by John Wilcox
‘Because the man was caught fleeing from the front line without his weapons. If he had admitted that he was confused and immediately said that he would return to the line, I for one would have opted for a reduction to the ranks and three months hard labour. But, as it was …’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Hickman looked up at the face above him. The young man’s cheeks were pink and his brow unlined. His eyes were steady and they revealed that he was very, very sure of himself.
‘Have you ever been in the line?’
The man jerked his horse’s head round sharply, taking the rein away from Jim’s hand. ‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ he said. ‘If you continue in that fashion, I will have you on a charge, DCM or no bloody DCM. Now get out of my way.’
He dug in his heels and cantered away. Hickman watched him go with hate in his heart. Then he turned and walked towards where Bertie was being held. There was no avoiding it, he had to go and see him.
This time the sergeant MP gave him a nod and, speaking strictly to attention said, ‘Bloody well done, Sarn’t Major, back there. The little bugger doesn’t deserve that sentence. Do you want to see him?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Stay as long as you like.’
It was clear that, once again, Bertie had been crying, but he rose with alacrity and embraced Jim. ‘Thank you very much, Jimmy, for tryin’ so hard for me. The best lawyer in the land – and I include Ireland – couldn’t have done better, for sure.’
Hickman sank onto the bottom of the bed. ‘Sorry, Bertie, I think I buggered it up by taking on that shit of a colonel. I got up his arse and he was determined to sink you. I don’t know whether there’s a chance of a formal appeal but I’ll have a go.’
‘Och, no son. I’ve had enough, one way or another. I’m happy to go and see what Jesus has got to say to me. A bit of perpetual starshine would be nice. Oh, I could see they’d made up their minds to shoot me. It’s just …’ His voice tailed away.
‘What?’
‘Well,’ he sniffed and took out a filthy handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and eyes, ‘it’s just me dad and Polly. I’d hate them to think of me as a coward.’
Jim seized his hand. ‘There’s no question of that, lad. I promise. I will explain everything to Polly. I’ve already written to prepare her a bit and I will write and explain everything properly as soon as I get a chance. As for your dad. Well – he can’t read, can he?’
‘Not a bloody word.’
‘Right, then … er … when the time comes, I will get a nice company letter done by the clerk saying what a bloody fine soldier you’d been and … er … you know.’
‘Now that would be nice of yer, Jimmy. Yes. I must write to Polly meself, of course, now I know what’s going to happen.’
‘There’s still a chance, Bertie. The brigadier and the big man himself, Haig, has got to approve it. They could well look at your record and say “this bloke’s been a marvellous lad and there’s no way we’re going to shoot him”.’
Bertie forced a smile. ‘I don’t think so, Jimmy. I really don’t. Apart from anything else, them fellers don’t like the Irish after what happened in Dublin last year. They think we’re all goin’ to talk the blokes in the front line to give it up. And, if I got back, I’d probably have a go at it, I would so. No. Let it be.’
They were silent for a while. ‘Yer know,’ Bertie continued, ‘gettin’ shot like this is very clean, ain’t it? I mean it’s a good, clean way to go. None of this horrible shrapnel stuff cuttin’ you up in little pieces. I wouldn’t want me good looks spoilt now, would I?’
Then it was his turn to lean across and take his friend’s hand. ‘The other good thing is that it leaves the field clear for you with Polly.’ He held up a hand as Jim opened his mouth to remonstrate. ‘No, no. It’s better all round. You’d make a much better husband than me and we couldn’t go on embarrassin’ the dear thing any longer with the two of us mopin’ after her and she having to make up her mind now, could we? I’ll be writin’ to her to tell her that.’
Jim shook his head but couldn’t speak.
‘Now, how’s your shoulder?’
‘Oh, I should have this dressing and sling off within a few days. I kept it on deliberately in the hope of getting a bit of sympathy from the board today. Waste of bloody time.’ He grinned. ‘Should have known better.’
