by Follett, Ken
Fitz said: “This is a field general court-martial, permitted when the accused is on active service or overseas and it is not possible to hold the more regular general court-martial. Only three officers are required to sit as judges, or two if no more are available. It may try a soldier of any rank on any offense, and has the power to impose the death penalty.”
Billy’s only chance was to influence the sentence. The possible punishments included penal servitude, hard labor, and death. No doubt Fitz would like to put Billy in front of a firing squad, or at least give him several years in prison. Billy’s aim was to plant in the minds of Murray and Evans sufficient doubts about the fairness of the trial to make them plump for a short term in prison.
Now he said: “Where is my lawyer?”
“It is not possible to offer you legal representation,” Fitz said.
“You’re sure of that, are you, sir?”
“Speak when you’re spoken to, Sergeant.”
Billy said: “Let the record show that I was denied access to a lawyer.” He stared at Gwyn Evans, the only one with a notebook. When Evans did nothing, Billy said: “Or will the record of this trial be a lie?” He put heavy emphasis on the word lie, knowing it would offend Fitz. It was part of the code of the English gentleman always to tell the truth.
Fitz nodded to Evans, who made a note.
First point to me, Billy thought, and he cheered up a bit.
Fitz said: “William Williams, you stand accused under part one of the Army Act. The charge is that you knowingly, while on active service, committed an act calculated to imperil the success of His Majesty’s forces. The penalty is death, or such lesser punishment as the court shall impose.”
The repeated emphasis on the death penalty chilled Billy, but he kept his face stiff.
“How do you plead?”
Billy took a deep breath. He spoke in a clear voice, and put into his tone as much scorn and contempt as he could muster. “I plead how dare you,” he said. “How dare you pretend to be an objective judge? How dare you act as if our presence in Russia is a legitimate operation? And how dare you make an accusation of treason against a man who has fought alongside you for three years? That’s how I plead.”
Gwyn Evans said: “Don’t be insolent, Billy boy. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
Billy was not going to let Evans pretend to be benevolent. He said: “And my advice to you is to leave now and have nothing more to do with this kangaroo court. When the news gets out—and believe you me, this is going to be on the front page of the Daily Mirror—you will find that you’re the one in disgrace, not me.” He looked at Murray. “Every man who had anything to do with this farce is going to be disgraced.”
Evans looked troubled. Clearly he had not thought there might be publicity.
“Enough!” said Fitz loudly and angrily.
Good, Billy thought; I’ve got his goat already.
Fitz went on: “Let’s have the evidence, please, Captain Murray.”
Murray opened a folder and took out a sheet of paper. Billy recognized his own handwriting. It was, as he expected, a letter to Ethel.
Murray showed it to him and said: “Did you write this letter?”
Billy said: “How did it come to your attention, Captain Murray?”
Fitz barked: “Answer the question!”
Billy said. “You went to Eton school, didn’t you, Captain? A gentleman would never read someone else’s mail, or so we’re told. But as I understand it, only the official censor has the right to examine soldiers’ letters. So I assume this was brought to your attention by the censor.” He paused. As he expected, Murray was unwilling to answer. He went on: “Or was the letter obtained illegally?”
Murray repeated: “Did you write this letter?”
“If it was obtained illegally, then it can’t be used in a trial. I think that’s what a lawyer would say. But there are no lawyers here. That’s what makes this a kangaroo court.”
“Did you write this letter?”
“I will answer that question when you have explained how it came into your possession.”
Fitz said: “You can be punished for contempt of court, you know.”
I’m already facing the death penalty, Billy thought; how stupid of Fitz to think he can threaten me! But he said: “I am defending myself by pointing out the irregularity of the court and the illegality of the prosecution. Are you going to forbid that . . . sir?”
Murray gave up. “The envelope is marked with a return address and the name of Sergeant Billy Williams. If the accused wishes to claim he did not write it, he should say so now.”
Billy said nothing.
“The letter is a coded message,” Murray went on. “It may be decoded by reading every third word, and the initial capital letters of titles of songs and films.” Murray handed the letter to Evans. “When so decoded, it reads as follows.”
Billy’s letter described the incompetence of the Kolchak regime, saying that despite all their gold they had failed to pay the staff of the Trans-Siberian Railway, and so were continuing to have supply and transport problems. It also detailed the help the British army was trying to give. The information had been kept secret from the British public, who were paying for the army and whose sons were risking their lives.
Murray said to Billy: “Do you deny sending this message?”
“I cannot comment on evidence that has been obtained illegally.”
“The addressee, E. Williams, is in fact Mrs. Ethel Leckwith, leader of the ‘Hands Off Russia’ campaign, is she not?”
“I cannot comment on evidence that has been obtained illegally.”
“Have you written previous coded letters to her?”
Billy said nothing.
“And she has used the information you gave her to generate hostile newspaper stories bringing discredit on the British army and imperiling the success of our actions here.”
