This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘No, Stephen, not today; too much on.’

  A few minutes later, two orderlies appeared and lifted Smith onto a stretcher, swept his few belongings into a bag, and carried him off. Five minutes later, they returned and took away Jones. What an odd sight Jones made, all four limbs blast away. A basket case. ‘You can guess where they’re going,’ said Lampton.

  ‘Poor buggers, what sort of future can they expect back home?’

  ‘We’ll be joining them soon, won’t we, Corporal,’ said Browne.

  ‘Any day now,’ said Lampton.

  Their beds must have still been warm when two new occupants took their place, Major Cartwright and a couple of nurses following the stretcher bearers as they placed the new casualties onto the beds either side of Browne. Both men were asleep. The major checked them over, seemingly satisfied with the amputations, while the nurses checked on the other men. Guy wondered whether one of them was the Blighty nurse Lampton had mentioned. Browne certainly thought so – Guy heard him say, ‘You’re not going to send me back up the line, are you, sister? I’m not well enough, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Stephen. You’ll be pleased to know we’re sending you in the other direction, back to a base hospital on the coast. And from there – home to England.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, God, thank you, sister, thank you.’

  After the staff had left, Browne, his face radiating relief, called across to Guy and Lampton, ‘Did you hear that? They’re not sending me back; I’m going home.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Lampton.

  ‘Oh God. It’s all right for you two, they can hardly send you back up the line, can they, hopping into battle? But me, I was worried sick; fuck, I was worried.’

  ‘We’d guessed that.’

  ‘But not any more, eh? I’m going home; I’m bloody going home.’

  *

  Guy caught sight of Robert entering the ward and looking around. He too was now using crutches. He said hello to a nurse cleaning the floors with a mop. Guy waved his arm and shouted out his name. Robert saw him and approached with a gentle smile, but, Guy couldn’t help but notice, with an anxious look in his eye.

  ‘Robert, how nice to see you,’ said Guy.

  ‘Hello, Guy, old chap. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, but more to the point, how are you?’

  ‘Yeah, got hit by flying shrapnel. Not too serious, unfortunately. Not enough to get me home anyway. I was sorry to hear about your leg, but heck man, look on the bright side, at least you’re out of it now. Couple more weeks in here and you’ll be off home.’ Robert perched himself awkwardly on the edge of Guy’s bed. ‘So, erm, what’s the book?’

  He was clearly ill at ease, thought Guy, as if only visiting under sufferance or duty.

  Guy broke the awkward silence. ‘Just a novel’

  ‘Oh, fine.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose.

  ‘Are you all right, Robert?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Fancy a fag?’ Guy shook his head. Robert produced a packet from his tunic and lit himself one. Guy noticed that Robert’s hands were shaking slightly. Robert sneezed.

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ve got a bit of a cold coming on.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Robert looked earnestly at him. ‘Listen, Guy, I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  ‘I guessed.’

  ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this...’

  Guy’s stomach lurched. ‘It’s Jack, isn’t it? He’s been killed.’

  Robert sighed. ‘If only it was that easy.’

  Guy sat up. ‘What do you mean?’ He must have been wounded, thought Guy, in bad shape, critical perhaps.

  Robert took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Guy, but Jack’s been arrested.’

  ‘Arrested?’ Guy felt a shiver run down his spine; he hadn’t expected that.

  Robert nodded. ‘For...’ He hesitated as if the word was stuck in his throat. ‘For desertion.’

  Guy’s heart dropped. ‘Oh, Christ no,’ he muttered.

  ‘He was found missing a few days ago and was caught yesterday morning, they’d tracked him down in some village not far from Calais. They’re holding him under arrest.’

  Desertion. The word conjured up so many terrible connotations; men dreaded the accusation of desertion more than death. Robert was right: it would have been easier to be told that Jack was dead. Death was at least clear cut; you were either dead or were not, but desertion was so subjective, so acutely sensitive.

