Starshine

by John Wilcox

  He found him, in his element, bawling out recruits on the temporary parade ground to the east of Pop. He waited until the parade was dismissed and then approached Flanagan.

  The Irishman’s face lit up at the sight of Hickman. ‘Ah,’ he grinned, nodding at the sling. ‘Caught our finger in a rifle bolt, did we?’

  Jim forced a smile. ‘Something like that. Got a minute, Flanagan?’

  ‘No. Not really. I’m fighting a fucking war. What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about Murphy.’

  The wolfish grin lit up Flanagan’s face. ‘What about him?’

  ‘If he’s court-martialled, he’ll almost certainly be found guilty and almost certainly be shot.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Look. You know he’s no coward nor no deserter. He just broke under the shelling. He’s really a very sensitive bloke. He’s not a deserter, he’s just ill. He ought to be in hospital. Look, Jack, you could save him. You arrested him.’

  ‘Oh yes. And what do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘Go and see the colonel. Say that you’ve thought it over and talked about Murphy to his mates in the platoon and company and feel that perhaps you were mistaken. Say that everyone says he’s a good soldier and that he was ill when you found him. He was wandering without knowing where he was. Say anything, but save him from that firing squad. Probably only you can do that.’

  ‘I see. Pleading with me, are you? I rather like that. Well, I’ve got just two words for you, sonny. Fuck off.’

  ‘Look. This bloke’s life is at stake—’

  ‘And I don’t care a toss, mate. You and him put the redcaps onto me, so this lily-livered, Papish cunt is going to get just what he deserved.’ He turned on his heel and marched away.

  Hickman ran after him, caught him by the elbow and spun him round. The two faced each other, their faces a few inches apart. They were big men – each a little over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, although Flanagan was the more solidly built of the two – and for a moment they stood head-to-head, unflinchingly. Jim realised that, close up, the Irishman’s face was pockmarked and his complexion swarthy, as though permanently tanned by his years of service abroad.

  Hickman spoke slowly and with emphasis. ‘I want you to know that, if Murphy is shot, I shall hold you to account. If he dies, you will, too. I promise – before God, I promise you that.’

  For a brief moment, a cloud seemed to pass over Flanagan’s face. Then it disappeared and the black eyes flashed and his moustache lifted in a sneer. ‘And you think that worries me?’ he said, with a vehemence that left a trace of spittle on Hickman’s cheek. The Irishman prodded a finger into Jim’s chest to emphasise his words. ‘Listen, sonny. I’ve tackled blokes better’n you all over the fucking world. Most of ’em didn’t get up and I survived it all, even the inquiry afterwards. So you don’t frighten me. Stay out of my way, if you know what’s good for you.’

  He remained for a moment to let his words sink in. Then, with a smart parade ground about-turn, he marched away, his head up and his back ramrod straight.

  Jim watched him go and bit his lip. The last hope gone. Or had it? He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Bertie would have one last chance, of course, in the court martial itself. The man charged always had his rights and perhaps a spirited defence could swing the court. After all, Bertie had a clean record and he was a non-commissioned officer with three years of service behind him. But who could help? Certainly not the adjutant. Captain Cavendish, the Duke’s nephew, had proved to be a broken reed. Perhaps Simmons, the company commander? He had heard that he was convalescing from his wound similarly somewhere outside Pop. And he knew Bertie.

  He found the captain, with his arm similarly slung in white, in a billet to the west of the town. They sat together outside, in a rare break from the rain, and shared a cigarette and a cup of tea. He found Simmons withdrawn but not averse to helping.

  ‘Well, Hickman,’ he said. ‘I have no time for cowards. If desertion goes unpunished it can spread like wildfire. But I always thought Murphy wasn’t the type, so maybe he has a chance. Look, I’m no expert on military law but I did a brief course once at Aldershot on courts martial. The procedure, as I remember, is fairly straightforward.’

  Jim leant forward. ‘Yes, what happens? It could help me to know.’

