Jack picked up the metal mug, swilled the contents around and stared at the rippled pattern of dark liquid. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered.
‘Forgive, what’s there to forgive?’
‘I’m going to my grave as a deserter, as a coward who couldn’t stick it –’
The word coward pierced Guy’s heart. ‘Stop it, Jack, just stop it. You’re not a coward and you know it. You got the wind up, but hell, who hasn’t from time to time?’
Jack looked up, his face flushed with anger. ‘What am I then?’ he bellowed, causing his two guards to glance over. ‘What am I if I’m not a coward, a bloody coward?’ He took a swig of rum and then slammed the mug down on the table. ‘I thought I could take it, just like you did. But oh no, I couldn’t. A bit of bombardment, a bit of noise and I shat it, fucking shat myself.’ Gripping his fist around the mug, he took another mouthful of rum and choked on the burning liquor. His eyes met Guy’s. He leant forward and whispered in rushed tones, ‘I don’t want to die, Guy. I’m sodding nineteen years old, I’m not meant to die, not like this. If only they’d let me go back to the front and let me die the proper way, the honourable way. That’s why I ask you to forgive me, cos of the shame this will bring to you, to Mary, to Mummy and Daddy. Tell them I’m sorry, I’m really sorry I’ve let them down. Poor Father, he’ll be mortified. I don’t expect them to understand, but tell them, tell them what it was like and just ask them to find it in their hearts to forgive me.’
Guy moved his chair closer to Jack’s and put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. Jack shuddered at the bodily contact. For so long, he’d been alone, shunned, accused. The warmth of his brother’s contact reminded him that among the hatred and accusation, there was still love.
‘You know, Jack, I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘Damn right, your name was on the rat’s menu that night. The sergeant saved you too, you know. Saved you, condemned me. He spoke against me at my court martial. He seemed rather pathetic standing there under oath.’ He remembered Wilkins’s expression as he marched out of the Nissan hut, trying to hold up his shoulders. But he saw it in the sergeant’s eyes. He knew all right.
‘I hope he rots.’ Jack smiled; he’d heard that the sergeant had gone to the MO, his nerves shattered. He wondered whether the laxatives had done the trick.
‘And Mary, look after her for me. She’ll be OK after a while; she’ll find herself someone else. Someone to replace me. Tell her to keep the engagement ring for ever. At least...’
‘Go on.’
‘At least we managed, y’know...’
Guy tried to smile.
‘Just the once, the night before I embarked.’ Jack smirked at the memory. ‘You know it was her sister I was after really.’
‘Why did you propose then?’
‘Don’t rightly know. Suppose I needed someone at home, waiting for me. Someone I could write to, someone I could call my sweetheart. I keep thinking of them both. The one I almost married and the one I wanted to marry. Don’t tell her, will you, Guy? Don’t tell Mary – or Josephine, I’m going to my grave with enough shame as it is.’
Guy nodded. ‘She’ll never know.’
‘I know I’ve said it before but I’m still sorry about, you know, taking Mary off you like that.’
‘It’s passed now.’
‘I wouldn’t do that now.’
‘We all learn.’
‘Do you remember the day you embarked? What high hopes we had, thirsting for adventure, and now look at us. What fools we were, eh? You know, ever since you reminded me of the Albert Carr night, I can’t stop thinking about it. You gave him a heck of a hiding for laughing at me.’
‘And Father gave me a heck of a hiding for my trouble.’
‘Yes, I remember, you couldn’t sit down for a week. Albert never laughed at me again though, did he?’
‘No, he rather avoided us after that; can’t say I blame him.’
‘You see, I was a coward even then.’
‘Hell, you were only eight, we were all frightened, Albert included. He was just trying to deflect his own fear onto you.’
‘I wonder where he is now.’
‘Probably caught up in this bloody war himself.’
Jack smiled. ‘D’you remember that time we went to Southend?’
‘What, when you fell off the donkey?’
‘I didn’t fall off; I just got on and slipped off the other side. Wasn’t my fault the saddle hadn’t been tightened.’
