Until We Meet Again

by Margaret Thornton

  One young woman who was not actively involved in the nursing home was Katy, Patrick Moon’s wife. It was during the early summertime that she confessed her feelings about it to her husband, although she was not normally one to complain about her lot.

  ‘I’m feeling quite left out of things,’ she said to him one evening in June, when they had finished their evening meal and were taking their ease after what had been a busy day for both of them. ‘I suppose I’m missing the company of your sisters. I used to see Hetty quite a lot when she lived down the road and when she was working in the office here.’ Hetty Lucas had left her home over the photographer’s shop when she had started work at the convalescent home. The studio had been closed ‘For the Duration’ ever since Bertram had joined the army. Hetty and Angela were now living with Jessie and little Gregory at their home on the South Bay so that Hetty could be near her place of work.

  ‘And Maddy and Jessie used to call and see me,’ Katy went on. ‘They’re all too busy now. And I feel sometimes that I ought to be working along with them. They’re all doing such a good job, ministering to those wounded soldiers.’

  Patrick looked at her in some surprise. ‘I had no idea you felt like that. You’ve never said so before. I thought you were quite happy; well…as happy as anyone can be, I mean, in the present situation.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she replied with an attempt at a smile. ‘Maybe I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, and I shouldn’t, should I? After all, you’re not away fighting like Bertram and Freddie, and Tommy. And now Arthur’s over there as well. I ought to be thankful that you’re still here.’

  ‘Yes, and you know how that makes me feel, don’t you?’ Patrick retorted a trifle bitterly. ‘I still feel that I should be over there doing my bit. I told Father so right at the start but he said I was needed here. And is seems as though the authorities are in agreement, because I haven’t been called up, not yet.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you’re likely to be,’ answered Katy. ‘After all, you’re thirty now, aren’t you? It’s the younger men they’re calling up.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of my great age,’ Patrick said with a grin. ‘What about Samuel? He’s the same age as me and he joined up right at the beginning. And Bertram too, and he must be – what? – in his late thirties now.’

  ‘But you’re doing an important job here,’ said Katy, ‘as you know very well. Your father couldn’t manage without you now. He never got anyone to replace your grandfather, and then with Joe Black joining up he was really short-handed. It’s not a job that anyone can do. You have to be an expert joiner to make the coffins, as well as having the skills required to do the other part of the job. It’s a task not everyone would want to undertake – pardon the pun!’ she smiled. ‘It wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘If you mean the business of laying out, then I should imagine our lads overseas are witnessing much worse sights than that,’ observed Patrick thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about; but then I daresay most of us are capable of doing things that we wouldn’t even have dreamt we could do if put to the test. Of course, there are some poor devils who just haven’t got the stamina for it, and they’re to be sympathised with rather than blamed; at least that’s the way I see it.’ He had heard rumours that had filtered back from the front line about young soldiers who had been shot – by our own side – for desertion or cowardice. He did not doubt that it was true, but the very idea of it was abhorrent to him. It was certainly not something he wanted to discuss with Katy.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The last time I saw Maddy she was telling me about a young lad that they were nursing – only eighteen years old – suffering badly from the effects of the war; shell shock, she says they call it. And she’s really concerned that when he’s recovered they’ll send him back again.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a cruel, cruel world at the moment,’ agreed Patrick. ‘But it’s you we were talking about, wasn’t it? Don’t you realise what an important job you’re doing too? It’s not every young woman who would turn her hand to coping with dead bodies, to put it bluntly, the way that you do. You’re invaluable to Father and me, and you’re helping out in the office as well now that Hetty has gone to live in the South Bay. Your work is just as vital as theirs, even though it’s not concerned directly with the war effort. Just look at what you’ve done today. You assisted me with that laying out job…’

  ‘Yes, poor old Mrs Jenkins,’ said Katy. ‘She never got over losing her grandson at the start of the war, did she?’ Adam Jenkins had been one of the first of Scarborough’s war casualties, having been killed in the retreat from Mons only weeks after the war had started.

