The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  The suntan was long faded and his body that had previously been neatly sculpted by well-used muscles now looked hollow, his complexion sallow. He itched the back of his head where lice presumably played, wincing a sad sneer at how besieged they all were . . . by other men, rats, insects, bullets, artillery, infection and the new murderer that was poison gas – the silent assassin: by the time you smelled him, it was too late. Tom had taken to imagining this novelty of pungent poison drifting across no-man’s-land in a chartreuse vapour. At least it would add some colour, he thought.

  ‘Sir!’

  Tom sighed, folded up the letter on his lap and slipped it into his pocket. He looked towards Bert Forest’s slanting grin in query. ‘We’ve got gifts.’

  ‘Gifts?’

  Bert tipped his chin down the trench and Tom saw men’s hands reaching out to accept what appeared to be tins being handed out.

  ‘Blimey, it’s a box of treats,’ someone called down the line.

  ‘Is it from His Majesty, sir?’ someone else asked, sounding awed, giving a low whistle.

  A tin was thrust into Tom’s hands and suddenly their home and everything familiar had arrived into the trench. It was not a gift from the royals; it was a gift from their families – in his case, from his mother. And it had been produced in York. The tin felt smooth against his exposed fingertips that poked out above his mother’s knitted gloves, except for the tin’s rim. He ran the pad of one of those fingers now around the beading that raised itself around the edge as a border to encapsulate the King’s image. King George stared at him from the lid with that proudly royal pose, square-jawed, attired in full ceremonial dress.

  Tom only became aware of the welling tears when one splashed on the King’s face, shocking him. He palmed it away but more of its treacherous companions were following and now salted drops slipped down his cheeks to smudge a path through the grey dust and mud that clung to his face. He stole an embarrassed glance around the quietened trench and noted, with relief, he was not the only soldier suffering a wave of helpless emotion. Anything from home prompted a visceral response but to know the King was personally acknowledging their sacrifice, showing his gratitude, felt overwhelming.

  Tom continued to examine the image of his King. Eyes like turquoise glass looked back at him with an expression of wide-eyed hope, full of light and humour, Tom decided. The bright point of colour matched the ceremonial uniform he wore, heavily decorated with five medals, gold braid and thick epaulets. Tom, forced to be clean-shaven but not fully owning up to being unable to grow dense whiskers, felt envious of the perfectly sculpted beard of his King in the V shape of his title over which flew the luxuriant winged moustache. He could be a twin to his first cousin Tsar Nicholas of Russia. Tom thought of the King’s other first cousin, German Emperor Wilhelm II, now Britain’s vicious enemy. My enemy, Tom admitted privately, and sneered at the thought of the ridiculous W-shaped moustache of the arrogant emperor trying to outdo his cousins in every way. Tom touched the lid again, still reluctant to open the tin until he had finished admiring the return of colour into his immediate world. The vivid red and blue on the Union Jack caught his attention, standing out among five other flags that radiated from behind the King’s image.

  He held the sealed metal to his face and inhaled, noting the pretty floral pattern that decorated its side. The unmistakable aroma of York nearly undid him. The smell of chocolate, seductive and comforting, scented the space he sat in. How long had it been since he’d eaten a piece of chocolate? Nearly a year? He wasn’t sure. Tom looked up and some of the men had already begun chewing on their treat.

  ‘Get into it, sir,’ Corporal Ferguson encouraged from opposite. He looked as impressed as Tom felt by their unexpected gift.

  ‘Hey, Sergeant, you don’t want anyone else to get your chocolate now, do you?’ his neighbour said, digging him affectionately in the rib.

  Tom grinned, shaking his head.

  ‘You could be shot dead tonight, sir,’ one wit yelled, ‘and you’ll have missed your chance.’ The fellow laughed, his teeth happily coated by the gooey chocolate he was tucking into. ‘Seems our families collected cocoa coupons to send us these.’