‘And Mother was worried in case you got trampled under the hooves.’
Jack laughed. ‘As if it could be bothered to move.’
‘Yeah, I don’t think it was quite up to running the Derby.’
And so, huddled together, their heads touching, the brothers shared their memories of childhood, of boyhood adventures, of mishaps and games, of their shared innocence when life still held unending possibilities. Lost in the memory of happier times, Guy and Jack shared their last moments together.
‘Promise me, Guy, promise me you’ll live life to the full and live it for me.’
Guy pulled Jack tighter. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I promise.’
‘You’ll have to hop though, you silly bugger; why did you have to lose a leg?’
‘I had one too many, I guess.’
‘Thank you, Guy.’
‘Thank you?’
‘You know, for looking out for me over the years, for... for, sod it, for being a good brother to me.’
Guy clenched Jack’s shoulder and wiped his eyes with his other hand; he didn’t want to cry, not now, not in front of him. ‘Christ, Jack, I shall miss you.’
The corporal from outside opened the door to the Nissan hut. ‘OK, boys, I’m sorry, but it’s time.’
‘Oh no,’ said Jack. ‘This is it.’
The two brothers rose to their feet. Jack took one of Guy’s crutches and, with their arms wrapped around each other; they edged slowly towards the waiting corporal. As they reached the door, they stopped, turned to face one another and hugged for all their worth, terrified of letting go. Guy breathed in Jack’s aroma. He would happily have drowned in it. The unwashed odour, the stale sweat, the hint of rum, the stench of fear. But beneath it all, was the unmistakable smell of Jack, his brother, a Searight, his own aroma. By this time tomorrow, he thought.
‘Remember,’ whispered Jack into Guy’s ear, ‘live your life for me and don’t you dare ever forget me.’
Guy clenched his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears, and uttered, ‘I’ll live for both of us, I promise.’
‘And don’t let Mummy or Father, or Mary forget me.’
‘How can we forget you when we all love you, you silly sod?’
‘I think perhaps I loved Mary after all.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after her, I’ll see she’s ok.’
The corporal cleared his throat. The brothers reluctantly loosened their grip of each other. Then, suddenly, Guy grabbed Jack by the sides of his head and kissed him on his forehead.
Jack tried to smile his dimpled smile. ‘Don’t forget this,’ he said, handing Guy back his second crutch. Guy took it, and stepped past the corporal and through the open door. Summoning up all his strength, he turned around to see his brother one final time. Jack stood, his legs buckling, his fists grasped at his sides, his face contorted with fear and pain. ‘I’ll s-see you again...’
‘Yes,’ said Guy, trying desperately to check the choking clamminess in his throat.
‘But not too soon, you hear, not too soon...’
With an apologetic look, the corporal closed the door. From within, Guy heard the key turn. He walked away, towards the red oak on the muddy patch of grass masquerading as a lawn. In the distance, he saw a group of men bayoneting clumps of straw within string bags hanging from a wooden frame, the shouts of the sergeant bouncing off the Nissan huts. He could barely walk and his hands trembled so much, he had difficulty keeping his crutches steady. Guy looked
up to the heavens, screwing his eyes shut. He bit his lip with such severity he thought he’d cut it. He approached the tree and noticed the snarled roots disappearing into the soft earth. He dropped his crutches and fell to the ground, exhausted by the speed of his heartbeat. Then, turning around to ensure he was alone, he finally succumbed. He meant only to cry; instead, crumpled on the grass in the shadow of the tree, he let out a scream that contorted his body with its intensity. A scream of despair that disappeared into the French air.
Chapter 24: Scoop, October 1988
‘OK, it should be working now.’ The reporter switched off her tape recorder and placed the little microphone on the occasional table. She smiled apologetically at the old man in front of her sitting in the dilapidated armchair. It was obvious this was where he sat all day long, watching television and doing little else. He was a tall slim man, wearing an old suit with collar and tie; his regimental tie, he’d told her. He’d obviously dressed up for the occasion, she thought. He was looking apprehensive and kept puffing his cheeks. She was conscious that she had bamboozled him into granting this interview. Might as well get going, she thought, he might relax once he’d got talking. She’d come to the old man’s house to record an account of his time fighting during the First World War as part of her newspaper’s seventieth anniversary feature. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As much as I’ll ever be,’ he said in a deep, throaty voice.