  ‘Well, for a start, no one on the panel, or whatever you call the presiding officers – there’s usually a major or a lieutenant colonel as president, with two other more junior officers – can have served in command of the accused. So,’ he looked away with just a touch of embarrassment, ‘there is no danger of Colonel Cox presiding.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Then the drill is that an officer will prosecute and another will defend as “prisoner’s friend”, although he’s not always appointed.’

  ‘Are these professional army lawyers, sir?’

  ‘Oh no. Ordinary serving officers. That’s why I went on the course, although I never served on a CM.’ He paused, frowned and looked up at the sky. ‘Bugger it. I think it’s going to rain again. Anyway … I’m not too sure that the prisoner gets a defending officer if he pleads guilty. But he can call witnesses, both to the circumstances of his … er … desertion and to his character. As can, of course, the prosecutor. And the accused can make a plea in mitigation.’

  Hickman bit his lip. ‘Is the sentence for desertion in the face of the enemy always … er … death?’

  ‘Oh yes, particularly if the accused had jettisoned his weapon or weapons, as, from what you tell me, Murphy had done, yes?’

  ‘Afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well it would have to be a bloody good defence to get him off that one, I’d say.’ He flicked away the ash from his cigarette. ‘But, of course, the cases of chaps on a capital charge always go right up to the top for confirmation. So Field Marshal Haig would have to approve the sentence, don’t you know. He might take a lenient view. But, on the other hand, with the French desertions and so on …’

  He left the sentence unfinished and then continued. ‘One thing you must remember, Sarn’t Major, is the old Duke of Wellington.’

  Jim lifted an eyebrow. ‘What on earth has he to do with it all?’

  ‘Well, if I recall rightly, the Grand Old Duke laid down the foundations for the present procedure, which has hardly changed at all since we shot men at dawn with muskets for running away from the bloody French. He wrote something like: “It should always be borne in mind that courts martial are there as a deterrent. That is their prime function.” So you see, leniency is not something that the army encourages in these cases, even without the example of our dear French comrades-in-arms deserting to the right of our front. Damned miserable business all round, if you ask me. How’s your arm by the way?’

  ‘What? Oh. It’s mending quickly, sir. I should be back soon.’

  ‘Yes.’ Simmons raised two languid fingers to his lips and drew on his cigarette. ‘Sooner we all get back to be bloody well killed, the better, I suppose. Anything more I can help you with?’

  ‘Yes. Just one thing. Would you be prepared to be a character witness for Murphy?’

  ‘What? Say he was a good feller and all that?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. Speaking as his company commander, at least say he was a good soldier who, up until his desertion, carried out his duties well.’

  Simmons sniffed. ‘Well, don’t know the feller that well, to be honest, because I haven’t been in command of the company for that long. But yes, I’ll stand up for him if I’m needed.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will be. That’s good of you, sir. Thank you.’

  Back in his billet, Jim faced up to the unsavoury task of writing to Polly to tell her about Bertie’s arrest. He thought it best to be optimistic about the chances of reaching a not-guilty verdict, pointing out Bertie’s good record and promotion to corporal. He advised her against unnecessarily worrying Bertie’s father at this stage. After posting the letter he sought permission from the ad
jutant to see Bertie again. This was granted and, two days later, he greeted his old friend once again in that dark room.

  This time, it was clear that the little Irishman was ill. He was lying on his mattress with his face to the wall as Jim entered, but he immediately rose and tried to shake his friend’s hand, but his own was shaking so much that he found it difficult to exert any pressure.

  ‘For God’s sake, sit down, Bertie,’ said Hickman. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Ah yes, son. He said there was nothing wrong with me that he could detect.’

  ‘Bloody idiot. I think you’ve got this thing they call “shell shock”.’

  Murphy ran his hand across his forehead. ‘Well, I don’t know what it is, Jimmy, but I know one thing: I can’t go back into them trenches, lad. I just can’t do it. What’s more, I’m sure that the good Lord doesn’t want me to. This war is evil, Jimmy, and me goin’ back will help to keep it goin’, so it will. So I’m not doin’ it.’

