Starshine

by John Wilcox

  By this time, Hickman had established a reputation in the battalion as a fearsome fighter and a man not to be trifled with, despite his age. The clerk looked up, then, a touch apprehensively. ‘Mornin’, Sarn’t Major.’

  ‘Morning, Jones.’ Jim gave him a warm smile. ‘Are you in the market for earning ten francs on that bloody machine?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind, sir. Wouldn’t mind at all. Is it legal?’

  ‘Perfectly legal. Bit of private business that’s all. Bending the rules slightly but you will stay out of it. Look. I would like you to type this letter. Don’t use battalion notepaper – even if you’ve got it, which I doubt. No. Just type on plain stuff, typin’ the battalion name on the top. I’ve scribbled out what I want you to say.’ He pointed. ‘Put lst Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment on the top, with “somewhere in Flanders” as the address. Date it a month ago. It’s to go to Mr P. Murphy, number 62, Turners Lane, Aston, Birmingham 6. Here, I’ve written it out but I’ll read it to you in case you can’t read my writing.’

  Jim took a quick look to make sure that no one was approaching the tent and read:

  Dear Mr Murphy,

  906372 Corporal Bertram Murphy, Royal Warwickshire Regt.

  I am writing to inform you of the death of your son, the above, in action against the enemy on the Ypres Salient. He was killed while advancing in the face of fierce enemy fire and met his death instantly. He will have known no pain.

  In sending you my condolences, I would like to tell you that your son died a hero’s death, facing the enemy and showing no sign of fear. He was a splendid soldier and will be missed by all his comrades in A Company.

  You have my deepest sympathy.

  Yours sincerely,

  J. Smith, Captain, company commander.

  ‘I’ll sign it. Do the envelope and I’ll find the stamp.’

  Jones’s jaw dropped. ‘Ooh, Sarn’t Major,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I should do this. It’s impersonatin’ an officer, ain’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not, because Captain Smith doesn’t exist. Look, Jones, this bloke was my mate. They shot him a month ago for desertion. He was not a coward, he was just ill. I don’t want his father – who can’t read or write – to know about the way he died and I am gambling that I can get this letter to be read to him by a neighbour before the real one gets there. But for God’s sake don’t tell the colonel or the adjutant or we shall all be in the shit. Can you do it today?’

  A smile crept over the clerk’s face. ‘Yes, sir. Colonel and adjutant won’t be back until late this afternoon.’

  ‘Good lad. Here’s the ten francs. You might have saved an old man’s tears. I’ll be back at three. Get typing.’

  Hickman then walked to the railway station and bought himself a ticket to Oostbeke and scribbled a letter of explanation to Polly to cover the fake letter about Bertie’s death. He just hoped that she had intercepted anything that had come earlier and could make the substitution. It was worth a try. Later that day he picked up Jones’s effort, impeccably typed, and slipped it into the letter to Polly and posted it.

  The journey to Oostbeke did not take long – nowhere did in Belgium – and he found it to be a small village, near divisional headquarters, with a large military police presence. Could it be the centre for executions? He thrust the thought aside. For God’s sake there couldn’t be that many surely? There did seem, however, to be an army padre in residence, who turned out to be Roman Catholic.

  A small man with a gentle manner, he had officiated at Bertie’s death, giving him the last rites and praying with him right to the end.

  ‘He was your friend, Sergeant Major?’ he enquired.

  ‘My dearest friend. He should not have been shot. He was not a deserter or a coward, he was ill. But the army felt it had to kill him.’

  The priest gave a sigh. ‘Ah yes, my son. I can see you are angry. But so many men meet their maker unjustly in this war. At least Corporal Murphy met his with equanimity, with great faith and fortitude.’

  Hickman resisted the urge to shout ‘Balls!’ and asked, ‘Can you show me where he is buried?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s not consecrated ground. But it’s a charming little glade just outside the village. We use it for … er … this sort of thing. I can take you there now.’

  It was, indeed, a quiet spot, which, in summer, must have been gently shaded and green. Now, it merely looked sombre. Seven or eight mounds of earth, topped with plain wooden crosses, were tucked away in one corner. The priest took Jim to one with freshly turned soil.

