Another one whipped past, and slowly it dawned on him that it wasn’t an insect, but a bullet. He was surprised by his obtuseness, and his lack of fear.
Around him the men were running forward, heads down, kilts swinging. He saw someone lob a rifle-grenade, and thought, it’s too soon for that, you fool, you’ll never reach them.
Cornwallis slipped and lurched against him, nearly knocking him into a shell-hole. Private Nathan put out a hand to steady him, and as Adam glanced at the boy’s pale, intent face, another bullet cracked past his cheek, and a neat red hole blossomed in Nathan’s forehead. He crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
Adam saw it, but he didn’t feel it. He ran on.
Suddenly the air split apart. A deafening roar – a crackling of bullets like a swarm of angry bees. The Boche machine-guns had opened up on Madagascar Point.
Still Adam wasn’t frightened. Those bullets weren’t meant for him.
He saw Captain Goodwin waving his arm and yelling a command – couldn’t hear it – but it must have been ‘Take cover!’ because several men threw themselves into a shell-crater.
Adam followed. He hurled himself into the bottom of the crater and landed beside Cornwallis, who was clutching his revolver and shaking. Cornwallis’s revolver was a spanking new Webley Mark VI with a bayonet fitted to the barrel. Adam shifted slightly to the right to avoid being jabbed by mistake.
A rising shriek coming towards them.
‘Pineapples!’ yelled Sergeant Watts. ‘Heads down, lads!’
As Adam pressed himself into the stink, the shriek came closer – unbearably loud – then a shattering noise burst inside his skull – he was choking on acrid fumes – and a column of earth shot skywards, spattering him with mud and blood and chunks of flesh.
As the spattering subsided, he glanced round for Cornwallis, but he wasn’t there any more. Instead there was only freshly turned earth and an officer’s boot, topped with pulpy bone and blackening flesh.
Is that how it happens? wondered Adam blankly.
More shells screaming overhead. Columns of earth shooting up around him. Bullets hissing and snapping like whips. Choking on lyddite, not knowing where he was going, Adam scrambled past Sergeant Watts to the edge of the hole – and slipped, and put his hand on something spongy. Puzzled, he registered that it was a face: a Frenchman by the uniform, and dead for some time.
A bullet opened up a long red furrow across the back of his hand. He blinked at it in astonishment. Good Lord, he thought, they’re aiming at me. I’m part of the target.
But he had no time to take it in. Goodwin was ordering them to advance.
Adam scrambled over the lip of the shell-hole and ran forward.
Six hours later, he sat on an old Fray Bentos crate in his dugout, smoking a cigarette and trying to shake off the feeling that at any moment his brother Erskine would walk in, and he could tell him all about it.
About how they’d managed to take their objective – messily and haphazardly, and at the cost of fifteen men and poor Cornwallis. About Sergeant Watts briskly making sure of the German trench, then slapping a field dressing on Adam’s hand and offering to take him to the Regimental Aid Post. About him waving away the sergeant’s help and stumbling back to his dugout, where his batman, Brewster, had brought him a mug of tea that he couldn’t taste and two letters from home which he hadn’t yet read, before taking himself off for a spot of well-earned souveniring.
Above all, Adam wanted to tell his brother how strange it was that he couldn’t seem to feel anything any more. Nothing at all. He couldn’t even taste this bloody cigarette . . .
He blinked at the letters in his lap. Neither was from Celia, which wasn’t unexpected. She hadn’t written for a fortnight, and her last letter had been one long complaint. I didn’t marry a soldier, I married a barrister . . . I detest Cairngowrie Hall . . . I wasn’t meant to moulder away in some dismal Scottish backwater . . . I’m moving back to London . . .
At the time, he had been wild to go to her; hadn’t eaten or slept for worrying that she might leave him. But that had worn off surprisingly quickly. If she hated Scotland, then of course she should move back to London. He could afford it – just. Besides, if she was in London, it would be easier to see her when he was home on leave.
