Herbert knew that this attack had been brutal and probably futile. But Elliot was the last witness to see the accused: he’d heard the order sending Flanagan back to his unit. If his evidence could be muddied in any way, it might help this strangely distant man who, so far, had done nothing but support the witnesses brought against him. But Herbert still felt aged and soiled, for he pitied Elliot’s desperation, only he couldn’t say so … he could never say so …
The door clicked shut and Chamberlayne said, ‘My last witness is Captain Maurice Sheridan.’
The sentry marched out of the room and returned with the officer moments later. His uniform was clean, his buttons shining. Herbert knew that the captain’s batman had spent a day getting his master’s gear into this condition. Similar measures had been taken for Herbert, Oakley and Glanville. The filthiness of war went very deep, though; and Herbert felt dirty. He was a greased cog in a machine that couldn’t stop, because he was part of a force that moved while being moved. This was military duty: to go through the motions without thinking. And Herbert did not want to think. What did he want? To be back in Keswick as a boy, long before the move to Northumberland; long before failure had a claim upon him. The days of kites and Dandelion and Burdock.
After taking the oath and identifying himself, Sheridan said, ‘On the twenty-seventh August I was on horseback, riding from Brielen to Elverdinghe. To my left I saw a local … a peasant or something … a farmer waving his arms in the air. I couldn’t follow a word the fellow was saying, but he was frantic and kept winking.’ In one hand Sheridan held a pair of thin leather gloves. While he spoke he lightly tapped his trouser leg. ‘I told him to pull himself together and he pointed towards a barn. I dismounted, withdrew my revolver and approached the building, and all the while this farmer fellow was whispering and jerking his thumb towards his mouth as though the hand were a jug. The next thing I know the accused is there before me, standing in the open gate. He was soaking wet and covered in slurry. He had no kit whatsoever, Sir.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘I asked his name, which he revealed, along with his army number and unit details, Sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘I then asked him why he wasn’t with his Company, Sir.’
‘And his reply?’
‘He said he’d brought a wounded officer back to the reserve trenches and had then set off to rejoin “his people” – I think that was the phrase. However, because of the rain and the dark and the shells, he’d got lost. He’d wandered all night until he’d found shelter, Sir.’
‘What time was this, please?’
‘Approximately five p.m. in the evening, Sir.’
‘Did you notice anything about the accused’s demeanour?’
‘Yes. He smelled strongly of alcohol. To be precise, wine. I found two empty bottles in the barn and a third half consumed, Sir.’ The tone suggested weary contempt, a familiarity with the grubby doings of people who always wore the same pair of shoes.
‘And then?’
‘I checked his pockets, confiscated a penknife and placed him under arrest, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
Glanville jotted down each word, his lips thin and white once more. He sat high in his seat, elongating his neck as though to get a better view of the evidence. Drunkenness was a common feature in courts martial. All Divisions kept a keen eye on its prevalence – along with sloppy saluting and VD.
Oakley coughed and said, ‘Did he have any field dressings with him?’
‘No,’ replied the Captain, mystified. ‘As I said, he had no kit, which is why I searched the barn in the first place, Sir.’
Glanville smiled indulgently, as if Oakley had managed to stay on a bicycle for the first time. Looking left and right, he invited further clarification from the court before leaning forward to say, ‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Private Flanagan?’
‘No thank you, Sir.’ His gaze remained firmly held by that other drama behind Herbert’s shoulder. While apparently impassive, his breathing began to stagger. We have met, thought Herbert. In the rain …
‘That concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said Chamberlayne, sitting down.
There was a long pause. Far off the guns boomed and clacked. In that strange quiet captured by a classroom without children, Herbert understood that Flanagan was windy – Herbert knew the feeling; it was awful; you never got used to it – but he’d taken a grip on his terror: it was a decision. Flanagan was smiling at an open grave. Herbert could just make out the whisper of air being drawn and pushed through his teeth.
Chapter Eleven
The Case for the Defence
‘Do you wish to call any evidence in your defence?’ asked Glanville after he’d found a clean sheet of paper.
