The Keepsake

by Sheelagh Kelly

  He sounded terrified, but those on the other side of the wall were unable to help him.

  The voice was unfamiliar to Marty, but then the majority of those around him were strangers now since his own regiment had been decimated, his CO and most of the company commanders dead, along with three-quarters of the men, he and the survivors from other battalions being rounded up to form this new unit. ‘What’s your name, chum?’

  ‘Salmon.’

  ‘I thought there was something fishy about him.’ To try and staunch the horror he was still experiencing over the death of his friend, Marty could not resist a bad joke to his companions. If one did not laugh, one was done for.

  ‘Ha bloody ha,’ came the unamused voice.

  ‘Well, sorry, Fishy old chum,’ said another, ‘you’ll just have to keep your head down till after dark.’

  ‘I can’t stay here for ten bloody hours!’ The victim must have tried to free himself again for there came another rifle crack.

  ‘Salmon? Salmon?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ whimpered the voice to the group’s relief.

  ‘Just keep still, he’ll think he’s done for ye,’ urged Marty. ‘We’ll get to you as soon as we can.’ And he went back to his cigarette.

  Hours passed, he and the others offering the occasional word of encouragement as they squelched about their business, reassuring the trapped man after each bombardment. Hot rations were brought up but there was little that could be shared with poor Salmon, who by midday sounded thoroughly demented for he shrieked at every burst of fire.

  Marty rammed a lump of bread onto the end of his bayonet and called, ‘Prepare to receive rations, Fishy!’ Taking his rifle by the butt he slid it up and over the parapet and, straining against the wall of sandbags, tried to lower its bayonet as best he could in the supposed direction of Salmon. ‘Got it?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Salmon!’ Marty had seen horses drown in these conditions; he feared the worst.

  ‘Hang on, nearly – got it!’

  ‘Jeez, I thought you’d swum away for a minute.’ Issuing a note of relief, Marty quickly withdrew his bayonet to see that the bread had been taken.

  Salmon gave tremulous thanks, and despite being half-paralysed with terror managed a quip as he kept his head down and gnawed at the bread. ‘Is there trifle for afters?’

  ‘Better – a lump of fruitcake.’ This was Marty’s own, sent to him by his mother, but sharing it was the least he could do for a comrade. Transferring it in the same manner was difficult, and it slipped from bayonet to mud before reaching Salmon. However, there was a more positive addition. ‘Your sniper friend seems to have gone, least he hasn’t taken advantage of me handing this over, so we might be able to get you out earlier than planned.’

  But the sniper had only been having games with them, allowing Salmon to relax a little before landing a bullet half an inch from his elbow that had him squealing for assistance and trying to camouflage himself by wriggling into the mud like a crab. From then until nightfall they were forced to take it in turns to feed and to reassure him, passing him titbits on the ends of their bayonets whilst his demeanour became gradually more uncontrolled. Only when darkness fell could Marty and another slither over the parapet with their shovels and dig him out. His trembling body was eased through the morass and carried to safety, this at least lending those involved some satisfaction in this hellish place.

  In due course they were on the move, though making slow progress, their route impeded by roads clogged with mud, shells dropping all around them, strafed by the Germans from their seemingly impregnable position in a line of trenches along the edge of the woods that crowned the slope. The greater part of the week was passed in bombardment and foiling counter-attacks, again to heavy loss. Eventually they reached the comparative safety of higher ground and, once ensconced in a wooded area, they took cover and awaited fresh orders. A shower of hail, a shower of shrapnel: each made similar noise as it came rushing through the trees. Relieved to have escaped the deadly effect of the leaden variety, Marty uncurled and looked about him, studying the ravaged branches, and saw what appeared to be a shrivelled monkey’s ear, attached to a piece of fur by which it dangled from a twig. Knowing it for human, he stared at it in fascination as the raindrops hit it, causing it to rotate and jiggle.

