‘Don’t be so eager to die, sir,’ Probyn sought to caution him.
‘Believe me I’m not, but we’re still as likely to die by just sitting still! I’d much rather take my chances out there.’
Alas, despite complaints, this was the way things were to proceed for the 9th York and Lancasters, being bogged down in one place or another, constantly waiting to take part, yet never called upon to do so, but under equal threat of death as those who were.
* * *
Thankfully there was very little shelling during the week that followed, the battalion moving back and forth between various sectors, as usual in the chaos of war sometimes being fed, sometimes not, the last few days of the month finding them in Brigade Advanced Reserve.
An armful of orderly books under his arm, Probyn entered the colonel’s office on the last Tuesday in September, saluted, then laid the collection on his desk.
The imposing moustachioed face looked up. ‘Thank you, RSM. It’s hard to believe that we’ve almost completed our first month overseas, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ve been remarkably fortunate having so few losses.’
‘Most certainly. I’ve just been totting them up and there’s less than a dozen – and no one killed. Isn’t that gratifying?’
Probyn agreed that they were very lucky. ‘I wonder how many the Germans have lost.’
‘There’s one thing for sure, Unthank will be responsible for most of them. He’s a marvellous shot, if nothing else.’
‘Maybe we should all go home and leave him to it, sir.’ Smiling, Probyn left the office.
But barely had the congratulatory words over the lack of deaths been uttered than Private James Gilligan earned himself the unenviable distinction of being the first man in the battalion to be killed.
Probyn watched the young men rush to tend him, saw their shocked faces gradually withdraw at the realization that Gilligan was not just unconscious. His death too swift to register, his eyes were still open, though the lustre had gone from them. Reluctant to meet death’s gaze, Louis was the one who kneeled and passed a reverent hand over the departed’s eyelids. But as he took his palm away, the shutters reopened. Deeply affected, Louis quickly pressed the lids again, rewarded this time by a wink from the corpse. No matter how many times he tried, those eyes kept flickering open. Not until Gilligan was wrapped in a sheet for burial, could Louis escape them.
There was to be much worse.
Gilligan had scarcely been committed to earth when a projectile came whistling towards the support line and everyone dived for cover, but luckily the shell overreached its target and exploded with a roar some twenty yards behind. Crouched against the blast, Faljambe yelped and put his hand to his cheek. Feeling what he assumed was a splinter of metal, he was unable to extricate it yet for the earth that had been thrown skywards in a huge column was now raining down on them again, peppering their backs with smouldering debris. Only after the shower of earth and metal had stopped did the occupants of the trench unfurl from their defensive positions to examine the damage.
Gingerly, Faljambe nipped the sliver of shell from his cheek, looked at his bloodstained fingers, then frowned, seeing not a piece of metal but a glittering fragment of bone. Aghast, he looked at those around him, checking their identities; everyone appeared to be unhurt, yet each of them wore a similar grisly memento, pieces of flesh and white shards of cartilage, yellow globules of fat adhering like sago pudding to the khaki, all of which made them recoil in horror and a hurried wiping of clothing ensued. In the confused hiatus, it took a moment to identify the donor. But then Faljambe’s eyes fell on the spot where a moment ago he had seen his friend Lieutenant Sillar and where now was just a smoking crater. Rushing forth, he and his group of fellow subalterns converged on the hole but could only gape at the sight. There was little hope of identification here, though there was no doubt that this remnant of tangled tissue had once been the nineteen-year-old Sillar, for he was nowhere else to be found. Realizing that he still held the thorny piece of bone between his forefinger and thumb, Faljambe stared at it in revulsion but did not know what to do with it, it seemed so callous to throw it away. With some reverence, he stooped and dropped the fragment gently beside the rest of Sillar’s remains.
He was still looking extremely upset when, some time later, the RSM came amongst them to find everyone standing about motionless.
Barking smartly at the men for their inaction, Probyn turned his attention to the wan-faced subalterns. ‘Has the war finished then, sirs?’
‘You obviously haven’t heard, Mr Kilmaster,’ a doleful Hugh Faljambe informed him. ‘We’ve just lost Tom Sillar.’
