The Journal

by John R McKay

  THE JOURNAL

  John R McKay

  Copyright © John R McKay 2014

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of John R McKay has been asserted.

  For Jessica and Sophie.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many people I would like to thank for their help in the process of writing this book and without whose support and encouragement I would not have completed the work.

  Firstly to my daughter Jessica and my sister Barbara who were my ‘guinea pigs’ on the original draft and gave me the encouragement to continue.

  I would also like to offer a huge thank you to Mr Grant Bavister, the Assistant Registrar of the Peerage and Baronetage, Crown Office at the House of Lords, without whose advice regarding hereditary titles I may have embarrassed myself. Mr Bavister was also kind enough to produce a family tree to assist me with the understanding and I am extremely grateful to him for the time he took to do this for me.

  I would also like to thank the staff at the Carriere Wellington in Arras and the guide whose name I have since forgotten (he was a Liverpool FC fan which meant we got on well). The guided tour around the underground caverns was very educational and planted the seed for ‘The Journal’. I would encourage anyone with an interest in the First World War to visit the site.

  There are a number of documentaries I have seen and books I have read over the years about the two world wars and those books that particularly helped with ‘The Journal’ are: Cheerful Sacrifice (The Battle of Arras 1917) by Jonathan Nicholls and The Blitz (The British Under Attack) by Juliet Gardiner, both excellent reads and highly informative.

  I would also like to thank my brother Terry. We have often spoken about writing novels, batting ideas back and forth (sometimes in the pub!) and have never, until now, put pen to paper. I hope you enjoy it, my friend.

  I would also like to acknowledge and thank all the other members of my family who have kept me laughing and smiling my whole life. Their love and support keeps me going. I love you all.

  I would also like to thank Jon Philips of Kindle Publishing Services for an excellent job they have done in producing the final product.

  Finally I would like to thank my beautiful wife, Dawn, for her love and support and for whom my love doubles with every day we spend together.

  Now for the next one!

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Beneath Arras, France, 8 April 1917 - evening

  With his one good eye Captain James Grayson looked up at the rock ceiling above his head. Despite being seventy feet underground the thudding of the shells could be heard quite clearly and often the area around him would shudder as the larger of the ordnance hit the ground above, throwing mud and men into the air and pounding the town to rubble, filling the streets and squares with timber, masonry and broken glass. This relentless pounding caused some dust to fall, dropping into his right eye and over the patch that covered his left, forcing him to wipe it away irritably before he turned his attention back to the letter he was attempting to write to his wife.

  For the life of him he could not think of anything significant to say. He had written letters like this before, on the eve of battle, and had had the same problem then. Before going over the top for the first time nearly two years ago and countless times since, he had suffered the same writers block. What do you say to the person you love most when you know that these could be the last hours you spend on earth? He couldn’t help a small ironic smile to himself as he looked at his current surroundings. More like the last hours spent ‘in’ earth, he thought.

  It had been so long since he had last been home, since he had even felt like visiting the old places and people he used to love so much. All that had changed now. Everything had changed.

  He fumbled for the packet of cigarettes the he kept in his tunic pocket and took one out. He noticed he only had three left and thought to himself that he would need to cadge some off one of his subordinates later. He lit it, inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, holding the smoke for an extra second before exhaling with a huge sigh. He shivered and looked around. Like all the others he had been struggling with the cold, but he could not be anything but impressed with the amazing feat of engineering and organisation that had gone into the preparations for this battle. He thought back to the previous year and to the farce that was the Somme and felt a small sense of relief that times had moved on since then and lessons looked to have been learned.

  He had heard it said that over twenty five thousand soldiers from all corners of the Empire were currently here, billeted underground, waiting for the order to move out and attack the Germans east of Arras. That time would come tomorrow morning, Easter Monday, at precisely 0530 hours and for Grayson he was grateful. He was sick of the waiting and just needed some fresh air, even if it meant air filled with bullets, shrapnel and death.

  Four days ago he had led his men through the Petite Place, along a secret entrance under the Hotel de Ville and down marked passageways into a huge system of underground caves, guided by signs and hastily written directions scruffily painted on the bare rock walls. It was all illuminated by a lighting system that must have taken some kind of mastermind to design. The 17th West Yorks of the 35th (Bantam) Division together with the New Zealand Tunnelling Company had worked tirelessly to prepare this underground holding area, linking the caves and quarries via a network of tunnels and subways beneath the suburbs of Sauver and Ronville. Grayson had also heard that it had taken thousands of them working around the clock for months to excavate and construct, all the time keeping their work secret from the enemy who were very close by. The exit tunnels were only a few metres from the German front line, enabling the element of surprise on the day of the battle, when they would be blown open with ammonal charges. There was even a rail system for transporting ammunition and food and, no doubt, casualties when the battle was underway. Wires and cables could be seen hanging from overhead beams, providing the required lighting and a telephone network linking battalion headquarters with
the staff behind the lines had also been constructed. Special latrine and cooking areas had been excavated and there was also a huge medical area in preparation for the casualties that would undoubtedly occur.