The heavy sound of marching floated on the air. A battalion was on the move, heading out of the village. Maybe they were going to relieve the Lancashire Fusiliers, thought Herbert. They were due out of the line and the Lambton Cup was up for grabs. Flanagan’s staggered breathing seemed to enact the fear that bound them all together.
‘Evidence,’ repeated Glanville, kindly. ‘Do you wish to call any?’
‘No, Sir, I don’t.’
‘Do you wish to give evidence yourself?’
‘I’ll just make a statement, Sir.’
Flanagan let his eyes drop from the vision behind Herbert, from whatever it was that had drawn him away while the evidence was being marshalled against him. His head remained bowed.
‘On oath?’ asked Glanville in the same kind tone.
‘I think not, Sir.’
Flanagan stood up, his arms loose by his sides. His clear eyes slowly followed some phantom pattern on the floor, moving closer and closer to the table where Herbert sat. They rose deliberately towards him. When their eyes met Herbert’s stomach pitched as if he’d been kicked.
I saw you with Father Maguire … the day I shot Quarters …
Herbert felt faint. His eyes rolled as purple spots popped like fireworks in his brain. Flanagan’s stare was remorseless. To escape him, Herbert focused on the faded wallpaper: a repeated pattern of roses, bunch after bunch surrounded by golden tendrils. His mother would have loved it. She’d loved his uniform, too. You can start a new tradition, she’d whispered. He breathed out to disperse the smoke of nausea. It was like that first, sickening cigarette.
‘Everything said here today is true, Sir,’ said Flanagan, his breathing suddenly normal. That’s what it was like, when the whistles screamed at zero hour. The anguish could even turn into ecstasy when you stepped into the open, into the shrapnel and the whining. ‘After I’d handed Major Dunne to the stretcher-bearers I set off for the front line. It was terrible dark … raining like it did back home, when a load comes off the sea, after weeks of the gathering. The sky and the waves would join up, so –’ he slowly brought his hands together, frowning – ‘and then for days it would pour, or rather … everything returned to water. The land was part of the sea.’ His eyes were wide and heavy with suffering, and Herbert recoiled from this man’s very private memory. ‘That was home, so … and that’s what it was like after I said goodbye to Major Dunne, and I got lost. I didn’t know my left from my right. I came upon this barn … just like you heard … and in it I found some drink. I was upset from the bombing and the death of Mr Agnew. And cold I was and wet. I drank myself under, Sir. And when I woke I drank some more.’ He paused to lick his lips, his calmness run dry. Herbert, however, had latched on to Flanagan’s speech pattern. It wasn’t quite English. Here and there the word order was striking, almost poetic, but not deliberately so. And cold I was and wet. The peculiar phrase unsettled Herbert: it named with refinement his own experience of abandonment.
You spoke to Father Maguire in another language … a kind of music … foreign to the filth and the dying …
‘I came to France in nineteen fifteen,’ continued Flanagan, his mouth clacking for lack of spit. ‘I’ve always done my best
, Sir, and I’m sorry for getting drunk this once. If I’d left the bottle alone, I’d have probably found my Section … I hadn’t run off, Sir. It won’t happen again, Sir.’
Flanagan sat down, arms on his thighs, the hands slack between his legs. Remembering himself, he straightened his back and knitted his fingers; his eyes swiftly returned to that refuge over Herbert’s right shoulder. Throughout the statement Glanville’s pencil had squeaked, oddly louder than the erratic grumbling of the guns. After he’d checked his spelling he said, ‘Thank you. Since the statement was not taken on oath, there will be no questions, am I right?’
Chamberlayne gave one of his nods.
‘Given what’s been said, there’s no need for a closing address – either from you or Private Flanagan, and we will not require a summary of the evidence. The court will now retire.’ Glanville checked his pocket watch and noted the time: 10.28 a.m.
The sentry, sullen-faced throughout the trial, marched forward and escorted Flanagan from the room. Boots crashed upon the tiles, the outside steps, and the flags of the playground, and Herbert (with his ears) followed the accused down more steps to the cellar beneath.