‘Yes I am aware, sir,’ came the grim reply, ‘but that’s no reason for everyone to be standing around doing nothing.’ Probyn moved away temporarily to chivvy others.
Faljambe spoke angrily to his companions, Louis and Gaylard. ‘Did you hear that? It’s as if poor Sillar had caused him some personal inconvenience by being blown to smithereens!’
Louis was forced to agree. ‘One minute you think he’s a decent fellow then the next he seems positively heartless. How can he not react to this beastly carnage? I don’t think I’ll—’
‘My God!’ As was his habit, Faljambe spoke over the other. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever get over seeing Sillar like that, it was absolutely ghastly, yet the RSM didn’t spare him a thought! Makes one wonder what reaction, if any, oneself would inspire were one to—’ Too late he noticed from their looks of constipated panic that his friends were trying to warn him that Mr Kilmaster was coming back.
Caught out, the young man felt obliged to apologize, but though his arrogant jaw turned pink his demeanour was not wholly contrite.
‘Contrary to your opinion, sirs,’ Probyn encompassed all three in his hypnotic gaze, his voice gruff, ‘you might be interested to learn that I am as much devastated by Lieutenant Sillar’s death as are yourselves. I considered him to be a fine and valiant officer and a credit to the regiment.’
Gaylard immediately allowed a look of remorse to break through, as did Louis who spoke for them both. ‘We’re sorry, Mr Kilmaster, we obviously misunderstood and spoke without thinking. It’s just that we’re so desperately upset over poor Sillar.’
Probyn’s gaze was now fixed on Faljambe, who showed little sign of contrition for his words. However, under that imperious gaze he wilted somewhat. ‘Well, if I have maligned you, Mr Kilmaster, then I apologize. It’s just that Sillar was a particular friend and I was rather annoyed to hear of him referred to in such a—’
‘Lieutenant Sillar will be sorely missed, by myself as much as anyone,’ the eyes were hard and glittering, ‘but if I were to go around moping over the death of one soldier I should not be of very much value to the rest of the battalion, should I, sir?’ Apologizing again, Louis and Gaylard melted away.
Unmoving, Faljambe ran a hand over his mouth and pondered the RSM’s words, beginning to see that there was wisdom in such lack of emotion. ‘You’re saying I’ll be no good to the men if I don’t pull myself together.’
‘Something like that, sir. One just has to get on with the job in hand. But don’t presume to imagine that just because I don’t cry, I don’t feel.’
Faljambe shook his head emotionally, looking all at sea. ‘Then, for pity’s sake, can you let me in on your secret?’
‘Secret, sir?’ Probyn held the youngster with a candid eye. ‘I don’t know that there is any secret. I can only put it like this: remember during training how the straps on your heavy pack used to cut into your shoulders, the raw wounds they gouged into your flesh, wounds so tender you thought they’d never heal? How you finally became numb to the pain and in the end a callus formed? It’s the same as that, sir, only a callus of the soul.’
His mind still throwing up the horror of his friend’s death over and over again, Faljambe’s tone was hollow as he voiced doubt that he would ever be able to form such a layer.
‘It’s for your own preserva
tion, sir, believe me,’ said Probyn, before walking away.
* * *
Summer had finally gone, October’s grey cloak settling upon the area and doing naught to alleviate the feeling of stagnation. River, ditch and brook, swollen by incessant rain, burst their banks and ran together, transforming the flat plain into a gigantic lake. Between moving back and forth from billets to trenches, training and more training was all Louis and his fellows ever seemed to do. Training for what?
Conjointly some had grown morbid, their discourse hinging on when and how they might die.
‘I never knew blood had a smell,’ Probyn overheard Gaylard’s musing after breakfast one morning – another idle day stretching ahead. ‘It’s vile, isn’t it? Especially when it’s warm.’
‘Oh, do put a sock in it!’ Desperate for action and to escape the gloom, Louis ripped himself away from the group and accosted his company commander, who was talking to the RSM. ‘Forgive me for butting in, sir, but couldn’t we at least be allowed to raid?’ His tone was begging. ‘The men are awfully keen.’
