, perhaps … But I can never forget that she turned to me and I turned her away.
‘I could not do it again, Josh. Not again. You must understand …’
Now Josh interrupted.
‘I understand,’ he said in a gratingly ugly tone. ‘You took her to bed and you fucked her. Like a big ram and a yow. You fucked her. Like a dirty Hun. They told us what you Huns were like and it’s true, You bastards! Fucking, raping, murdering … I hope you die, Lott! I’m glad we killed your brother. I hope our lads are blowing all you bastards to pieces up at the front, all of you, every last fucking one of you …’
The voice had risen to a near-hysterical pitch. Lothar’s fist swung at Josh’s head. He had just enough control to open it out at the last moment and turn it from an angry blow into an anti-hysterical slap, but his face was pale with a sudden rage which made his duelling scar stand out like a jag of lightning in a grey sky.
‘Now you really look like a Hun, Fritz,’ said Viney. Behind him hovered Arnold Tomkins. The Australian came forward and put his arm around Josh’s shoulders and urged him gently out of the chamber.
Josh resisted for a second, looking at Lothar with a curious compound of hate and regret in his eyes, then left.
Viney said, ‘Don’t ever lay a hand on him again, Fritz,’ and walked away with Tomkins scuttling along in his wake.
The change in the little corporal-clerk was amazing. His slow slide into depression and despair had seemed unstoppable and his outburst during the discussion a few weeks earlier had seemed likely to have been his last flicker of desperate energy. But since that time, exposed to the sun of Viney’s interest, he had blossomed into life again. Attempts to pry into the nature of his new closeness with Viney were met with a mysterious shaking of the head, often accompanied by a knowing wink. And if, as often happened, the questioner hinted physical back-up for his verbal probing, Tomkins would say, ‘I’ll ask Viney if I can tell you what he said, shall I?’
Supplies ran short as the winter wore on and when the harsh weather began to improve dramatically towards the end of February, no one was very surprised when Viney announced that he was taking a small recce party out. But several ears pricked at his next remark.
‘I thought we’d look in at the farm,’ he said. ‘See how Heppy’s managing. It’ll be a good chance to catch up on the war. Might be all over for all we know.’
No one’s hopes were raised. Though the winter battle solstice was clearly continuing, there was still activity enough on the front for anyone who cared to listen or go up at night and watch the distant flares.
In any case to the men of the Volunteers, the end of the war had ceased to be the unimaginably joyous goal it was to the men in the trenches. Eddie Nelson expressed this viewpoint tersely, ‘War or no war, it don’t matter to us, do it?’
‘Why not?’ asked someone naïvely.
‘You don’t think they’ll put us on no troopship and ferry us home, do you?’ asked Nelson with scorn. ‘We’re here for the duration, sonny. The duration of our fucking lives, I mean!’
There was a despairing silence, broken by Lothar.
‘No!’ he said with emphasis. ‘T
he end of the war is as important to us here as to the world out there, believe me.’
‘Why’d you say that, Fritz?’ someone asked.
‘The first and best reason surely is that it is important to men everywhere when senseless slaughter stops. Remember why we are here! Because we were sickened by that slaughter! Who more than us should be rejoicing if it stops?’
Another silence, broken this time by Viney with three slow handclaps.
‘Bravo, Fritz,’ he mocked. ‘Only, while we’re remembering why we are here, alongside all these noble motives you should put a few more. Like being shit-scared, like being lonely and unhappy and worrying about what the old lady back home’s getting up to, like running doolally because of the noise and the stench and the mud, like putting a bullet up some bastard officer’s arsehole and not being clever enough to do it while no one’s looking. And a hundred more reasons along the same line. Don’t forget to put these alongside your noble bloody philosophy!’
Lothar nodded reflectively. The atmosphere was curiously charged as if those assembled were sensing in this verbal fencing the beginnings of the head-on confrontation they had all been waiting for. Was the time right? Lothar asked himself. Right for what, he was not sure. A decision, a change of direction. Something! He took a deep breath.
