by John Wilcox
‘Good. I’ll go and see. Sleep, but make sure one of you is awake. We’re going to need you.’
He climbed past the gun emplacement and met a young private of the Suffolks, nestling in the mud and cradling his rifle.
‘Have you got an officer, son?’
‘Yes, Sarn’t Major. He’s along there, I think.’ He spoke in the soft burr of East Anglia.
Jim crept along and found a young subaltern, cool and seemingly confident, and established that the Suffolks had suffered similarly to the Warwicks but had entrenched, with orders to hang on at all costs. He retraced his steps and met an anxious Captain Cavendish, whom he assured that their right flank seemed covered.
‘Have you seen the colonel?’ asked Hickman.
Cavendish looked up sharply. ‘That will be enough of that, Sarn’t Major,’ he said. ‘The colonel is in the line and is … er … in command. You know the orders – we hold this line at all costs until reinforced.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The counter-attack came, as expected, late in the afternoon, after a dank day spent huddling in the drizzle. The Germans first laid down a barrage and then came squelching down the slope in a grey mass.
Although severely depleted, the British line belched fire and it was the Germans’ turn to fall in swathes as the Lewis guns and rapid rifle fire raked across the black mud. With superb bravery, however, the men in grey came on, presenting their long bayonets and – without wire to protect them – it was touch and go for a time for the British, before the attack eventually faded away, almost on the edge of the wood. Hickman wiped his brow, his rifle hot to touch. Would the Huns come on again – perhaps with a night attack? But they did not.
However, reinforcements did arrive during the night and, with the dawn, a new barrage was laid down by the British gunners. It began by crashing all about the exhausted troops crouched at the edge of the wood and only after frenzied signals had been sent back and the line further depleted by friendly shells did it creep forward and begin to play on the German defences ahead.
After an hour it lifted, and once again the men of the Warwickshire Regiment trudged upwards into the mud and the fire of machine guns whose gunners re-emerged from their bunkers to cut the British down, like a scythe going through corn. Hickman had hardly cleared the makeshift parapet of the trench when a bullet took him in the shoulder, whirled him round and sent him tumbling back into the mud.
The force of the impact was what he felt first, then came the pain, as though his shoulder was on fire. He tried to lever himself back onto his feet, slipped back again and at least had the presence of mind to fall onto his back and so escape drowning in the mud. There he lay before blessed unconsciousness overcame him.
He came to, in great pain, and realised that he was being carried on a stretcher by four men who were ploughing through the mud, swearing and shouting as they did so. The jolting caused by their struggles sent shafts of agony searing through his body, but he gritted his teeth and hung onto the side of the stretcher with his good hand. Eventually, he lost consciousness again and regained it – he knew not how long afterwards – to find himself in a tent, lit by a hurricane lamp. Other men lay around him and he could hear moans.
He caught sight of an orderly whom he recognised. ‘Where am I, Jones?’
‘Field hospital, Sarn’t Major. You’re waiting your turn for surgery.’
‘Ah. You’re a bearer from A Company, Warwicks, aren’t you?’
‘Yessir. Well, I was. They’ve brought me back here to help out. The bloody battle is still going on. Hundreds of wounded are coming in. Sorry, gotta go.’
Jim help up a hand. ‘Hang on. Corporal Murphy. Irishman. You know – is he all right?’
The orderly looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘I don’t really know, sir. I did hear that he’d deserted, pushed off, and they’d caught him and he’s in jug. But I’m not really sure. Gotta go, sir.’
‘Oh my God.’ Jim’s head fell back onto the pillow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The surgeon took a bullet from Hickman’s shoulder and told him he was lucky. ‘No fractures,’ he said when he made his quick post-operative tour of the beds. ‘The round missed the clavicle and the scapula and was lodged between the two. It tore tendons and messed up the joint. It will be painful and means you won’t be able to use your left arm for a while. But,’ he gave a wan smile, ‘I’m sorry it’s not a Blighty One. You will be able to rejoin your battalion in about three weeks and undertake light duties. In the meantime, you’ll recuperate here in Pop. Questions? No? Good. Must get on.’