  And then it was onwards again, he and his fellows despatched in small groups up the wooded slope, the fighting chaotic as they ran from tree to tree, friend shooting friend in the panic-fuelled bid to stay alive. A village intervened. Breaking from the woods, Marty and his group set off at a crouching run along streets littered with corpses from both sides, dashing from ruined cottage to blood-spattered shell-hole, firing at those who fired upon him. Then, suddenly, Germans were looming up before them, lunging with bayonets. Too close to shoot the one that came at him, Marty whacked the blade aside with his own rifle, struggling briefly, brutally, before stabbing the enemy and moving on to another, and another, and another…

  Amidst brave deeds and ugly combat, their trial was victorious, the village was taken and on Sunday a break in the clouds permitted them to attend their sodden clothes, though the sun was too feeble to be of much use. It was just as well, for the rotting corpses smelt bad enough as it was. Haunted by the loss of his own humanity, his hands yet sticky with blood, Marty sought out a patch of sunlight and re-read his wife’s last letter before making an attempt to reply, the first real opportunity he had had. But what to say apart from that he missed her? He couldn’t tell her of the awful things he had seen, nor of the constant nightmares, nor the expectation that any minute he would die. He longed to have closer contact with her – not just in body but in spirit, longed with all his being, was consumed by the funny little things she used to say and do, cursed the stupid imma-turity that had led him to run away and so be in this position now, and prayed it was not too late to put things right.

  Not long afterwards, the Hun, too, seized advantage of the more clement weather, launching a counter-attack, and again at dusk. The night filled with the roar of express trains. And so it went on…

  Mrs Gledhill’s son was to be the first of many. Less than two months after the declaration of war, long lists of casualties began to appear in the newspaper, amongst them many from Marty’s regiment. Now, every time Etta saw a telegram boy in the street she held her breath until he had pedalled by her door. But even though he might be past, the fear and danger were not, for talk had it that instead of being over by Christmas the war might go on for much longer.

  What was most distressing of all was the lack of correspondence from her husband. Sick of trying to control her palpitations every time there came a knock at the door, after one such incident too many, Etta finally announced, ‘I can abide this no longer, doing nothing whilst Martin’s under such threat, feeling useless…’

  ‘You’re doing your bit, as am I,’ pointed out Aggie. The pair of them, indeed all the female members of the clan, had taken to doing voluntary work in what little spare time they had.

  ‘Yes, but I need to undertake something more useful,’ argued her daughter-in-law.

  ‘The munitions factory needs people,’ ventured Red, scraping up the last of his dinner.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll make bombs to prolong their blessed war!’ retorted Etta. ‘My intention is to go out there and find him.’

  Aggie was astounded. ‘You can’t do that!’ she said, grabbing her husband before he fell off his chair. ‘’Tis too dangerous.’

  ‘Hundreds are out there already with the VAD,’ pointed out Etta.

  ‘And is it that you’re intending to join them?’ asked Aggie, thinking that her daughter-in-law would not be one’s most natural choice for a nurse.

  ‘No,’ Etta was firm. ‘I’m sure it’s all very noble and of course I’ll assist wherever possible, but my main concern is Marty.’

  ‘War’s no place for a woman,’ opined Uncle Mal, picking meat from his teeth.

  ‘It’s
no place for a man either,’ she snapped back.

  ‘And what do you intend to do when, if, you find him?’ asked Aggie, a fistful of Red’s shirt in one hand whilst using the other to try and stack the dinner plates.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Vexed, Etta clasped her temples. ‘Just be with him to offer support, I suppose. I’ve thought about it a lot, I’ll use my savings –’

  ‘Ye said you were putting that by for when Marty comes home.’ With her husband awake again, Aggie relaxed her support of him. ‘What happens if you go swanning off wasting your money in France and the war’s all over next week? Just bide a while, then we’ll help if we can. He knows you’re thinking about him. Sure, we all are.’ Alerted by the delivery of the afternoon post, she went to fetch it and returned triumphant. ‘There! Didn’t I tell you he’d write when he could?’

  At once a relieved Etta ripped the envelope open.

  ‘What does he say?’ The rest of the family hovered eagerly.

  A pause whilst the reader’s eyes flicked back and forth. ‘Very little…he asks that we send something to make him smell nice.’

  ‘Wasn’t he always the vain one,’ mocked Red to a similarly amused Uncle Mal.