She decided she’d let him talk and only ask questions if he looked like he was running out of steam. She removed her cardigan; it was stiflingly hot in his house. Poor old thing, his living-room was bare, to say the least. The threadbare carpet had almost lost all its colour, there were no books, no photographs, just a television and a cat tray that needed a good clear-out but no sign of the cat. And it was so damn hot. She sipped the weak tea he’d made her. ‘Well, let’s make a start then. I’ll just say something into the mike to introduce you and then I’ll pass it to you, is that OK?’ He nodded. She knelt down next to the microphone and hit the record button.
‘Twentieth of October, nineteen eighty-eight. Soldier’s account of the First World War, recorded to commemorate the Armistice Day seventieth anniversary issue for the Essex Guardian.’ Turning to the man, she smiled. ‘Mr Greene, if you’re ready.’
He sat up, stared at the microphone, and cleared his throat. ‘My name is Stanley Greene.’ He looked at the reporter. She nodded. He continued: ‘Stanley Greene. They used to call me Stan the Man – not very original, I grant you. I served as a private in the Great War for over three long years on the Western Front. Being a local lad, I joined the Essex Regiment, Second Battalion. I was twenty at the time, I’m ninety-three now. I was one of the first to join-up, back in fourteen. Keen as mustard I was. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, excellent.’
‘During my time on the Western Front, I saw and experienced many horrid things, the sort of things you never really forget and not the sort of things one ought to talk about, especially to a... a woman. Anyway, I will tell you one story, which wasn’t so gruesome but which still gives me nightmares, more than anything else.’ He paused, as if uncertain whether he could bring himself to tell his story.
The reporter was intrigued. ‘Carry on, you’re doing fine,’ she said.
‘Well, I remember it was a Saturday in November seventeen, a cold wet, miserable day it was. It was just before the battle of Cambrai. There weren’t many of us left after that little affair, I can tell you. We were stationed in some billet a few miles behind the lines, I can’t remember where. Some time in the afternoon, we were told to gather in the square behind the camp. I remember noticing a small table there, but no chairs. We stood waiting to attention in the drizzle for a few minutes, probably expecting our orders. Anyway, after a while, we saw the major approach. Samson was his name, followed by the sergeant-major and three privates walking in line. The middle private had no hat and no rifle; it looked odd. We soon realised this was the man they’d been keeping in detention but we had no idea what for or who he was. Good-looking chap, very young, no more than a boy really.
‘So they made him stand in front of the table and the sergeant-major called us to attention. Major Samson comes forward and he has this piece of paper and he reads it out to us. It was a promulgation –’
The reporter interrupted. ‘A what?’
‘Promulgation, you know, like a statement. The young boy was called Searight. I’ve never forgotten that name; couldn’t if I tried. Jack Searight, Essex Regiment, one of us, but different battalion. Apparently, he’d been tried by a court martial for desertion and found guilty. Sir Douglas Haig himself, the commander-in-chief, had confirmed the sentence and he was to be shot at dawn, the very next day. The major said “God have mercy on him”. I remember him saying that, because I thought much the same. Then the sergeant-major ordered him to be taken back to his detention.
‘I can’t tell you the effect it had on us. We were all stunned, couldn’t believe it. We were dismissed and were making our way back to the huts in a state of disbelief. We’d heard of executions before, but we were volunteers, we couldn’t believe they’d shoot a volunteer. We thought maybe they were just doing it to frighten us, you know, keep us on our toes. Anyway, then I heard my name being called out by the sergeant-major, so I had to walk back to that table. After a while, there were about a dozen of us, wondering why we’d been called back. I suppose, looking back, it was obvious, but at the time, I had no idea. Major Samson told us that the captain was in charge of arrangements. Captain Handley – a nice fellow, I liked him; got blown to smithereens about six months later. Anyway, Captain Handley waited till we were out of earshot from the others and then divided us into two groups. He said to my group, eight of us we were, that we’d been selected because we was all handy with a rifle. I still didn’t understand, and then he said, “For the sake of everyone, especially that poor sod, don’t miss”. Well, then the penny dropped, I can tell you. My knees went like jelly. The other group was to be the burial party. They had to go off and dig the grave there and then. I’d have gladly swapped places, believe me.
