There was no sign of tears when the guard came to check on him. He even made a weak attempt at humour as he asked for permission to correspond with his wife. ‘I’d better let her know about that money I hid under the floorboards, seeing as I won’t be going home.’
But when he did sit down to write, it was not to appraise her of his impending slaughter – he could not bear the shame, and nor would she – but to take this chance, perhaps his final chance, to express his adoration. These carefully chosen words of love were sent home, their author little knowing that Etta was barely ten miles away.
One of her letters met with swift response. The major was extremely moved by her distress – he knew that Private Lanegan was a fool but no coward and would assist in any way possible, but feared that this would be of little substance as his recommendations for mercy had so far carried no weight. Nevertheless, he had instructed that her letter be forwarded to Brigade Headquarters, whence it would be attached to the file of proceedings which would then be passed on to Divisional HQ and along the chain of command, eventually to reach the Adjutant General’s department at GHQ where the Judge Advocate would instruct on the legality of the case. It was he who decreed whether or not the conviction should be quashed.
With this her only shred of hope, not knowing how long the outcome would take or even if they would let her know at all when they were going to kill her husband, Etta was to extend her stay in the convent for another week. At first, swaddled in a deathly silence broken only by the occasion clanking of a bucket and the swish of a nun’s habit, upon recuperation and in need of more useful existence, she took to sitting with the sick and elderly who occupied a larger dormitory, to try and meet their physical needs without speaking their language, to stroke their hands in a universal gesture of support, and at other times to scrub floors and to hoe the vegetables in the highwalled garden, all the while yearning to receive personal news from Marty and racking her brain over what else could be done, other than to bombard the army with letters, which she continued to do.
‘A lawyer!’ she announced suddenly to the one who had come to check on her wound and had just given pronouncement that it was nicely healed. ‘I must have a lawyer – this can’t possibly be right. Do you know where I might find one, Sister?’
There was a faint whiff of carbolic as Sister Cecile withdrew, looked dubious and said, ‘There used to be one in the town, but he was killed when his house was bombed.’
Etta simmered with frustration. ‘I shouldn’t think I could afford the fees anyway.’ It was little comfort to know that what money she did have was still tucked safely behind the pistol in the leather holster, the latter having come through all the various traumas undetected until she herself had removed it in order to bathe. The nuns had expressed mild alarm until she had shown it wasn’t loaded and was merely a cosmetic means of protection. However, she had thought it advisable to keep the weapon hidden on her person in case someone from the army came to see her and confiscated it. It might yet be needed.
Many more precious hours were fretted away, nothing being delivered to her room save a waft of boiled cabbage. Then, at last a letter arrived from Marty. It had reverted to its old disjointed style, in fact was much, much worse as he groped for words to describe the horror of his situation. He apologised for rambling, it was simply the shock of knowing that she was aware of his dilemma – but not totally appraised of the facts, he hastened to add, for he must state here and now that he had not deserted, had merely been unable to find his way back to his unit who, unknown to him, had been ordered elsewhere to stem a breach in the line whilst he had been asleep. That had been his only crime, he could not emphasise this strongly enough. He hated to have her think him a coward, begged her not to tell his parents or his children, but to say that he had died bravely, as he hoped he would when his time came…
Dashing away the mist of tears, Etta read on, coming to understand now why she had received the telegram to say he was missing; how his unit had been shelled whilst on the march and how his friends had lied about seeing him wounded, how he had stumbled around for almost a week in his search for them, until finally he had been picked up by the provost and accused of that most heinous offence.
In closing lines he told her how good his commanding officer had been in making sure this letter would reach her as quickly as possible, and expressed again his astonishment that his dear, dear wife was so much nearer than he could ever have imagined. He praised her attempts to free him, said how much it gave him strength, even though the Major had warned him to prepare for the worst. They must both be prepared. If that happened, if he never got to see her again, he hoped that she would find it in her heart to forgive all the hurt he had caused her. He concluded with his undying love.
Dealing her eyes and nose an angry swipe of a handkerchief, she took up her pen and scratched out a fevered response immediately, ordering him to keep faith, for there was higher authority than his battalion commander and she was yet to hear from that quarter. Meanwhile, she would organise the correct paperwork that would enable her to visit him. He must not allow himself even to entertain the idea that all was lost, for she intended to save him, at whatever price. She was certain the news would be good, for no one could take a man’s life for so trivial an offence.
But as another two days crept by, Etta became increasingly perturbed that she had had no response from anyone other than the major. This could only spell the worst. Yet, however fearful, whatever the amount of dread that weighed upon her heart, she had not truly believed it would happen until the reality finally dawned in the shape of a terse letter with an official stamp, which informed her that having reviewed all the evidence, the Judge Advocate ruled that all statutory requirements had been met. There was therefore no reason why sentence should not be carried out.
They really did intend to kill Marty.