“Certainly not,” said Billy. “The army has been discredited by the men who sent us on a secret and illegal mission without the knowledge or consent of Parliament. The ‘Hands Off Russia’ campaign is the necessary first step in returning us to our proper role as the defenders of Great Britain, rather than the private army of a little conspiracy of right-wing generals and politicians.”
Fitz’s chiseled face was red with anger, Billy saw to his great satisfaction. “I think we’ve heard enough,” Fitz said. “The court will now consider its verdict.” Murray murmured something, and Fitz said: “Oh, yes. Does the accused have anything to say?”
Billy stood up. “I call as my first witness Colonel the Earl Fitzherbert.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Fitz.
“Let the record show that the court refused to allow me to question a witness even though he was present at the trial.”
“Get on with it.”
“If I had not been denied my right to call a witness, I would have asked the colonel what was his relationship with my family. Did he not bear a personal grudge against me because of my father’s role as a miners’ leader? What was his relationship with my sister? Did he not employ her as his housekeeper, then mysteriously sack her?” Billy was tempted to say more about Ethel, but it would have been dragging her name through the mud, and besides, the hint was probably enough. “I would ask him about his personal interest in this illegal war against the Bolshevik government. Is his wife a Russian princess? Is his son heir to property here? Is the colonel in fact here to defend his personal financial interest? And are all these matters the real explanation of why he has convened this sham of a court? And does that not completely disqualify him from being a judge in this case?”
Fitz stared stony-faced, but both Murray and Evans looked startled. They had not known all this personal stuff.
Billy said: “I have one more point to make. The German kaiser stands accused of war crimes. It is argued that he declared war, with the encouragement of his generals, against the will of the German people, as clearly expressed
by their representatives in the Reichstag, the German parliament. By contrast, it is argued, Britain declared war on Germany only after a debate in the House of Commons.”
Fitz pretended to be bored, but Murray and Evans were attentive.
Billy went on: “Now consider this war in Russia. It has never been debated in the British Parliament. The facts are hidden from the British people on the pretense of operational security—always the excuse for the army’s guilty secrets. We are fighting, but war has never been declared. The British prime minister and his colleagues are in exactly the same position as the kaiser and his generals. They are the ones acting illegally—not me.” Billy sat down.
The two captains went into a huddle with Fitz. Billy wondered if he had gone too far. He had felt the need to be trenchant, but he might have offended the captains instead of winning their support.
However, there seemed to be dissent among the judges. Fitz was speaking emphatically and Evans was shaking his head in negation. Murray looked awkward. That was probably a good sign, Billy thought. All the same he was as scared as he had ever been. When he had faced machine guns at the Somme and experienced an explosion down the pit, he had not been as frightened as he was now, with his life in the hands of malevolent officers.
At last they seemed to reach agreement. Fitz looked at Billy and said: “Stand up.”
Billy stood.
“Sergeant William Williams, this court finds you guilty as charged.” Fitz stared at Billy, as if hoping to see on his face the mortification of defeat. But Billy had been expecting a guilty verdict. It was the sentence he feared.
Fitz said: “You are sentenced to ten years penal servitude.”
Billy could no longer keep his face expressionless. It was not the death penalty—but ten years! When he came out he would be thirty. It would be 1929. Mildred would be thirty-five. Half their lives would be over. His façade of defiance crumbled, and tears came to his eyes.
A look of profound satisfaction came over Fitz’s face. “Dismissed,” he said.
Billy was marched away to begin his prison sentence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
May and June 1919
On the first day of May, Walter von Ulrich wrote a letter to Maud and posted it in the town of Versailles.
He did not know whether she was dead or alive. He had heard no news of her since Stockholm. There was still no postal service between Germany and Britain, so this was his first chance of writing to her in two years.
Walter and his father had traveled to France the day before, with 180 politicians, diplomats, and foreign ministry officials, as part of the German delegation to the peace conference. The French railway had slowed their special train to walking pace as they crossed the devastated landscape of northeastern France. “As if we were the only ones who fired shells here,” Otto said angrily. From Paris they had been bused to the small town of Versailles and dropped off at the Hotel des Réservoirs. Their luggage was unloaded in the courtyard and they were rudely told to carry it themselves. Clearly, Walter thought, the French were not going to be magnanimous in victory.
“They didn’t win, that’s their trouble,” said Otto. “They may not have actually lost, not quite, because they were saved by the British and Americans—but that’s not much to boast about. We beat them, and they know it, and it hurts their pumped-up pride.”
The hotel was cold and gloomy, but magnolias and apple trees were in blossom outside. The Germans were allowed to walk in the grounds of the great château and visit the shops. There was always a small crowd outside the hotel. The ordinary people were not as malign as the officials. Sometimes they booed, but mostly they were just curious to look at the enemy.
Walter wrote to Maud on the first day. He did not mention their marriage—he was not yet sure it was safe, and anyway the habit of secrecy was hard to break. He told her where he was, described the hotel and its surroundings, and asked her to write to him by return. He walked into the town, bought a stamp, and posted his letter.