  ‘Is there going to be a trial?’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert drew on his cigarette. ‘I’m afraid it’s happening tomorrow. They’ve given him Captain Ainsworth to act as his defence. Prisoner’s friend, they call it.’

  Guy tried to smile. ‘Well, he’s got some chance then.’

  ‘I’m sure Ainsworth will do his best.’

  ‘Yes. I can’t ask for any more than that.’

  Chapter 21: Trial – 8 November 1917

  ‘Left, right, left, right, left... halt! Left turn, stand to attention. Eight one one two, Private Jack Searight, sir.’

  The major thanked the court sergeant and turning to Jack, asked, ‘Can you confirm that you are eight one one two, Private Jack Searight?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack glanced around the Nissan hut. In front of him sat the major, the President of the Court, a greying, square-jawed man, his tunic ablaze with medal ribbons. Either side of him, another two convening officers. They sat behind a row of upturned boxes covered with an old blanket on which flickered a number of candles. Jack felt his stomach lurch at the formality of it all. These three men were charged with establishing the facts of his case and, on the face of it, the facts seemed fairly damning. To one side of the three officers sat another two men with pen and paper poised. To Jack’s right, Captain Ainsworth, the man charged with his defence; to his left, Captain MacDonald, the prosecuting officer, and behind him a small number of others, standing guard or witnessing the proceedings.

  The major continued. ‘This is a Field General Court Martial, the hearing is now open. I am, for the record, Major Hopkins. To my left Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes-Wilson, to my right Lieutenant-Colonel Corns.’ The major picked up a sheet of paper on the table in front of him and, putting on his glasses, read, ‘Number eight one one two, Private Jack Searight, Fourth Battalion, Essex Regiment, as a soldier of the British Army, you are hereby charged with attempting, while on active duty, to desert His Majesty’s services, and that you discharged yourself from duty without permission from your Commanding Officer on November third, nineteen seventeen, to your arrest at approximately nine hundred hours on November sixth. And that in the intervening time, you held up a French civilian at knifepoint and forced another French citizen to provide you with shelter.’ The major adjusted his glasses and looked directly at Jack. ‘How do you plead – guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty, sir.’

  The major scribbled the words down on his sheet of paper. ‘OK, Private Searight, stand at ease.’ Jack stepped back a few paces. The major signalled to Captain Ainsworth. ‘Thank you, Captain, you may proceed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The captain rose to his feet and glanced at his notes. He had been volunteered to act as Jack’s counsel; it wasn’t a job he relished. He had received the Summary of Evidence the day before and only managed to interview the prisoner the one time. The bare corrugated iron sheets of the Nissan hut shook under the pressure of a gale blowing outside and, despite the presence of a large brazier in the corner of the hut, the captain shivered under his greatcoat. He cleared his throat. ‘My client, the accused, did indeed absent himself and was later arrested as the court describes but he is not guilty in the sense that at the time he was not in full possession of his faculties. His absence from duty was not a premeditated act of defiance, nor a deliberate dereliction of duty for while maintaining a balanced state of mind, the accused would no more have considered deser
ting than he would have painting a cow. However, at the point of his departure his mind had been pulverized to the point of mental damage.’ He paused while the court scribbled notes. ‘I would like to call my first witness, Private Christopher Webb.’

  The call for Private Webb echoed outside. Emerging into the courtroom from the adjoining Nissan hut, Webb was marched in by the court sergeant. ‘Left, right, left, right... halt!’ The private saluted the bench and stood to attention a few feet away from the convening officers. A court orderly handed him a bible. Webb took it in his right hand and repeated the oath dictated to him by the orderly. ‘I do solemnly swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  The captain strode purposefully towards him, his arms clasped behind his back. ‘Private Webb, am I correct in believing you apprehended the accused at your billet near the Saint Omer woods on the third of November?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Could you tell the court exactly what happened?’