‘So. We are all men,’ he said to Viney.‘We have human weaknesses as well as strengths. If sometimes our weakness leads us to do the strong thing, we should not complain, my friend.’
‘I sometimes think your English ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, Fritz,’ mocked Viney. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘The strong thing would have been to say at the very outset, “We will not fight!” cried Lothar with sudden passion. ‘To say, “This is a war for money and for power and it should be fought by those who have money and power. We will stay at peace and live in unity with our fellows of all nations and claim no more than is our right as human beings!” That would have been the strong thing, but we did the weak thing and let ourselves be tricked and lured and forced into fighting, till a greater weakness of weariness and fear drove us out. That was an act of strength by accident! And now we have the chance of making it an act of strength by will!’
He was on his feet addressing his audience with a strength and passion they had never seen before. Even Blackie Coleport was roused from his customary brooding isolation to pay attention.
‘Think, my friends, what are we to do when this war is over? How are we to live? Not like this, for sure. We have been able to live like wild things because, in a country at war, wildness can pass almost unnoticed. But when peace returns, what then?’
‘Mebbe there’ll be that amnesty?’ came the desperate reply.
‘Yes, perhaps there will be,’ said Lothar gently. ‘But not for many years, I think. Even if they are not so keen to shoot deserters after the war, they will certainly give long prison sentences.’
‘Aye, and it won’t be in no comfortable civvy lock-up either,’ said Groom. ‘It’ll be the glasshouse. No talking, doubling everywhere, and a dose of Mr Dunlop if you flicker an eyelash. I had a week of those murdering bastards once. Another day and I’d have been goaded into trying to kill one of them with my bare hands. That’s what they want, man. Make no mistake, most of us here would be inside for ever!’
He spoke with a bitter intensity that made its mark.
Lothar spoke again, quietly now, but with no diminution of urgency.
‘It is here in France that most of us must look to our future for a few years at least. We must try to live in peace and friendship, to work, to rebuild. It will be difficult and dangerous, perhaps, but it is possible. Those who have worked at the farm will tell you it is possible. Whoever wins this war, there will be men all over Europe who feel as we do, that it must never happen again. We are few here, but when the peace comes we shall be many! Some may be taken, that is inevitable. But when we are taken, what an opportunity there will be then to stand up before the world and declare our faith in the brotherhood of mankind!’
As he spoke, Lothar felt a pang of shame at what he felt must sound like empty rhetoric. And it was a pang that did not entirely fade as he saw the effect of his speech. Many of the men were gazing at him raptly. In the eyes of many of these filthy bedraggled scarecrows, he saw a desperate hope begging to be aroused. Almost guiltily, he looked away from them to Viney and waited for the Australian’s response.
He expected mockery and was ready for it. Indeed, it seemed likely that it would be counter-productive at the present moment. But Viney was sharp enough to have felt that also.
He said, ‘That’s fine, Fritz. This equality and brotherhood, I’m all for it. Back in Aussie we’ve been practising something like it for years and it’d be good to see you jokers benefiting from it too. But be realistic. What’s the future really hold here? There might be a chance if you speak good Frog like you, Fritz. Or if you’ve got your legs under the table somewhere, like old Heppy down at the farm. But most of the lads here are ignorant swaddies like myself. First gendarme who gets an eyeful of us will be blowing his whistle like it was full-time. And what about this brotherhood of mankind? I’ll tell you what I think. After this fucking war’s over, most ordinary folk’ll want to forget it. Oh, there’ll be parades and celebrations and Christ knows what, but after that it’s forget-it time. And if they are reminded of it from time to time, the last thing they’ll want to be reminded by is a bunch of cowardly deserters.’
He paused. Lothar could almost feel the spirit of hope going out of those around him. Perhaps he had been wrong even to attempt to awake it.
