Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

  CLAYMORE PRESS

  An imprint of

  Pen & Sword Books Ltd

  47 Church Street

  Barnsley

  South Yorkshire

  S70 2AS

  Copyright © Roy Stolworthy, 2012

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-78159-071-3

  EPUB ISBN: 9781781599761

  PRC ISBN: 9781781599778

  The right of Roy Stolworthy to be identified as Author of this work has

  been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.

  Printed and bound in England

  By CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CRO 4YY

  Pen & Sword Books Ltd incorporates the Imprints of Claymore Press, Pen

  & Sword Aviation, Pen & Sword Family History, Pen & Sword Maritime,

  Pen & Sword Military, Wharncliffe Local History, Pen & Sword Select,

  Pen & Sword Military Classics, Leo Cooper, Remember When, Seaforth

  Publishing and Frontline Publishing

  For a complete list of Pen & Sword titles please contact

  PEN & SWORD BOOKS LIMITED

  47 Church Street, Barnsley, South Yorkshire, S70 2AS, England

  E-mail: enquiries@pen-and-sword.co.uk

  Website: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Roy E Stolworthy

  All In The

  Dancing Boy

  Hidden in Open View

  In Flanders Field

  In Flanders fields the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly.

  John McCrae, 1915

  Prologue

  London 2010

  Joshua Pendleton felt the cold air slap his face and steal his breath away. It was late October and summer already a brief memory, like the days when he roamed the shingle beaches of Brighton with his father, Moses, searching for washed up treasures from faraway places. Now with his father long since passed away he continued, as promised, to undertake the annual pilgrimage to pay his respects to Thomas Elkin, the soldier who had saved his father’s life in the Great War of 1914-18. His eyes flickered with uncertainty and he chided himself as he did every year for being too mean-minded to pay the fare for a taxi.

  In his mind, contrary to what others thought, London was an intimidating city full of a bristling urgency concealing dark brooding secrets, a place where method and reason battened down chaos. He hesitated and allowed his mind to slip and tried to relax. For a fleeting moment he recalled a panorama of memories, and fixed his eyes on the busy London traffic interspersed with the inevitable red London buses moving briskly over Westminster Bridge.

  Beneath the comforting tones of Big Ben ringing thirty minutes past the hour he glanced upwards, and waited patiently for the rapid beating of his heart to slow to an easy rhythm before resuming his journey. Neither late nor early for sixty-eight years he’d shared the intimacy of time, now it felt like a faceless stranger intruding on what should have remained private.

  Fatigue came quickly without warning, invading his limbs like an incoming tide washing over a shifting beach. He winced, scowled up at the sudden downpour then shook the rain from his crinkly grey hair.

  He slowed and for a brief moment paused, allowing the thinning vaporous trails of his hot breath to become less frequent. It was the wrong kind of day to linger, already the air hung heavy with diesel and petrol fumes, and rising puddles filled with dirty water barred his way. Free at last from the pattering rain he passed through the great north door, flanked either side by grey arched portals. Inside Westminster Abbey his eyes automatically shifted upwards in unbridled awe. Grey stone pillars resembling giant fingers thrust skyward into the tangled intricacies of the magnificent vaulted ceiling. Groups of sightseers, with heads huddled close together, spoke in hushed voices in a mantle of secrecy for fear they disturb the breath of God. The cloying ecclesiastical aroma of incense and burning candles laid siege to his nostrils, lifted his inner strength, and he felt a satisfying sense of eternal security take over his body.

  With a long drawn out sigh he stooped to massage the joints in his knees. He arched a brow. It was no more than a futile gesture born of habit, at his age living flesh offered no protection for aching bones. Then, pushing his ailments to one side and with a hint of humility twinned with a sense of inconsequence, he clasped his hands in front of him in a gesture of reverence and looked down at the tomb of the Unknown Warrior. The black marble surround glistened in a sudden shaft of light spearing from the stained window depicting Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and fourteen prophets. Laurels of fresh greenery, combined with vivid artificial red poppies framed the tomb. The intensity of the colours appeared to isolate the tomb from the surrounding sombreness, like a fresh rainbow against the backdrop of a dull sky. To him the tomb had always seemed out of place and incongruous; unnatural in its surroundings, an inglorious memorial to a magnificent sacrifice. For a moment he stood in silence, then slowly untied the heavy red woollen scarf from around his neck, folded it neatly and knelt with it under his knees for relief from the cold concrete floor. Glancing furtively from side-to-side to see whether anyone was watching him, from his jacket he took a pocket watch attached to a silver chain and placed it on the edge of the tomb. And like so many times before he read the last part of the tribute chiselled into the black marble.

  They Buried Him Among The Kings Because He Had Done Good Toward God And Toward His House.

  “Hello, Thomas,” he whispered. “How are you this morning?

  It’s raining outside, as usual. Although I hear the forecast is better for tomorrow.”

