The Care and Management of Lies

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Soon Kezia had exhausted herself and slept the deep, cavernous sleep that could claim the mind one hour before rising, so that, when she wakened, she felt as if it were the dead of night and she had not known rest at all. She could hear Ada downstairs, the grate being shaken and coal added to the stove for morning breakfast. Kezia wondered if she were about to sicken, for the thought of cooking bacon made her heave.

  As Thea sat up, her cot creaked.

  “Can’t sleep?” said Hilary.

  “No.”

  “It’s the cold. We should ask for more blankets.”

  “Shall I light the stove?” asked Thea.

  “Then we’ll have to open the flap to get rid of the fumes, won’t we? No, leave it, Thea. We’ll have to get up soon enough anyway.”

  “I’m usually so tired, I go out like a light. It’s probably all this fretting about tomorrow, keeping me awake.”

  “I don’t want to even give tomorrow house-room in my brain,” said Hilary. “We’re going to be hard at it—they want all patients removed from the casualty clearing stations and field hospitals before the big show they reckon is coming on Wednesday. I’ve heard they’re bringing more bearers in—imagine it, more bearers, and they’re digging bloody burial holes already.”

  “It’s the screams I can’t shift from my mind, Hil. The terrible sounds coming from the back of the ambulance, when I’m driving. And if we’re bringing men who shouldn’t really be moved, I dread to think how they’ll howl.” Thea made fists against her eyelids. “I try so hard not to bump against the ruts, but when Gertie slides in the mud, I can’t prevent the shuddering.”

  “Thea, the vehicle that will get those men from A to B without pain has not been made, and to my mind will never be made. It’s impossible. But at least you’re not driving an ambulance powered by a team of horses. Think of those drivers.”

  “I might be better at it,” said Thea.

  “You very well might,” said Hilary. “Now then, I want to try to get at least a little shut-eye tonight. And we’ve got to get the girls oiled and watered in the dark, if we’re going to make a good account of ourselves tomorrow, Thea. Rest your eyes, count glasses of cheap French wine, and try to get some sleep.”

  Thea lay down in her creaking cot and closed her eyes. It was not long before sleep came at last. She dreamed she was walking with Kezia to the church on her wedding day, the bride’s long silken veil caught on the breeze, rising up and brushing against her maid-of-honor’s face.

  “You look like an angel, Thea, with my veil wrapped around you.”

  “And we both know I’m no angel!” said Thea, pulling the gauzy fabric away from her eyes.

  And they had both laughed.

  In her sleep, Thea felt soothed by this laughter, even though their togetherness was happening in the ether of her dreamworld. It was a comfort that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  The two officers were escorted into Edmund Hawkes’ dugout.

  “For crying out loud, Hawkes, I can’t believe I’m being dragged along a couple of miles of bloody trench for this—and I do mean bloody. A trench running red bloody water. You would have been well within military law to just have the bugger shot for his trouble.” Major Wells slumped into a chair, his greatcoat hanging heavy with red-stained mud.

  “I don’t think it’s as cut-and-dried as that, Major Wells,” said Hawkes. He opened a drawer in his desk and lifted out a bottle of Calvados. “Fortitude, anyone?”

  “Put that strange Gallic witches’ brew away, Hawkes. I’ve brought something better than that,” said Wells, reaching into the inside pocket of his greatcoat. “There you are—an eighteen-year-old single malt. That’ll wet your whistle.”

  Hawkes took three tot glasses from the same drawer and set them on the table. Wells poured. They clinked glasses, then each man tipped back his drink and coughed.

  “I have a drop of this every night. Glad it makes me choke a bit,” said Wells. “If I get used to it, I might never stop, though I think slightly drunk is probably the best way to get over the top.”

  Hawkes caught Barclay’s eye in acknowledgement of a shared sense of wretchedness.

  “Right,” said Hawkes. “Sergeant Knowles has made arrangements for the hearing to be set up at the aid post, so there’s more trudging back through the trenches, I’m afraid.”

  “Witnesses?” asked Wells, as he fastened his greatcoat and replaced his helmet.

