“Bloody hell, you’ve done for me, you stupid little bastard! They’ll put a bloody rope round your neck and hang you for sure now.”
Thomas stood motionless, staring down at the gashed neck, his palms moist and glittering with sweat. It wasn’t real; Archie was playing one of his cruel games, like he always did whenever he wanted to frighten him. Behind the barn, next to a small cultivated patch of garden where his mother grew vegetables, the huge pigs in the metal-railed sty caught the scent of blood and their strident squealing split the air.
The blood froze in Thomas’s veins. Ruby snorted, shaking her head from side-to-side she backed away, her legs franticly pawed the air and her whinnies turned to piercing screams.
“Stop it! Get up, you great fool, I was only joking. I promise I won’t tell Pa, please, Archie!” Thomas cried pulling at Archie’s body.
Like dull glass marbles, Archie’s lifeless eyes stared into the roof of the barn. Thomas stumbled back feeling the strength drain from his legs. His lips turned blue, and he gasped for breath.
“Don’t die, Archie!” he screamed. “Please don’t die; I don’t want you to die.”
The pigs ceased their squealing and there was no sound save for the rapid beating of his heart hammering against his ribs. Tears stung his eyes and the muscles in his face jerked in snatches. He felt isolated, as though he had blundered into another world not yet known to him, a world where he would not go unpunished.
Dazed, he lurched towards the farmhouse and sat limp like a child’s discarded doll in his father’s chair, all thoughts of sense and ceremony erased from his mind. With twitching fingers he wiped his knuckles across his clouded eyes to restore his vision. There, on the table next to Archie’s uniform lying neatly folded he saw the ready-packed brown cardboard suitcase. He reached out, the uniform felt rough and coarse, not unlike the coat his pa wore in the cold moorland winters. Outside, the pigs resumed their squealing and his mind dulled with fear, certain the whole of Yorkshire would shortly come to investigate.
“Keep away from them pigs,” his father had told him a hundred times in the past. “Those buggers will eat you alive as soon as they look at you, bones and all.”
For a moment he sat repulsed at what he had done, his hair clamped to his scalp by hot sticky sweat as hopelessness fogged his mind. Then a thought so macabre it could only be borne of despair coursed through his mind. His toes clenched in his boots. In a desperate attempt to keep his sanity he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the raging floodtide of foolishness choking him. A cold shudder heaved through his body, and he knew what he must do.
He made his way back to the barn and swung open the door, then began pulling the clothes from Archie’s dead body. Finished, he stood with his mouth sagging open and panting for breath. With one last final effort he dragged the naked body by the ankles to the pigsty and heaved it over the metal railings. Squealing and screaming the pigs surged forward, slashing at the flesh with their razor-sharp teeth. He turned away; his face contorted into pantomime hopelessness and clamped his hands tight over his ears to block out the sound of slurping and grunting.
For a moment he swayed drenched from head to toe in blood, and waited for the dizziness to pass, then he staggered to the water pump and, with both hands on the handle, sent a gush of cold water sluicing over his head and shoulders. The rasping sound of a flapping crow overhead startled him and his knees buckled in sheer terror and he clutched at the pump for support. Nothing was real any more.
Inside the farmhouse he burned Archie’s bloodstained clothes in the lighted oven and wrapped the uniform in a soiled tablecloth. Then with trembling hands reached for the mantle above the fireplace and took down an earthenware jug, five shillings in small change was all he took, then he left a note written in pencil stating that he’d gone swimming in the gravel pit. Outside he hesitated and felt the rapid patter of rain on his face. Suddenly the rain came down as though some malevolent deity had opened a tap in the kingdom of heaven. It came down in sheets, torrents, displaying no mercy. It rained like no man since Noah could remember. With a deep shudder he hunched his shoulders up to his ears and made his way across the moors to the next village.