  ‘And then you’ve done your stint in the office this afternoon,’ Patrick continued, ‘as well as cooking a delicious evening meal. So let’s not hear any more about you not doing enough.’ He smiled tenderly at her, the self-effacing, dark-haired young woman he had married when they were in their early twenties. There was an air of repose and gentleness about Katy; that was why he had fallen in love with her, and still loved her, possibly more than ever now. She was slightly built with unremarkable features, save for her luminous grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her seeming frailty was deceptive though, as he knew when he had seen her coping with the sort of tasks, as he had told her, that not many women that he knew could tackle.

  He knew, of course, what was a source of sorrow to his dear wife, as it was to him as well, although he probably did not feel it so keenly as she did. He knew it must be distressing for her when she saw his sisters with their children; seven-year-old Angela, and Amy and Gregory, both now four years old.

  She took the words out of his mouth when she said, rather shyly, ‘Of course, we were disappointed again last month, weren’t we, love? I keep on hoping and praying, but to no avail it seems. And that makes me feel rather sad, although if I’m not intended to have children then I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not for the want of trying, is it, my dear?’ he said, bringing a slight blush to her cheeks. ‘I tell you what. Let’s get these pots washed, and then we’ll have an early night.’

  ‘A good idea,’ she replied coyly.

  The war news, for a time, had seemed to be more encouraging. In the Balkans the British and French armies had forced the Bulgarians to retreat. In Africa Cameroon fell to the Belgian and French armies, whilst in Kenya the Germans were driven back by the soldiers commanded by General Smuts, the newly appointed commander of the British and South African troops in East Africa.

  In the Middle East the Arabs, encouraged by the British, rose against the Turks and started a campaign headed by the soldier who came to be known as Lawrence of Arabia. The British and the Russians formed an alliance with the Shah of Persia. It seemed, for a while, that the Germans imperialistic ambitions were in ruins – or so it was reported in the newspapers as a boost to the morale of the British people. Germany, not content with conquering Europe, had designs on the rest of the world as well.

  But that was all very far away. Nearer to home, on the battlefields of Europe, the news continued to be grim. On June 6th came the news that Britain’s War Secretary, Lord Kitchener – whose menacing face had pictured on the early war posters declaring, with pointed finger, ‘Your Country Needs You!’ – had drowned on HMS Hampshire. His post was filled a month later by David Lloyd George.

  The battle of Jutland had resulted in heavy losses for both the British and German navies. But the news that began to filter through in July regarding the losses that had occurred during the British offensive on the Somme was far worse than anything that had been known before.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dominic and Tommy knew that their turn would come very soon. Their platoons had been moved nearer to the front line and there was talk of a British offensive to be launched at the beginning of July. It was hoped that this big push would succeed in breaking down the German defences and lead to a resounding victory. That was what they all tried to tel
l themselves, although they knew, in truth, that they were fighting an army as vast as their own and – though they did not say it out loud – one that was better equipped than they were.

  To prepare for the big offensive night patrols were sent out in advance for a reconnoitre of the enemy trenches. Dominic was asked to be in charge of a patrol one night, and Tommy decided that he, too, would volunteer to take out some of his own men.

  ‘We’re in this together, mate,’ he said to his friend. ‘You know what we promised my sister; that we’d stick together and look out for one another.’ They clasped hands in a comradely manner.

  ‘It might not be possible, Tom,’ said Dominic. ‘We’ll be heading in different directions but… anyway, all the best, old pal. Keep your chin and…well…trust in the Lord. We’ll be all right. We’re indestructible, you and me.’

  ‘I can’t very well keep my chin up when we’re told to keep our heads down,’ quipped Tommy. ‘But I know what you mean. Good luck, mate. See you…when I see you.’