The questions that Jim wanted to ask were not of the shoulder but of Bertie. He had tried but failed to gain more than the disturbing fragment given to him by the orderly. The battle continued to rage and the hospital was like a conveyor belt, handling the constant stream of wounded that were fed to it. There was no time to indulge one man’s search for his comrade.
Answers came, however, when Hickman vacated his bed in the hospital and was installed in a billet in Pop reserved for officers and warrant officers who were recuperating from their wounds before rejoining their regiments. Captain Cavendish paid him a hurried visit in between supervising another intake of recruits to fill the gaps sustained by the battalion, now recovering outside the town.
‘Murphy?’ said Cavendish, perched awkwardly on a camp stool. ‘Yes, I knew you would ask.’ The young man’s face was now that of a middle-aged man, drawn and with deep-set eyes that had developed a permanent blink. ‘Miserable business, I’m afraid, Hickman.’
‘Yes, but tell me what happened.’
The captain drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Well, you will remember that we fought off the counter-attack and then we went over the top again at them. Like a bloody rally at tennis. We lost again and had to retreat, but we hung on to that rotten line on the edge of the wood for God knows how long, under heavy shell and gun fire all the time, before we were eventually relieved.’
He sent a blue wreath of smoke upwards and watched it climb towards the ceiling. The silence hung like heavy vapour in the small room before he resumed, ‘Sometime during that period when we were clinging on to our position there, Murphy must have cracked. It appears that he just got up from his machine gun, left his rifle behind, and walked back towards Ypres.’
Hickman licked his lips. ‘He was arrested?’
‘Yes. It seems that CSM Flanagan had been sent back down the line to organise more stretcher-bearers and ammunition. He was on his way back up to the line, picking his way between the blasted shell holes, when he met Murphy coming the other way, so to speak. He asked him what he was doing and the chap simply said that he had had enough and that the whole bloody war was stupid and he was getting out of it. Something like that, anyway. Flanagan arrested him then and there and made him retrace his steps back to where we were entrenched. He immediately came before the colonel and was put under guard.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He is in detention, here in Pop.’
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Well, there’s been no time to charge him formally, but there’s no doubt that he will be court-martialled.’
‘And if he’s found guilty?’
Cavendish took another reflective drag on his cigarette. ‘Well, Hickman, you know as well as I do what that means. He will be shot.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Disgraceful, I know, but at this stage of the war the high command is frightened to death that the “French disease” – you know there have been outbreaks of mutiny in the French army …?’
Hickman nodded.
‘They’re worried that it might spread to us, given these bloody awful conditions in which we’re fighting. So the penalty for desertion is rigid. Pour encourager les autres, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know. What does that mean?’
‘To make an example, I suppose. To be a warning against others thinking of doing it.’
Jim groaned and put his head i
n his hand. Eventually he looked up. ‘You know, sir, that Murphy is a bloody good soldier. He’s fought side by side with me in the regiment since the very beginning of this shambles. Our previous colonel told us both that he would have been decorated if circumstances had been different. He must be ill now. You said yourself that he had probably cracked. Surely the regiment can’t let this happen to one of its own?’
Cavendish stirred uncomfortably on his stool. ‘I know how you feel, but the colonel—’
Hickman interrupted him fiercely. ‘Ah, that bloody idiot.’
Cavendish rose to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That’s enough of that, Sarn’t Major. You know I can’t allow that sort of talk. And I must go now.’
Hickman rose to his feet. ‘Can I see Murphy, sir? It would mean a lot to me and to him.’
‘I think I can arrange that.’ He forced a weak smile. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ He extended his hand. ‘Get well soon. We need you. I’ll send you a message about Murphy. Goodbye.’
