by Thomas Wood
I smiled.
“You doing okay? They treating you properly?”
“I never thought prison could be like this. You know, it’s actually kind of okay. I wake up, sit around for a bit thinking, maybe write a letter or two and then go back to sleep. Not a shell or bullet in sight.”
“That’s good.”
“Food isn’t too bad either, better than what Earnshaw can come up with, anyway.”
“That’s not saying much.”
He laughed again. It was strange to see him so happy, particularly after the way I had seen him in the last few weeks. It was almost like being caught out, and now paying the price for what he had done, had somehow set him free. He now seemed like a normal young lad again. He seemed jubilant.
“The lads who look after me are decent enough too, for policemen.”
I suddenly found myself at a loss for words, as I thought about the possibility that this was the last time that I would ever see him again.
“How are you? The scars, can I see them?”
“Do you really want to?”
He nodded.
Warily, I unbuckled my trousers and rolled up the woollen pants to my thigh, so that he could have a look at my war wound. He took a look at the tender and enflamed scar that now ran up from just above my knee, by three or four inches, the only sign that I had that I had once had a knife shoved into me.
“That looks sore, mate. I’m surprised they let you out so soon.”
“Oh, they didn’t. Not really,” I said, redressing myself, “I kind of insisted. Didn’t want them lot to be without me for any longer than necessary.”
“What makes you think that they needed you?” joked McKay.
“Have you met them?”
He laughed again, weaker this time.
“What went through your head, when they got you?”
I was slightly taken aback by his question and the sudden change of tone to the conversation. In all honesty, I could not remember, in fact I was almost certain that not a lot was apparent in my mind, other than the ghoulish figure of Bob Sargent as he stood atop the sniper’s dugout.
“You lot,” I lied. “I thought of you lot if you didn’t have me. I was certain that you’d end up in all sorts of trouble if I died.”
“Hasn’t done me much good,” he joked, looking around him, but I could see the hurt that was in his eyes. “Want to know what I thought about? Our conversation, in the Canadian’s hidey hole. You know the one I mean?”
I knew only too well, as it still haunted me in my darkest moments. McKay had asked me about death, the certainty that every soldier on the Wester Front faced, but not one that was frequently discussed, nor even considered.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I’ve had a change of heart. As I was lying there, blood coming from somewhere, I began to think that maybe death isn’t all that bad. And it was while that thought went through my head, that I concluded that there must be something else. Something after this life, I mean.”
I looked away from him for a moment, choosing instead to look at the lonely bucket in the corner. It was only at that moment that I realised what it was really for, and he certainly wasn’t going to be washing in its contents anytime soon, that was certain.
When I looked back up at him, his eyes were all glazed over, with a sparkle to them that is only apparent in a man who is trying with all his might to hold back his tears.
“I like to think that maybe there is something after all this. I don’t know what, but there must be something. It really would be nice to see my family again. So that I can explain what happened.”
“You don’t need to, Fritz. We know why you did what you did. You don’t need to justify yourself.”
He sniffled, “But the people around them won’t know that, will they? They won’t understand.”
“Have you managed to write to them?” I asked, trying to move the subject along somewhat.
He shook his head, trying to simultaneously shake the build up of tears away.
“Can’t face it. I didn’t know what to say. It makes me feel bad for all the months where I haven’t written to them, I reckon it would just be better if they think I am dead already, you know?”
A bolt of guilt suddenly struck me directly in the heart, as I thought of my own family and all the many months where I hadn’t written to them, to at least let them know that I was alive. I had only written to my sister while I had been lying in a hospital bed, she had barely crossed my thoughts since I had got back to France.
Maybe I should try and write to her soon.
“I’m looking forward to it though, Andrew.”
I looked at him, slightly confused.
“To find out what it is on the other side. I’m not scared of it at all now. It is what I deserve, after all. Thank you for everything that you have done for me, I know that you have tried everything that you possibly could have done to get me out. The Captain too. But I need you to know that if it is a firing squad that I am to face, then I am more than ready. I’ve been preparing myself for it for a while now.”
The tremor that was so frequent in my hand was now not quivering my limbs, but inside my own mind, it was shaken all over the place. What he had just said had hit me and hit me hard.
I knew McKay better than anyone else that I had met, and I had thought that I had wanted him to escape a firing squad, if at all possible. But, hearing his own admission that he was ready, a troubling thought began to impress itself upon my heart.
I want you to die too, McKay.
It tormented me greatly, as I only wanted what was best for him, which was the fulfilment of his own wishes. But, at the same time, I knew that McKay had become a distraction, a figure that I always had to keep an eye on. Like a son to me.
If I was to allow him to keep getting in the way of my thoughts, then there was a very real possibility that he would get me killed, and I still wasn’t quite ready for that fact just yet. Maybe I would be soon.
It wasn’t the first time that I had wanted one of my best friends dead. I had thought it too of Bob Sargent. And look how that one had ended up.