They chatted for a time in a desultory fashion, then Jim got up to go. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Ah well, I’d love a run down the bars of Pop with you one last time before I go, but I doubt if they’d allow that, would they now?’
They embraced once more and Jim left, his eyes moist. He returned to his billet and sat on his bed, staring at the wall unseeingly. There could be no hope for Bertie, he knew that. The French mutinies, Bertie’s Irishness, the need in the middle of this most horrible of battles to ‘encourage the others’, all militated against the verdict being overturned further up the chain. He also knew that there could be no formal legal appeal, the adjutant had told him that. What a travesty! What a bloody travesty!
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes and tried to think. A letter, perhaps to his MP back home? He couldn’t even remember his name, but he could get it. Or – what was the name of that journalist bloke who edited John Bull, the weekly magazine? He was also an MP. He was supposed to be the soldier’s friend. Bottomley, that was it. He pulled a sheet of paper towards himself and began writing. He described the court martial and the prejudice of the chairman of the board and of Flanagan. Ah yes, Flanagan! There would be a score to pay there later!
He finished the letter, addressed it to ‘Mr Bottomley, Editor of John Bull Magazine, Fleet Street, London, England’, and posted it. One last hope! Was there anything more he could do? A personal appeal to the commander-in-chief, Field Marshal Haig, was probably hopeless. What could a humble warrant officer grade II say to a field marshal that could possibly have any effect? But it might be worth trying. He sat at the table again with pen and paper and made his appeal, on the grounds that Bertie had a good record and was undoubtedly ill. He had no idea where Haig was based but addressed the letter to him at ‘British Army Headquarters, France’ and hoped for the best. He sat back – that was the best he could do. Bertie was now in the hands of his God. The thought made him kneel and offer up a prayer, clumsily pleading for whoever was up there to intervene for his old friend. Then he slumped back onto the bed. He felt useless. What was he now? No longer a skilled craftsman who could set a diamond proudly onto a gold or platinum base, but a crude killer of men. That’s what he was good at now. Better get back to it and get on with it. It didn’t matter now if he was next in line for a shell or a bullet.
The next morning, Hickman went to see the army doctor who had been treating his shoulder and requested that he be signed off and allowed to return to the line. The man examined him thoroughly and then reluctantly agreed. He was to report back to his battalion in three days’ time.
The following morning, however, an official army letter arrived. It told him that he had been posted to a battalion of the Suffolks that had limped out of the line after a thorough mauling up on the ridges and was now, in the well-practised manner, having its holes plugged with new recruits and men, like Hickman, who had recovered from wounds. Jim smiled at it. It was perfectly clear. Williams had reported back to Colonel Cox and the latter had acted quickly to get rid of him. A bad influence! Shovel him off to another regiment, but keep him in the dreaded Salient until that final bullet or shell found him. The smile hardened. Well, he didn’t fucking well care! But he had to see Bertie again before the end. He had two days more before he was due to report.
The next day another letter arrived, the envelope this time carrying his address in Polly’s much loved, precise handwriting.
It was clear that she was distraught. What, she demanded, had happened? Bertie could not possibly be a deserter or a coward, nobody could possibly convict anyone with his engaging pers
onality – his innocent blue eyes and curly red hair. He was only a child, for goodness’ sake. What was Jim doing to help? Could she have the details? Was it true that soldiers who deserted while on active service could be shot? She had tried to gain permission to travel to Flanders but had been told that the region was closed to anyone outside the serving forces. What could she do? What about writing to her MP, would that help? She had written to Bertie at his old battalion address. Would that get through to him? She would not mention anything to Bertie’s father at the moment … And so it went on.
Jim’s heart sank. It was clear that she loved Bertie dearly, much more than she loved him. Then he felt ashamed at the thought – a narrow, self-centred thought. She wanted to do something. Perhaps the plea to the local MP would help. So, wearily, he picked up his pen again. This time he explained to her all that had happened at the court martial and all that he had tried to do. Yes, he wrote, an appeal to her local MP might be of use. But there was little time. The army acted quickly on these things.
