The Lost Soldier

by Costeloe Diney

  The colonel listened impassively to Tom’s outburst and then said, “The proceedings in open court are terminated.”

  Tom was marched back to the cell where he had been kept before, and Lieutenant Hill came to see him once more.

  “I’m afraid they’ve found you guilty,” he said. “I hope what your CO said about you will work in your favour. You’ll be kept here until sentence is decided and confirmed.”

  Tom looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Are they going to shoot me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Carter,” the lieutenant replied.

  It was another ten days before Tom heard the sentence of the court. Those days had passed exactly as the ones before the court martial. He thought of Molly, wondering continually where she was and what had happened to her. He had not heard from her for three weeks and he was desperate for news of her. She must have gone home to England, Tom decided. His letter would be following her, forwarded by Sarah. Surely she would write as soon as she could? Each day he hoped for mail, but each day he was disappointed. He wrote again himself, but he said almost nothing about his predicament. There was no need to worry her yet, so he simply told her how much he loved her and how, when the war was over, he, she and the baby would be the most wonderful family. He had no news about the progress of the battle, still grinding on after the initial push. He could hear the guns, still pounding away at distant targets, but he knew nothing of the gains and losses sustained on the ground beneath the exploding shells and vicious shrapnel.

  The military police who guarded him were taciturn and seldom answered any of his questions with more than a grunt. Sergeant Tucker was a little more forthcoming. “It’s hell out there,” he said, “and we ain’t getting nowhere.”

  At last Tucker came in one afternoon, bringing a bucket of warm water with him. He said, “Hot water, Carter, get scrubbed up. You’re going to HQ.”

  With dread in his heart, Tom duly washed and shaved. If he was going to HQ then it must mean that his sentence was about to be promulgated. He was marched over to the villa and made to wait in the room where the court martial had been held. As before two MPs waited with him until the door opened and the adjutant, Major Rawlins, came in, followed by an RAMC captain and the young battalion chaplain, wearing a dog collar with his uniform.

  Tom stood to attention and the adjutant looked him up and down. The major was a good-looking man in a craggy sort of way, though his face was pale and drawn, with wide-set eyes of a chocolate brown and framed with crisp, dark hair. The chocolate eyes surveyed Tom now.

  “Private 8523241 Thomas Carter, I have to tell you that the court martial convened to hear the case of your desertion from the ranks, has after hearing all the facts, found you guilty as charged. Desertion is a despicable crime, leaving your fellows to take up your slack. It is the sentence of the court that you should be taken out before a squad of your comrades and shot. This sentence has been referred to officers at every level and has finally been confirmed by the Commander in Chief himself. Mitigating circumstances have been considered, but none have been found sufficient to commute the sentence. I speak for all the 1st Belshires when I say that we are ashamed that one of our number should have so failed his friends, his regiment and his king. The sentence will be carried out tomorrow morning at first light.”

  Tom felt the strength drain out of him like water through a colander. His head spun and his knees felt like jelly. He stared at the pale, craggy face and knew that all colour had drained from his own. He reached for the back of the chair beside him and, gripping it, managed to remain on his feet.

  “You will remain here over night. If you require the services of a padre, Lieutenant Smalley will stay with you.”

  Tom found his voice and said huskily, “The Colonel wrote in his report that I was a loyal and courageous soldier, sir. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “It means that it is a great pity that you degenerated into a deserter, Carter, and left your comrades in the lurch,” the adjutant replied, and after one more piercing look, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  The RAMC captain said gruffly, “You’d better sit down, Carter.”

  Tom slumped onto the chair and buried his head in his hands. Tears started in his eyes and he gave a sob. His life, which he had risked so willingly in the front line over the months he had been there, was now to be taken from him. His death was not to be in the service of his king and country, for a just and noble cause, but an ignominious death, dealt out by his own comrades. These thoughts came to him in a jumble and confusion, forcing their way into his numbed brain, but his over-riding thoughts were for Molly. She would never marry him now. Their child would never know its father, would believe him to be a coward and deserter. He’d never had a family, and now he never would.

  “Oh Molly,” he moaned in his misery. “Oh Molly!”

  He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the concerned face of the young padre.

  “I’ll leave you to it, Padre,” said the MO. “I’ll come back if you need me.”

  “There’s a room for you upstairs,” the padre said quietly. “Take Private Carter up,” he ordered the two MPs who still stood by the door.

  Tom was led upstairs to a small room which was furnished with a bed, two chairs and a table. The windows were small and looked out on to the courtyard below and then to the flat country beyond. The padre followed him inside and so did the two MPs, then the door was locked behind them. The guards stood, one at the door, one at the window as they had downstairs. Tom flung himself face down on the bed and the padre sat down on one of the chairs. There was no sound in the room except for Tom’s heavy breathing as he fought to control the panic inside him. He was condemned to death. He was going to die. He was going to be led outside, blindfolded and shot. He had been paraded once, early on, for an execution. The man, only a young lad, had been half dragged, half carried from his prison and tied on a chair. The terror in the boy’s eyes before they had been blindfolded was etched on Tom’s mind. They had been forced to watch as the signal was given and the firing squad raised their rifles and fired. The man slumped forward and the chair had toppled over. Every man there had felt sick at the sight, standing to attention, not allowed to move until the medical officer had confirmed that the man was dead. Now this terrifying end was to be his. Another sob escaped him. A childish scream echoed through his brain. It’s not fair! It’s not fair!