… and Father Maguire looked after that poor kid …
‘We’ll go next door,’ said Glanville to Chamberlayne, implying that he could stay put. He shuffled his papers into a neat pile and plopped them on the red book.
Silencing the voices in his head, Herbert went down the room, to the chair used by the accused. Turning on his heel, he looked to the place he himself had occupied. To the left (over what had been Herbert’s right shoulder) was the cracked mirror in the Greek temple frame. Glanville and Oakley both appraised him as though he’d lost his senses. But Herbert was gazing elsewhere. The cracked mirror was angled such that he could see through a window whose lace curtain was missing. Herbert’s eyes watered with a longing for a world that had passed away. A reflection of its loveliness remained as a most awful reminder: between the Doric pillars he picked out a low bank of distant trees, a blue sky and scudding pink clouds. The morning mist had completely disappeared, burned away by the one sun that had illuminated his childhood and left Quarters astride a mule.
Chapter Twelve
1
Anselm read the evidence of the trial in ten minutes. He’d studied it in fifteen. It had been delivered – according to the record – in twenty-four. That was some going. He’d felt like he was leaning over someone’s shoulder because the transcript, written in pencil, had been scored here and there with brown and red crayon. These, he assumed, had been added by two different people involved in the review process – perhaps the lawyer (brown) checking for irregularities, and the Commander-in-Chief (red) who would make a decision on sentence. Each colour was like a window on to a different level of indignation. The most excited effort had been reserved for ‘alcohol’, ‘wine’ and ‘drunk’. Each word had been underlined twice, each time in red.
And indignation settled upon Anselm.
Flanagan was on trial for his life, unrepresented, before amateurs. Decent folk with the awesome powers of a king. That had last happened in the Middle Ages. The prosecution evidence wasn’t tested: no defence witnesses were called; no plea of substance was made for leniency. The only cross-examination of any force was Herbert’s questioning of Private Elliot, the person who’d last seen Flanagan in the reserve trenches. And that was a waste of time, because while the account was inadmissible anyway (repeating the order of the Medical Officer that sent Flanagan back to his unit) Flanagan cured the irregularity by accepting what had been said – and that demolished whatever value might have been attached to Herbert’s assault.
Testily, Anselm reached for the additional documents ordered by Martin and strode to the Donk Shop. Phrases from the trial whirled through his mind. One in particular baffled him: And cold I was and wet. It was a strange way to talk …
Beginning with the Battalion War Diary, Anselm photocopied every entry between January and September 1917, hoping that within the pages he’d find a route into Flanagan’s mind. It was while leafing through the War Diary of the Adjutant and Quartermaster General, however, that Anselm came to a surprised halt, knowing that he must have stumbled upon something of significance. There, on the 17th September 1917, like a bookmarker, was a yellow ticket. This one had Kate Seymour’s name printed on it. She’d left it behind by accident.
Anselm studied the page with growing confusion.
A post-war censor had cut a square hole beneath the title ‘113. Courts Martial – Desertion.’ Written in the margin was a tiny word: ‘weeded’. There was literally nothing to be seen. Frowning, he copied it, along with a few subsequent pages. He was trying to guess why Kate Seymour had come to examine this material when the telephone rang.
‘The map is ready.’
They laid it on the table overlooking the lake and the weeping willow.
Ypres occupied a central position, roughly ten kilometres from Poperinghe. The Salient had been drawn in red, curling to the right, round the city, and then turning back again. Three small stickers – blue, yellow and green – had been added, labelled respectively M, F and D.
‘I’ve marked the positions of Moore, Flanagan and Doyle on the night of the twenty-sixth August,’ said Martin, his finger tapping each letter. ‘You’ll see that Doyle was beside the other two, separated by a brigade boundary. His unit was due to move forward in support.’
Anselm looked at F and D. They were bunched together on the map, whereas on the ground they’d been world’s apart. Somehow they’d met up.
‘Where was the Regimental Aid Post for the Northumberland Light Infantry?’ Anselm misted his glasses and polished them on his scapular.