He sealed it sadly. Perhaps this was the end of whatever she had felt for him – perhaps, in her heart, she was blaming him, for she knew he had always felt paternal about Bertie and attempted to shield him from the miseries of life. He sighed. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to tell her about his wound. That would explain why he was not there to look after Bertie. He opened the letter again and added a PS – a seeming afterthought of no real importance and clearly not seeking sympathy.
The following morning, the last day of his sick leave, he walked to see Bertie again, confident that his new friend the redcap sergeant would allow him to visit. The sergeant was there but Bertie was not.
‘’E’s gone to a place with one o’ them unpronounceable names, sir,’ he said. ‘I know it because … well … others ’ave gone there. It’s called Oostbeke – dunno where it is, though. Somewhere back in Belgium, I think.’ He felt in his breast pocket. ‘’Ere’s the address. I thought you’d be over so I wrote it down.’
Hickman frowned and accepted the paper. ‘Why would they send him there?’
The sergeant looked embarrassed. He lowered his voice. ‘I think it’s where they send ’em off – you know, early in the mornin’ like.’
‘Oh God!’ The army was rushing it through, sweeping the execution away so that no further trouble, no possible last-minute embarrassment, could be caused. He thanked the sergeant and strode away. The thought of not seeing Bertie again, of not being able to comfort him, of giving him some hope – Haig, Bottomley, the local MP – before the end, was intolerable.
His new battalion was resting at Pop, so he found his new adjutant and requested two days’ further leave so that he could visit Bertie.
‘Sorry, Sarn’t Major,’ said the officer, a tough-faced veteran with the ribbon of the Military Cross pinned to his tunic, ‘we’re going up the line again the day after tomorrow and we need you pretty desperately. In your company, we’ve got four sergeants and they’re all under twenty-one. Can’t spare you, I’m afraid. You’ve got to knock these lads into shape. I shall expect you at eight ack emma in the morning.’
And so Jim Hickman went into battle once again but this time without his old comrade, except for the memory of his tear-stained face which sat atop the battle pack on his back as heavy as three extra entrenching tools. He scribbled a note to Bertie – the last one? – telling him about the appeal to Bottomley, Haig and the local MP and that Polly and he were thinking of him and urging him to keep up his spirits. He would write again from the line as soon as they had moved in.
It was now mid October and the seemingly constant summer rain had been replaced by early autumnal storms. But the British had fought tenaciously up the series of ridges to the point where they were just below their precious target: the iconic village of Passchendaele, which had given its name to the battle that had raged since 31st July. Jim was now fighting like a machine: snarling at his men when they were slow to move, demanding constant watchfulness and combativeness and prowling the succession of craters that made up the line like some black-faced creature from Hades, calling for ‘one last push’ as though he was Haig himself.
The truth was that now Hickman did not care if he was wounded or killed. He led every attack across the morass personally, perfecting a technique of firing his rifle – he was entitled to a revolver now, but he scorned it – from the hip accurately as he squelched, often thigh-deep, from one shell hole to another. Although men fell all around him, miraculously he survived.
Always, he looked around him with cold eyes for Company Sergeant Major Jack Flanagan but he found no trace of him. The 1st Warwicks were obviously in some other part of the line. It was of no consequence, he could afford to wait.
However, the letter he was awaiting, from Bertie, came at last. It had been held up with the rest of the mail because the battalion was engaged in non-stop fighting. It was scrawled in pencil and told him that the execution date had been fixed and that it was to be at 5.45 in the morning. ‘I shall never get up in time!’ wailed Bertie. He would not tell Jim the date for he did not want him to be distracted on that day. He had had a ‘wonderful letter from the lass’, which gave him strength. He was reconciled to death and was looking forward to ‘a lovely bit of starshine’. He loved Jim and continued to pray for his safety and long life after the war.
He ended it, ‘with so much love from your old friend, comrade and champion marlie player …’
Hickman read it crouched against the side of a crater, just below the final ridge that was Passchendaele. Tears poured down his cheeks and his shoulders heaved but no one noticed because it was, of course, pouring with rain and, once again, they were being shelled.