Thankful no one stood at the bus-stop by the crossroads he waited shivering, the pale light in his eyes flickering with despair. His mind a disarray of emotions, unable to push away his torment he questioned his actions of the past hour. Perhaps he should return to the village and visit the church of St Matthew opposite the schoolhouse to seek God’s forgiveness. Forgive us our trespasses and forgive those that trespass against us, it said in the Lord’s Prayer. He knew the words, he’d heard them many times, but he wasn’t sure of their meaning. Then tiredness swarmed over him and lingered. It seemed as though every tiny grain of strength had trickled from his body. When at last he boarded the bus he took the one remaining seat next to an elderly man who smelled of sickly sweat and sucked noisily on an empty charred briar pipe. Between stops he stared at the passing countryside, all the time fighting against his rising fear until he thought he might succumb to madness. Archie’s haunting words: “They’ll put a rope around your neck and hang you for sure,” hung in his soul.
In Leeds he skulked from one shadow to another wandering aimlessly from street to street with his nerves teetering on a knife edge, certain that condemning eyes watched his every move. Finally, darkness pushed away daylight; the pale streetlights threw a haunting dull yellow over looming carriages and scuttling pedestrians. For a long time he searched for somewhere safe to rest until he found an alley separating a public house and an ironmonger’s shop. At the bottom of the alley he saw a dilapidated tinker’s wooden caravan with broken wheels. Too exhausted to care, he slapped away the dust from the front of his waistcoat and ignoring the flurry of rats climbed inside and closed his eyes.
Shortly after sunrise he woke with a jerk and squinted as the morning sun streamed into his face. When at last he managed to force a gob of saliva into his mouth, he spat on his knuckles and rubbed the dried salty tears from his eyes, then changed into his brother’s uniform. Slightly broader than Archie, he carefully holed each button afraid that at any moment the uniform would split in two. Finally he stepped tentatively into the street and asked an elderly lady for directions to the railway station.
On Platform Two he waited for the early morning train to Catterick.
Chapter Two
At Catterick he fought the overwhelming desire to rip off the offending uniform that scratched and chafed at his skin. Everything went cold within him and, seized by fear of discovery, he wanted to run for the nearest cover and hide. He had never seen so many people or heard such an awesome cacophony of voices in one place at one time. Everything seemed hustle and bustle. Men of all shapes and sizes wearing ill-fitting uniforms mingled and stumbled around in confusion.
Head and shoulders above those around him a huge sergeant waited with practised perseverance for four hundred conscripts eager to take part in the great scrap against the hated Hun. His flaming-red hair matched his carefully manicured moustache and he strode up and down like a farmyard dog, barking menacingly at anyone unfortunate enough to fall under his gaze.
“All right, you misbegotten bunch of motherless sons, get into line!” he screamed.
His eyes twitched with a frenzied energy and spittle flew from his mouth. Corporals marched up and down looking for someone to vent their fury on. With beady eyes staring beneath slashed cap peaks they seemed madder than a box of frogs as they shoved the raw recruits into abortive rows of threes.
“You heard the sergeant!” a corporal hollered. “You don’t want to fall into his bad books, by God you don’t. Life won’t be worth living, will it, not with your heads stuck up your arses it won’t.”
Time passed quickly and the chaos reverted to a fearful near-semblance of military order. Thomas stood with anxious eyes, every sinew knotted. Hell could be no worse. Afraid any moment his frailty would betray him he gritted his teeth and prayed to God he
might suddenly become a man. If there was a God, he never bothered to answer. Then despite himself, he pulled his shoulders back and with the back of his hand wiped away the stream of snot dribbling from his nose.
A small breeze licked across his face and suddenly he found a courage he didn’t know existed within him. He straightened himself. If God refused to help him he would become a man of his own accord.
To avoid looking suspiciously out of place against grown men he knew he must remain as inconspicuous as possible, to shun confrontations that might lead him to betray the dark morbid secret that gripped his insides.
