This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that you tried to convince him that any attempts at rescuing his brother were doomed to failure?’

  Private Searight’s words came back to the sergeant. ‘What’d you do if it was your brother out there?’ the private had said. The sergeant remembered it all so well but he had never really considered the answer. His brother had been killed at Ypres, and yes, he probably would have done the same.

  ‘Sergeant Wilkins?’

  Despite the cold, the sergeant felt suddenly very warm. He looked at the captain. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. I mean, if we had to rescue every wounded or stranded man, we’d risk even greater casualties. And I told him – told him that the stretcher bearers would bring him in.’

  ‘And yet you did rescue him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what made you change your mind?’

  He remembered the lieutenant’s smarmy smile and his condescending words: ‘Sergeant, you’ve been out on a number of night patrols, perhaps you’d be good enough to go out with Searight here, and give him the benefit of your experience.’ Benefit of experience, yes – he had plenty of that but to be bamboozled into it by a private...

  Ainsworth pressed home the point. ‘It wasn’t because you were actually ordered to by Lieutenant Lafferty?’

  ‘No, sir, I suppose I reckoned he wasn’t so far out as I’d originally thought. But, looking back on it, the lieutenant did give us his encouragement.’

  ‘Would it not be fair to say, Sergeant, that the accused showed a great deal of valour in attempting such a risky venture?’

  Yes, he had, thought Sergeant Wilkins, but could he admit such a thing. ‘Well...’

  Major Hopkins interrupted, ‘Captain Ainsworth, is this really relevant?’

  ‘I am merely trying to show, sir, that, through his past actions, the accused has proved himself endowed of great courage. With the court’s permission, I would like to read a report attesting to the accused’s gallantry and quickness of mind –’

  ‘That is as maybe,’ said the major impatiently, ‘but the accused is not being tried for his former feats of courage but for his recent act of desertion. If you please, Captain Ainsworth, we’re not in a civilian court now and we don’t have time for such niceties here, so please stick to the case in hand.’

  Ainsworth nodded. It was time to try another tack. ‘Would you say, Sergeant Wilkins, that you held a grudge against the accused, a grudge compounded by this incident with his brother?’

  Yes, thought the sergeant. Yes, he had wanted to crush the little upstart; he wanted to see him scared shitless, even to have copped it, but not in this way, not in front of a firing squad. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I may’ve been a bit harsh on him on occasions, but no harsher than I am with the others. We are talking about soldiers here.’

  ‘Of course, but you didn’t think you owed him one for having shown you up in front of the lieutenant?’

  However accurate it was, the sergeant still bristled at the accusation. ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘Hmm, OK, Sergeant Wilkins, thank you, no more questions.’ The captain sat down and sighed.

  Sergeant Wilkins stood motionless for a few moments. He glanced at Jack. Yes, he’d crushed him all right, but he hadn’t wanted it to come this far. He knew he could have said something to save him, and as he stood there, he knew he still had the chance. He had only to say that the boy had displayed remarkable courage that evening and shown a determined strength. OK, eventually the boy may have flipped but as he searched into his soul, he knew why. Because of his own wounded pride, he’d exposed the boy to far more than his fair share of danger; that he had sent the boy out on numerous patrols or working parties night after night after night. He never gave the boy a moment’s rest. And did not the boy try and come to his aid when he was hit that night on the ridge? But he just needed the courage to say it and the strength of mind to admit his own weakness. But for a man who lived off his strength, how could he expose his own deficiency in front of the court? As the sergeant stood there fighting his conscience, he knew he still had the chance to save the boy’s skin.

  Major Hopkins looked up from his papers and realised that the sergeant had not stepped down. ‘Anything else, Sergeant?’

  Sergeant Wilkins looked at the major. His own cowardice was more damning than the accused’s. He opened his mouth... and then closed it again. He looked down and plucked an imaginary bit of dirt from his tunic. He shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Thank you then, Sergeant, you may stand down.’