Captain Cox looked at Probyn, his expression dubious. ‘I shall relay your request to the CO but don’t get too excited, I’m sure he’ll say no.’
Carrying this appeal to HQ, Probyn was asked for his opinion, duly replying, ‘It wouldn’t hurt to put them to the test, sir.’
Colonel Addison shared his view, recognizing that he must do something to bolster his young officers who, by never being allowed to take an active role in battle, were in danger of becoming stale. ‘I’ll speak to the OC Artillery and arrange something.’
Subsequently, whilst in Reserve billets, the excited young officers were drawn together and lectured on the plan of attack.
Moving back into the line, they could hardly wait to put the lecture into practice. It was a very long day indeed, waiting for darkness to fall. However, there was a flurry of excitement to precede this.
Paying a midday visit to the trenches the RSM was almost bowled over as two privates sloshed through the quagmire in a state of excitement. ‘Lieutenant Gaylard’s captured a German spy, sir!’
Sure enough, a dirty, frightened-looking man in field grey, his hands upraised, was coming along the trench, occasionally losing his footing in the slime, coaxed by a pistol from behind.
‘Well done, sir!’ congratulated Probyn. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘Skulking near our line! I’m taking him to HQ.’ Applauded by the men of his platoon a highly excited Gaylard gesticulated with his pistol, brown eyes shining. ‘Sergeant, bring two men and come with me!’
Saying he would see Gaylard at tonight’s raid, Probyn went on his way too.
* * *
After splashing across waterlogged fields for over an hour, Lieutenant Gaylard began to suspect that he had taken a wrong turn. Totally lost, he was unwilling to appear a fool in front of his men by asking the sergeant for help and so, after quick consultation of his map, set off again with fake confidence in his step.
An hour later, though, presented with a network of footpaths, some of which disappeared under water, he was forced to stop again in order to contemplate which of them to take.
Interpreting the problem, the German timidly intervened. ‘Excuse please, my English is not goot.’
‘I speak German, if you’d prefer,’ replied Gaylard, casting a vague eye over the bleak landscape.
Brightening, the prisoner continued in his own language. ‘May I ask where you are taking me, sir?’
‘You should know, you’re a spy.’ Gaylard opened his map again.
A negating smile. ‘I am no spy, I merely got lost in the darkness whilst out on patrol.’
Lifting his face from the map, Gaylard examined the other’s expression. The man looked completely harmless. ‘Well, if you must know we were heading for HQ but I’m afraid…’ His voice tailed away in vacillation.
The German politely enquired. ‘Would that be your Divisional HQ?’
Gaylard studied him. ‘Er … no, Regimental.’
‘Ah! Then, may I?’ In a friendly manner the captive reached for the map.
A scowling Gaylard objected, snatching it out of reach. ‘I think not!’
The sergeant levelled his rifle, the others following suit.
Alarmed by the click of bolts, the prisoner quickly raised his hands and explained to his main captor, ‘You are not giving away any secrets! We are quite aware of all your positions. I just wish to save us all trailing round in circles. You have already come five miles out of your way.’
Gaylard flushed, hoping that none of his men were as fluent in German as he. A sly peek at their expressions made him none the wiser. Ordering them to lower their rifles, he explained that the German did not present a threat. ‘We’re just having a chat. I’ve managed to coax him into giving us details of their positions.’ If they disbelieved him it did not show on their faces.
‘If you will allow me to show you?’ wheedled the prisoner.
Feeling extremely foolish in requiring such help, Gaylard kept tight hold of the map whilst allowing the other to indicate the right track, mumbling rather sheepishly, ‘That’s very decent of you.’
Making no apologies to the sergeant and men for making them walk further than was necessary, he began to head for the correct HQ, glad that others remained ignorant of his blunder.
* * *
Having already returned to the deserted estaminet that was HQ, Probyn was taking advantage of one of its bright fires, warming the backs of his aching, middle-aged calves whilst addressing the adjutant. ‘A fine capture by Lieutenant Gaylard, sir.’
Crouched over a desk perusing some correspondence, Captain Max Lewis barely glanced up, his voice uninterested. ‘Really? What was that?’