So he didn’t experience more than a twinge of pain when he saw that the letter was not from his wife, but her brother. Sorry I’m not Celia, wrote Drum in his disarming, schoolboyish hand, but you know my sister, not a great one for letter-writing. Don’t suppose you’ve heard, but I got my blighty last week: nice clean bullet in the wing. Spot of luck, don’t you think? Good old Boche! I was quite deaf for three days afterwards, which was a bit rum. Doctors said it was nerve exhaustion (me!), but I just told them what rot, and now I’m running straight again, although am still beastly weak, hence the brevity of this note. Chin up, old chap, stay sharp, and write if you feel like it. Best wishes and all that, Drum.
‘Good old Drum,’ murmured Adam.
That was what everyone said about Drummond Talbot. Big, bluff, blond, hearty Drum. Such an unexpected brother for small, dark, secretive Celia.
The second letter was from Sibella Clyne. Adam was surprised. He knew Sibella only distantly – her first husband had been a Palairet, one of his Jamaican cousins – but after she was widowed she’d swiftly married again: a merchant banker who had died soon afterwards, leaving her wealthy. She’d stayed on good terms with the family – particularly with the Palairet matriarch, Great-Aunt Louisa – and was a favourite of Adam’s younger cousins, as she gave the best dinners in Town. But although Adam liked her, they’d never been close. He found her exhausting, and he knew that she found him ‘frighteningly reserved’.
Dear Adam, she wrote in her swift, elegant copperplate, as your great-aunt is indisposed (albeit not seriously), she has asked me to write with the news from home . . .
Adam felt a flicker of irritation. The conspiracy between the two women could not have been more transparent. ‘The poor boy’s wife won’t write to him, so we jolly well ought. Keep up morale at the Front, that sort of thing. Our duty as Englishwomen.’
I’m told, wrote Sibella, that they’re having a rather trying time out in Jamaica. Last month a hurricane hit the Northside; apparently it seemed at first as if it was going to miss them altogether, but then at the last moment it swung round and flattened a great swath of the coast; that’s hurricanes for you! Cocoa and coffee absolutely destroyed, and everyone who got out of sugar is now bitterly regretting it, especially with the War sending the prices sky high. Of course, your great-aunt isn’t seriously affected at Salt River, but my people seem to have made somewhat of an error, have not they?
Adam noted the undercurrent of glee. ‘My people’ meant Sibella’s father, Cornelius Traherne, who’d recently turned over many of his cane-pieces to coffee, and must now be facing a difficult year. It was widely known that he and Sibella did not get on.
Still, she went on crisply, I’m delighted to say that Eden is doing well at last. So glad for dear Madeleine and Cameron! And of course that means that darling Belle can finally afford some decent clothes, which has been fun. You remember Isabelle Lawe?
Adam raked his memory and came up with an angry schoolgirl who’d once berated him for lack of honesty about something or other. She’d been friends with Dodo Cornwallis, St John’s little sister.
St John Cornwallis. The smoking crater. The boot . . .
Adam lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. What the devil was Captain Goodwin going to tell St John’s people? He could hardly write and say that their youngest son had been blown apart by a shell, leaving only a boot.
Pushing the thought away, he took refuge in Sibella’s letter.
Of course as it’s term-time, she went on, darling Belle oughtn’t to be with me at all, but she’s run away from school (again!), and I simply didn’t have the heart to send her back. Besides, London is so exciting at the moment! The streets are filled with unifo
rms, the Boy Scouts look adorable cycling along sounding the All Clear on their bugles, and the Zepps are really rather pretty, and far too slow and clumsy to be frightening. Besides, they only ever bomb Dover and the East End.
Of course, there are inconveniences. Those horrid new paper pound notes; and the fact that everything’s so frightfully expensive; and the fashions are too drab for words – some people seem to think that if one’s not in khaki, one’s being unpatriotic – although the dear little aeroplanes on the veils are rather sweet.
Unsurprisingly, everyone is absolutely rabid about German spies. They’ve even talked of banning Beethoven (which came to nothing, of course), and anyone with a German name is finding things rather trying. I’m only thankful that my poor little boy is safely down in Sussex, as he’d never hear the end of it with a name like Maximilian – and you know how timid he is. Or perhaps you don’t? I can’t remember if you’ve ever met . . .