‘Yeah, that’s how they’ll see us,’ mused Viney. ‘I mean, look around, for Christ’s sake! What the fuck is there for anyone to see but a bunch of clapped-out no-hopers!
‘Now, I know you better than that. I know what you really are. And I know what you deserve. It seems to me that at the very least a man ought to be able to take his chances in his own country where men speak his own language and where he’s got mates he can trust and family who love him. That’s how it seems to me anyway. I’m not an educated man, like Fritz here, I’m no clever bloody intellectual, but that’s how I see it and if I’m wrong, then just tell me here and now, without hard feelings, and I’ll shut up.’
Taff Evans spoke first.
‘No, you’re not wrong, Viney, not in what you say, boyo. But you are wrong to be saying it! Don’t we all want that? It goes without saying! But we can’t have it. What Lothar suggests is bloody difficult, but at least it’s not bloody impossible!’
‘I thought you’d know me better than that, Taff,’ said Viney mildly. ‘When did I ever suggest anything impossible?’
‘What are you saying then, boyo?’ demanded Evans. ‘That we should head for the coast, maybe, and swim across the Channel? Or steal a boat perhaps and row across? Or stow away on Jellicoe’s flagship and get across that way?’
‘If that had to be the way of it, that’s what I’d do to get home,’ said Viney calmly. ‘And I’ve got a sight further to swim or row than you jokers! No, here’s my idea, and you don’t have to wait till the war’s over to do it. You go home now. You go on leave.’
‘Leave!’ said Groom in amazement. ‘On leave? Who’s going to give us our passes, then, Viney? You! I can just see those redcaps’ faces when I show them a bit of paper with a little scribble on it saying, “This joker’s going on leave, signed Viney”!’
There was a general laugh. Viney didn’t join it but smiled in a puzzled fashion till it faded away.
‘Yes, I’ll sign your papers if you like. It don’t much matter who’s signed the sodding things, does it? I mean, you can’t read most of those bastard officers’ signatures anyway. As long as the details are right and they all tally, who bothers?’
It began to dawn on them that Viney was serious.
‘But you need real papers with real stamps and all that stuff, Viney,’ said Nelson.
‘Of course you do. And once you’ve
got them the world’s your oyster. There’s thousands of lads milling around at Calais and Boulogne and Dieppe at any one time. You’d probably not get a first look, let alone a second, if you’ve got the right bit of paper to wave around.’
‘Viney,’ said Nelson with incredulous hope, ‘you ain’t got no leave papers, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Viney. ‘But I think I know where I could lay my hands on some! All this time, lads, we’ve had a little treasure in our midst and not appreciated it. Arnie! Where are you? Arnie, stand up and take a bow.’
Corporal Arnold Tomkins, late Headquarters Administration clerk, stood up with a self-important smirk.
And Lothar von Seeberg, late of the Imperial German Army, felt his heart sink as he realized what Viney was proposing and knew that not all the political idealism in the world could resist the appeal of going home.
3
On the night of Thursday, March 20th, 1918, Jack Denial was dining in the mess at the Chateau d’Amblay.
He had been in the HQ all that afternoon giving evidence at the court-martial of a Service Corps lieutenant accused of organizing a petrol selling racket on the French black market. The trial would continue tomorrow, which meant he had to pass the night here. If the lieutenant were found guilty, he would probably be sentenced to be dismissed from the service. It occurred to Denial that France was full of ordinary soldiers who would have paid all they had for such a sentence but who for crimes much less heinous could only expect the humiliation of Field Punishment out of the line and exposure to all extremes of danger in it.
But he kept the thought to himself as he dined that evening with staff officers who clearly believed that the disgrace of cashiering was far more painful to a gentleman than anything the blockish and brutish private soldier had to endure.
As the wine relaxed those present, a sagging major puffed, ‘Got those Diggers yet, Denial?’
The APM’s long feud with Viney and his men was common knowledge. Denial merely shook his head and hoped the subject would drop.
No Man's Land Page 28