Whilst Etta attempted to battle her way through the stultifying shock that followed, the nuns administered infinite succour, telling her of their prayers for Marty’s soul, to which she finally managed to retort bitterly that he was not dead yet, the warrant had still to be signed by the Commander in Chief and whilst Marty remained alive there was hope. And it was in this last desperate spirit of hope that she seized up her pen and wrote to the battalion commander again, demanding to be allowed to visit her husband in his hour of crisis, hoping that once face to face with her, the major would be unable to resist her plea for compassion.
But the only compassion he showed was to have his reply delivered swiftly by despatch rider, telling her that in his humble opinion it would not be advisable for her to visit her husband, but to remember him as he had been in happier times. And this was to be endorsed by the sisters, who sought to prise her from the grip of spiritual despair, telling her that she was not alone, that their prayers for Marty would continue, and urging her to join them on their knees before the bluemantled Virgin.
But Etta had not the time to waste on plaster saints; she could just as easily pray whilst on the move. ‘I don’t care what they say – they won’t keep me from him!’
‘But it is in the war zone!’ protested Sister Bernadette, acquainted with the location of Marty’s prison. ‘You cannot go without a permit. You may be shot.’
Undaunted, Etta demanded, ‘Then where do I apply?’
Sister Cecile spoke dubiously of all the form-filling that would be required before the civil authorities would grant it. ‘I have known it take ten days…’
‘Then I’ll go without one!’ declared Etta, before seeing how futile this would be and, grasping the nun’s arm, beseeched her, ‘Please, please help me – they know you! If you intervene they might expedite matters…’
Looking at each other, the sisters agreed, saying it might also help if they were to write her a letter of introduction to the nuns at the local convent, and whilst Sister Cecile went off to seek leave from the Mother Superior, Etta pressed Sister Bernadette for as much information as she had on the town where Marty w
as being held.
Whilst Sister Cecile’s pessimistic view was not upheld, it took Etta another whole precious day to cut through all the rigmarole and for the permit to be granted. Issuing effusive thanks to the sisters for their help with this and for their care, she appealed for one last favour: that they allow her to buy one of their large white pinafores that might keep her newly laundered dress a little cleaner.
Equipped with this and the precious documentation she departed next morning, stepping warily from the cloistered world of the convent into the military bustle of the old grey town. Her figure caped against the chilly but bright late-summer morn, she had no time to wait for a train. With only a brief diversion to obtain some necessary items, she struck out along the main road, bound for Marty’s prison.
In his stark little cell, with its cool floor of bricks, its barred windows and planks for a bed, its only piece of furniture a bucket, Marty had read Etta’s most recent letter many times in the last few days. He knew most of it off by heart. He had told her that knowing of her attempt to save him lent him strength, but it didn’t, for he had come to understand that all raised hopes of an appeal were academic. His fate had been decided from the start. Deep down he had always known that.
Now, perhaps only hours of life remained. He should have been preparing to meet his Maker. Instead, he was plotting his escape.
By means of a generous tip to an ambulance driver, Etta was now within reach of the town that served both as a rest camp and a centre for casualties. On the outskirts, small shacks came into view, built of biscuit tins and packing cases, straw, and anything that might house a refugee. Her nerves on edge, she paid them little heed; nor would she have remarked upon the large black dog harnessed to a cart had it not been blocking the way ahead, but she shared the driver’s irritation until the dog’s owner led it aside allowing the ambulance to sweep past.
Finally set down some streets away from her goal, she held her breath as she mingled with the crowd of army personnel, waiting for someone to demand her permit. The sun was out now and she held her cape rolled into a bundle. She had toyed briefly with the idea of pinning a cross of red material to the breast of her pinafore to make herself appear more official, but then this might leave her open to the attentions of some bossy matron, so she had decided to leave things as they were, relying on the introductory letter to the local nuns as reason enough for her to be here. The ambulance driver hadn’t been concerned enough to interrogate her, just happy for her company and her money. Clutching the bundle under her arm, she followed his directions to the market square, praying that she was taking the right path. A young girl walked briskly ahead of her, the clickety-clack of her wooden clogs coinciding with the rapid beat of Etta’s pulse. The noise in her own head was so deafening that she was barely aware of the distant explosions in the background. She had been told that Poperinghe was relatively safe from bombardment, and indeed it appeared to be so with its civilian population intact and its shops still doing business, though this made no difference to her state of apprehension. She needed desperately to visit the lavatory but tried to ignore the spasms in her gut by concentrating on her mission. One of the nuns knew this town well and had been good enough to tell her where the military prison, formerly the town hall, was situated, totally innocent that Etta was not merely going there to share a last kiss with her husband but to rescue him. Limbs like jelly, she tried to prevent her hand from constantly checking that the pistol was still beneath her skirt. Fully recognising that the consequence of wielding an unloaded weapon against an experienced soldier might be her own death, she just as soon dismissed it. She would never forgive herself if she did not try everything in her power to save her husband.
Her heart leapt; she could see the prison now; or at least she could the neo-Gothic spires of the town hall that the sister had described. She headed along the narrow cobbled street, not too slowly, not too quickly, every nerve on edge, every hair on end. Soldiers nodded to the attractive nurse as she passed, some respectful, others with an impudence born of living in constant threat of death. She responded to all with as steady a smile as she could muster, hoping they would not see the nervous twitch about her lips, moving ever nearer to her goal.