  Sergeant Wilkins nodded and, as he turned to leave, he caught Jack’s eye and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw a flicker of a smile. The sergeant walked quickly out of the Nissan hut. Someone said something to him but he ignored them and carried on walking as fast as he could away from the scene of his crushing cowardice. Finally he stopped. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow before bending over and vomiting.

  Finally, Jack took the stand. He stepped forward and stood to attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his stomach churning. He tried to think of Mary, but could only think of Josephine. His legs felt weak under the pressure of the accusing eyes surrounding him. MacDonald launched straight into his attack. ‘Up to the point of your... absconding, how long had you been in active service, Private Searight?’

  Jack quickly calculated the time in his head. ‘About two months, sir.’

  ‘Two months, is that all? A bit quick to have come under such strain. Why did you desert, Private Searight?’

  ‘I don’t reckon I did desert, sir. I was caught by a shell blast and I sort of got disorientated, I had no idea what I was doing.’

  ‘So what went through your mind as you walked away from the ridge?’

  ‘I don’t remember, don’t remember a thing about it.’

  ‘But you knew enough to get up in the middle of the night, tuck away enough provisions to keep you going for two or three days and quietly slip out of the billet under the cover of dark.’

  Jack bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said sotto voice, ‘but I was in a panic. I’d been missing for so long, I just thought if I went back there and then, no one would believe my story.’

  ‘Oh come now, surely it was less of a risk than running for it? Did you ever intend to return to your platoon?’

  No, thought Jack, he had no intention whatsoever. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Isn’t that somewhat contradictory? You say you wanted to return but you headed straight for the woods, then made your way right up to the last village before Calais; why was that?’

  ‘As I said, sir, I was in a panic, I wasn’t thinking straight, hadn’t been for a couple of weeks.’ He thought of all the night patrols the sergeant had sent him on, crawling across no-man’s-land on all fours; of the hours spent on sentry duty in the solitude of a forward sap, the threatening silence of the night, his sweaty palms gripping his Lee-Enfield, the aching tiredness, the overwhelming need to sleep.

  MacDonald continued. ‘Private Searight, you must’ve known what you were doing was wrong?’

  ‘I... I didn’t really think it through.’

  ‘You didn’t think it through? You disappear into the night from the billet with a sack full of provisions and someone else’s boots, you steal money to get on a train, you force a defenceless Frenchwoman to give you shelter and you end up just one stop away from Calais. Yet you say you didn’t think it through. And where did you hope this little escapade would eventually take you?’

  To Saint Omer, to a warm barn, to England, to his parents, to Mary’s bed, anywhere. ‘No idea. Like I said, sir, I didn’t think it through.’

  ‘And when you talked about “getting back”, where were you hoping to get back to?’

  ‘I can’t really remember, but I suppose I would’ve meant my platoon.’

  ‘Your platoon? Or England perhaps?’

  Yes, England, he thought, that far-flung place, tha
t near mythical haven viewed through dewy-eyed longing. ‘No, sir, not England.’

  ‘But you say you can’t remember?’

  ‘I can’t, but...’

  ‘No more questions. Your witness, Captain Ainsworth.’

  The captain smiled weakly at Jack; he knew the odds were mounting against them. ‘Private Searight, describe to us, if you would, your condition after the shell blast.’

  ‘I don’t remember a thing about it, sir. I just remember waking up in this billet feeling very confused.’

  ‘But you didn’t have a plan, did you, no identifiable reason for absconding as you did?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And how were you feeling before the shell blast, before that night on the ridge?’

  ‘I felt terrible, kept having these nightmares and I couldn’t stop shaking, I just couldn’t think straight. It was the noise, you see, it just got to me, that continuous noise. That’s why I went to see the MO. I’ve never been good with loud noise. I know it sounds pathetic, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Going back to when you volunteered. Did you want to join up?’

  ‘At the time, yes. You see, my older brother had joined up a year or so before me and I felt... well, envious, I suppose. I also wanted to do my bit for the country.’