  Once the company had found their holding area, the main problem for Grayson had been keeping warm and keeping the men occupied. They could only play cards for so long, check their kit so many times and read and re-read letters from their wives and sweethearts until they could recite every word, if anyone was nosy enough to ask them to. Fights had broken out over trivial matters; a spilled mug of tea, a missing photograph or a stolen piece of kit. It had taken him and his fellow Officers and NCOs all their best efforts to keep the men in check.

  He was disturbed from his thoughts by the presence of Lieutenant Jones from number three platoon. Jones had just turned nineteen but looked a lot younger and this would be his first action. It was obvious to Grayson that Jones was in this whole mess way over his head and that the war had come as something of an inconvenience to him. He had disturbed his medical studies to enlist, at the behest of his overbearing father, and Grayson was sometimes upset with himself for not having the patience with him that maybe he should have. After all they were in this together. All of them. He looked over to him.

  ‘Yes, William?’ he said. It was apparent instantly that Jones was in some distress. And not because he was to go into battle in a few hours, it looked more immediate than that. He held his helmet in his hands and was fiddling with the strap nervously.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you sir,’ said Jones, ‘but we have a bit of a situation in the platoon.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I’m afraid one of the men has passed away, sir. Private Cooke, sir.’

  Grayson looked at him, shocked, and for a number of seconds he sat there pen still poised in his hand, the letter still waiting to be started.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate,’ he said, finally.

  ‘He was found lying down by one of the men, sir. At first he was thought to be sleeping but it seems he wasn’t. When he touched him to rouse him, he was stone cold. He could have been dead for a while. I’ve looked at him and it doesn’t seem right, sir. It all seems rather odd.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Grayson raising his hand, ‘You’re starting to waffle, Jones. Slow down and take a breath.’

  Jones stepped closer. ‘Sergeant Yates is dealing with the men, sir. Some are still sleeping and those who know what’s happened have been told to keep quiet. Once things were settled I came straight here.’

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘Minutes, sir. Only a few minutes ago.’

  Grayson put down the pen and stood up. He picked up his helmet off the table and placed it on his head. ‘OK William, lead the way.’

  Lieutenant Jones hesitated.

  Noticing the hesitation Grayson said: ‘Yes William, is there more?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. It looks rather suspicious to me. He has no injuries and he just seems to….well erm….he just seems to have expired, sir. With no cause that I can see.’

  Grayson stopped. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’ This was all he needed on a night like this. ‘Come on let’s take a look.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jones led the way through the labyrinth of walkways and corridors which were filled on both sides with troops checking weapons and kit. Each nook and cranny and every break in the rock walls was filled with khaki clad soldiers attempting to get some rest prior to the momentous day that lay ahead. Or they were filling their stomachs with the rations provided by the caterers to give them the strength for the fighting. For some of them, like Jones, this would be their first time in combat but for others this had become all too routine and it was these that were finding it easier to relax and even to get some sleep. Sidestepping those coming the other way and stepping over the outstretched legs of those able to find slumber they proceeded swiftly to where number three platoon were billeted.

  In one of the many breaks in the rock wall there lay one of Grayson’s soldiers, a blanket draped over the top half of his body. His right foot stuck out onto the walkway causing those who had business elsewhere to step over it, unknowing that the poor fellow was in fact deceased.

  ‘Get his foot out of the bloody way,’ said Grayson seeing this. ‘For Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Certainly sir,’ said Jones. ‘You,’ he said to a nearby soldier, ‘sort it out.’

  Quickly the soldier bent down and moved the leg, unceremoniously, to the side of the rock wall, moving the body slightly in the process.

  Alongside the body stood Sergeant Yates and two other soldiers. They were ensuring that the dead soldier was not disturbed and keeping the fact that he had died from the other soldiers in the nearby vicinity. It was clear that those only a few feet away had no idea of what was going on.

  Grayson approached the body, knelt down and pulled back the blanket.