They shook hands and Jim sank back down onto his seat. His shoulder was throbbing and so was his head and the old wound in his foot. The worst had happened. He had foreseen that something like this – he did not know what, exactly, but something – would make Bertie crack. If only he had been there! He had always protected his volatile, lovable friend and now a single German bullet had put him out of action at the very moment when he was needed most. He lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. How could he tell Polly? And what could he tell Polly? That the man she loved – well, of whom she was terribly fond – was going to be shot as a coward and a deserter? He groaned.
Two days later a message came from Cavendish to say that it would be possible for him to visit Bertie at 4 p.m. that day. He was being held at the military police guardhouse on the edge of Pop and the visit could last only twenty minutes.
He found the little man in solitary confinement, sitting in a small room lit by the light from one barred window. He was lying on his bunk reading a Bible, his rosary by his side.
‘Ah, Jimmy!’ Bertie rose to his feet and immediately embraced his friend. ‘I heard that you’d been wounded – although at first I thought you’d gone. I was so worried about you. Here, sit on the bed. Sorry, lad, they don’t give me a chair. How’s your shoulder?’
Hickman regarded his comrade carefully. He had been given a brutal army haircut, so that he looked like a criminal, and his eyes were red-rimmed. It was clear that he had been crying, although he was attempting to smile now, and he seemed smaller, somehow.
‘How are they treating you, Bertie boy?’
‘Och, like a bleedin’ criminal. But you’d expect that of the MPs now, wouldn’t you? Have you heard from Polly? I haven’t written, yer see …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Only one letter – just the normal one. She hadn’t heard that I’d been wounded and, of course, knew nothing about … about … you. I haven’t written back. I just didn’t know what to say.’
Bertie hung his head for a moment and then looked up again with a forced smile. ‘Ah well, that’s understandable, I suppose. But it’s good of you to come, Jimmy. I haven’t had any other visitors at all, except for the adjutant, that is. Nice bloke. He came to check that I was bein’ looked after and all that.’
‘I think you’d better tell me what happened, Bertie. Then we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Yes, well, it was like this.’ The little man shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. ‘Is that arm givin’ yer pain, now? It’s a mighty fine sling you’ve got there—’
‘For God’s sake, Bertie, tell me what happened.’
‘Ah well. When I heard that you’d been hit and been carried away I didn’t know whether you was dead or what. I got to thinkin’, yer see, an’ prayin’. It was night-time an’ a lot of starshinin’ goin’ on. I seemed to hear the Lord say, “Bertie, you’ve had enough of this stuff, lad. You’ve killed enough men when I specifically said thou shalt not kill. It’s time to stop it.”’
He looked up at his friend earnestly. ‘Jimmy, it was all so senseless. We kill them and they kill us. All in the rain an’ the mud and stuff. Nothin’ was gettin’ settled by all the killin’. Both sides just went on doin’ it and good men were dyin’ all the time and when they weren’t dyin’ they were gettin’ awful wounds and livin’ like rats in shit. And it was all for nothin’. Nothin’ was being settled. An’ I thought about that officer chap I’d read about in the papers. What’s his name? Strange German-soundin’ name, though he was a captain in the British Army with an MC. What was it – Saxton, or somethin’ …?’
‘Sassoon.’
‘That’s the feller. Well, he just packed it in and wrote to The Times sayin’ that the war was senseless and ought to be stopped. They didn’t shoot him, yer know. They just put him in hospital for a time, or somethin’ like that.’
Hickman sighed. ‘Bertie, Sassoon was from a very rich family that was very well connected. He was also a bit of a hero because of his MC, and a poet. They couldn’t possibly shoot him. Anyway, he has volunteered to go back to the front now.’
‘Ah so he has, has he? Well.’ Bertie fell silent and twisted the end of his tunic between his fingers. Then, his voice a little tremulous, he looked up at the ceiling and asked, ‘Jimmy, will they shoot me, then, d’yer think?’
Jim bit his lip. ‘I don’t know, son. We’ve got to do all we can now to see that you get a good defence if they try you. Have you been charged yet? What did the colonel say?’
‘Ah, that eejit. He said that I was a coward and a deserter and a disgrace to the regiment. Somethin’ like that. Not very nice, he was. He said I’d be court-martialled, but he said nothin’ about bein’ shot, d’yer see.’