  Etta sprang to her husband’s defence. ‘Apparently the conditions are atrocious, there’s nowhere for him to get a proper wash…He says the food’s all right, though he’d appreciate some Bovril and some razor blades…’

  ‘Shall I send Father that bottle of violet scent which Aunt Joan gave me for my birthday?’ asked seven-year-old Alex. ‘It’s got orange blobs in it but it still smells nice.’

  Etta smiled at her. ‘I’m sure he’d love it, dear.’ The next section she read aloud: ‘Please apologise to Ma for my not writing –’

  ‘Sure, I’m not bothered about that,’ cut in Aggie. ‘So long as he’s safe.’ She played nervously with the skin of her throat. ‘Ye read such awful things…’

  ‘Has he shot many Germans?’ Tom and his twelve-year-old brother were desperate to know.

  Etta looked up to issue a frowning rebuke, which was all it took for them to apologise and hang their heads for they adored their sister-in-law. She forgave them, looking down again to read and saying kindly, ‘He doesn’t say – he has some foreign souvenirs for you, though.’

  ‘And for me?’ Edward felt left out.

  Etta said she was sure that he had, but sought to alert her children that, ‘Father has much more important things to think about.’ For the benefit of all, she went on, ‘He says not to worry if we don’t hear from him very often, but they’ve been very busy pressing forward and their battle led to great success – that must be the one we read about in the paper.’ Whilst the others underwent a bout of murmuring, Etta kept the last few lines to herself, her lips forming a sad, secret smile, her eyes portraying empathy as she read how much he missed her and longed for the day when they would be together again.

  ‘Hadn’t you better be off to work?’

  Aggie’s voice alerting her to the time, Etta nodded and, returning to the mundane, she folded the letter away. ‘I intended to leave earlier than this. I want to call in on Mrs Gledhill on the way, the poor soul looked completely lost yesterday.’

  ‘That’s a nice thought.’ But Aggie was not surprised by this. Living at close quarters, she had long ago reversed her opinion of Etta being selfish. Indeed, she was very warm-hearted and, besides mucking in with all the neighbourly sharing that had to be done in these times of food shortages, had involved herself in visiting every bereaved wife and mother in the area.

  ‘It’s only what she’d do for me,’ said Etta as she kissed her children and went off to work.

  ‘And let’s hope that’s an end to her crazy ideas,’ murmured Red to his wife.

  The rain began to drain away, October opening fine and warm, though the nights grew increasingly colder. Since the battle they had became static, which was somehow worse than ever for the long periods of boredom gave Marty time to dwell on the terrifying notion that he could die at any moment – he had seen so many killed, how rudely death came – and this could be only briefly alleviated by the arrival of letters and parcels from home. There was always something for him. Sometimes several items arrived from his mother, sisters, aunts, but something always came from Etta. Never had she let him down, never did she scold for his own lack of correspondence, letting him know gently that it would be nice to hear from him whenever he had the time.

  In a dormant moment now, at rest camp well away from the front lines, he pulled out her latest missive and pored over it again. She wanted to know specifically where he was. Even had it been permitted he couldn’t have told her. Shunted from pillar to post, bombarded, strafed, exhausted, Marty didn’t know where he was himself half the time. Nor did he care, all he wanted was to be home with his beloved and his dear children, his ma and his da and his brothers and sisters and Uncle Mal’s bowels. He longed to be back in dirty old York, with its soot-coated factories and dog-shit pavements, its boisterous pubs, its blunt-speaking residents…but to dwell too long on thoughts such as these had driven others to insanity. Wondering how long he himself would be able to resist mental collapse, he tucked his letter away and answered the call to parade.

  Here they were given news: they were shortly to move again up to Flanders. In addition to this, ten men were singled out for detail, Marty amongst them. Worried that this could mean some dangerous mission, he debated this with the others, and was to be even more unnerved when rumour reached them that their detail was to form a firing squad.

  ‘The cherrynobs brought in a deserter,’ revealed the goggle-eyed harbinger.