  ‘I gather. But unlike you greedy blokes, I want to make this feeling last,’ Tom said, aware that he sounded daft but it was as though emotion had come back into his life. Suddenly here was vibrant colour and the smell of sweetness, the realisation that his mouth was moist, salivating in anticipation of the treat, his hands had warmed the tin, smooth and full of promise. He turned it over and ran his thumb down the side, where a small grid existed that he presumed was for striking matches. His spirits danced; they’d clearly designed this for the boys at the Front with a lot of care. And at the sound of the soft click of the lid as he opened it, Tom grinned like a child on Christmas morning, staring at presents that had miraculously found their way beneath the tree.

  An intoxicating perfume embedded in memory caused an avalanche of pleasure for Tom that was loaded with anticipation. Curiously, because this felt like Christmas morning, he could taste alcohol from his mother’s pantry . . . the brandy Rose kept for the pudding so it would ignite properly. Yes, syrupy brandy and raisins came to mind as the rich chocolate fragrance lingered around him.

  A corrugated sheet of thick paper, the colour of raw wool, crackled beneath a much thinner printed sheet which fluttered from the shelf that Tom had disturbed. He retrieved it carefully, glad it had not fallen into the damp mud, and read it, savouring each word.

  Tom sighed with a pang of fresh pleasure. He noted the royal warrant at top left informing that Rowntree & Co was by appointment to the Crown. However, although the note urged him to turn it over to read more about a product Rowntree teased as ‘something new’, he was for this moment trapped in the pure novelty of holding this crisp little page of advertising that had been slipped into the tin. It gave the bright impression that all was normal in the world. He sent his thoughts winging to the chocolate factory in Britain’s north. York . . . the home he loved. Save a few executives and managers, the factory would be run by the city’s women these days, he reckoned.

  Tom shut the lid to keep the chocolate fragrance cocooned while he closed his eyes and pictured the girls busy at their work packing these tins for the men in the trenches.

  He focused his thoughts on one imaginary girl. She’d be wearing a starched apron, he decided, and she’d have dark hair pinned into place . . . perhaps wearing a cap because she was handling food. Tom smiled at the thought that a single strand would always escape. He could envisage her now in motion, placing the bar of chocolate into the tin before reaching for one of the Rowntree notes to slip inside. He could see her show a twist of vexation on her lips when one of the notes stuck to its companion. She was having to work fast in his daydream, for there were thousands of these tins to prepare for the boys at the Front. She places the company’s note on the covered bar of chocolate, which he imagined is in foil, but he’d check that later. Tom could almost hear the gentle click of the tin as she closes the lid and blows it a kiss farewell. Oh, yes, this girl in his mind blows each tin she seals a farewell kiss as though sending one to each brave soul fighting for her freedom.

  Tom leaned his head back against the trench, smiling inwardly at his private images. No explosions or gas could hurt his girl in the chocolate factory. He loved her. This girl was his ideal. He was here to keep her safe and he would give his life to see her turn and smile for him. He reached in his mind towards the dark-haired beauty.

  ‘Time, sir,’ the Corporal murmured and disrupted his vision. Tom roused himself to his feet, although remaining slightly crouched for protection.

  Was he the only bloke who hadn’t nibbled on his treat?

  ‘Right, lads, to your posts,’ he said in a crisp, no-nonsense way that belied his mood.

  Tom slipped his tin of chocolate into the pocket of his uniform that sat over his heart, assured it would not melt due to the cold of night closing in.

  �
��Corporal?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You oversee the work duties tonight.’

  The man frowned. ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘There’s a new armour-piercing round that the Germans apparently have. Division’s keen to get its hands on some of those rounds. I thought I might slip out with the patrol tonight.’

  ‘Alone, sir?’

  ‘Hardly alone, Corporal Ferguson. I’ll tag along with the patrols but those men have their jobs to do and I know what I’m looking for.’

  His deputy nodded. ‘Righto, sir, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I am. When he visited recently I rashly promised Major General Davies I would find him some of those rounds and I’d like to keep that promise.’