  ‘This is your friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone for I’m sure you’ll want to pray quietly. You can find me back in the office if you want me.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  But Jim did not pray. He stood looking down for more than a minute, then scuffed the earth with his boot. ‘We’ll soon have you out of here, son,’ he said.

  Back in the village, he found that there were two churches, both Catholic, of course. The first was red-bricked, huge and gloomy and it gave out an image of respectability and religious rectitude. He walked on until, at the far end of the little community, he found a smaller church, built of stone and looking as though it had been aged when the Conqueror sailed for Hastings. It had a tranquil churchyard fringed with yew trees and containing many headstones. The heavy wooden door to the church yielded to the latch and Jim entered. It was, predictably, dark but, even on this autumn day, quite warm and welcoming. It was also empty.

  Outside, a noticeboard gave the name of the priest as Georges Picard but no address for him. And would he speak English? Hickman accosted a passing woman and, pointing to the notice, asked, questioningly, ‘Le père. Monsieur Picard?’

  Puzzled, she nodded in acquiescence, then, realising the point of the question, indicated a house that stood by the churchyard. Luckily, Father Picard was at home and, even more fortunately, he spoke English.

  ‘Come in.’ He waved Hickman towards an overstuffed armchair, selected a much more austere seat for himself and leant forward. ‘How can I help you?’ The priest had a long, thin face with jowls that reminded Jim of a worried hound, but his eyes – as blue as Bertie’s – were kind.

  Hickman had long since decided that he would not dissemble but rather tell the story of Bertie in some detail and then make his request as a logical sequence at the end. He did so now: ‘You see, Father, he has been buried, without a headstone, in unconsecrated ground in a wood not far from here.’ He slapped a finger into the palm of his hand to emphasise his last points. ‘He was, first of all, not a coward or a deserter, merely a sick man. Secondly, he was a good Catholic – the army priest will verify that – and it is not right that he is buried in unconsecrated ground.’

  The priest’s lugubrious face broke into a smile. ‘And thirdly, he was your friend. Yes?’

  ‘We grew up together and this would never have happened had I been with him when he cracked. But I was wounded and out of the line and was not there to help him.’

  ‘Hmmm. And what do you want of me, my son?’

  ‘Father, I would like to … er … dig up my friend and have him buried in your lovely churchyard here, with a proper headstone erected above his grave. And I would like you to conduct a proper Catholic burial service for him. I will pay all costs. I have money. I have been saving from my army pay. Here.’ He took out his wallet and put one hundred and twenty francs on the table. ‘I hope this will pay for moving my friend and his reburial. I will send more money to you for the headstone. Please, Father, say that you will help me, because I know that the army authorities will not do so and I would wish it to be done quickly before my leave expires.’

  Father Picard was silent for a moment, his hands folded on his lap, and Jim’s heart fell. He realised that what he was asking was difficult. It would demand the priest’s intrusion into the affairs of the British army, which at this place, was virtually an occupying force.

  ‘I think,’ mused the priest, ‘that
this … er … removal would have to be done at night, so that we do not upset my colleagues in your army.’ He gave a sudden, disarming grin. ‘We would be grave robbers in the dark, eh?’

  Hickman grinned back, in huge relief. ‘Yes, but Bertie would see the joke,’ he said. ‘Father, would your local gravediggers do this, do you think? I would be with them, of course.’

  Picard picked up the money. He selected a few of the notes. ‘For twenty francs – not all this money, my son – they would do anything.’ He slapped his knees and roared with laughter. Jim offered up a silent prayer that he had found probably the only grave-robbing priest in the whole of France – and one with a sense of humour!

  He offered the remaining notes back to Hickman. ‘You keep this for the moment – no, I take another ten for the offertory box – and, when the stone is cut and erected you will send what is necessary to me to pay the mason. We have a good man in the village but you must tell me what it is you want to put on the … er … tablet, eh?’