  Hickman put his head into his hand for a moment, then lifted it. ‘For God’s sake, Bertie,’ he said, ‘don’t say that or they will bloody well shoot you out of hand. Your only hope is to say you were confused by the shelling, that you’re feeling better now and say that you’re ready to go back into the line. Will you do that?’

  Slowly, Bertie shook his head. Then he reached across and clutched his friend’s arm. ‘I can’t do that, son. I’ve had enough. I’m not goin’ to go on killin’ people any more. It’s just not right.’

  ‘But you know you face the death penalty?’

  Bertie gave a sad smile. ‘But it’s a death penalty either way, dear old lad. Either they shoot me or the bloody Germans do, ’cos I know I’m not fated to last much longer under them guns.’

  Hickman sighed. ‘Have you seen the adjutant again?’

  ‘Oh yes. He came in yesterday and told me me rights at this court martial thing. Can’t remember what they were exactly but he told me that I could question the witnesses if I wanted to and that I could enter somethin’ called “mitigation”, in writin’, that is.’

  ‘Have you been appointed someone to act in your defence, a prisoner’s friend?’

  ‘Dunno. Not heard about that.’

  ‘Ah!’ Jim shook his head. ‘I’m sure you have the right to be defended by an officer.’

  ‘Och, I don’t want no officer bloke defendin’ me, Jimmy. Somebody who doesn’t know me from Adam.’

  ‘But you must have. How are you going to plead?’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘Guilty or not guilty of the charge of deserting in the face of the enemy?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Guilty, I suppose, ’cos it’s true.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that, that will mean automatic execution. You must plead not guilty and let your prisoner’s friend speak for you.’

  Bertie was silent for a moment. ‘Only if you’ll speak for me, Jimmy. You’ve always been a good speaker, you’ve always looked after me and you’re me friend. You do it, lad. Say whatever you think necessary. But, matey, I’m not doin’ any more fightin’ and shootin’ people.’

  ‘Oh hell! I think they only allow commissioned officers to be prisoner’s friend. But I’ll see what the adjutant says. God knows, he owes us a favour.’

  The door flung open. Jim spoke over his shoulder. ‘Yes, Sergeant. Coming now.’ Then to Bertie: ‘Has a date been fixed for the court martial?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the day after tomorrer.’

  ‘What! You should have told me. There’s no bloody time to prepare anything. They’re rushing this through, Bertie. We’ve got to fight.’

  The red-capped sergeant gave his theatrical cough.

  ‘Yes, virtually finished.’ Jim took Bertie’s hand. ‘I’ll see if they’ll let me represent you, though, God knows, I’m no lawyer. Keep your chin up, lad.’

  ‘Have you heard from Polly, now?’

  ‘No. But I’ve written. You should get a letter. ’Bye, Bertie.’

  Impelled with the need for haste now, Hickman applied for permission to see the adjutant again and he found him in his tent, packing his papers preparatory to the battalion moving up the line again. ‘What is it, Hickman?’ he asked, a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘It’s not about Murphy again, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh Lord. Look. Everything possible has been done for him but he doesn’t seem to want help. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  ‘Has a prisoner’s friend been appointed for him?’

  ‘What?’ For a moment the captain looked uneasy. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary in this case.’

  ‘Why not, sir?’

  ‘What? Well, it’s really an open-and-shut case. An automatic plea of not guilty will be entered for him but he won’t stand much chance. I’m afraid that’s the end of it.’

  ‘No. He’s going to plead not guilty himself and I wish to speak for him in court to conduct his defence as prisoner’s friend.’

  ‘Good Lord. Oh, I don’t think that’s on. If he has one, it must be an officer – at least,’ he faltered for a moment, ‘I have always understood that was the case.’

  Hickman took a deep breath. ‘Look here, sir. This battle has been going on for months and every fit man is needed in the line, particularly officers.’ He lifted up his injured arm. ‘I am wounded and the doctors tell me that it is going to be at least another three weeks before I can rejoin the battalion. So I can be spared and save someone else coming out of the line to do the job. I understand that it is every accused man’s right to be represented and I know Murphy well and have studied the procedure. I intend to call Captain Simmons to give character evidence. He has agreed to do so. Will you please inform the authorities accordingly?’