Probyn looked askance, remaining so for a couple of seconds. ‘But you must have seen the prisoner by now, sir.’
The adjutant raised his eyes. ‘I’ve seen neither prisoner nor our friend Gaylard.’
Probyn frowned, and quickly outlined the capture of the spy. ‘Then I wonder where the lieutenant’s got to.’
Both were left to wonder for some while. Even several hours later, when darkness was falling and Probyn revisited the adjutant’s office, Gaylard had still not shown up.
‘He’s meant to be taking part in this blessed raid,’ stormed Captain Lewis, in the glow of candlelight examining his watch for the umpteenth time. ‘What am I to tell the colonel?’
‘About what?’ His superior came in, the draught from his entry rippling the frayed squares of hessian that cloaked each shattered window.
Probyn took the liberty of explaining.
The colonel groaned, then dismissed the matter for the time being. ‘Well, whilst we’re waiting have a look at this, Max.’ He laid an enlarged aeroplane photograph on the adjutant’s desk and held a candle over it.
‘I say, what a novelty,’ remarked Captain Lewis, his thin face brightening.
‘What do you make of it, RSM?’ The colonel signalled for Probyn to move nearer.
Having been respectfully standing by, Probyn came to stoop over the aerial photograph, his tone incredulous. ‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can do these days, sir?’
‘It certainly is.’ Colonel Addison turned his head swiftly as the flame of his candle guttered under a draught and someone else joined them; seeing that it was Gaylard his voice adopting a waspish barb, ‘Although no amount of technology would be of assistance to some of us!’
‘Where the devil have you been, Bob?’ demanded the adjutant. ‘We were about to send out a patrol.’
Lower limbs caked in mud, Gaylard directed his bashful answer at the Colonel. ‘I’m afraid I lost my bearings, sir.’
‘For pity’s sake, how can you get lost? It’s only two miles!’ Gaylard appeared even more shamefaced. ‘I can’t quite get used to this new sector – the water and all that. I headed for Divisional HQ by mistake.’ At the shared look of despair that passed between the RSM and his superior officers he added
hurriedly, ‘But it turned out all right in the end! The prisoner was decent enough to put us on the right track.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’ Captain Lewis’s closely set eyes dealt him a withering look, then shook his head at the RSM.
‘You haven’t forgotten you’re part of the black hand gang?’ said the colonel.
‘No, sir, I’m just about to go and prime my men.’ An embarrassed Gaylard hurried away, followed by a sarcastic retort from the colonel.
‘Sure you can find your way back?’
Exchanging an amused smile with his CO, Probyn asked, ‘Mind if I go with him, sir?’
‘No, you go ahead, RSM. I’ll join you later.’
Probyn hurried to catch up with Gaylard.
The despondent subaltern begged him not to tell anyone.
‘I won’t, of course, sir, but you know what awful gossips soldiers are.’
The cupid face grimaced. ‘I can’t believe my own stupidity. I really thought I’d mastered it.’
‘You have, sir. It was just a small digression.’ Feeling sorry for the youngster, Probyn was led to reveal, ‘I myself once got lost in Ireland. In a right scrape, nearly got murdered by Fenians.’
Gaylard drew no comfort in this. ‘Yes, but one doesn’t expect such incompetence from an officer.’
Overlooking the remark as a callow utterance, Probyn did not take the insult to heart, though his reply was delivered in cryptic tone. ‘I hope Lieutenant Faljambe didn’t charge you for those lessons in diplomacy, sir?’
‘What? Oh, I beg your pardon, I had no intention of being rude. I’m just so angry with myself.’
‘We’ve all messed up, sir – even officers.’
Leaving the candlelit HQ, they emerged into darkness and hurried down a bomb-damaged road towards the communication trench, an occasional bullet hissing overhead. Under threat from the enemy’s fixed rifle battery, entry to the trench was made at a dash. Thudding across muddy duckboards, they hurried onwards over a bridge, across a stream and through a farmyard. A Very light went up, illuminating a heap of ruins, a broken ploughshare, a wasteland of gaunt stripped trees, rats scuttling amongst the sandbags and wire, then darkness enclosed them again.
A Different Kind of Love Page 13
