Since the age of twelve he’d worked with his father delivering coal in Liverpool. Aged seventeen, Stan’d seen his elder brother Eli resplendent in his uniform and become dazzled at the sight. Immediately he came to realise that there was more to life than humping coal for a living. Yet for all his efforts frustration followed disappointment when recruiting stations repeatedly turned him down for the sake of his appearance. Disillusioned, he came to fear he would never wear the king’s uniform and stand proudly beside Eli.
“Come back next week, lad, when you’re two years older,” they laughed. “And don’t forget to have a bath, you dirty little sod.”
In spite of the continual rejections, he purchased a stiff brush and a bar of carbolic soap and spent days scrubbing his body until his skin bled in an attempt to remove the ingrained coal dust. It had little effect. With his head in his hands he prayed to God for the opportunity to become a soldier.
A few months later, he had made his way to Rotherham deciding this was his final chance of signing up. With his cap in his hands he told the recruiting sergeant he’d stopped to help an old lady put out a chimney fire before her house burned to the ground. He couldn’t go home to wash and change because he didn’t possess any clothes other than those he stood in. The sergeant patted him on the back and signed him up immediately.
“Just the kind of man we need,” he said.
A week later, his father sat him down in the parlour and informed him that Eli had died of wounds received during battle.
Thomas slowed, sat down beneath a horse chestnut tree and stretched out his legs. The last time he’d felt this way was the day he’d run in blind panic from the farmhouse. Immediately he became irritated by the power of his memory and silently cursed as his unwanted past returned as crystal clear as the spring water he drank from the farmyard well. He tried to stem the flood of recollection souring his mind. It stayed, stubborn, and refused to leave.
“Old Hammer, he’ll want to know our names now, lad. Fatal that is. Keep your ears open and your head down, that’s my motto,” Banks said with a Liverpool twang. “Never push yourself to the front in the army. My brother Eli told me that. Died of his wounds at a place called Marne, he did. Made him into a sergeant, they did, the bastards. That’s what bloody killed him, being a sergeant. He had to go up to the front to lead his men and he were first to get it, poor sod.”
“You men stay where you are,” Woollard’s voice rang out. “I didn’t reckon you’d last long at the rate you were going. Trying to be clever were you? What’s your name, lad?” he asked, staring at Thomas.
“Thom… er, sorry, Archibald, Archibald Elkin, Sir,” Thomas stuttered, feeling the flush spreading over his face.
“Do you not know your name, lad? Well, I’ll tell you, shall I? It’s Private Elkin, and my name is not Sir, it’s Corporal Woollard. Remember that, lad. Now get back and join the rest of the useless items, and get some breakfast; and you, Banks, I know who you are, get yourself in the bath. I can’t tell what bloody shade of white you are under that grime.”
Banks allowed the remark to pass. His interest instantly aroused by the thought of Thomas stumbling over something as simple as giving his name. His mind alert enough to realise Archibald Elkin wasn’t all he made himself out to be. Lies never came unaccompanied. He’d ducked and dived long enough during his life to know when something wasn’t as it should be. Nevertheless, he found himself liking Thomas.
Thomas turned away feeling the rising panic start to choke him.
“Strange that, you not knowing your own name, lad,” Banks said watching closely for Thomas’s reaction. “And you’re never eighteen years old, lad; you might be a big lump, but never eighteen, and Archibald isn’t your real name either, is it? It’s Tom, or Thomas. Don’t fret, lad, your secret’s safe with me. I’m called Stan Banks, you can call me Stan.”
Thomas felt the flicker of uneasiness. His plan to remain anonymous had crumbled like the stones of an ancient building attacked by time’s teeth. He neither desired nor felt the need for the friendship of others. And now another bone of contention had now been forced upon him. His age had been questioned. Certain that Banks and Corporal Woollard would eventually relay their suspicions to others, he felt his confidence slip and waver. He would need all his wits about him to survive the coming weeks and hoped he might be sent to France, or a place the men called Belgium. There, with a bit of luck, he might be fortunate enough to get shot: it was better than hanging. Anything was better than that.
Week after week they marched, and when they were finished they marched some more, until some suffered with blisters oozing yellow pus.
Left right, left right,
Why did I join the army?
Left right, left right,
I must have been bloody barmy.
“Bathe your feet in cold salty water,” Corporal Woollard told Brush Wigley, who suffered more than most and wilted under the corporal’s withering stare. “And learn to accept pain and hardship if you want to survive the war.”