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire 1916

  Stark memories of swishing canes and stinging buttocks pierced the mind of George Allen when he stepped hesitantly into the small classroom opposite the church of St Luke. His Adam’s apple bobbled and he gripped his worn cloth cap tight in his hands, the clinging smell of chalk dust mingling with tingling fear brought back vivid recollections of the not-so-happy days spent in the classroom on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors. Even today, over twenty-two years later, he would have to admit three times nine would still take him an eternity to calculate.

  Inside the gloomy classroom, dominated by a huge oak desk overlooking the classroom like the captain’s deck on a ship, Mr Webster
sat frowning. He did not trouble himself to look up, but instead listened to the brief message then waved a hand at George Allen, dismissing him.

  For twenty-seven years Mr Webster had taught at the village school, with never a day missed through illness or otherwise. It was a record he was rightly proud of. He stood tall and lean with slight drooping shoulders, his face pale yet kindly. He glanced briefly at Joe Allen sitting in the front row of the class, and a hint of humility twinned with a sense of inconsequence leaked into his body. Gradually he felt some clarity return and he breathed deeply. They had employed him to bring education and knowledge to the children, not bad news. Instead several of the village elders, in their crass ignorance, thought differently – best the children learn the meaning of war collectively, they said. Not for the first time that year he asked for God’s forgiveness for what he was about to do.

  “Pay attention children,” he said in his deep baritone voice. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  Thomas Elkin’s breath came quickly and his heart sucked at his chest. His head felt empty, like a balloon attached to piece of string, and his eyes darted across to the seat where Joe Allen sat. He knew what was coming next, and time came to a standstill.

  “It is my misfortune to inform you that Joe’s brother, Brian, has died serving his country in France, and while offering our sorrow and regret to both Joe and his family, we may comfort ourselves in the knowledge he died fighting bravely for the freedom of others,” Mr Webster said in a hushed voice. “Prayers will be said in church on Sunday, and I shall expect you all to attend.”

  Joe squeezed his ears tight shut, aware that everyone’s eyes were upon him, and stared down at the scratched desktop. He’d worshipped his elder brother, and in his boyish innocence had always adamantly refused to acknowledge this day might come. With childish simplicity he ignored the pencil rolling onto the floor and fought to maintain a look of calm on his face. When the stream of sickly bile reached his throat he gulped and thought he might retch the contents of his stomach over the rickety wooden school desk. Amy Pascoe, the youngest at ten years of age, broke first – a choking sob burst from her chest and she cried openly without shame.

  Joe’s head nodded back and forwards, and folding his arms tight to his body he crossed his ankles and pulled his legs under his chair. Small beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip and salty tears readily streamed down his face, forming a wet patch over the raggedy sleeves of his hand-me-down shirt. He wanted to cry over the loss of his brother. He wanted his brother to know he had cried for him before his heart broke. A loud intake of breath hissed through his nose. His eyes welled and he began to shake. Harsh sobs racked his small body and fourteen children cried with him.

  At one-forty that warm, sunny afternoon, Mr Webster dismissed the class. There would be no more schooling that day. Thomas glanced across at the hunched shoulders of his friend Joe. He wanted to go to him and tell him everything would be all right. But he knew it wouldn’t, it would never be same again, not for Joe.

  “Hey, Thomas, maybe I’ll see you at the gravel pit later,” George Spikes called, with a wave of his fleshy hand.

  Thomas looked up, angry at George for his lack of remorse. “Aye, maybe you will, maybe you won’t.”

  By rights Thomas should have finished his schooling eight months ago. Yet his mother, adamant he make up the time lost waiting for a broken leg to heal, insisted he complete his education. Today, his mind was filled with nervous thoughts for his brother Archie who, that night, was due to leave for a place called Catterick, somewhere up north, to be trained as a soldier. Later, they had told him, he would be sent to the same war responsible for the death of Brian Allen.

  With a chilled sense of foreboding Thomas recalled the not so distant past when many young men had left the surrounding villages amidst the cheers and stirring sounds of a brass band. Some never returned; others did, often minus a leg or an arm. Some came with a stare so vacant and listless that they seemed unable to recognise their own families. They never spoke of their experiences and instead shuffled around like frightened strangers, keeping their own counsel and suffering in silence. They were brave men, all of them, heroes to some. ‘Buster’ Matthews had just turned eighteen when he lost his right arm on the Somme. For weeks he sat in his mother’s scullery staring into the grated fire, never uttering a word, even when he was spoken to – until the day a neighbour’s cat jumped onto his lap and dug its claws into his leg.

  “Bugger off, you scrawny git! I’ve seen bigger newborn rats than thee!” he bellowed in pain.

  From that day on, for reasons no one ever knew, he’d visited the village pub every night until he learned to play the piano one-handed. He made a fair living playing at weddings, birthdays, christenings and any other events where music was needed. Not that he was any good, but folk thought they owed him a debt of gratitude.

  Thomas tried to shake off the black thoughts and paused to button up his frayed hand-me-down black waistcoat and pull on his flat cap. With a down-turned mouth he made his way over the hill to the small farm where he lived with his parents and Archie on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors.