  Private Webb related to the captain and the court his tale of how Jack approached him in the grounds of the billet; of how Jack staggered about and talked of ‘getting back’, but where to, he hadn’t been able to ascertain. He talked of how Jack had collapsed from pure exhaustion; and how they carried him into the billet where the platoon’s first-aider checked him over, and then how they left him to sleep. This part of Webb’s account played neatly into Captain Ainsworth’s hands. The fact Jack had walked straight into the grounds of the billet was not the action of a deserter. This had to be his main line of defence. If only he had said where he wanted to get back to. The captain skimmed over the second part of the story; the part concerning Jack’s disappearance the following morning and his subsequent capture.

  Ainsworth’s old friend, Captain MacDonald, a tall angular man in his mid-forties, sporting a thin, carefully trimmed moustache, led the prosecution. The prosecuting captain focussed his attention on the second part of Private Webb’s story. If Jack’s initial mental state had suited Captain Ainsworth’s defence, then the deliberate stealing of food and Private Scales’s socks, boots and haversack, and his disappearance into the woods and escape to Les Attaques suited MacDonald’s. Jack’s behaviour at that point indicated the predetermined actions of a man in full control of his faculties.

  The second witness called was Captain Ellis, the Commanding Officer in the billet that fateful evening. The captain was unable to add anything of substance to Private Webb’s testimony, but the court took the opportunity to castigate the captain’s role in the sorry affair. Why, for example, had he not placed a sentry at the accused’s bed, why had it been so easy for the accused to raid the kitchen and make good his escape? Captain Ellis squirmed under the pressure and wished Jack the comeuppance he was surely due.

  Next came the Medical Officer, whom Jack went to see shortly before his absence during a fit of desperation. Captain Butler took his oath in a sharp and staccato voice as if he was a man in a hurry. The captain addressed the doctor. ‘Captain Butler, can you tell the court whether you recall seeing the prisoner on the morning of the first of November, this year?’

  The doctor shot a quick look at Jack. ‘Yes, I remember him.’

  ‘What was his complaint?’

  ‘Usual thing, said his nerves were playing him up.’

  ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘No,’ snapped the doctor.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Of course not, I see men like him several times a day, every day, all complaining of their nerves.’

  ‘But was he not suffering or said he was suffering from the usual symptoms of what we call shellshock, I mean, for example, nightmares, shaking, a continual state of agitation?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing unusual in that. And I wouldn’t call it shellshock, no such thing in my opinion, just another way of saying cold feet.’

  ‘So, in seeing so many men in a similar condition, you feel able to dismiss all of them as one of the same. Does it not occur to you that perhaps some of the men might be a little more deserving of closer inspection?’

  The captain seemed agitated by the accusing nature of Ainsworth’s question. ‘No, I tell you, I haven’t got time to pander to these imaginary illnesses of the mind. I knew exactly what he was angling for.’

  ‘Which was...?’

  ‘Well, to be sent back home as an invalid, of course.’

  ‘And did he actually say that?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘So how could you be sure, were you able to read his mind?’

  The MO glared at Ainsworth, how dare he question him in such a manner. ‘No, of course not, but he did request leave.’

  ‘And did you grant him leave on medical grounds?’

  The MO laughed.

  ‘Obviously not. Did you prescribe anything for him?’

  ‘Yes, I prescribed him a laxative and aspirin.’

  ‘A laxative and aspirin? Did you really think that a man showing the classic symptoms of shellshock could be dealt with by prescribing him the humble aspirin?’

  ‘Shellshock my eye. There was nothing wrong with him and I told him so, told him to pull himself together. This war needs soldiers, not shirkers.’

  ‘You say that there was nothing wrong with him. So, tell me, Captain, in your opinion, is a man wandering around in a daze for a whole day the sign of a man in a normal state of mind?’

  ‘That was after I saw him but in my mind any man can have the wind knocked out of him for a while. He knew exactly what he was doing, no question in my mind.’