  Dominic checked the weapons of his patrol and his own revolver. Then they set out, crawling stealthily on their stomachs, inch by inch across no-man’s land; like so many wild beasts stalking their prey, he thought. He could smell the distinctive aroma of the earth after the rain – it had rained earlier that day – and taste its bitterness in his mouth and at the back of his throat, but he dared not cough or clear his throat. The night sky was dark, with just a few faint stars and a crescent moon. They had waited till after darkness fell, later on the summer evenings. A mist had fallen, too, following the rain, which gave a certain amount of protection although it made it more difficult for them to follow their course.

  A rustling in the row of bushes nearby told him that rats were scurrying to their nests. Then he heard a different sound, that of the footsteps of a human being. He began to fear, and to feel instinctively, that it was an enemy patrol that he could hear, not very far away. He heard a shot and could see, in a sudden flash of light from a trench mortar illuminating the darkness, that they were heading off course in the enveloping mist. In the distance, in another flash of light, he thought he could make out Tommy’s fiery mop of hair some twenty yards away. He didn’t think he was mistaken; his friend’s colouring was unique, and he muttered a quick prayer that they would both get through this. A volley of shots forced him to call out to his men to retreat. The patrol, alas, had come to nothing; all they could do now was to get away from the danger zone as quickly as possible. As far as he could tell there had been no loss of life as yet.

  Then an almighty explosion threw him off his feet and at the same time he felt a searing pain run through his left arm. He landed several feet away, face down in the choking soil and dust. He guessed he had been flung into a crater left by an exploding shell. He was struggling to breathe, but lifting his head slightly he could see fragments of shell falling around him. He knew, too, as he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness, that there was something badly wrong with his left arm.

  When he came to a while later – he could not tell how long – all was silent around him; the noise of gunfire was in the distance. His arm felt sticky and he knew that he had been injured and was rapidly losing blood. He knew, too, that if he lay there much longer he would die.

  No, no! He mustn’t die! The very idea of it was ridiculous. He and Tommy had promised that would always be there for one another, and they had told Tilly they would come home safely when it was all over. Tommy was still alive, as far as he knew. That glimpse of his red hair had been unmistakable and he hoped that his mate had got himself and his men back all in one piece; as he, Dominic, had tried to do. He hoped they had all made it back… They mustn’t have been aware of what had happened to him or else they would have rescued him. But it had all happened so quickly and he was out of sight in the crater.

  But he knew he had to get back despite his injuries. He made a supreme effort to drag himself out of the hole. He tried to inch forward on his stomach; he did not think he could stand on his feet. He could not do it. He collapsed again, fighting for breath; he was too weak and exhausted to move more than a few inches at a time. He closed his eyes, knowing that he must rest for a while, then try again later. As he drifted once more into unconsciousness he could see Tilly, his beloved Tilly, standing on the station platform waving to him as his train disappeared into the distance.

  Tilly and Sophie read the Bradford newspapers when their shifts came to an end. They felt they had to know what was going on both at home and across the channel, although the news was often depressing.

  At the beginning of July, however, the papers proclaimed, with what was to prove unfounded optimism, that the ‘Big Push’ – as it was being called – would be a walkover for the British troops. General Sir Douglas Haigh believed – or so he said – that the Germans would be defeated once and for all, leaving the road to Berlin and to victory wide open.

  The Bradford Daily Telegraph brought out a special pink Sunday edition of the paper with the headline ‘British Advance – Many Villages Occupied’. On Monday, July 2nd it was reporting ‘All Goes Well’, and on the 4th, ‘Further Successes’. There was to be no true report of what had actually taken place, but by Thursday, July 6th it was noticed that the casualty lists, which appeared every day, were getting longer.

  Then on the Saturday came the first series of pictures of the dead and wounded. There were fifty such photographs of men from the Bradford area, covering a whole page with the heading ‘Bradford Heroes of the Great Advance’. The truth of the grim reality of the ‘Big Push’ was reported elsewhere in the paper. At last it was admitted that ‘the toll taken of our Bradford lads was heavy.’