  On the brow of the hill he slowed and desperately attempted to unravel his distorted thoughts, his mind full of confused images.

  Archie’s easy going nature had changed since the day he foolishly let Vernon Parker’s prize bull out of the meadow for a prank. The bull quickly turned on him and gored him so violently the doctors feared he might never recover. From that day, he’d become morose and a bad-tempered bully, and quickly grew to despise everything about the countryside.

  “It may be some time before he recovers,” the doctor said. “The attack has left him traumatised. Strange piece of equipment the mind. Not much I can say really, except take it easy with the lad and hope for the best.”

  Since then six long years had passed, and regardless of whichever way his family looked at it the best never came. The army, desperate for men, considered him fit and able for active service.

  Halfway down the hill Thomas gazed at the trails of wispy white smoke spiralling into the air. His sombre mood melted and he smiled. His mother must be baking Archie’s favourite dark-brown ginger biscuits.

  Ruby was there waiting, like always, stamping and snorting, throwing her head from side-to-side showing off. Her coat, wet from the brief downpour, gleamed in the fresh sunlight. At the sight of Thomas she wheeled and galloped towards him, her jet-black mane thrown by her gait and the hairs on her fetlocks flared, black and glistening like a crow’s wing. Her mother, a champion Percheron plough horse, died during the birth and Thomas bottle-fed the foal until she was able to graze and a strong bond had immediately grown between them. He’d named her Ruby – not for any reason he could think of other than the name just seemed to come to him.

  Casually glancing around the unusually quiet farmyard he listened to the snuffling pigs snouting around for a missed morsel of discarded food. He arched a brow, and with his hand shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun glimpsed his father clearing a blocked stream away in the bottom field. The pony and trap were both missing, a sign his mother must be in the village shopping or maybe visiting a friend on a neighbouring farm. She wouldn’t be gone too long, though, with the ginger biscuits in the oven. Ruby muzzled into his chest and snorted her hot, sticky tongue licking at his face. He laughed and grimaced at the same time.

  Startled at the sound of a slamming door, he turned and watched Archie swagger from the farmhouse. His thin pale body shirtless and his trousers suspended by a pair of faded brown braces. In his hands he juggled hot ginger biscuits and continually blew on his fingers.

  “Hey, I’ve got something for you. Look after it,” he sneered, holding out a bone-handled penknife. “Now piss off.”

  Thomas stared at the knife, his forehead creasing with disbelief.

  “Are we friends now?” Thomas asked eagerly, accepting the knife.

  “I told you once, sod off,” Archie sneered raising
his fists.

  The smile left Thomas’s face and he backed away. Although a little over two years younger than Archie, in size he matched him pound for pound. Archie lashed out with his fist and caught him square on the side of his head, knocking him down on one knee. In a flash he was on his feet, crouching, circling, his fists balled. As usual Archie’s kindness came with the smell of the beast. Nothing ever changed. Momentary fear flickered in Archie’s eyes and he hesitated, stopped, then altered direction and made his way towards the stone barn. Ruby pawed the ground and snorted.

  “Take no notice,” Thomas said rubbing her nose. “He’s just worried about going to war.”

  Gently scrambling onto Ruby’s back and touching her flanks with his heels he steered her out of the farmyard. Behind him the sound of Archie’s high-pitched laughter followed by a woman’s giggle resounded from the stone barn. Instead of kicking Ruby forward, his face hardened into a scowl. Slipping from Ruby’s back he crept determinedly towards the barn and pushed his face tight against the rotting slats of the wooden door, and through slitted eyes he peered into the gloom.

  Josie Davis, from the next village, was lying on a bed of straw half-naked with her legs apart, and Archie grunted and groaned as he pumped in and out of her. For a moment Thomas stood rooted to the spot listening to her breathless moaning, instantly aware why his brother had wanted him out of the way.

  “You dirty sod!” he shouted angrily, pushing the door open. “I’ll tell Pa.”

  Archie looked up quickly and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Josie Davis sat up and struggled to pull on her clothes and ran sobbing, white-faced and shoeless from the barn.

  “You’ll be in trouble when Pa finds out. He’s told you about doing that with her.”

  “Tell him what you like, now bugger off before I kick your arse.”

  Thomas felt a raging turmoil surge into his body and a pent-up fury streamed from his body. His mind conjured up past dark images of Archie’s cruelty. His response was instantaneous and he lunged with his fingers outstretched. Archie waited, crouching and ready, then stepped nimbly to one side. Thomas stumbled and bounced off the side of the stone wall, grimacing at the pain searing into his shoulder, and with arms flailing he struggled to keep his balance. The back of his hand collided against a long wooden-handled scythe hanging from a metal hook fixed to the wall. In desperation he twisted and reached out to prevent the scythe from falling. Too late, Archie raised his hands to protect himself as the grinning razor-sharp blade arced down and slashed across his neck. His trembling hands clutched at his throat as the warm, sticky blood spurted and bubbled through his fingers. His sallow complexion drained to white and his eyes dimmed.