  ‘If they exist, sir,’ Ferguson cautioned.

  Tom shrugged. ‘I can at least send a note to Division headquarters that we tried.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir,’ Ferguson agreed but he didn’t sound convinced, even with his expression carefully schooled.

  As Tom reached for his rifle with a sigh he heard the telltale sound of artillery arriving.

  ‘Sounds close, lads,’ Ferguson yelled and these were the last words that Sergeant Tom Fletcher heard before he used the chaos to slip over the parapet with the small patrol crew and lope behind them. He waited momentarily for explosions to light the sky directly above him so he could hunt for those innovative new shell casings. It took three blasts before he found two, managing to clasp one of them just as his enemy got its range accurate. It was as though in those intervening seconds before the next artillery and killing blast arrived Tom knew his decision to keep his promise to his superiors meant he would break an oath to Rose Fletcher to stay alive – no heroics.

  His world exploded with all of his highly attuned senses instantly engaged; a shower of crimson, bright and wet, accompanied the snarling report of guns and the dreaded smell of cordite mixing with human waste and all things rotten. He could feel the cloying mud of northern France swallowing him into its bleak grey grave as he lay stunned and motionless. Tom tasted the giveaway sweet and salty tang and no sooner had he swallowed a gulp than his throat filled once more with his lifeblood.

  The drain of Europe was opening to him and it was his turn to pass into its depths. The ground beneath him felt unstable too, gobbling him into it as an old trench collapsed beneath him.

  There was no pain, more a sense of letting go, although his body fought the urge. The first of his senses to steal away from him was his hearing and he was accepting of it, given that the sound of guns, of men in pain and the fearsome roar of war turned initially distant and then quietened. This allowed Tom’s internal battle to rage silently while his heart fought bravely to beat as Death weakened each courageous spasm of that once-relentless muscle, which surely believed it had many millions more beats in it. While Death travelled through, callous and silent, now stealing his sense of smell, he realised he could no longer feel his legs, his arms, or even the mud that consumed him . . . and, curiously, it felt like he was escaping the war and didn’t mind this oddity of disappearing sense by sense.

  Nevertheless, as Tom’s pulse weakened and he struggled to clear the bubbling in his throat, two notions irked him, each hovering like a dark grey rat with a beady gaze that jeered: ‘We’ll save you for later, but why not gnaw on these thoughts, Tom, as you die?’

  The first rat mocked that his beloved mother would now have to grieve over two sons and neither of them had given her the long-hoped-for grandson yet so the family name might continue. The second rat taunted viciously about his stupidity at not tasting the chocolate from the King’s Tin as he slipped towards death with hollow, red-rimmed eyes staring up at the grey dome above. Finding a last blockade of strength, he banished the grey demons in his mind and forced his last thought to be about beauty and he conjured the girl packing the King’s gift for him. She blew him a kiss.

  Nevertheless, the resonating emotion that Tom Fletcher took with him as the mud of northern France sucked him deeper and rain fell harder was a deep regret that some other lucky bastard would catch the kiss blown by the girl in the factory.

  8

  3 OCTOBER 1918

  Harry Blake thought his injury in March this year had meant he’d never have to set foot on a battlefield again, yet here he was limping around Artois, where some of the fiercest fighting of the war had taken place. He’d rejoined the 20th Battalion London Regiment, part of the 141st Brigade and 47th Division in Calais from where they were liberating towns and villages as they moved through the region. The big one would be Lille. To reclaim that major city for the French would require a parade, surely? The phrase ‘Great War’ had caught on and it’s how he suspected most British would refer to the vast number of battles and the bloodshed that had occurred right across Europe as far to the east as the Dardenelles.

  At this moment, though, Harry found himself in an abandoned battlefield near Fromelles pondering the thrilling notion of the war ending and that he was part of the broom that was sweeping the Germans backwards and out of France, sending them scuttling to their homeland to await Europe’s collective wrath.