  The dreadful horror of the first day of the Battle of the Somme gradually dawned on the folk of Bradford; and on the rest of Britain, of course, although it was the Yorkshire regiments that Tilly and Sophie were most concerned about. Sophie’s brother, Steve, and his friend Harry, were both over there with the ‘Bradford Pals’. There was no news of either of them as yet, nor of Tommy and Dominic.

  The Bradford Pals had enlisted enthusiastically, friend encouraging friend, and had gone off to fight with little idea of the dangers they would be facing, as had similar groups of young men from other towns in the north of England. After the first few days of the battle seventy per cent of the young men from the Bradford area had been reported killed, wounded or missing.

  The people of Bradford were numb with grief and horror. In every street there were several households who had lost a beloved son or father. Tilly and Sophie tried to encourage one another with meaningless sophistries such as ‘no news is good news’, but after the first few days, by what seemed to be mutual agreement, they did not speak of their fears at all.

  They were busier than ever at the hospital as the casualty lists grew and more and more sick or wounded soldiers arrived back from the battlefields. Their hectic and exhausting days or nights took their minds away from their own worries to a certain extent.

  When Tilly’s and Sophie’s free afternoon coincided on the Wednesday of the following week Sophie, as she often did, invited her friend to go home for tea with her. They took the tram to Manningham Lane, alighting near to the Ashton’s shop.

  ‘Oh no… Oh, dear God in heaven, no!’ gasped Sophie as they drew nearer and they could see the scene of destruction that faced them. The plate-glass window had been smashed and several bricks and large stones lay amongst the wreckage of foodstuffs that lay strewn on the floor of the window. Pork pies lay broken in pieces amidst the jumble of sausages, pork chops, cheeses and dishes of sauerkraut, smashed to smithereens amongst the shards of broken glass. And on the pavement was the slogan daubed in red paint, ‘Germans go home!’

  ‘No, no, no!’ cried Sophie as she pushed against the shop door, but it was closed. She banged on it and a few moments later her mother appeared. She flung her arms around her daughter. ‘Oh, Sophie! Thank goodness you’re here.’

  ‘When…?’ Sophie began, but her
mother interrupted her.

  ‘This morning, but there hasn’t been time to let you know; anyway, I knew you said you would come this afternoon.’

  ‘But are you all right, Mother? You’ve not been hurt?’

  ‘No…I’m all right. Badly shaken but angry more than anything. Your father’s had a blow on the head, though. A brick hit him—’

  ‘Oh! Dear God!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘Is he badly hurt? Has he gone to hospital?’

  ‘No; fortunately it wasn’t too bad. I’ve cleaned the wound and put some ointment on and a dressing. There’ll be a bruise there, but he’s angry as much as anything, like I am. Anyway, come on in and see for yourself. Nice to see you, Tilly, my dear.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Mrs Ashton,’ said Tilly. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help…’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to clear up this mess as best we can. Mrs Pritchard’s here from the newsagent’s next door; she’s a very good friend. We were just about to make a start.’

  ‘I see their shop hasn’t been damaged,’ observed Sophie.

  ‘No, they’re not Germans, are they?’ replied Martha Ashton bitterly.

  ‘And neither are we!’ said Sophie. ‘I can’t believe it. We get on so well with everyone round here.’

  ‘Some folk have long memories, it seems,’ replied her mother. The three of them stood inside the shop staring at the debris scattered far and wide.

  ‘Who were they? Do you know?’

  ‘We caught a glimpse of a crowd of youths running away,’ said Mrs Ashton. ‘It all seemed to happen so quickly and it was such a shock. No… we didn’t recognise any of them. The police have been. They came very quickly actually. They’ve taken fingerprints, but I very much doubt that they’ll be able to find out who did it. But we’re not the only ones, they told us. There’s been another attack near to here, and a couple in another part of the town. Anyway, come on in and see your father…’