  ‘Yes, I see, that’s good. Now, I understand you don’t remember what happened after the attack on the ridge on the night of the third of November, but tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened before and during the attack?’

  ‘Well, we were bringing back supplies from the depot. The enemy must’ve caught sight of us as we were crossing the ridge. We were terribly exposed and suddenly all hell broke loose. Men were falling all over the place. I got blown over by a shell blast and a piece of shrapnel hit me in the shoulder. The wound wasn’t too bad, but I suppose the blast left me dazed because I can’t remember a thing after that. All I remember is waking up in the dark with no idea of where I was and, like I said to Captain MacDonald, I suppose I panicked. I managed to get into the woods where, after a while, I fell asleep. When I came to, I thought I’d better get back, but I had no idea from which direction I’d come. So I wandered around for a while, not knowing where I was going. I suppose I should’ve given myself up there and then, but y’know I panicked again, because I knew that having disappeared in the middle of the night, they’d think I was a fugitive. So I’m afraid, I made a run for it.’

  ‘Had you tried to desert before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Had you thought about it?

  ‘No, sir, never entered my head.’

  ‘Thank you, Private Searight. No more questions.’ He sat down and Jack stepped back and, on the court sergeant’s barked order, stood at ease.

  Major Hopkins finished writing his notes. After a few moments, he asked, ‘Any more witnesses?’ The two captains, Ainsworth and MacDonald, shook their heads. ‘In that case,’ continued the Major, ‘Captain Ainsworth, you may address the court now on the prisoner’s behalf. Be brief please.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Ainsworth returned to his feet, conscious that he hadn’t yet managed to dispossess the court of their prejudices. Things were still against him and that every word in his summing-up had to count. This was his last chance, he thought, glancing at his notes. Outside, the wind was still blowing a gale. He looked at the three officers who, with their pens poised, fixed their attention on him. ‘This man is not a deserter in the true sense of the word,’ he began. ‘If he was, he would have planned it before, waited for his opportunity and acted on it. He would have prepared from the outset, with provisions, clothing, food, and money. That may have come later but not at the point he absconded. No, this man’s absence began when a massive blast from a shell blew the spirit out from an already dispirited man. Away from the scene of slaughter, he walked in absolute bewilderment. And surely, ask yourselves this, would a true deserter walk straight into a soldier’s billet? It would be akin to walking into the lion’s den. And then, would he start talking about the need to get back if “getting back” was meant to mean England? No, he had no plan to return to England, for he was too exhausted and dazed, to use Private Webb’s words, to have any such plan. No, all he wanted to do was to get back to his platoon and his comrades. And then the prisoner’s account of finding himself in a strange place is, I’m sure you’ll agree, entirely plausible. This is a man, who, barely more than a boy, joined to fight for his King and Country, a volunteer – not a trained professional soldier. Yet, he showed tremendous courage in rescuing his wounded brother. This man is not a deserter and I beseech you, gentlemen, to find him not guilty. Thank you.’

  The three officers remained expressionless. One of them scribbled a few notes on his paper. The captain sat down, drained, and pretended to write some notes of his own. All he managed was a doodle of a crucifix.

  Major Hopkins said, ‘Thank you, Captain Ainsworth. Captain MacDonald, if you please...’