  Marty was shaken to the core. It was not so much that the man was being shot, for he, like many others, had a low opinion of those who ran away. He had felt like running away himself, but that would have meant leaving his friends to face the danger, something he would never countenance. No, it was the fact of being told to shoot a fellow Briton that upset him most.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked quietly.

  Huddled in a bunch, consulting each other uneasily, no one knew.

  ‘It’s not right,’ objected Marty, feeling sick. ‘We’re here to shoot Germans, not our own. What harm has he ever done me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he’s done.’ At the sound of their sergeant’s voice their faces whipped round to portray guilt, though their eyes retained a look of repugnance for what they were being commanded to do.

  ‘He’s let you down,’ said the sergeant. ‘You, his comrades.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sarnt,’ chanced Marty, his grey eyes troubled, ‘but that’s my point. We’re his comrades, why should we have to –’

  ‘You were his comrades,’ emphasised the sergeant darkly. ‘As from the time Salmon decided to run away, abandon his duty and leave us in the lurch, he was no friend of mine, nor yours neither.’

  ‘Salmon? Oh, Christ, I know that man!’ Marty begged in earnest, ‘Oh, please, sarnt, don’t make a murderer out o’ me. I’ll do anything else you ask, but please don’t make me do that!’

  The sergeant remained grim as others joined their wheedling voices to Marty’s. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but somebody’s got to carry out the order, and if it isn’t you it’ll be somebody else – don’t bother to argue, Lanegan!’ Seeing Marty’s lips part yet again he nipped any further insurrection in the bud. At the bleak nods of concurence he finished on a sympathetic note. ‘I’ll see if I can wangle you some rum…’

  This he did, but even alcohol could not remove from their minds what lay ahead. Marty could not sleep at the best of times, but tonight was even worse as he smoked one cigarette after another, fretted and drank and prayed and wondered what must be going through the condemned fellow’s mind. When dawn rose over the crenellated outline of ruined buildings he was awake to meet it, sullenly assembling with the others to have his rifle checked by the attending officer. In the centre of the ground selected as Tyburn was an empty chair: a dazed and inebriated Priva
te Salmon was half-carried, half-dragged out of an abandoned, bomb-damaged house and tied to it. Marty experienced a jolt of shock at how young he looked, the eyes bewildered. It was awful to watch him struggling to free himself – how naturally, how fiercely would he himself struggle were the positions reversed. A white disc was pinned over his heart by the medical officer and a blindfold applied to his gyrating head. Wanting to vomit, to rebel against this cruelty, Marty crossed himself, then, with trembling limbs, shouldered his rifle, wondering what the others intended to do, for he himself knew exactly: when the order was given to fire he would obey but would aim above Salmon’s head; he was damned if they would make a murderer out of him.

  At the order to fire, a volley crackled through the cold grey morn. Peppered with bullets, none of which was fatal, the condemned man groaned and tried blindly to stand, but only succeeded in toppling the chair. The officer’s face suffused with fury. Immediately he rushed to where Salmon lay, aimed his revolver and shot him through the head. Shot him in cold blood. As horror-stricken as his comrades, some of whom were vomiting, Marty looked on as death was certified, then the young officer turned angrily on them.

  ‘Damn you ignorant fools!’ His eyes were red and threatened tears. ‘You simply prolonged his agony! Get out of my sight before I have you all on a charge!’

  And with this terrible image seared into his breast, Marty slunk away.

  Limbs torn off trees, limbs torn off men. First snow, then ice. Now his pleas to Etta were for warm socks and gloves, as many as she could muster lest he should succumb, like others, to frostbite. Everyone had expected the war to be over by Christmas, but Christmas had passed and now the ground was frozen; as was his soul. He wondered if he would ever be rid of that look of bewilderment on Salmon’s youthful face. Petrified by the overwhelming odds that he might never see his wife and children again, he hurt so much he felt it might kill him even before the Germans did. From a rock-hard lair, a feral beast, he stared out at the wintry landscape, eyes fixed dolefully on the frozen footprints of men who had long since died. Only now, as the threat of death became ever more realistic, was he able to elaborate his feelings for her, on filth-streaked paper, with blunted lead and trembling chilblained fingers scrawling the words darling and beloved to such poetic effect that he could barely believe it came from his own hand.