Another soldier sauntered towards her. She glanced at him, smiled and glanced away, when suddenly he grasped her free arm and turned her about.
‘Don’t say a word!’
At first, shock at the painful nip of her flesh, then a cry of recognition. ‘Mar—’
‘Ssh!’ he told her, and, still gripping her arm he tucked it under his and steered her back the way she had come, ‘Just try to look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’
Overwhelmed by the joy of having Marty at her side, Etta’s eyes held a lustre that had long been absent. She yearned to embrace him, but did as he ordered and said not another word as they walked as nonchalantly as they could through the human traffic.
‘Where shall we go?’ Heart racing, Etta told herself to be calm, and threw smiling glances at passers-by.
‘Station,’ came the succinct response, Marty grinning as if he were merely enjoying an excursion in the sunshine with a pretty nurse.
‘Is it far?’ She could scarcely breathe for excitement.
‘I don’t know.’ He held on tightly to her arm. ‘I just hope it’s this way.’
After what seemed hundreds and hundreds of yards, the railway station finally came into view. But, ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Etta, ‘look at all those people!’ A fleet of ambulances had just arrived from the direction of Ypres and a squad of stretcher-bearers were busily transferring patients to a waiting train, whilst black-clad peasants stood patiently by, waiting to be allowed entry to the platform.
Some of the not too badly wounded were staggering unattended into the station. Stating that this might just help their cause, Marty pressed her onwards, and, as they drew nearer he affected to lean against her and to hobble, she supporting him as they made their way through the wicket and onto the platform. A steaming train awaited. It was useless to try and gain access to one of the carriages, for these were all fitted with white hospital beds. Instead, Marty and Etta hobbled their way to the end of the platform, to the station yard, where another train stood. Though its engine was dormant and it seemed to be going nowhere, in the hope that it eventually would they looked sharply about them before leaping into one of its carriages.
Here, at last, they were able to fling their arms round each other, pressing their bodies tightly together. They kissed and cried for joy – and in pity too, Etta unable to believe how Marty had changed, his poor, dear face stripped of youth.
Briefly tearing himself away to examine her, an elated Marty immediately noticed the scar. ‘What’s that on your throat?’ His eyes flashed from green to grey in concern.
‘I was stung by a wasp – they had to cut my windpipe.’ Continually, between words, she pressed her lips to his face, hugged him and cuddled him to her breast.
‘God! I thought you sounded husky.’ He returned her fervent embrace, both of them crooning how wonderful it was, squeezing so tightly they could hardly breathe.
He pulled away to marvel again, breathing into her joyous visage, ‘Well…fancy seeing you here! I almost didn’t recognise ye.’
Etta laughed aloud, her eyes shining with the brightness of delirium. ‘I know, I look a mess, don’t I?’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what ye look like – you’re here!’
‘I was just coming to free you!’ she told him. ‘How did you manage to escape?’
‘Just walked out!’ Marty sounded equally amazed. ‘The guards got used to chatting with me, knew I could be trusted to behave meself.’ He laughed. ‘When one of them left my door open while he went to fetch something I took me chance. There’s usually a sentry, I don’t know where the hell he’d gone, but God bless the bugger. Christ, I still can’t believe you’re here!’ He hugged her again, rocked her to and fro, this way and that, both ecstatic.
�
�Thank goodness we met!’ Warm face pressed to warm neck, her voice was feverishly shrill on his ear. ‘I would have looked very foolish holding up the guard with my pistol for a man who’d already escaped!’
‘You’ve got a gun?’ Incredulous, he pushed her away again.
‘It isn’t loaded, more’s the pity!’ Proudly, she revealed the weapon through a slit in her skirt.
‘I wondered what that hard thing was!’ He hauled her back to him.
‘Your father gave it to me,’ she told him, laughing like a maniac.
‘The ould bugger,’ breathed Marty into her neck. ‘God bless him.’
‘Oh God, Marty, what are we to do now?’ Even during the breathless conversation they refused to let each other go. ‘Where were you bound for when we met?’
‘To see you, or at least try.’ Suddenly plunged back to awful reality, his arms grappled to hold her ever closer. ‘I hadn’t planned any further than that.’
‘I have.’ Etta lifted her face from his shoulder, but only to rub her cheek against his as she outlined her strategy. ‘Those civilian clothes are for you.’ She referred to the bundle that was now on the floor. It had been the very devil to obtain them, her inability to speak the language causing a great deal of frustration, until the universal language of paying double what they were worth had solved her problem.
‘Oh God, Etta, do you realise how much trouble you’ll be in by providing them?’
‘I don’t care! You’d better change into them now. Then the main thing is to reach the coast as swiftly as possible. Once there we stow away on a ship – not to England, we’d probably be apprehended on landing, but if we could reach Ireland that would make it harder for them. Then we could get word to your parents and have them bring the children across, and we could all go to America.’
The Keepsake Page 47