How can she imagine that I want to hear all this? wondered Adam with some amusement. He skipped to the last page: . . . and poor little Bobby Mordenner was killed last week, such a trial for his mother. But enough of that. Your cousin Osbourne is staying with us, charming boy, and he seems to be quite taken with Belle. So agreeable to have a man about the house again; something I’ve sorely missed since dear Freddie had an attack of patriotism and got himself a commission. Although what Freddie could possibly achieve against the Boche, I cannot imagine . . .
She had a point. Freddie Austen, who was widely known as ‘Sibella’s faithful swain’, having adored her hopelessly through both her marriages and beyond, was a sweet, sensitive scion of minor Irish nobility, whose talents leaned more towards birdwatching than combat. But then, reflected Adam, the same could be said of a lot of us.
‘Ready for you, sir,’ said Sergeant Watts, making him jump.
‘What?’ Adam said blankly.
‘Burial, sir,’ said the sergeant. Like any seasoned soldier, he didn’t hesitate to tell his young officers what he thought they needed to know. ‘Detail’s just come back, sir; chaplain’s at the ready, and Cap’n Goodwin likes to see all his officers turn out for the service.’
Adam was still stuffing his letters in his pocket and straightening his tunic as he followed the sergeant through the winding communication trench and up over the duckboards to the little patch of churned earth where the service was to be held.
The day was turning out fine, and some late ox-eye daisies brightened the spot where the men had gathered. Overhead, a skylark was going crazy in the sunshine.
The chaplain was waiting in his surplice with a Bible in his hand, while behind him stood the other officers and a handful of men. The man nearest the chaplain carried a half-filled sandbag.
As Adam took his place beside Captain Goodwin, the chaplain began the service, and the private with the sandbag lowered it carefully into a freshly dug hole. Beside the hole lay an empty whisky bottle, securely corked, containing a handwritten luggage label.
The sergeant saw Adam looking at it, and whispered in his ear, ‘Cap’n Goodwin’s little system, sir. Marks the grave till the crosses come through.’
‘How many names on the label?’ Adam whispered back.
‘Five, sir.’
Five, thought Adam. The sandbag contains the remains of five men.
But what about Private Nathan? He hadn’t been blown up, just shot through the head. And what about St John Cornwallis’s boot? There didn’t look as if there was enough room in the sandbag for that. Why hadn’t they found Nathan and Cornwallis?
Adam made a mental note to say something afterwards. Or perhaps he ought to write a report to the War Graves Commission? HQ was always sending out reminders about that. It is of the greatest importance to civilian morale that the location of all temporary graves be reported at once . . .
Once again, Adam saw the red hole blossoming in Nathan’s forehead. One moment he’d been a boy of eighteen, intent on not losing his nerve, and the next – he was simply dead. Nothing human left. Just a lump of meat on the ground. And now the chaplain was thanking God in His mercy . . .
Adam struggled to take it in.
He hadn’t believed in God since he was eight, when his mother had died of the Russian influenza. He’d flatly refused to go to Sunday School, and there had been a family row about it, with his older brothers siding with Pa against him, while three-year-old Erskine looked on with round blue eyes. Surprisingly, it had been the Sunday School teacher who had taken Adam’s part, by declaring that he must be given time to find his own way. That was Aunt Maud for you. Rigidly conventional for most of the time, and then occasionally . . .
With a twinge of guilt he realized that his mind had drifted away from the service. How could he be so callous? How could he care so little about a brother officer whom he’d known ever since Winchester, and four of his own men?
And yet, try as he might to conjure up some sadness, all he could feel was a vast disbelief.
He looked about him at the grey faces of the living, and the yawning black hole with the sandbag at the bottom; at the barbed wire stretching into the distance, and the tender blue sky. He thought, what are you doing here? How could you possibly imagine that this has anything to do with your brothers? How could you think that by running over a few hundred yards of torn earth waving a useless revolver, you’re honouring their memory? They’re dead. They’re gone. What’s left of them is no different from those chunks in the sandbag.