He knew how to right-dress, how to stand to attention; in fact, he knew most military movements. Mr Webster had drummed into them at school the necessities of discipline. Physical exercise had been hastily discarded and reluctantly replaced by what Mr Webster called ‘war training’. With broken broom handles representing bayonets, they had hurled themselves with boyish fervour at an old, dirty, smelly mattress hanging from a tree that had once held their swing.
“The world cannot function without discipline,” he’d instilled in them. “History will confirm that.”
Once again, Thomas prayed to God, wishing he were back at the school this moment.
“Aha hun!” the sergeant bellowed.
A few men made a perfunctory attempt at standing to attention. The rest stared vacantly at each other in mindless distraction.
“Get to attention!” the corporal screamed. “Heels together, shoulders back, chest out, chin up. If you can’t look like soldiers, try and pretend, you bunch of fairies. By God you lot are in for a shock.”
“Ha yef hun!” the sergeant screamed again.
Thomas made a left turn, his boot crashing down on the tarmac. The remainder stared through quizzical eyes as if he were from another planet.
“Right clever little bastard, aren’t you? Want to be sergeant’s pet, do you, fucking arse licker,” a voice grated from the ranks.
He remained still, waiting for the moment his brief charade would be uncovered. Nothing, it seemed, not his gnawing hunger or the warm rays of the sun disappearing behind dark clouds, could halt the paralysing terror of discovery. Sooner or later they would discover the truth. He was the boy who slashed his brother’s throat open with a scythe, fed his body to the pigs and ran like a coward.
“Silence in the ranks!” the sergeant roared. “You’ll have plenty to complain about when we’ve finished with you. My God, some of you are the ugliest things ever to fall from a fanny.”
Wilting under a barrage of obscenities some quickly came to the conclusion that soldiering might be a dangerous occupation, and not just a reason to wear a smart uniform to impress the girls. Mumbled protestations fell on deaf ears. Piled into a convoy of open-back lorries like cattle ready for market they were transported to the stores where, to add to their misery, the heavens opened. Ill-fitting uniforms clung heavy and wet. Tormented men already about to give up the ghost complained in loud voices.
“Quiet!” the sergeant bellowed. “From now on you will keep your mouths shut unless spoken to. The bands are gone now, no more young ladies and wet kisses; only shit, muck and bullets from now on. Shape up, or you’re in for some bloody big shocks, by God, you are.”
Beneath the all-seeing eyes of NCOs, in straggled threes soaked to the skin, the hapless recruits shuffled in muted obedience into the stores, harassed at every step. Bullied into line with never the hint of an apology, some trembled so violently they lost control of their limbs. They were issued with a PE kit, a tin helmet, a mess tin, a tin mug, a water bottle, a knife, fork and spoon, along with a roll of cotton and needles called a housewife to repair damaged kit. The corporals smirked with pleasure. The breaking-down process had already began, the re-building of the men into a fighting force now just a matter of time.
Lined up outside the wooden huts the acrid smell of fresh creosote lingered in the air like a malignant cloud, filling the nostrils while bringing stinging tears to smarting eyes. In the distance the sound of boots hammering onto a parade ground carried like the approach of disgruntled giants lost in a heavy fog. Orders followed by counter-orders screamed by frustrated drill instructors echoed and re-echoed throughout the camp, readying squads of recruits for the unspeakable nightmares in far-off foreign countries.
Thomas joined nineteen other men in hut number twenty-three. Inside, twenty ramshackle metal-framed bedsteads with loose springs held mattresses, each smelling worse than the breath of a dying badger. In the centre a gleaming black cast-iron potbelly stove stood upright and resplendent. It wouldn’t be lit, regardless of the weather; it was summertime and the coalbunker remained empty.
Away from the others Thomas claimed the bed in the corner and sat with his hands on his lap, unsure what to do next. Nervously, he glanced around at men in various states of dress. Born and bred in the confines of towns and not the rough open countryside, most looked puny and weak. Others were no older than him. His spirits lift when he quickly realised his levels of energy along with his physical strength would more than suffice in the company of these men.
