I myself thirst after those waters at the centre of the fresco, for the justice that will flow down like waters, the righteousness like an everflowing stream poised above us, ready to sweep through northern France and wash us all away, cleanse the land of howitzers and tanks, half-rotted corpses and gas canisters, filth and blood and terror and desperation. The land will be empty when the flood has passed through, but it will be clean.
Fancy, I know, but that is what I have been thinking, in recent days.
11 February
Writing this by the Very lights that Jerry’s been shooting up over our heads for a week now, one generation of which scarcely fades before the next comes up. I never want to see another display of fireworks as long as I live.
Our howitzers are going now, pounding our bones as we trade death with the men 150 feet away, in their holes, behind their wire. Did I say men? The last group of prisoners I saw might have been thirteen or fourteen. Two of them were crying for their mothers. One of them fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth, for Christ’s sake. I saw him. His boots had holes worn through the soles.
The shells are getting closer. Time to choose whether to stay in the open trenches and risk shell fragments, or to get into the dugout and chance being buried.
The sergeant’s brewing tea on the fire step, a nonchalant Woodbine hanging off his lip. He reminds me of old man Bloom, who kept a hut in the woods to keep an eye for poachers. The gamekeeper had a cough, too, like the sergeant has, though I suppose his came from the cigarettes and wood smoke instead of mustard gas like Sergeant West’s. What I’d give for a nice lungful of wood smoke now, clean and honest. I’d not even mind if
4 March
Three weeks ago, the shells suddenly got near enough to make me close this journal and button it into my pocket, and at that very instant, before I could even get to my feet, the world erupted and buried me alive. I woke on the stretcher a different man.
It makes me smile, to think that at the first sight of Hélène I thought she was a man. Her back was to me, of course—no-one looking into her eyes would ever make that mistake, no matter how scrambled his brains!—and she was wearing a heavy leather jacket with sheepskin at the collar. Then she turned to me, checking that I wasn’t going to be thrown to the floor when we hit a pothole, and thus undo all the work the bearers had gone to. I’ve never seen eyes like that, green as the hills she was raised in. Heaven only knows what she saw. I could’ve been a Chinaman for all she could tell, or old as her father or ugly as sin. I was clotted with France, hair to boot-lace, and stinking of battle.
18 March
A brief flurry of changes, and back I am, in the trenches again. Different trenches, same war.
Two days’ quick leave, after hospital and before reporting to my new regiment, and I used it to pay a visit to an aunt who had extended the invitation long ago. I had not seen Aunt Iris since I was in short pants, and her marriage to my uncle Marsh seems to exist in name only, so I had expected a certain amount of discomfort all around. Instead, I came away feeling that I had gained a blood relation, so easy was she to talk to. There were areas into which we did not go—I have my secrets and she very obviously has hers (if indeed one can have an obvious secret; still, I should say her friend Dan is one of those), and I have found it impossible to speak openly about what the War is actually like. No-one who has been through the trenches speaks freely with a person who has not done so. When the War is over, a great divide will cut through England.
Nonetheless, Iris seemed to read between my words, and to understand much that was unsaid. She fed me—how, with the restricted civilian rations, I neither knew nor asked—and clothed me and made me feel as if I had another home.
Whole, dry stockings! And two nights cradled by lavender-scented linen! Her flat gleams in my mind as an island of plenty, and of peace, and of all that is good in the world.
So, after a few brief hours behind the lines with my new regiment we came forward, and here I sit again, writing on the pages of my Egypt-leather journal while the shells fall in the distance.
But oh! What a difference from one month ago, for now I need but close my eyes and green eyes gaze back at me. And, is it not fate that my new posting is even closer to hers than the old?
24 April
Terrible news—the entire unit is to shift down the Line, near Reims. Good for the men, of course, since it’s a quiet sector for soldiers stretched near to breaking by the continual onslaught of the months past. But that’s miles away, miles beyond reach of my fair Hélène. I will find a reason to visit the aid post tomorrow (reasons are always so plentiful—shall it be my feet, or the festering cut on my arm, or the cough?) and wait for her to come in. I must see her once before I go,
2 May
The deed is done. We leave tomorrow at dawn.
2 June
Three weeks of quiet, broken only by the stray shell and the ever-present snipers, and then it all came down on us, hell breaking out anew just after mid-night on Monday last. It had been such a lovely holiday, too, with actual fields instead of pitted mud as far as the eyes could see. The trees had branches and delicate spring leaves, there were birds nesting in the church’s steeple, the people were still capable of smiling. Birdsong—nightingales—animals other than rats! And one night I heard what I’d have sworn was a dog fox. Then at one in the morning the earth heaved and the sky turned to flame with their guns, and it was back to Hades for us.
Except that this time they’ve got us out of our trenches and running for our lives. God knows how much equipment we’ve shed between here and where the front line was 72 hours ago. I managed to hang on to my pack, running through fields with the bullets going zip, zip over my head, although some Jerry’s got himself two pair of nice new French stockings that I’d left drying in the dugout along with my mess kit and entrenching tool. I gave one old pair of stockings to a man who’d run five miles in bare feet, which leaves me with one of Aunt Iris’s pairs on my feet and another in my kit that’s more holes than yarn. I know what the next letter home’s going to ask for!