  “Several,” said Hawkes. “And I also have information to add, as the man’s commanding officer.”

  “I understand this Brissenden has been mentioned in dispatches. Good soldier, was he? Before this, of course.”

  “First class, actually,” said Hawkes. “But you’ll have to come to your own conclusions.”

  “My conclusion is that I want to go home to my wife and children, Hawkes,” said Wells. “And the sooner we can all get back to Blighty, the better. Men like your Brissenden don’t make our lives any easier. This sort of thing gets on my nerves, and I’d shoot a man for that.”

  A tent had been requisitioned for the duration of the hearing, which was expected to last no more than an hour. The three officers were seated at a trestle table positioned along one side, and the place where the accused and the witnesses would stand was marked with a painted white cross on the ground. As the most senior officer, Wells read out the guidelines of the Field General Court-Martial, and the rules of trial procedure according to Military Law, Table Number 7. The charge of sleeping while on sentry duty was read with care, and the particulars of the Brissenden case were seen to correspond with the offence as stated. The three officers agreed that, to secure a conviction, and then to ascertain punishment, there had to be a quorum of opinion so that guilt would be beyond question.

  “I’m no bloody lawyer,” said Wells, his Field Service Pocket Book open at the instructions for a Field General Court-Martial. “But I think I’ve got this right.”

  To Hawkes, it seemed that Wells waved the book as if it were a household ledger. He was concerned by the speed with which the major wanted the hearing to be over, and his willingness to dispatch Private Brissenden to the firing squad. Barclay appeared less trigger-happy. Hawkes hoped he could persuade both officers that Tom Brissenden deserved an acquittal—if only on the grounds that he needed every man he could get his hands on for tomorrow’s assault on the German trenches.

  “All right, let’s call Sergeant Knowles to bring in the accused and the witnesses, and get on with this, shall we?” said Hawkes.

  A redcap on guard outside pulled back the tent flap as Sergeant Knowles led two more military policemen, who brought Private Tom Brissenden into the tent. His hands and feet were shackled, rendering him unable to move at more than a demeaning shuffle. Knowles seemed less than pleased by the line of four men who followed, and who took up their places alongside the flap, waiting for the call to give evidence.

  Wells cleared his throat, announced that the court was duly constituted, and informed those present that the accused would be given the right of challenge, and that after the hearing the accused would remain with the escort and a permitted “friend of the accused.” He asked Tom to state his name, rank, and army number. Tom responded, his gaze directly on Wells. The fixed look seemed to shake Wells from his slouch, and he stood taller to ask Tom how he would plead. Tom met the eyes of each officer in turn, as if to ensure they heard every word. Hawkes watched, leaning forward on his elbows.

  There was a pause. Tom stood tall.

  “Not guilty.”

  Hawkes sighed with relief and closed his eyes.

  “Right,” said Wells. “That’s a start. No one will be getting out of here in a hurry. Sergeant Knowles, would you take your place. Identify yourself and give us your account of the accused’s guilt in this matter.”

  Knowles stepped forward and snapped to attention, saluting the officers. He recited his name, rank, and army number, and for good measure gave his number of years in service. He took
a short breath before beginning his evidence, telling a clear story of instructing Private Brissenden as to his duty as sentry, and informing him of the hour he would take up that duty. He described finding Tom on the trench fire step with his eyes closed.

  “Captain Barclay, do you have a question for Sergeant Knowles?”

  “Yes, sir.” Barclay turned from Wells to the witness. “Sergeant Knowles, how long had Private Brissenden been on duty at the time of the offence?”

  “Five hours, sir.”

  “Five hours? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but is not sentry duty limited to two hours to avoid the fatigue associated with nighttime duty in one spot, and in the dark, and following a day’s work in the trench?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you would tell us why Private Brissenden was on the fire step for five hours.”

  “Two hours is recommended, sir, but if needed, the sentry must remain in place until relieved. We’re short of men until reinforcements come up the line ready for the push.”