He waited in anxious hope for the reply. If she were alive, did she still love him? He felt almost sure she would. But two years had passed since she had eagerly embraced him in a Stockholm hotel room. The world was full of men who had returned from the war to find that their girlfriends and wives had fallen in love with someone else during the long years of separation.
A few days later the leaders of the delegations were summoned to the Hotel Trianon Palace, across the park, and ceremonially handed printed copies of the peace treaty drafted by the victorious allies. It was in French. Back at the Hotel des Réservoirs, the copies were given to teams of translators. Walter was head of one such team. He divided his part into sections, passed them out, and sat down to read.
It was even worse than he expected.
The French army would occupy the border region of Rhineland for fifteen years. The Saar region of Germany was to become a League of Nations protectorate with the French controlling the coal mines. Alsace and Lorraine were returned to France without a plebiscite: the French government was afraid the population would vote to stay German. The new state of Poland was so large it took in the homes of three million Germans and the coalfields of Silesia. Germany was to lose all her colonies: the Allies had shared them out like thieves dividing the swag. And the Germans had to agree to pay reparations of an unspecified amount—in other words, to sign a blank check.
Walter wondered what kind of country they wanted Germany to be. Did they have in mind a giant slave camp where everyone lived on iron rations and toiled only so that the overlords could take the produce? If Walter was to be one such slave, how could he contemplate setting up home with Maud and having children?
But worst of all was the war guilt clause.
Article 231 of the treaty said: “The Allied and Associated Governments affirm, and Germany accepts, the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and her allies.”
“It’s a lie,” Walter said angrily. “A stupid, ignorant, wicked, vicious, damned lie.” Germany was not innocent, he knew, and he had argued as much with his father, time and time again. But he had lived through the diplomatic crises of the summer of 1914, he had known about every small step on the road to war, and no single nation was guilty. Leaders on both sides had been mainly concerned to defend their own countries, and none of them had intended to plunge the world into the greatest war in history: not Asquith, nor Poincaré, nor the kaiser, nor the tsar, nor the Austrian emperor. Even Gavrilo Princip, the assassin of Sarajevo, had apparently been aghast when he understood what he had started. But even he was not responsible for “all the loss and damage.”
Walter ran into his father shortly after midnight, when they were both taking a break, drinking coffee to stay awake and continue working. “This is outrageous!” Otto stormed. “We agreed to an armistice based on Wilson’s Fourteen Points—but the treaty has nothing to do with the Fourteen Points!”
For once Walter agreed with his father.
By morning the translation had been printed and copies had been dispatched by special messenger to Berlin—a classic exercise in German efficiency, Walter thought, seeing his country’s virtues more clearly when it was being denigrated. Too exhausted to sleep, he decided to walk until he felt relaxed enough to go to bed.
He left the hotel and went into the park. The rhododendrons were in bud. It was a fine morning for France, a grim one for Germany. What effect would the proposals have on Germany’s struggling social-democratic government? Would the people despair and turn to Bolshevism?
He was alone in the great park except for a young woman in a light spring coat sitting on a bench beneath a chestnut tree. Deep in thought, he touched the brim of his trilby hat politely as he passed her.
“Walter,” she said.
His heart stopped. He knew the voice, but
it could not be her. He turned and stared.
She stood up. “Oh, Walter,” she said. “Did you not know me?”
It was Maud.
His blood sang in his veins. He took two steps toward her and she threw herself into his arms. He hugged her hard. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled her fragrance, still familiar despite the years. He kissed her forehead and her cheek and then her mouth. He was speaking and kissing at the same time, but neither words nor kisses could say all that was in his heart.
At last she spoke. “Do you still love me?” she said.
“More than ever,” he answered, and he kissed her again.
{ II }
Maud ran her hands over Walter’s bare chest as they lay on the bed after making love. “You’re so thin,” she said. His belly was concave, and the bones of his hips jutted out. She wanted to fatten him on buttered croissants and foie gras.
They were in a bedroom at an auberge a few miles outside Paris. The window was open, and a mild spring breeze fluttered the primrose-yellow curtains. Maud had found out about this place many years ago when Fitz had been using it for assignations with a married woman, the Comtesse de Cagnes. The establishment, little more than a large house in a small village, did not even have a name. Men made a reservation for lunch and took a room for the afternoon. Perhaps there were such places on the outskirts of London but, somehow, the arrangement seemed very French.
They called themselves Mr. and Mrs. Wooldridge, and Maud wore the wedding ring that had been hidden away for almost five years. No doubt the discreet proprietress assumed they were only pretending to be married. That was all right, as long as she did not suspect Walter was German, which would have caused trouble.
Maud could not keep her hands off him. She was so grateful that he had come back to her with his body intact. She touched the long scar on his shin with her fingertips.
“I got that at Château-Thierry,” he said.