  Jim fumbled in his pocket. ‘I have it here,’ he said, ‘laid out as I would like it. Here.’ He handed it to the priest, who read it out aloud:

  ‘In Loving Memory of a Brave British Soldier

  Bertram Murphy

  1896–1917

  Still Alive in Our Hearts’

  ‘Ah oui,’ muttered Picard. ‘Very fine.’

  Hickman picked up the remaining notes and handed them back to the priest. ‘But you must keep these for the stone,’ he said. ‘I am due to return to the front soon. I have been lucky for three years but this luck is due to run out and I could be killed. You must have this to pay the mason. Will you need more, do you think?’

  ‘I think not. But I tell you if it is necessary.’

  ‘When can we do the … dirty deed?’

  The priest roared with laughter again. ‘Ah, it should be when the moon is – what do you say in English? – riding high in a black sky. No, no. We must joke no more. This is not something funny we do. The good Lord would approve, I know. You do this in his name, my son, I know that. Now, I think, perhaps tonight. Where do you sleep?’

  ‘Nowhere at the moment.’

  ‘There is a good auberge at the end of the lane that goes by the side of the church here. Go there and say I sent you. They will probably double the price then,’ the great roar of laughter came again, ‘but they will find you a bed. I will send you a message when I have talked to my gravediggers.’ Then he slapped his knee. ‘Ah, I am a poor host. I did not offer an Englishman tea.’

  Hickman rose. ‘No thank you, Father,’ he said. ‘I have already taken too much of your time. I cannot say how much I am grateful to you—’

  The priest interrupted. ‘Too early for thanks yet. We may end in jail first.’ And he laughed again.

  Jim found the inn, a tiny building with an old sign showing a keg of ale hanging outside its entrance. The bed was found and he ordered ham and bread and a flagon of light Belgian beer and thanked his lucky stars again that he had found Father Picard, surely the only priest who would contemplate opening up a grave in the middle of the night and dodging the British military police in moving the body elsewhere. Yes. How Bertie would have chuckled – and Polly, for that matter!

  The message came at six o’clock. Jim was to rendezvous at the church at 8 p.m. Moving a body after midnight, obviously, was rather too much of a risk for the priest. And so it proved.

  ‘We cannot move at night,’ he explained when they met, ‘because it is – what you say? – the criminals’ hour. But at eight or nine, we could be moving chairs for the church meeting tomorrow. I do not mind if we lie. God will understand we do it for one of his good servants. Here, the men have already dug a grave. I show you.’

  They picked their way through the dark churchyard to a corner, near where a lilac tree would bloom in spring. The diggers had dug out a deep grave, piling the earth to the side. It was an ideal spot for a man deserted by the army for which he had fought. Hickman was satisfied.

  As the church clock struck eight, half a dozen old chairs were loaded onto a cart pulled by a sad old horse and covered in tarpaulin. Then they set out for the glade, the two diggers in their corduroys, woollen jackets and berets riding on the cart, the priest and Jim walking by its side. Picard wore his wide-brimmed clerical hat and a black raincoat over his cassock and Hickman his uniform greatcoat and army cap. He had brought mufti with him but had decided against wearing it. If they met the military police, his warrant officer’s crown could be useful.

  The night, indeed, was dark, if not stormy, and black clouds raced across the sky. It was, Jim reflected, the right sort of conditions for exhuming a body on one side of a village and reinterring it on the other. A shiver ran through him. But it would be worse on the return journey, he knew. No one spoke until they entered the glade.

  ‘There,’ Jim pointed. He wrested the wooden cross from the ground. ‘Sorry Bertie,’ he breathed. ‘Soon have you moved and settled, old lad.’

  Working by a guttering lantern, the diggers shovelled away the earth while the priest and Hickman kept watch. Shadows swept across the toiling figures from the single candle and the moon kept slipping in and out of the clouds, sending its silvery light to add to the bizarre nature of the tableau in the clearing. Jim kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see a short, ever-willing figure in unkempt uniform and with dishevelled hair stumping up to say, ‘Here lads, I’ll give you a hand.’