  Wells looked at Hawkes, who confirmed in a whisper that new recruits were due to join the battalion within hours, as described by Sergeant Knowles. Wells nodded.

  “Do you have another question, Captain Barclay?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Captain Hawkes?”

  Hawkes stood up and faced Knowles. “I know this might appear an obvious question, but as Private Brissenden has pleaded not guilty, it must be asked. Was it dark at the time you discovered the offence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. . . . And illumination?”

  “We don’t want the enemy to see where we are, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. As I thought. And this was at what time?”

  “One o’clock, sir.”

  “And Brissenden had been on duty for five hours?”

  “Yes, sir.” Knowles paused. “As I have stated already, under oath.”

  “Quite.” Hawkes took a breath. “So it was dark when you approached Private Brissenden.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would like to know how you knew he was asleep.”

  Sergeant Knowles looked at Wells, and cleared his throat. Hawkes could see his jaw tighten and his eyes turn cold. He knew Knowles hated him. It didn’t matter. At that moment he wasn’t striving for Knowles’ friendship.

  “There was no movement coming from him, sir.”

  “No movement. I see. It occurs to me, you see, that a soldier used to the trench—and this was not Private Brissenden’s first sentry duty, nor his first visit to the front line—would be adept at being still. Watching and being still are part of the job of sentry duty. Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate, but a man’s life could be lost to a firing squad within the next hour and a half, and I think we should look at this with care. How did you know Private Brissenden was asleep?”

  Hawkes was aware of Barclay leaning forward in his chair. He looked sideways. Wells was studying the pages on courts-martial. He’s like the rest of us, learning on the job.

  “He jumped when I touched him with my bayonet, sir.” Knowles reddened. Hawkes had set a trap, and he had fallen into it. He was humiliated.

  “Sergeant, would it be true to say that being touched with the end of a bayonet would make any man jump? It tends to lead to death. Perhaps you would explain.” Hawkes felt confident now. He glanced at the witnesses. They were smiling.

  “I have been a soldier in His Majesty’s army since our monarch was Her Majesty, and I know when I see a soldier sleeping on the job. It’s my job to know and to make sure there is punishment. The lives of all my men depend upon me doing my job.” Knowles seemed to grit his teeth again. “Sir.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Sergeant Knowles. That will be all.”

  Wells called the witnesses, one by one. Each man was required to swear an oath with one hand placed on the Holy Bible, then recite his name, rank, and army number. Wells sighed again and again as Barclay and Hawkes questioned the men in turn. Finally he held up his right hand, and once again Barclay and Hawkes looked at each other, and at the senior officer’s other hand, still clutching the manual open to the page that should have been guiding his every word and action.

  “We have heard witnesses for defense, and for character. Personally, I would like to hear what the accused has to say before we adjourn the court for our consideration of findings.”

  Throughout the trial, Hawkes had felt his animosity towards Major Wells building. They were all tainted by this war, but Wells had a flippancy about him, as if one more dead soldier were just one more dead soldier. He wondered if this was Wells’ way of retaining a distance from all that had come to pass, and all that would come to pass before the week was over. For Hawkes it would be one more day of preparation, one more day to make sure every man was ready, that—quietly, with compassion—every man had penned a letter to his family, and if he couldn’t write, because God love them, there were those who couldn’t, then men like Croft and Brissenden would write their letters and cards for them.

  “Now then, Private Brissenden, you will give a full and truthful account of what had been happening up until and including the time you were charged with sleeping while on sentry duty.” Wells twisted a pencil in his fingers as he spoke. “Full and truthful.”

  Tom Brissenden began. He told of taking up his duty at eight o’clock, and of the conditions at the time. He described hearing various sounds coming from no-man’s-land, and summoning another soldier at ten o’clock to listen, and they decided it was the rats. There had been some sporadic gunfire, which led him to believe a German sniper was taking aim at any noise he heard.

  “Then you fell asleep?” asked Wells.

  “No, sir.”

  “Go on.”