14 June
Thank God for the Yanks. The Second Division had been set down not far from where we are now, troops fresh off the boat and spoiling for a fight, and when Jerry got to them, he bounced back like a rubber ball. Not at first, but once they had the feel of it, the Yanks dug in their heels and shoved back. They even retook Belleau Wood, and that seems to be about as far as Jerry’s getting this time. But it was close. If he’d had more troops, better supplies, he’d be strolling up the Champs Élysées in the morning.
The guns must have given Iris and her friend Dan a few bad hours. I had a letter from her, one from home, and one from H. all in the same post today; no doubt they’d sat waiting for us until hdq. could spot where we’d ended up.
Lost only one man—head wound, but he’ll live to see Dover. One of the other fellows lost his entire platoon, taken prisoner when he was separated from them. Poor bastard, feels like he lost his mother. Or his sons.
23 June
Back up the line to shore up some weak places in the French fence. Sorry to lose my old batman, he was a great comfort, but I’m closer to H., although I haven’t seen her to talk to yet. Spotted her ambulance—I’m pretty certain it was her Ford—scrambling its way down a hill yesterday morning, but she didn’t see me, one khaki figure in a hundred.
Holiday’s over; we’re back in the thick of it. I wonder if Jerry’s listening to the nightingales right now. There certainly aren’t any around here, just rats.
Shelling heavy tonight, damn them. Makes my nerves jumpy, can’t help it. Not even knowing my green-eyed Hélène is near can stop the twitches.
Had a man go bad on us yesterday—not one of mine, thank God, but about a hundred yards up the line. His nerves just crumbled and he downed his rifle and ran. Took a bullet in the shoulder, with luck it’ll see him out of trouble, and nobody’s saying anything about the fact that he took it in the back. But he’ll have to live
with knowing he deserted his mates in a pinch. Don’t know about him, whether that would trouble him or not, but I know that, once or twice, it’s been the only thing that’s kept me facing forward, knowing I’d have to live with the shame of abandoning men who counted on me.
Word is, we’ll be home by Christmas. They’ve been saying that since the first winter, I know, but this time it may be true. One way or another.
The padre’s just been through. Good man, name of Hastings, too old by far for this stunt but doesn’t complain, always a word of encouragement, especially for the young boys. A countryman, Surrey rather than Berkshire but close enough, had some interesting stories about water voles.
Beautiful full moon tonight, brighter than the Very lights. Anyone with nerve enough to peep over the top will catch a glimpse of our own version of the moon, all pitted and lifeless. I watch the real thing pass through the sky over the trench, and think about showing Hélène the lawns under a summer moon. The time Uncle Alistair took me out to Abbot’s Clump in the full moon to watch the hares dance. I couldn’t have been more than four at the time. Damn the Kaiser.
29 June
Front line for going on three weeks, don’t know how much longer the men can stand it. One private a week older than I am shot himself in the foot yesterday, trying for his Blighty. Only instead of a boat home, he’s in a hole, having missed his aim and hit an artery. Bled to death before they could get him on a stretcher. Probably just as well—it was obvious what he’d done, he’d have been court-martialled for it, and considering the current state of the fighting, probably been shot to discourage others from trying the same. Backs-to-the-wall time, there’s no doubt.
Pray God watch over all VAD drivers. Especially those with green eyes.
15 July
No doubt they’re partying in Paris today, dancing in the streets outside Aunt Iris’s apartment. Not too many bottles of champagne here. Plenty of Bastille Day fireworks, though. Had a blessed three days off the line, baths, warm food, the lice baked out of my clothes, and a chance to see Hélène. She managed to trade with another girl and we sat on a bombed-out building wall and talked and talked while the half moon lay over the poor wounded countryside. I told her about Justice Hall, how I want to show her every corner of it. The Pater’ll have a fit. Tried not to let H. know how much of a fit he’d have; time enough for that.
23 July, near mid-night
If we lose this bloody awful war, it won’t be because of the fighting men, it’ll be due to the incredible stupidity of the higher-ups. Still can’t believe it—full moon, huge thing brighter than a whole string of Very lights, and down comes the order to take out a wiring party. Insanity! Absolute, blithering idiocy. The men went to ice when they heard it, a sure sentence for the death of ten good men. But they were willing. They’d have done it, for me and for their fellows, but I was having none of it. The order had obviously been sent weeks before and gone astray. Even the daftest old general in London wouldn’t send out a wiring party under those circumstances—and when the line’s shifting daily and we hardly bother shoring up trenches because we’ll be out of ’em in a week? Why wire here at all. Nuts, I said, putting on my best Yank accent. Nuts to you, my men are standing down.
26th
I cannot fathom this. I can’t begin to understand. I’m going to wake up now and find it’s all one of those loopy dreams. They can’t be serious.
29th
This has gone beyond a joke. All right, I could have handled it better, and I understand that they have to stamp on anything that might loose the men from discipline. But this extreme a reaction? They’ll look like greater fools when the next level up sees what’s happening and sweeps it away.