Then a shadow crossed his face, it was his mental resourcefulness that would be found questionable. In silence he watched as men from every walk of life introduced themselves to each other. Tailors, clerks and coffin makers, even a poet named Rimes from a village outside Ripon stood beaming at those around him. Friendships became quickly sealed with a warm shake of the hand. Jokes surrounded by friendly banter were thrown back and forth as if they had known each other all their lives. He’d never heard a grown-up tell a joke before, and despite his best attempts, he failed to grasp the connotation. Nevertheless, he laughed when they did, and thankfully they paid him little attention. Later, many of the men, him included, exchanged badly-fitting tunics, ballooning baggy trousers and throat-choking shirts in a bid to find a more comfortable uniform. Gradually he became adept at keeping himself as unobtrusive as possible by mirroring the others. When they sat, he sat; if they lay on their beds, he lay on his; when they cleaned their boots, he did the same. Soon the cold unfriendly feeling of forced loneliness became a way of life.
Whenever the opportunity arose, he paid particular attention to stories of the war in France bandied around, and wondered whether or not they bore any credence to the truth.
“Bloody suicide, that’s what I heard, thousands blown to pieces in one day,” someone said.
“Shut your bloody gob,” another retorted.
“Aye, keep them daft thoughts to yourself,” a nervous voice called. “We can do without know-alls like you, you silly bugger.”
At last daylight faded into night and the plaintiff call of a bugle sounded lights out. He had survived the first day and lay shivering, staring up through the darkness at the wooden rafters, listening to the wind whistling through the draughty roof. As hard as he tried he could not stop the flow of tears trickling down his face staining his pillow. He shouldn’t be here, he did not belong here. It was Archie’s fault that he found himself forced to exist in a room full of strangers. Every bad thing that ever happened to him had always been Archie’s fault. Archie: the archangel of misery and suffering, the patron saint of maliciousness. There was no way back now, he was in the hands of God and destined to wait for the mayhem of life to plot his path.
Compared to the chorus of men’s flapping palates thundering into his ears, Archie’s past snoring resembled a soothing lullaby by Handel. The cacophony of noise sounded like a hundred hogs choking to death in a thick cloud of black smoke. Men talked, broke wind and gabbled incoherently; one man cried for his mother.
“Shut your bloody racket, you silly great tit!” someone hollered.
Thomas tried hard to smile but couldn’t, and fell asleep.
Six o’clock the following morning the sun appeared over the rim of the earth to herald a new day. The hut door crashed open and he stood there like a ghost silhouetted in the doorway. His beady eyes glistened like burning coals, his lips curled in a snarl
fit to frighten the ugliest gargoyle from the highest spire.
“All right, you beauties, hands off cocks and on with socks! My name is Corporal Woollard. They call me Hammer cos I come down hard on fools. For the next ten weeks I will become your worst nightmare before I hand you over to Fritz, for those who don’t know, he is the enemy waiting to put a bullet up your arse in the beautiful countryside of France. Into your PE kit! Let’s work up an appetite for breakfast, shall we? I don’t want to see walkers, talkers and wankers, runners only. Don’t want to get fat, do we? Course we don’t, can’t have Fritz sticking his big sharp bayonet in your bellies, can we?”
Thomas took a deep breath and revelled in the fresh air caressing his face as he ran as hard as his legs would allow. He ran to escape his dark secrets. He ran in the hope of abandoning the past, to leave it trailing in the dark uncharted lanes of eternity. Then, remembering his vow of anonymity, he slowed to allow the others to catch up.
“Eh, lad, slow down for God’s sake,” a voice panted behind him. “That bloody mad corporal will have us out all morning till we can keep up with you. Make out you’re knackered, there’s a good lad.”
Thomas turned barely able to breathe and looked into the pleading eyes of Stan Banks. Pale, thin and scrawny, he held the appearance of a man in need of a proper meal, and he moved with a slight stoop. His teeth, black and stained, matched his hands. His fingernails were long broken and jagged from constant chewing and biting.
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