I still blamed him for the four-inch scar just above my knee and the stiffness in my joints that I woke up with in the middle of the night.
You shouldn’t think like that. Get him out.
“How are all the others? Are the faring well?”
I pulled myself together. He had done it, so should I.
“Yeah…they’re good, all raring to go now.”
He sat bolt upright in his chair, before leaning forwards, just glancing at the door to make sure no one was going to burst through at any second.
“Yeah? You have a job?”
I felt guilty almost immediately, a part of me reserving just a slight element of pride that I was still a free man. It was at that moment that I realised how much I was looking forward to going back. Before, I had felt like I wanted to be back with the men and that was all I needed, but now, I realised, that what I wanted more than anything in the world, was to go back over the wire.
I wanted to be out on a trench raid again.
“Sorry, McKay. You know I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, go on. I could be dead in forty-eight hours.”
“But you might not be.”
“Either way, what am I going to do with the information? Give it to the Germans?”
He regretted his joke as soon as it tumbled from his mouth. It was in bad taste.
“Fair enough,” he conceded, observing the unrelenting look on my face.
I glanced down at my wristwatch.
“Look, I better be off. I said I’d be back about an hour ago.”
“Got any smokes?” he interrupted as I got up to leave. “Please? They only give me ten a day. You know that’s nowhere near enough for me, don’t you?”
He continued to bite his fingernails in the slight gaps in his speech, as if that had taken over from his old habit of smoking every minute o
f every day. If he kept that up, he would have no nails left by the end of the week. If he was allowed to live that long.
“Please,” he begged, “for old times’ sake?”
I took a swift look at the door and back towards the short, efficient fighter that I had come to love. I was sure that he could have powered his way out of the cell, if he had really put his mind to it.
“Okay. But then I have really got to go.”
“Got any cards?” he whispered gently, through a mouthful of saliva.
“For old times’ sake?” I asked, as I watched the first few tears roll down his cheeks.
“Maybe some other time, eh?”
“Some other time, McKay. As soon as we see each other again.”
“Goodbye, Andrew.”
“Goodbye, McKay.”
6
It felt good to get back to the others as we all started preparing ourselves for our latest excursion. I had needed to get away from McKay and I found myself trying to forget about him as best as I could.
I had to accept the fact that he was now a dead man and that, in all likelihood, I would probably never see him again.
He had started to make me think about my own mortality, which in turn had made me think of home. My sister in particular, was the one face that I could not seem to shake, a disappointed expression the one that she would adopt when she laid eyes on the fateful telegram. She would have been expecting me to write. I had found it so easy to when I was still in Britain, the hospital bed the perfect place to ponder what to get down onto the paper.
But as soon as I had exited the ward for the final time, nothing would come out. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write to her, but it was putting into words what it was I did night after night, and how I dealt with myself. I could not pretend to be the boy that she knew, when I had done so much and seen far worse while I had been in France.
Even if it was the most mundane of letters about the weather, I decided that I simply must write to her the minute that I got back.
If I get back.
Chances were, I would have one less person to write to anyway, as McKay would almost certainly be dead. His court martial was due to start first thing in the morning. I could almost picture the presiding officer dusting off his black cap as we prepared ourselves for the night ahead.
I looked up from my kit for a moment, taking the opportunity to light my final cigarette from the pack that I had shared with McKay. Earnshaw was standing over a bowl of water, gently dabbing away at his face and making sure he looked as spotless as possible.
I saw no point in the enterprise whatsoever, in an hour or two he would be coating himself in burnt cork anyway. He had really started to make a right fuss over the way that he looked in the last couple of days.
He did it, he claimed, so that he could come across as attractive as possible to the opposite sex, as he never knew when he might meet the woman he was meant to spend the rest of his life with. But then again, as Lawrence had taken great joy in pointing out, even one night might be enough for the rest of a trench raider’s life.
“What you doing putting that stupid thing on for?” barked Lawrence from the far side of the room.
“It’s for good luck,” announced Earnshaw, as he twiddled a gold ring, forcing it to the base of his finger.
“I haven’t seen you wearing it before,” commented Chester, as he sidled up next to Sergeant Lawrence, the two Canadians uniting themselves against Earnshaw.
“So what? I think it’s lucky, so I’m wearing it.”
He flexed his hand out in front of him, trying to admire it in the best light possible.
“Why have you bought so many rings anyway, Harry?” asked Hamilton, politely.
Earnshaw scowled, “I’ve always bought them. They’re an investment. For my family. I want them to have something to show for my life rather than a meagre army pension when I’m gone. This way, they’ll get everything that I earned.”
He had become fairly materialistic in recent weeks, making a fortune on as many card games as he possibly could, before spending the cash the minute that he got it, once even buying the ring off the man that he had just defeated, paying well over the odds in the process.
He seemed to only care about accumulating as much material wealth as he possibly could.