  The padre rested his hand on Tom’s shoulder and said quietly, “I’m going to stay with you, Carter, you aren’t alone. If you want to talk, we will, if not, it doesn’t matter, I’ll still be here.”

  Tom lay on the bed with his face pressed into the blanket. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think. Thoughts brought to mind images too painful to contemplate; the memory of the other execution, the thought of Molly, laughing up at him, her arms twined round his neck. A groan escaped him and his fingers tightened into fists. Abruptly he swung his feet round to the floor and immediately the two guards, who both carried rifles with bayonet fixed, took a step forward to forestall any unwise break for freedom or violence upon the padre.

  Lieutenant Smalley looked up and his eyes met Tom’s level gaze.

  “I’m going to die tomorrow,” Tom said. “Aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” the padre agreed. “I’m afraid you are.”

  “Then there’s things I’ve got to get sorted out,” Tom said. “Will you help me?”

  “I will do anything I can for you,” Smalley replied. He looked across at the two military policemen who had relaxed again at the sound of reasonable talk.

  “Will you men wait outside?” Smalley said to them, but the corporal said, “Sorry sir, orders not to leave the room, sir.”

  The padre sighed. “I’m afraid everything you say will be overheard,” he said to Tom.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Tom. “Nothing matters except that I get things sorted out. It’s my girl, Molly.”

  Slowl
y and in great detail, Tom told the padre about his life. He left out nothing; he wanted this man at least to understand why he had done what he had. He told him about the orphanage. “Not a bad place as they go,” he said. “We was fed and clothed and sent to school. If they could they helped us find a trade, some of the lads was apprenticed, but most of us went into factories and that.” He told him about meeting up with Harry Cook when working in the docks at Belmouth, and how they’d joined up together. He spoke of their life in the same platoon, of the raid when they’d been wounded, of how and where Harry had died.

  “Molly was his cousin. She was there in the hospital nursing and, lo and behold, her cousin Harry turns up. He had to have his leg off and then he died.” He went on to tell the padre how he and Molly became friends and then fell in love. “She’s the most beautiful girl,” Tom said. He was surprised that he could talk about her so easily to this man that he hardly knew, but the chaplain knew how to listen and his quiet manner encouraged Tom to trust him and speak of Molly as he would have to no other man. The guards in the room were forgotten as Tom poured out all he felt for Molly. He told of his March leave and the afternoon spent in the little stone barn.

  “I know we shouldn’t have,” he said, “I know you’ll say what we did was wrong, but it could have been our only time together.” He gave a harsh laugh: “It was our only time together.” He put his face in his hands again and the padre said softly, “I’m not here to judge you, Tom.”

  “No,” Tom said bitterly. “That’s been done already.” Silence slipped round them and Smalley didn’t break it. He wanted Tom to continue to talk, to sort things out in his mind.

  “I’ve never had a family, and Molly and me was going to be a family. I had no name except what someone chose for me. I wanted my son, or daughter, to have a name. It was important to me.” He went on talking, telling the chaplain about asking Captain Hurst for leave.

  “He said no straight off, but then he had a letter from his sister, she was nursing with Molly, and asked him to do something for us if he could before Molly had to go home in disgrace.”

  “Wait a minute,” Smalley said. “You’re telling me that his sister knew about this leave pass?”

  Tom shrugged. “I don’t know if she knew he gave it me, but she did ask him to and he said he was going to write to her.”

  “Did you tell the court this?” asked Smalley. “That he might have told his sister about the pass?”

  “I told Lieutenant Hill,” said Tom, “but he said it wouldn’t make no difference. She wasn’t here to say if she knew, and anyway we didn’t know that she did.”

  The chaplain frowned, but simply said, “Go on.” So Tom went on, telling of every event until his final arrest by Sergeant Tucker in the ruined barn.

  “But how were you going to let Molly know you were there?” asked the chaplain.

  “I was going to go to the convent,” Tom said. “It weren’t any use going to Albert. But to find St Croix I had to get to Albert first.”

  There was a bang on the door and the corporal unlocked it to let in a soldier with a mess tin of dark tea and some bread and jam in another.

  The padre said, “Do you smoke, Carter?” Tom said that he did. “So do I,” said the padre. “I’ll go and get us some cigarettes.”

  He disappeared from the room, leaving Tom to drink the tea and pick at the bread and jam. Once outside the chaplain hurried down the stairs and went looking, not for a packet of Woodbines, but for the adjutant. He finally ran Major Rawlins to earth in the mess, with a glass of whisky in his hand.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I think you should postpone Carter’s execution.”

  The major put down his glass and said, “Postpone it? Why on earth should I do that?”

  “There’s some new evidence, evidence that didn’t come out at the trial,” explained Smalley, and he told the adjutant what Tom had told him.