  Captain MacDonald cross-examined the doctor. He began by asking Captain Butler to confirm that a man with enough forethought to steal provisions was not a man under any particular mental strain. The doctor readily agreed. MacDonald then asked, ‘After he reported to you on November the first, what, Doctor, was your final assessment of the prisoner?’

  ‘That he was fit for duty as any other man and that he merely had to be kept under firm discipline and discouraged from malingering. The man got cold feet, that’s all there was to it.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Butler, no more questions.’

  Jack stood impassively watching the proceedings unfold in front of him. Were they really all talking about him; was it really happening? It all seemed so preposterous. He felt like an outsider looking into somebody else’s world, somebody else’s misfortune. The fact that his life was at stake seemed so incredulous as to be unreal.

  Captain Ainsworth then called Lieutenant Lafferty as a character witness for the defence. Yes, the lieutenant believed that Jack had been a fine soldier, as evidenced by his brave rescue of his brother. He described how, under the cover of darkness, Jack and Sergeant Wilkins had crawled out into no-man’s-land to rescue Guy and pull him in. The captain thanked the lieutenant for bringing to the court’s attention the prisoner’s previous display of tenacity and courage. He continued, ‘From what you know of the accused, Lieutenant, would you say he was acting under considerable mental strain directly before his disappearance?’

  ‘Yes, I would say so; he had lost his former verve and chirpiness.’

  ‘Thank you, no more questions.’

  MacDonald continued on the same theme. ‘Surely, Lieutenant, there must’ve been others under your command who showed equal degrees of strain?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Can you offer the court any real evidence of the prisoner’s condition?’

  ‘Yes, as I say, he lost that verve, became withdrawn and er –’

  ‘But surely, all the men go through periods of depression. If you had noticed anything untoward about this particular case, you would have done something about it, would you not?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘And did you? Did you do something about it?’

  The lieutenant blushed. ‘No. Perhaps I thought he’d get over it.’

  ‘Perhaps, with respect, Lieutenant, what you’r
e trying to say is that this man was no more in a mental state than any other soldier...’

  ‘No, I –’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. No more questions.’

  Ainsworth was worried. His case for the defence was complete. He wasn’t sure how well things were going but he knew that Searight’s guilt was already established in the minds of Major Hopkins and his colleagues. The prosecution had the head start, and it was up to him, as Jack’s Defence, to rid them of their preconceived prejudices, to persuade them beyond any doubt of the man’s extenuating circumstances. Lord knows he himself had to be persuaded. It was like an army gut reaction – a man runs, he is a deserter and a coward and he has to be punished. He fell for it as much as any other man. But after ten minutes with Jack, Ainsworth knew that this boy's mind had been pulverised by war. He simply could not cope and fell foul of military law as a result. But did he deserve to be shot for it; was it really his fault? This was not a hardened soldier after all, but a civilian in uniform, who, in the spirit of the times, had volunteered.

  The next witness, Ainsworth feared, was only going to make matters worse. The prosecution called for Sergeant Henry Wilkins. Wilkins entered the hut with his arm in a sling, a souvenir from the attack on the ridge. Major Hopkins asked after his health, then handed over to MacDonald. MacDonald began by asking Wilkins about Jack’s attributes as a soldier. But, according to Wilkins, there had been nothing in Jack’s conduct that could redeem him. The sergeant described in detail that fatal night on the ridge; how the shells came over, how after being wounded, he’d been unable to contain his men who retreated in disarray. And Private Searight? Yes, he had disappeared with the others, and no, he hadn’t been in the least bit surprised to learn later that the accused had absconded.

  Captain Ainsworth’s witness. He eyed the squat little man with the ruddy complexion. ‘I would like, if I may, to draw the court’s attention to the evening of twentieth October this year. Sergeant, correct me if I am wrong, but the prisoner was concerned about his brother who, at the time, was stranded, wounded in no-man’s-land?’