  “On sentry duty, sir, you have a job to do, and that is to protect the trench, to look out for any enemy movement, anything suspicious. That doesn’t mean to say you don’t think about other things, does it? Not when you’re out there for five hours.”

  Hawkes looked at Knowles, and looked away again.

  Tom continued. “I was awake. I had my eyes closed, but I was listening.”

  “You had your eyes closed, Private?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you couldn’t see, isn’t that so?”

  “I couldn’t see anyway, sir. It was pitch-black. You only need your ears when it’s like that, and your ears work best when your eyes are not trying to do the job as well.”

  The three officers looked at each other.

  “What were you thinking about, Brissenden?” said Wells.

  “My wife. My farm. I was thinking how better my stomach would feel for a good meal in it. I was thinking what my wife would do if she had bully beef to cook with, and I was thinking of the dinner she’d just cooked for me.”

  Edmund Hawkes looked down at the notes he’d scribbled. He felt the heat rush to his face.

  “That she had just cooked for you?” said Wells.

  “Yes, she cooks for me, sir. Even though I’m not there, she cooks the dinner and the tea and she tells me about what she’s put on the table. I close my eyes and I think of that food, sir. But I don’t eat with my ears, so I can still do my duty.”

  Wells turned to Hawkes, and spoke, his voice low but intemperate. “This is turning into a bloody farce. I’ve a good mind to send this joker out there now with a dozen guns facing him.”

  “He’s an honest man, sir. I will vouch for him.”

  “Impartiality’s not your strong point, is it, Hawkes?” He looked at Barclay. “You’d better continue with this before I take out my pistol and put a bullet in his head and in that sergeant’s head along with him.”

  Barclay stood up, clearing his throat as he looked at the sheet of paper in front of him, then at Tom.

  “Private Brissenden, you were one of the first from your village to enlist, is that correct?”

  “All the lads from my farm, bar two, went before me, sir. I couldn’t see them
go unless I enlisted.”

  “Good man.” Barclay blushed, rustling the papers. “Now, Brissenden, my fellow officers and I are rather intrigued by your ability to hear more than anyone else.”

  Hawkes looked up at Barclay. Christ, now he’s trying to get clever, like Wells. He looked away, towards the witnesses, each of whom had described the night when Knowles had made Brissenden crawl out of the trench beyond the parapet for his hours of sentry duty.

  “Could you explain, Private Brissenden?” Barclay looked at Tom.

  “Just as well this lad wasn’t planning on being a solicitor, don’t you think, Hawkes?” Wells leaned towards Hawkes, whispering with whisky breath.

  “I’ve been a farmer all my life,” said Tom. “You get used to listening. I can be fast asleep at home, in my bed, and I’ll know if one of my cows is in trouble, or if a fox is about. Part of me’s always awake, you see, even when I’m asleep.” He looked at the officers before him and added, “Like a mother with her baby.”

  There was silence in the room, and Hawkes imagined that each man felt a warmth rise within him, and a memory, perhaps not quite forgotten, of his mother’s embrace.

  Wells coughed, then stood up. “Stand down, Private Brissenden. I think we have enough evidence with which to embark upon a consideration of findings with regard to this Field General Court-Martial.” He nodded to the redcaps, who had been standing by the tent flap. “Please escort the prisoner to safe quarter, and Sergeant Knowles, you may march the men outside, where they must remain at attention.”

  “Yes, sir!” Knowles led the soldiers out, following the military police.

  Wells leaned back in his chair. “Gentlemen, now we must decide upon Brissenden’s fate. Guilty. Acquittal. Or if we can’t get that far, we refer the case to a General Court-Martial under special circumstances. Personally, I don’t want a bloody colonel breathing down my neck because he’s got better things to do than listen to a farmer who can hear a pin drop in his sleep and thinks his wife is cooking for him. Remind me to ask him if she’s got a recipe to make bully beef less likely to turn my stomach to water. No wonder the latrines are overflowing.” He paused. “Right, then. Let’s get on with it—the Hun’s not likely to wait for us, so we’d better cast our votes. It’s almost dawn, so we don’t have much time. Five minutes, I would say.”