  Harry wondered whether he would still be in the thick of fighting the seemingly never-ending war, had the Americans not joined the Allies last year. Fresh and eager, they’d made the difference and were the reason why fighting was now sporadic. The Germans were on the run and facing vast pressure from the people at home, beginning to starve due to the British naval blockade of German ports. Defeat was inevitable and Harry didn’t think anyone, not even the re-energised Allies, could face another winter of war; there was high hope final victory would be achieved in the next few weeks.

  He brought his mind back to his regiment’s clean-out through this northern region; part of their job was to mark any fallen soldiers for full identification, retrieval, notification to families and ultimately for a proper burial. He’d wanted this role more than any other but did he really think he could find his beloved brother, missing from this very region since mid-1915, and presumed dead? He had to try . . . at least believe that he could find him. He had to be able to get into bed in the future when the demons visited and remind himself that he had done all that was possible to locate Ed.

  Harry attempted to ignore the familiar sucking sound of the mud as it tried to hold him, dragging him deeper. In time these fields for as far as his eyes could see would lose their scorched-earth appearance but for now a wasteland they remained, with the bodies of far too many men enriching their soil. He stood, hands on hips, looking across the naked land, saddened by its destruction.

  This is how the moon must look, he thought absently before he returned to frown at the large sheet unfolded in his hands. According to the maps the landscape here undulated softly and yet the rich earth appeared entirely flat with mud the colour of wet cement.

  He’d visited this region as a child, knew it from his history lessons to be like an avenue of invitation to invading armies that had frequently traversed over centuries, from the era of the Celts to the Germans of 1918, who figured they too should own this part of France. Over time it had been divided up repeatedly and it was really only a hundred years previous, during the Congress of Vienna, that the original French boundary was re-established.

  Its temperate climate made it an easy place to live and it was close enough to the British coast that on a clear day you could see the famed white cliffs of Dover from Port Calais. Where he stood in this moment though used to be woods, he recalled. He’d holidayed here a few times as a boy when his parents had spent time in Paris. He’d been placed with a French family, friends of friends of friends probably. He hadn’t minded; his parents were going to be doing grown-up things in Paris and he was happy to ride bikes and pick blackberries. The bonus was he enjoyed the youngsters he found himself plonked among and his French improved out of sight as a result. By the time his parents came to reclaim him after a month, he was as brown as a nut and chattering in the language of his new mates. They’d pla
yed hide-and-seek as eight-year-olds; by ten their imaginations were fired by Dumas’s stories of The Three Musketeers in this very region. He’d easily pictured himself as D’Artagnan as he and his local friends would wage duels or track quarry to the Lys River that Harry had crossed only the previous day. In fact, if memory served him right, some of the final chase by the rampaging musketeers for Milady took place in and around Fromelles.

  By the time he’d turned twelve and was back for another holiday, his French friends had cousins staying from the south – pretty girls with bronzed skin and a desire to play a game he knew back home as kiss chase. Harry had gone to an all-boys’ school so this game was not seen outside of fun in the park. In fact, he’d only played it once at a birthday party and found it tame, supervised by adults who did most of the chortling with looks of adoration as their youngsters pressed a sticky kiss on the equally chubby cheeks laden with cake icing of another child if they were caught. This game in France, however, and with the southern girls, was an amorous one and to a serious, near twelve-year-old English lad from Sussex, it was nothing if not deeply erotic. When he had caught dark-haired Antoinette, with eyes the colour of the azure waters off Nice, where she came from, he hesitated. A sudden rush of blood and longing meant he didn’t want to plant only a peck on her cheek the colour of a ripe peach, with the same velvet feel against his lips. And clearly she knew this. Antoinette was nearly fourteen, he learned later, which would explain why there was nothing chaste about her lingering kiss on his slightly chapped mouth. When she pulled away she laughed but Harry had wanted to dissolve into her arms, never letting go. Desire had caught him, threatened to humiliate him. He’d melted away behind the trees to wait for that guilty embarrassment to dissipate as her laughter echoed through the woods.