Gone were the days where he sourced things for people, before selling them on at an extortionate profit. He cared little for that anymore, instead trying to have as many possessions to his name by the time he donned his wooden jacket.
His change of tack played to my advantage, as he had more or less been the sole supplier of my paraffin, which meant that not only did I not have a hip flask to put it in anymore, but I had lost my source of the hideous liquid as well.
“I don’t know how you get your hands on some of the stuff you do. It has to be stolen, doesn’t it? Did you used to be a bit of a dealer back on civvy street, Earnshaw?”
Earnshaw quickly shied away from the mirror in front of him, slipping the ring from his finger and shoving it in the darkest pit of his trouser pocket.
“Why don’t you leave me alone? Pick on ‘im, he’s more worthy of your ridicule,” he flicked a hand towards Hamilton. Lawrence barely took another breath.
“What about it, posh boy? Why are you here anyway when you could be three hundred miles behind the line?”
Hamilton just blinked at him, clearly frustrated but not willing to take the bait.
“What kind of a name is Hamilton anyway? Hardly a name for a Lord such as yourself is it? A bit common, I think.”
Hamilton’s face flashed a vibrant shade of red, he was trying hard to ignore it, but it was proving too much for him. I let Lawrence continue to goad everyone, more because it was done in jest and without any real malice, but also because it would get everyone’s blood boiling, it would get them in the mood to kill.
“Yeah, far too common. I don’t think you’re from that realm anyway. You’ve made it all up. Father in the Admiralty? You must be joking! I don’t think you even knew your father, did you?”
Hamilton exploded, most uncharacteristically, “That’s where you’re wrong!”
“About what? Your father or your common name?”
“Both! I suppose…” his voice trailed off in a whisper, as if he was ashamed of what might come out of his mouth next. Silently, Lawrence pressed him.
“Hamilton is a common name…but my father is in the Admiralty. His name is not Hamilton.”
“So, he did leave you?”
“No! Not at all! If anything, I left him!”
I was intrigued now, as was everyone else in the room, including Captain Arnold who had been a silent observer until now.
“How do you mean, Hamilton?” interrupted the Captain, as he hoisted himself upright on his bed.
“It’s not my name,” he grumbled, ashamedly finding a chair to plonk down in to, his head following into the palms of his hands. “David Hamilton is not my real name.”
“Say that again, one more time,” babbled Lawrence, who was getting so excited that his voice climbed two or three octaves.
“I stole someone else’s name. To get away from my father. I joined up without him knowing. That’s how I haven’t been recalled yet. He’s probably been looking for me for ages.”
“Hamilton,” I said, not really knowing how else to address him, “I don’t quite follow. Why would you change your name? What is your real name?”
“My real name is Geoffrey Lymes. David Hamilton is the name of my housemaid’s son. She was not a well woman and he wanted at least another year with her if he could. I offered to take his place, at least until the whole thing unravelled. That way he got a bit longer with her before she passed away.”
We all sat for a moment, completely dumbfounded. No one spoke but sat with eyes squinted as we tried to get our heads around what it was that he had said.
“So, you’re telling me,” muttered Earnshaw, “that you’re out here, pretending to be t
his Hamilton bloke, while he’s back at home out hunting with your mates?”
“It’s not exactly like that, but you’re on the right lines.”
“I’ve heard it all now,” gasped Lawrence, as he flopped out onto his bed. “You Brits are crazy.”
I couldn’t quite believe it. The square-chinned, straight as a die, Anglican boy who had broken almost all the rules in the book, just so he could come and fight. I couldn’t help but feel slightly proud of him, which manifested as a slight smirk and chuckle on my lips.
“So, you do like to break the rules every now and then, Hamilton? Can I still call you that?” teased Chester, as he began to fumble around with his kit once more. I found everyone in the room quite remarkable. We continued to almost die alongside one another on a frequent basis and yet, there was still so many secrets still lurking in the darkest corners, only coming to the surface when we least expected it to.
“Yes, as long as the pretence continues. And yes, I suppose I do.”
“So, who is it that doesn’t like to smoke then?” I teased, “Hamilton or Lymes?”
He thought about it for a moment, “Come to think of it, the real David Hamilton never seemed to stop smoking.”
I held out a new carton for him, which he proudly took. He got used to the feeling of it in his mouth for a moment, before I lit it.
I had barely ignited the end before he was coughing and spluttering every ounce of mucus that he could muster. His face immediately burned the brightest shade of red that I had ever seen before. After what seemed like several minutes of coughing, he pushed the cigarette towards me.
“Turns out that David Hamilton doesn’t like smoking either anymore,” he staggered around the room, trying to find a glass of water or anything that might help him recover.
After we had all calmed down and once Hamilton had resumed his normal breathing pattern, Captain Arnold decided that we had had enough fun.
“Right then, boys. Try and get some sleep. We have four hours till we need to move to the front. Make the most of it.”
Like obedient orphans, we did as we had been told, but I was certain that not one of us got any sleep. I know that I didn’t.