  He stood very erect and directed a level gaze at the adjutant.

  ‘Well, I … I don’t think the colonel would approve.’

  ‘The matter is not in his jurisdiction now, sir. If Murphy’s right to a defence is denied then I shall have no alternative but to take up the matter with brigade HQ and, if necessary, with the commander-in-chief himself.’

  ‘You are making yourself bloody awkward, Hickman.’

  ‘I don’t wish to do that, sir, but this is a matter of some principle. A man’s life is at stake.’ He leant forward slightly. ‘Captain Cavendish. You were our company commander. Murphy was one of your men. It is not much to ask, surely?’

  Cavendish sighed. ‘Very well. As I am adjutant of Murphy’s battalion I can go directly to the president of the court martial. You should hear from me by tomorrow.’

  He was as good as his word and Hickman received a hastily scribbled note from Cavendish, instructing Jim to report to the president of the court, Lt Col George Williams of the South Staffordshire Regiment, at the opening of the Field General Court Martial in a French magistrate’s court in Poperinghe at 8 a.m. on the following morning.

  Jim spent a sleepless night, for he had not had time to seek further advice on his duties nor to do anything other than sketch a brief plan in his head for Bertie’s defence. It was important, however, to speak to his charge before the proceedings began, so he made his way to the prisoner’s gloomy billet a little after 7 a.m. and waved the note from Cavendish under the military police sergeant’s nose, exclaiming, ‘Prisoner’s friend. I wish to speak to my client before the proceedings begin.’

  ‘What?’ The sergeant was clearly taken aback. ‘Well, Sargn’t Major, I think that’s a bit irregular.’

  ‘No it isn’t. I can do it, if you like, while we march him over to the courtroom.’

  ‘All right, sir. ’E’s ’ad ’is breakfast and ’e’s ready to go.’

  They found a bewildered Murphy trying to do up his buttons with a trembling hand. Hickman helped him and, bending, completed the winding of his dirty puttees. The Irishman looked on, his mouth open. ‘Are you goin’ to speak for me, Jimmy?’

  ‘I am indeed. Now, listen. You are going to plead not guilty – I shall do that for yo
u, on the grounds of your … er … diminished responsibility after being in the trenches for so long without a break.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘I shall say that you were ill. Now, you don’t have to say anything unless you are directly asked. I will do the talking for you—’

  The red-capped sergeant intervened, ‘Gotta go now, sir. You can talk in the wagon.’

  They travelled together to the courthouse, with the sergeant and two military policemen, sitting incongruously in a covered cart drawn by a very old horse. During the short journey, Jim made Bertie recite again the circumstances under which the Irishman was arrested by Flanagan and went over with him what he understood about the procedure of the court martial. The little man, however, began shaking again and it was clear that he had very little interest in such detail. ‘You do it for me, Jimmy,’ he kept saying.

  In the courtroom, four men were sitting at a table in the well of the court. Jim studied their names on the charge sheet. Flanking the president, Colonel Williams, were a Captain Jones, of the Norfolk Regiment, a Captain Beverley, of the Somerset Light Infantry, and a Lieutenant Barnes, of the Seventh Lancers. As Bertie was marched in to sit with the two MPs at a small desk, they passed, waiting in a corridor outside, Captain Simmons and CSM Flanagan, whose jaw dropped for a moment when he saw Hickman accompanying the prisoner.

  Jim was immediately beckoned to the table by Colonel Williams, who addressed him in low tones, as though he was anxious to keep their conversation confidential. The colonel was balding, with a drawn face and very pale-blue eyes. His words emerged from behind a large, walrus moustache.

  ‘Now look here,’ he looked down at the scrap of paper before him, ‘Hickman. It seems to me to be highly irregular that a warrant officer should take the role of prisoner’s friend and, indeed, this seemed to be such an open-and-shut case that I didn’t feel that it warranted us appointing one in any case. But we couldn’t get hold of anyone in the Attorney General’s department to advise us and I am prepared to let you take on this role rather than delay the case.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate you doing so.’