The things they said in the so-called trial. I was so flabbergasted I could scarcely summon answers. “Fomenting a mutiny”? Lord, if anything the exact reverse—teaching the men that they can trust their officers not to issue insane orders. It’s a fragile trust, yes, so all the more reason to use common sense.
30th
Spent all the night shivering in the heat. I’m in an avalanche. I’m in a train going for a cliff. I’m going to be forced to bring in the Influence. Shameful admission of defeat, to drag in the family name, but I can’t see how else to stop the machinery. Maybe I should just take my punishment, even if it’s being strapped to a wheel for twenty-one days. Even if it’s gaol, surely I can do that? Being stripped of rank would be the worst. Oh, Hélène, what will you do when you find out? God, I hope I can continue to hide behind this name, to keep all this from the parents.
I keep thinking I’ll wake up. I don’t.
1 August
The Maj. appeared, late last night. Just heard about it, made him insane with wrath, went off to see what he could do short of invoking The Name. Still hopes of defusing the situation under its own power. I told him I’d take a field punishment if it satisfied officialdom’s honour, although the image of his fair-haired boy strapped up in the sun for the betterment of the regiment would probably kill Pater. I can’t even think about Mama.
I should have just hauled that bloody wire out there myself, ordered the men to stay behind, and strung it alone. Jerry might have missed a single figure out there, and I could have protected my men.
I just never imagined it might come to this. Oh, God, this is going to be the death of my parents, no matter how it turns out. A Hughenfort, convicted of refusing an order. Cowardice. Disgrace.
When I’m alone, I weep. The padre is here a lot, so I keep myself together for him. Thank God Hélène hasn’t come, I should collapse completely in the agony of it all. It would be a blessing if she heard nothing about it, until it is over. One way or another.
2 August, afternoon
Death? Shot, by my own men? No, that’s
God help me, I can’t
Unthinkable. I can’t think about it. My mind won’t
I’ve sent for the Major, he’ll put an end to this.
3 August, 4:30 a.m.
The Maj. sent a message that he’d come at two in the morning. I sent the padre away to get some rest, and so I could think. I knew that if the news had been good, he’d have sent it, not come himself.
The CinC himself, the Maj. told me, when he heard my true name, said he was sorry, that it was out of his hands. That discipline knows no titles. He’s right, of course, although I hadn’t thought the Army’s hold on the common soldier that precarious, to require such an iron grip over its junior officers. He stayed for a long time, from two nearly to dawn. We talked. We’d never really talked before, he never seemed my sort, but it was good to have at my side a man of my own people, an uncle who knew the land and the trees I loved from a child, who understood the difference between the upper lawns and the park, who’d seen the sun rise over The Circles, who had fished Justice Pond in the spring.
He promises me that the Pater and Mama needn’t be told. The letter’s nearly the same as for an honourable death, now. So grief, but no shame. No blot of cowardice on the name. No dark cloud over Justice Hall.
Under those circumstances, I can—I nearly wrote “live with this.” And I suppose I can, for the hours left me.
He left a few minutes ago. I asked McFarlane to give him my letters and papers, to hand them personally to my parents on his next leave, along with the letter I wrote to say good-bye and to introduce them to Hélène. This journal I’ve kept by me, as my private friend. I’ll ask the padre to send it home when Pater asks him for it. Pater shall have to judge whether or not Mother is strong enough.
Hélène, when you read this, know that you were in my thoughts to the end. Know that the only regret I hold is that my decision stole the years of joy we would have had together. Kiss my mother and father for me. I know you will love them, given time.
Dawn draws near. The padre prays with me, and sits in silence when I wish to add to these words. He is a good man. I asked him to read to me from the fifth chapter of Amos. He hesitated, and then did so. When he had finished, I saw tea
rs in his eyes. I have none in mine. I feel only a chasm of regret deeper than any sapper’s tunnel, and fear—not of death, I am beyond that now, thank God, but fear that my body will fail me in the morning, and cringe from the wall. Why should shame be such a terrible threat, greater than death itself? A thing you can’t eat or drink, all-powerful in a man’s life. I suppose because, when it comes down to it, there is nothing but honour and pride.
It was a blessing to hear the word “Justice” from the padre’s mouth. For a moment, I was home again.
Here it comes. For those I love, for Justice, may I prove myself strong. Justitia fortitudo mea est.
Gabriel Adrian Thomas Hughenfort
3 August 1918
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Iris spent two days in her cabin, immersing herself in this record of her unacknowledged son’s final months and struggling to come to terms with its wrenching emotions and its devastating implications.
The boy had been so alone. That was, I knew, what would hit her the hardest, at first anyway. Transferred from his original unit into another that was then in the heat of battle, and subsequently moved, then overrun, and finally split up and moved again, Gabriel had as much chance of forging friendships as someone attempting to thread a needle in an earthquake. His superior officers did not know him, the padre was sympathetic but ineffectual, and his girl was so rushed, she most likely did not even know of his plight until it was too late. Had he known that his true mother was in Paris, had he ever been told that his true father worked for one of the most powerful men in the British government, he might have sent word, and in an instant the waters of justice would have rolled down into that small and lonely cell and carried him away.
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