  “That is irrelevant,” snapped the major.

  “I’d have thought it had great relevance, sir,” Smalley said bravely. “It could prove that the man had a pass and so was not absent without leave.”

  “Whether the pass was issued or not is irrelevant,” said the major brusquely. “The man was away from his unit when on active service. His pass, if he ever had one, was by his own admission, dated for 8th July. He was arrested on 3rd July, therefore he was absent without leave.”

  “But might not the existence of a pass make a difference to his sentence?” Lieutenant Smalley persisted, despite the look of anger on his senior officer’s face. “It would mean he didn’t intend to desert. Mightn’t his sentence be commuted in such a circumstance?”

  “Lieutenant Smalley, this man’s sentence has been confirmed at the very highest level. The only officer who suggested that the sentence should be commuted is Colonel Johnson, who doesn’t even know the man.”

  “He’s his commanding officer,” Smalley said.

  “Exactly,” said Rawlins. “Can’t possibly know every man in the battalion. Far better to listen to those who knew him properly. Anyway, the sentence is confirmed by Haig himself, so it’s too late to be trying to change it now.” Seeing the look on the chaplain’s face he said, “Look, Smalley, I know it’s different for you, being a man of the cloth, you see things differently, but I’m just a common soldier, and this man left his mates and set off on his own, for purposes of his own, while they were still under fire. I have no time for men like that. The execution will go ahead tomorrow morning as planned.”

  “The woman who he was hoping to marry is at the convent hospital at St Croix,” Smalley said. “I could ride over there and fetch her.”

  “Fetch her?” Rawlins was incredulous. “Whatever for? To watch him die?”

  “No, sir. I could marry them. The prisoner would still be shot, but his wife and child would be protected by his name.”

  “No protection at all, I’d have thought, in the circumstances,” snapped Rawlins. “Anyway the idea is preposterous. I suggest you go back to the prisoner and do what you’re supposed to. And remember, the man’s a deserter.”

  Smalley returned to the upstairs room with cigarettes and a pad and pencil. The guards had been changed, and the new men remained in silent attendance by the door and window. Tom was sitting at the table staring out of the window at the evening sky. He watched a flight of birds, homing to roost, silhouetted against the red sky, and knew with a lurch that shook him to his core, that he would never see the sun set again.

  Smalley brought an oil lamp to the table and put the pencil and paper beside Tom. Then he lit a cigarette and passed the packet to Tom.

  “I thought you’d want to write to Molly,” he said quietly. He wanted to offer Tom some spiritual comfort, but he knew there could be none of that until the practicalities were sorted out.

  Tom had dragged his eyes away from the window and lit a cigarette. “Thanks,” he said and picking up the pencil, began to write

  My darling Molly

  This will be the last letter you get from me. I was arrested and have now been court-martialled for desertion. I did not desert, Captain Hurst gave me compassionate leave to come, but he is dead and there is no one who knows I had the pass. Almost all my unit were killed. You’ll have heard now about the battle. I am sure the convent has been flooded out with wounded, but I hope you aren’t still there. They have now passed sentence on me and tomorrow morning I’m to be shot. My darling girl, I shall not be with you as we had planned. Our baby will not have a dad, but don’t let him grow up thinking his dad was a coward who ran away from the fighting, and left his mates to do the dirty work. If I had died on the battlefield I would think my life well lost in a good cause, but to die as I will have to tomorrow breaks my heart. The battalion padre, Lieutenant Smalley, is with me and trying to be of comfort. I feel none, but at least I can trust him to send you all that I have. I have left everything to you, Molly. It is not a lot, but there should be some pay to come, and everything that was sent back from
the line for safe keeping during the attack.

  Remember me with love, my darling girl, but go on with your life and the life of our son… or daughter. I hope the baby is a girl and will be as beautiful as you. Kiss her for me. When I stand out there tomorrow I am supposed to commend my soul to God, but I promise you, all my thoughts will be of you.

  Goodbye my dearest girl,

  Tom

  When he had finished the letter there were tears in Tom’s eyes. He folded the letter and handed it to Smalley. “It’ll have to be censored, I suppose,” he said, “and I haven’t got an envelope.”

  “Write down the address and I will make sure it and everything else is sent on to her.”

  Tom got out his pay book where he had written on the back long ago he left all his worldly goods and any money owed to him, to Miss Molly Day of Valley Farm, Charlton Ambrose, Belshire. He handed it to the chaplain. “I shan’t be needing this any more,” he said.

  The night was long. Smalley suggested that they might pray together, and to please him, Tom agreed, though he said, “I don’t have any faith in God, you know. If there was any sort of God, he wouldn’t allow all this killing and pain. If you want to pray, pray for my Molly and the baby. She’s the one that needs help now.”

  So the padre prayed for Molly and her unborn child, and then moved quietly on to pray for Tom as well. Tom didn’t stop him, but he found little comfort in the words. Smalley got out a bible from his pocket and opened it at the psalms and read Psalm 23 aloud. Tom let the words flow over him. He was in the valley of the shadow of death all right, he thought tiredly, and tomorrow he’d be out of it, dead, gone and buried.