Jim’s company was among the Canadians who, on 10th November, finally entered the battered ruins of the village. It had taken 156 days, from that great explosion at Messines, to reach this objective, with the Germans fighting heroically all the way. The Third Battle of Ypres, as it came to be called, had cost thousands of lives – post-war estimates put them at up to three hundred thousand. The truth was that it was impossible to count all the dead for so many of them had literally disappeared into the mud. Certainly, as Hickman looked around him on that November morning, he hardly recognised anyone left of the company with whom he had left Pop six weeks or so ago.
They were relieved, at last, and trudged back down again through the black, stinking cemetery that the Salient had become. Waiting for him at the relief camp were four letters. The first was a cryptic note from an ADC to Field Marshal Haig, rebuking him for bothering the commander-in-chief at a critical moment in the war on a matter which had already been dealt with ‘satisfactorily’. The second was from Horatio Bottomley MP, sympathising with him over the fate of Corporal Murphy but saying that he could not possibly intercede on individual cases. However, CSM Hickman would be glad to hear that he, Bottomley, had every intention of calling in the House of Commons for an official commission into the workings of courts martial once the war was over.
The third, at last, was from Polly, from whom he had not heard since her letter of despair. He opened it with trembling figures, for he was sure that her silence meant that she had not forgiven him for not protecting Bertie. It was a poignant, if short, missive. She apologised for not having written for so long and hoped – oh, how she hoped! – that he was alive and well. She had felt just too upset to write to anyone. Of course, the MP had declined to help because he, too, could not interfere in individual cases. Now, however, she had become reconciled to Bertie’s fate (he had written her a heart-rending letter just before the end) and she was writing now to say that she in no way blamed Jim for their friend’s death and that she loved him desperately and prayed for him every day.
Jim kissed the letter and folded it carefully and put it into his wallet. Then, puzzled, for he did not recognise the handwriting, he opened the fourth letter. It was from a Sergeant Martin Burgess, of his old company in the 1st Bn Warwicks – ah, yes. The schoolmaster! He ha
d obviously been promoted.
Burgess began by sympathising with Hickman for Bertie’s death, for he knew – as did everyone in the company – how close they had been. He, Burgess, had been wounded and on recovering miles behind the lines at a place called Oostbeke, had been ordered – with other recovering men – to form part of the twelve-man squad to end the life of a condemned deserter. To his shock he had found that the man to be executed was Corporal Murphy. He had tried to fall out of the detail on compassionate grounds but was refused. So he had been there when Bertie had died.
Jim took a deep breath and looked away from the letter for a moment. Then he regained his composure and returned to it. Burgess was writing, he emphasised, to reassure Hickman that his old friend had died ‘splendidly – head up and refusing the blindfold’. He had even been singing when the bullets struck home: ‘something about falling in love at seventeen with eyes of tender blue …’
Shoulders heaving, Jim crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At the camp, Hickman was awarded fourteen days’ leave. He could have used it for a return home, but, on reflection, he decided against crossing the Channel. Firstly, he felt apprehensive about meeting Polly just yet. He yearned to see her (lusted?) but, although he knew it was irrational, he knew he could not face her yet. Bertie’s death was too close and the wound was still open. It was a risk not returning when he had the chance, for, despite her assurances, there might be other men back home who had come into her life or might still do so. After all, it had been almost a year since they had last met. Yet he knew he must take the risk. Let things settle, he reflected.
The other, more compelling reason, was that he had things to do in Belgium.
He had always worried about how the news would reach Bertie’s father. Polly, he knew, did most of his reading for him. It was likely, then, that when the formal letter informing Mr Murphy of his son’s death had reached him, she would have intercepted it. What would she have done? She had made no mention of it in her letters since. There might still be time to retrieve the situation. He made his way, therefore, to the tent that was battalion headquarters and, casually walking by, established that its only occupant was a clerk, pecking away at a noisy typewriter. Good. The colonel and the adjutant were away.