  The young soldier, who looked no more than twenty six years old was clearly deceased. His skin was deathly white and had taken on a waxy complexion. His eyes wide open, stared vacantly ahead, as though surprised at what had befallen him and his lips had a blue colour about them.

  ‘Is this how he was found Yates?’ he asked without taking his eyes from the dead soldier’s face.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Yates replied. ‘We haven’t moved him. It was Longworth who found him.’

  Grayson turned his head and looked behind him to where Private Longworth was standing, surveying the scene with what looked like an indifferent expression on his face.

  Longworth was one of those people whom Grayson could not take to. He had a huge gap between his two front teeth and no matter how tidy his uniform looked he always managed to appear scruffy and unkempt. He seemed to have a constant running nose and would often wipe this on the sleeve of his uniform. He really was nauseating, thought Grayson. He had had to discipline him on more than one occasion and had found him completely repulsive. However, Private Longworth had proved himself in battle more than once and so Grayson was able to put aside any misgivings he had towards the man’s character and respected the fact that he was a formidable fighter.

  ‘We thought he was sleeping sir,’ said Longworth. ‘I told him to sort himself out ‘cos he was lying all awkward like. I kicked his foot but he didn’t move sir. Then I looked at him and saw he was gone, sir. I’ve seen enough dead ‘uns by now to know when a man’s carked it. Then I told the Sarge, sir.’

  ‘Right, OK,’ said Grayson standing up.

  Taking Lieutenant Jones aside he asked him as to what he thought the cause may be.

  ‘I’m really not sure sir,’ he said, nervously. ‘But something doesn’t seem right to me. Why would a man just die for no apparent reason? He has no injuries, he’s a bit young for a heart attack, despite all this,’ he added looking around. ‘He’s not made any complaints about feeling unwell and he’s probably one of the fittest chaps that I have in the platoon. I know I’m not a doctor but I was a year into my studies before enlisting and so I know a little about this kind of thing and it has me intrigued. I’m not certain but there is a possibility of foul play in my eyes.’

  ‘Are you completely sure? Surely if he died in any kind of pain he would have cried out and it’s not like the place is empty is it? And I can’t see any injuries on him.’

  ‘Not really, sir. But I wouldn’t rule it out.’

  Grayson sighed, ‘This is all we need tonight.’

  Sighing audibly, he turned to Sergeant Yates. ‘Sergeant. I want any and all witnesses at my desk in fifteen minutes time. See to it that the body is removed to the medical area. Tell the stretcher bearers to instruct the medics that the body is to be left until they hear from me. And try and keep this from anyone who doesn’t already know about it. Let the others sleep.’ And then he asked quietly, ‘What do we know about the man?’

  Yates was still looking over at the body. ‘Not a right lot to be honest sir,’ he replied. ‘He’s quite new to the comp
any. Kept himself pretty much to himself really. Don’t think he had many friends….a very private chap. Never caused me any problems, just seemed to get on with things, like.’

  ‘OK. Fifteen minutes Sergeant.’ Grayson did not wait for a response but turned on his heel and made his way back to his dug out. The letter to his wife would have to wait for another time.

  Five minutes later he was on the field telephone to Colonel Henry.

  After explaining what had happened and his intention of speaking to witnesses the colonel responded. ‘See to it that after you’ve done that, all the men are rested. This is really going to have to wait until we have tomorrow out of the way. There’s no way we can remove the platoon from the line at such a late stage for a formal investigation, Grayson. And besides I can’t be having MPs swarming all over the bloody place. It’s a big day tomorrow and we all have a thousand things to do.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And this Lieutenant Jones,’ continued Henry. ‘Do you trust his judgement that this could be foul play?’

  ‘To be honest sir, he’s a little wet behind the ears in my opinion. However he was a medical student before he enlisted. But I’m sure the real doctors at the medical centre will be able to confirm it one way or the other. Looks straightforward to me though to be honest. Could be a heart attack.’

  ‘OK’, said Henry. ‘Be sure to tidy things up at your end and we will examine it properly when we get the chance later.’

  ‘Very good sir,’ replied Grayson and hung up. He had served under Colonel John Henry since before the Somme and totally respected the man. He was not like some of the other senior officers he had come across and was more level headed, fair-minded and intelligent. He had always treated Grayson like an equal and had given him his promotion a few months earlier. Henry had said that Grayson felt the death of any of his men as though it was a member of his own family and had tried to tell him on more than one occasion not to take any of it so personally. However, that was easy to say and Grayson comforted himself that by thinking and feeling this way it kept him human. If he started not to feel, then that was the time he would know that all hope was gone.