‘Hmm.’
The door suddenly crashed open and a burly sergeant of military police shouted, ‘Time’s up, Sarn’t Major.’
Jim rose and took his friend’s hand in his. ‘Goodbye, Bertie, I’ll try and come and see you again soon, if they’ll let me, and I’ll go and see the colonel and plead with him. Perhaps we can get you sent to hospital. Do you want me to write to Polly?’
‘Ah, would yer, Jimmy? Thanks. An’ write to me dad, although remember the old feller can’t read.’ Tears were now running down Bertie’s cheeks. ‘Thanks for comin’, son.’
The red-capped sergeant cleared his throat histrionically.
‘Goodbye, Bertie.’
‘Goodbye, Jimmy. May the Holy Mother watch over yer. I’ll pray for yer.’
Hickman submitted a formal request to see Colonel Cox and four days after seeing Bertie he found himself saluting in front of the CO in the bell tent that was serving as battalion HQ.
Cox was working at a table, his adjutant, Cavendish, at his side. ‘At ease,’ he said, but did not offer a seat. ‘It’s … er …’ he peered at the paper in front of him ‘… Hickman, isn’t it? What can I do for you? I can’t spare you long. This is a busy time, we are due back in the line shortly.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me, sir. It’s about Corporal Murphy, sir.’
‘What!’ A look of distaste settled on Cox’s face. ‘That man. What about him?’
Jim gulped. This was not going to be easy. He looked for support at Cavendish but the captain was earnestly studying a file before him.
‘Can I ask what you intend to do with Corporal Murphy, sir?’
Cox’s already flushed face took on a deeper shade. ‘What? What on earth is it to do with you what I do with him? Eh?’
‘Sir, Corporal Murphy and I grew up together in Birmingham and we have served side by side, mostly in this battalion, since we came to the front soon after war was declared in 1914. Until recently, sir, he has been a fine soldier and a credit to the regiment—’
Cox’s fist slammed onto the table. ‘Well, he bloody well isn’t now. He is a deserter and a coward and he will be court-martialled. If he is found guilty – and if I have any influence in the matter that will certainly be the outcome – he will be shot
at dawn. We cannot allow this sort of thing to happen without imposing the severest punishment.’
Hickman felt his temper rising and he fought to control it. ‘With respect, sir, I believe Murphy to be ill now after suffering many months under bombardment in the line. Until this incident, he performed his duties admirably and—’
Once again he was interrupted. ‘That is not the view of CSM Flanagan. It was he who made the arrest when he found Murphy wandering back behind the line, having abandoned his weapons in the face of the enemy. Flanagan, a veteran warrant officer and Regular soldier, informed me that the man was an idler and deceitful and what’s more—’
‘That is not true, sir. I knew Murphy far better than Flanagan and—’
‘How dare you interrupt me.’ Cox was on his feet now. ‘Murphy is probably an Irish subversive and I shall see that he is tried as soon as that can be arranged. That will be all, Sarn’t Major.’
‘Perhaps Captain Cavendish could—’
‘I said that will be all, Hickman. Get out before I lose my temper.’
Jim saluted, cast a contemptuous glance towards Cavendish, made a smart about-turn and marched away, his face glowing with suppressed fury.
Back in his billet, he put his head in his hand. Bertie was right, of course. The war was a mess. No side was winning. Both seemed to be led by unthinking dinosaurs who had lost all regard for human life and whose only idea of waging battle was to fire more shells and throw more men into their path. And he, himself, was being corrupted. He had shot defenceless wounded men and put a drowning man out of his agony without a second thought. He groaned at the memory. He was no better than the rest: a thoughtless killing machine. That’s what this war had made of him. Could Polly possibly marry a man like that when she knew what he had become?
The thought of Polly brought him back to Bertie. Cox was determined to have him shot, that much was clear. And Cavendish was not strong enough even to attempt to dissuade him. There was one last source of help, however. He decided to seek out Company Sergeant Major Jack Flanagan.