  The captain rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir. This, I’m sure we all agree, is a distressing and unpleasant duty. I don’t want to see a man sent unnecessarily to his death. But a duty it is and a duty we have to observe, for this man is clearly guilty of failing to do his duty. While his comrades stand at their posts and do their duty day in and day out, this man took it upon himself to dispense with his obligations, his duty. That he deserted is clear. That it was on his mind is also clear, for Doctor Butler gave us the example of the prisoner’s earlier attempt to duck out of his duty. Granted, he may have lacked the foresight to have a determined plan, but do deserters ever have much of a plan? I believe not. They act on impulse and then aim to get as far away from the fighting as possible and worry about the rest later. In this case, it took him almost all the way to the coast. Along the way, he stained the British Army’s good reputation out here – a soldier in uniform threatening civilians with a knife and forcing a poor woman to give him shelter. What sort of actions are these for a man wearing the King’s uniform? I also believe the prisoner has blemished the good record of his comrades, his platoon, his battalion and the whole regiment. And say, gentlemen, you decide to act with leniency? What sort of example does that give the men? That it’s OK to fail in one’s duty and not expect any more than a slap on the wrists. Is that the message we want to convey? I don’t think so. For the sake of example, you must find the prisoner guilty and impose the maximum sentence as seen fit by military law. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain MacDonald.’ Major Hopkins nodded at his colleagues. He cleared his throat. ‘The hearing is now closed. The prisoner will be escorted back to the guardroom. We will reconvene in twenty minutes. Sergeant, if you please.’ The court sergeant called Jack to attention and quick marched him out of the Nissan hut. The major turned to his colleagues. ‘We’ll proceed immediately to deliberate.’ The two captains and the various personnel within the hut stood while the three men of the court retired.

  Captain Ainsworth slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Captain MacDonald gathered his papers. He looked at Ainsworth and smiled. ‘Well, at least that’s over.’

  Ainsworth sighed. ‘Never again.’

  ‘Horrible business, eh?’

  ‘Ghastly.’

  ‘I think I need a drink. Care to join me?’

  The captain nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he said.

  *

  Outside, it was raining. The court sergeant, revolver in hand, and two privates escorted Jack back to the guardroom. ‘Hurry up,’ said the sergeant, pushing Jack. ‘You’re going down for this, you know that, don’t you?’

  Jack tried to ignore him as he made his way through the trench avenues, the wooden slats oozing mud. Soldiers passed him either side.

  ‘They’re going to take you out and they’re going to shoot you.’

  ‘Leave him be, Sarge,’ said one of the privates.

  But the sergeant, with his bulging eyes, was only warming up to his task. ‘Oh, such heart, Miller, you want to spare his feeling
s, our blushing bride, here.’

  Miller could only shrug his shoulders.

  ‘Go on, move along. We might as well shoot you now, you’re as good as dead already,’ said the sergeant, waving his revolver in Jack’s face. ‘Shooting’s too good for you. If I had my way I’d hang you, let you swing.’

  ‘They might let him off, Sarge, extenuating circumstances and all that.’

  ‘Yeah, and my mother’s the Kaiser. No, they know what’s what; they know a coward when they see one.’

  They’d reached a small wooden hut, the guardroom. The sergeant pushed Jack inside. ‘Get in there, you bastard, and not a peep out of you until we’re ready, right?’

  The hut was tiny, inside nothing but a chair. The rain leaked through the hastily assembled roof, wind whistled through the slats in the wood and through them Jack could see the comings and goings outside. He could hear their voices, shouts and orders, a snatch of conversation. He sat down and put his head into his hands. He felt hungry but his stomach was too tight to eat, not that he was likely to be offered anything. He couldn’t think, snatches of memory circled round his head, crashing into each other. This was not his life, he told himself, it was happening to someone else. They would let him off; they would take pity on him, everyone, surely, was allowed a second chance, he was a mere nineteen-year-old who wanted to do what was right, to do his best. What would he have done differently? He would have been a man. Too long he’d hidden behind his quick wit and sharp tongue believing somehow they made him into a man, but they did not; they were merely a disguise; it fooled no one. Strip away the disguise and what was left? A boy. And here he was, in a windy hut, the rain dripping onto him, a boy in khaki wanting his mother. He put his hand out and caught the drips of water, watching the tiny pool form in his palm, listening to the quiet splatter of raindrops on his skin. He couldn’t understand why they would want him dead. He was Jack, no more, no less. He’d harmed no one, he hadn’t hurt them, he was just a boy. A boy from London that somehow had taken the wrong path but he didn’t deserve this. He clenched his fist and the water disappeared.