‘Here, in the reserve trenches,’ said Martin, pointing behind M and F.
‘If someone left the Salient for Étaples on the coast,’ continued Anselm, ‘what route would he take … to get there and back again within a day or so?’
Martin didn’t answer that question for a long while. This was a fresh angle. He took off his jacket and threw it on the chair. After tweaking each cuff he tapped a confluence of lines south of Poperinghe. ‘There was a railway depot here … at Abeele … that’s one route. This was quite a busy area.’ He stubbed the map, louder than before. ‘There was an airfield … and a number of Casualty Clearing Stations.’
‘What were they?’
‘Field Hospitals,’ replied Martin, thrusting his hands into his pockets. A look of gathering comprehension sharpened his smooth face. ‘Serious casualties were moved from a Regimental Aid Post to an Advanced Dressing Station and then to a Casualty Clearing Station. At the time of a battle the system all but collapsed. It was mayhem.’ He glanced sideways. ‘But it was a sure route away from the front.’
‘Where’s Elverdinghe?’ asked Anselm, checking the coast around Étaples.
Martin pointed elsewhere, to a village not far from Ypres … not that far from the reserve trenches of the Northumberland Light Infantry.
Well, well. You came back, thought Anselm, with an intake of breath. You went to the coast, but you came back. You were arrested a couple of miles from the front.
‘Can I just rehearse the evidence?’ enquired Anselm, wrinkling his face. He needed to hear his own voice, to thresh his impressions, to spit out the husks.
There was a Gilbertine quality to Martin, the man who lived deep inside himself. He spoke mainly when it was necessary, and now he gave no reply.
Anselm wasn’t going to dwell on the trial’s flaws, and God knows there were many: from inadmissible evidence to an abject failure by the Prosecution to call the relevant witnesses (Father Maguire, Lieutenant Tindall, the stretcher-bearers – those who’d spoken to Flanagan and had been the last to see him). No, Anselm wouldn’t focus on these defects because none of them mattered. Flanagan, defending himself, had admitted everything and questioned no one. Anselm’s energy lay rather with the undisputed facts.
‘What bothers me is the shape of the evidence with
out reference to the Étaples material,’ began Anselm, nudging his glasses. ‘It’s neat. Too neat for a partial record of what actually happened. There should be ragged edges. Tears that show some facts are missing. There aren’t any. Save, perhaps, the field dressings which are not accounted for and the phenomenon of wine in a barn.’
‘The wine?’
‘Yes, it’s too good to be true.’ He wafted away the notion impatiently. ‘It’s convenient. Anyway, the French keep wine in a cellar. I imagine the Belgians are no different.’
Anselm’s finger plotted a crow’s flight upon the map, moving ponderously from Black Eye Corner, to Abeele, to Étaples, before coming back to Elverdinghe. It was a kind of round trip. ‘Let’s just add the Étaples material to the evidence given to the court. Let’s just see what sort of picture emerges.’
Hands hidden behind his scapular and hooked into his belt, Anselm ambled round the room. On occasion he kicked imaginary conkers, as if he were in the woods at Larkwood. Every so often his gaze moved to Martin for confirmation when he was unsure of a detail. He spoke rather quietly.
Flanagan leaves his unit after midnight on the morning of the 26th August (said Anselm). By 1.45 a.m. he reaches the Regimental Aid Post. He’s last seen at 2.00 a.m. Doyle then makes an appearance before the same MO at 3.49 a.m. and at that point he enters the system of tagging and treatment. ‘An eye injury, apparently,’ recalled Anselm. Martin nodded. Doyle and Flanagan are then accosted thirteen hours later in Étaples, sixty odd miles away. ‘From which we conclude that the two men must have met some time after 2.00 a.m. The where, when and how is anybody’s guess.’ By the evening of next day, Flanagan – alone once more – is back near Ypres with three bottles of wine.
Anselm leaned over the map.
‘To make that long journey in that short time, Flanagan must have caught a train.’ Anselm ran a finger along the railway line between Étaples and Abeele.
A Whispered Name Page 8