He glanced down at his bandaged hand, and remembered the feeling of surprise when he’d been shot: when he’d realized that he was part of the target.
He ought to find that frightening, but he didn’t.
Oh well, he thought numbly. Perhaps I’ll be one of the lucky ones. Perhaps I won’t feel fear.
Chapter Eight
Berthonval, August 1916 – one year later
A doctor was visiting the battalion. As his practice had been in Galloway before the War, Adam asked him to dine in his dugout: an impulse he regretted on learning that the doctor was making a study of shell shock.
After heavy losses at Longueval and Delville Wood, the battalion had spent two weeks behind the line, then taken over No. 1 sector at Berthonval. The trenches were deep and dry but not revetted, so they needed shoring up to prevent a collapse when it rained. As the line was quiet and the weather good, Adam drew up a rota for the men, and they got on with it.
Normally he enjoyed this sort of work, but now he found himself snapping constantly at the men, and cursing their slowness. What was wrong with him? Presumably this confounded doctor meant to find out.
The dinner was a good one, for Sibella Clyne, who seemed to have adopted Adam as one of her causes, had sent out another parcel. After tinned oysters and cold partridge, they had a chocolate cake from Rumpelmayer’s, washed down with two bottles of Graves, and plenty of whisky. The doctor was excellent company, but Adam knew that he was being observed, which made him even edgier than usual. When his batman came in with more coffee, he snapped at the man to get out.
There was a silence after the batman had gone. The doctor lit a cigar, while Adam rearranged a matchbox on the collapsible writing desk which doubled as a dinner table. When the silence had become intolerable, he said, ‘So what’s the verdict?’
‘What do you mean?’ the doctor said mildly.
‘Well, it’s quite clear that you’ve been sizing me up. What’s the verdict?’
The doctor smiled. He had a square, freckled face, and small grey eyes that gave nothing away. ‘Your CO is becoming concerned about you. That’s all.’
‘So he told you to check me out.’
‘Something like that. He seems to think you’re showing signs of wear and tear.’
Adam barked a laugh. ‘Enough for a ticket home?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Ah. I didn’t think so.’
‘Often a man simply needs time out of the line. And sleep.’
‘I don’t want sleep,’ said A
dam. ‘When I sleep, I dream.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Well, of course.’
There was a pause, which the doctor seemed content not to fill. Adam finished his cigar and lit another, then refilled their whisky tumblers. He caught the doctor’s eye and shrugged. ‘I know, I’m drinking too much. And my nerves are shot, and I look fifty instead of thirty. So do we all. Must be something to do with sitting like rabbits in holes, waiting to be blown to blazes.’
‘That could be it,’ agreed the doctor.
‘So why is the CO picking on me? Everyone’s got the wind up.’
‘You’re one of his best officers.’
Adam snorted. ‘Then he’s in trouble. If a shell bursts a mile away, I have to steel myself not to cringe. I curse anything and everyone. I talk too fast, and always about the War. Each new gas attack, each new calamity, I have to talk about it. It’s as if – as if I’m trying to infect everyone else with my own fear. And that’s what it is, doctor, it’s fear. We call it “windiness” or “wear and tear” because we can’t bear to use the real word. It’s despicable.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I do.’ With his fingertips he drummed on the table. ‘Do you know what I hate most? It’s the ones who don’t get the wind up. We had one last month, a transfer from C Company. Big fellow, good officer, no imagination. No fear. “Life in the line”, he told me on his first morning, “affects me very little. I’ve found that if you can just steady yourself the first time you’re shelled, then you never have any trouble again.”’ Adam took a long pull at his drink. ‘God, how I hated him! I hated him far more than I’ve ever hated the Boche – whom, as it happens, I don’t hate in the least.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Poor fellow was caught by a sniper two days later. So after all that about shellfire, he—’ He broke off. ‘You see? I’m talking too much. And before the War they used to chaff me for not talking enough – for keeping my feelings to myself.’ He paused. ‘So tell me, doctor. In your expert opinion. Is it shell shock?’
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 89