  It did not take long for the diggers to uncover the coffin, for it lay under the ground only four feet or so. And a coffin it was, much to the relief of Hickman, who was half expecting his old comrade to be buried in a winding sheet. As it was uncovered, the priest stopped the workmen and he knelt, saying a brief prayer, as they all removed their hats. Then the work began of lifting the coffin out of its slot – not easily, for the coffin was a cheap affair, without handles, and Jim worried for a moment that it might break open.

  But, with a heave, it was extricated and put, with surprising tenderness, onto the cart and covered with the tarpaulin. Then the earth was shovelled back into the opening and stamped down. Jim carefully tucked the wooden cross under the canvas and they began the journey back, this time all four riding on the cart, sitting on the coffin – Hickman’s idea, in case they were stopped. Bertie wouldn’t mind, he explained to the priest, who translated so that they all smiled.

  They were indeed intercepted. A corporal and private of the military police stepped out of the shadows as they neared a crossroads.

  ‘Evenin’, Padre,’ said the corporal. ‘Where are you all off to at this time of the night?’

  Hickman put on his cap and stepped down from the cart. ‘Sergeant Major Hickman, of the 2nd Battalion Suffolks,’ he said crisply. ‘Nothing to worry about, Corporal. I’m here on a few days’ leave.’ He produced his leave warrant and offered it. ‘Father Picard here is an old friend and I’m staying at the pub round the corner from his church. I’m just giving them a hand in moving some gear for a church meeting tomorrow. We’re miles from the line. Is there a problem?’

  The corporal, who with the other policeman had stiffened to attention, shook his head. ‘No, Sarn’t Major. But, as this is where divisional headquarters is based we have to be careful, you know. Come on, we’ll escort you to the church.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Hickman and smiled inwardly. And so with an escort of military policemen, Bertie Murphy undertook the journey to his last resting place. Jim Hickman thought it most appropriate and only wished that the Colonels Cox and Williams could have been present to witness the procession. The redcaps offered to help unload the cart but the priest and Hickman declined their offer with profuse thanks and the two men marched slowly away into the blackness.

  The coffin was hurriedly taken down and then, with each of the men at the four corners, it was carried carefully to the open grave under the lilac tree. Here, they all knelt as the priest produced a small black book of prayer and conducted a service of sorts in either L
atin or French – Jim had no idea which – and then they stood as the earth was shovelled back onto the coffin as Picard intoned a blessing or final benediction. As they stood silently at the end, Jim broke away and rescued the wooden cross. He rammed it into the ground at Bertie’s head. It would have to do until his fine headstone was erected.

  Before he left for his train the next morning, Father Picard introduced Jim to the young widow of the churchwarden who had died the year before at Verdun. She had taken over her husband’s responsibilities and Hickman pressed forty francs into her hand on her promise to take a special interest in looking after Bertie’s grave.

  The priest insisted on accompanying him to the railway station and there they shook hands, with Jim promising to despatch more money, as necessary, for the payment of the stonemason and the maintenance of the grave. Then, with a heart lighter than it had been for weeks, he went back to the war.

  Back at the camp, Hickman wrote a long letter to Polly, explaining all that he had done. He lied in saying that it had been impossible to get home leave but promised that he would return to her as soon as he was able. He had, he wrote firmly, every intention of surviving the war, now surely moving towards its end, and returning to marry her.

  The Third and greatest Battle of Ypres officially ended on 10th November 1917, with the Allies atop the ridges at Passchendaele, at the end of one of the most costly campaigns in history. Since 1914 the defence of Ypres had cost the British and its Allies 430,000 troops, killed, wounded and missing. The Allies at last looked over the green fields of Belgium beyond the mud of the Salient and opportunity was taken to transfer five divisions to the Italian front and send several more to take part in the Battle of Cambrai. Jim Hickman travelled up with his regiment to take post just east of Passchendaele at the furthest point reached by the British in the Salient and stayed there throughout the bitterly cold early months of 1918, still engaged in fighting with a stubborn enemy, but he and no one else doubting that it would take only the smallest of Big Pushes to send the Germans in final and full retreat, particularly now that America had entered the war and the first of the doughboys – raw, inexperienced but keen and confident – had begun to land.