‘So then, this Captain Handley and the sergeant-major marched us over to some deserted farmhouse about half a mile away. Usually it was used as another billet, but not that day. He pointed to an outhouse where the prisoner was spending his last night, and another where we was sleeping. He took us to this large cobbled farmyard, and next to the wall was this chair. Little, delicate thing it was – like a lady’s chair. Then the captain told us what would happen. He said we’d be given loaded rifles but one would contain a blank. The prisoner would be tied down to the chair and would have a white handkerchief tied to his tunic over the heart. We were to stand about ten yards away. He said he’d issue his orders silently with a red handkerchief which he had on him. And he went through the motions. When he raised his arm, like this, we were to take aim. And when he brought it down, like this, well, that was our signal to fire at the white handkerchief. To give him his due, the captain looked as uneasy about the business as we did. I remember him saying it was an unpleasant duty as we’ll ever be ordered to do, but we were all under orders and there was nothing any of us could do.’
Mr Greene paused.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ asked the reporter.
‘No, it’s all right, love. Talking about it doesn’t affect me, not any more, but when it appears in my dreams, then it’s horrible.’
‘Does it happen often?’
‘No, thank the Lord. Used to, but I suppose I’ve had seventy years to get used to it.’ He coughed. ‘Anyway, after that we were shown our quarters for the night. What a night that was, seemed to last forever. Dinner was brought to us, but I don’t think any of us had the stomach for food. They also brought various things to keep us occupied and an urn so we could make our own tea; well, we certainly drank gallons of the stuff. There were many nights during the war when I felt worried about the coming day, but none compared to this. We couldn’t talk. We
just sat there, not reading the newspapers they’d given us, or playing cards or dominoes, nothing. I remember staring out of the window and looking at the small building where I knew they were keeping him. And after a while, I saw the padre go in. Later on, one of the red caps came to see us –’
‘Red caps?’
‘Military Police. He came to wish us good luck. “Luck” didn’t seem the right word really, but he meant well. We asked him what the prisoner was doing. Apparently, he was trying to write a letter, but kept screwing it up and starting again. He was also trying to drown a bottle of rum and trying to ignore the padre, but neither with much success! Poor bastard – oh, ’scuse my French. I remember thinking, how does one come to terms with one’s last night on earth. You know, the prospect of going over the top was pretty terrifying, I know – I did it a couple of times. But at least you could pray to be spared or, even better, to get a Blighty.’
‘And what’s a “Blighty”?’ the reporter asked.
‘Oh, it’s a type of wound we all hoped for – the sort that was bad enough to send you home, but not too bad to be long term.’
She smiled at the desperate logic.
‘The sergeant-major woke us next morning before dawn. Doubt if any of us had slept well. Morning of November eleventh it was, a Sunday. The war had exactly one year to go. After a quick cup of water each, he took us outside. It was all grey and misty and I couldn’t stop shivering, but whether that was from the cold or my nerves, I couldn’t tell you. And there, waiting in front of us, was that chair, all wet from the dew. And then Captain Handley appeared. Soon after, the door to the outhouse opened and my heart went mad. First out, came the padre reading from his bible. Then came the prisoner with his hands tied behind his back and surrounded by three red caps. At first, the prisoner seemed composed, but then, about twenty yards from us, he saw us standing there in line, our rifles at our sides, and that did it for him. His legs went to jelly and he had to be helped up by the red caps and dragged to the chair. He started screaming, pleading for mercy. Oh, I heard those screams every night for years, that terrified high-pitched sound. Horrible, horrible.’
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