Brush Wigley carried the nickname because his hair stood on end like a char’s scrubbing brush each time Corporal Woollard entered into one of his frequent shouting and screaming pantomimes. Stan Banks, who possessed a bent for discovering the meaning of surnames, couldn’t contain his excitement and chuckled when he heard the name Wigley.
“Make wigs, that’s what his family does for a living, I’d bet on it, better watch your hair, lad, there’s always a story behind a name. I had a cousin once called Birkenhead Bill whose father was never the same after falling off the end of Birkenhead Pier while the tide was out. He called his firstborn Birkenhead in memory of the occasion,” he told Thomas. “Like I said, there’s always a reason for a name, lad.”
“This weapon is your best friend, remember that at all times. If it jams or you lose it, Fritz won’t give you time to find another, he will kill you where you stand, remember that. Without this weapon you’re useless, no good to anyone,” Corporal Woollard explained issuing Lee Enfield rifles to the squad.
Detailed lectures on handling and cleaning the weapon were quickly impressed upon them. They sloped, ordered, presented, trailed, reversed and piled arms; they did just about everything possible with the weapons, except fire them. With the same rifles they marched, counter-marched, wheeled right and left, inclined, formed squads and about-turned until they streamed with sticky sweat and buckled at the knees from exhaustion.
“Fat lot of good this’ll do us in a fight,” Stan Banks complained.
Finally, they were taken to the firing range where fifteen rounds a minute would be expected, more for an experienced rifleman. Marksmen able to place five rounds at fifty yards into a circle the size of a penny would receive extra pay and a marksman arm badge for their uniform. To his surprise Thomas excelled in marksmanship. So did Stan Banks and a bear of a man from Northampton called Leslie Hill.
Chapter Three
Dusk dropped rapidly over the still waters of the quarry. Lizzie and James Elkin’s shadows grew longer as darkness spread its mantle. Multicoloured dragonflies, like strips of coloured ribbon skimmed and flitted above the surface before retiring to the safety of the nearby reeds.
Hopeful, they waited, watching the men silhouetted against the skyline row towards them. There were three boats in all and they were returning empty-handed. Police Constable Charlie Halfpenny glanced at Lizzie holding her hands close to her mouth, locking and unlocking her fingers, the weariness in her face evident.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Elkin,” he said respectfully, “not much more we can do now. Time to call it a day I reckon, it’s too deep to continue.”
He purposely refrained from telling her a body would eventually rise to the surface when the gases built up from decaying tissues. James Elkin looked at him gratefully and nodded his approval. He didn’t want his wife to know either.
“Would you like us to contact Archie at Catterick or would you prefer to do it yourself?” he said to James Elkin.
>
“No, leave it be for the time being, we’ll let him know in good time. Thanks for all your help, Charlie, I appreciate it.”
Lizzie Elkin moved closer to the edge of the bank, and in the half-light of the red dusk she gazed sadly across the shimmering water.
“He’s not here,” she said.
“Steady, lass, he can’t be anywhere else or we’d have found him by now. No good thinking foolish thoughts,” James Elkin answered gently.
He caught the sudden flare of anger in her face and her eyes flashed dark and accusing. He understood her anguish yet flinched at her expression, and wondered what he should say. He could think of nothing and remained silent.
“I’m not being foolish. Thomas isn’t here, in the gravel pit, I’m certain of it. We need to speak to Archie. Why did he rush away without saying goodbye?”
“Aye, don’t think I haven’t thought on it often enough. But you know as well as I do, Archie has the devil’s spawn in him. Don’t fret yourself, lass, I’ll write to Catterick first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Four
Five weeks of terror and deprivation passed as though time itself stood still, so they could hardly believe their ears when Corporal Woollard informed them they were to be issued with thirty-six-hour passes. Thomas listened to promises of carnal debauchery and inducements of boisterous beer-swilling encounters and decided he would steer well clear of those straining at the leash. In Catterick he slipped away unnoticed and sat on a bench in a small park. Away from the claustrophobia of military life he immersed himself in the opportunity to be his real self and refused to allow the past to spoil the moment. It was past mid-afternoon when he made his way into the town centre. In the streets and lanes an unending cavalcade of noisy young men in uniform found a brief contentment singing bawdy songs and indulging in harmless horseplay with the local women. Two young women giggled when drunken soldiers pulled them into a shop doorway and lifted their dresses before slipping groping hands into their drawers in broad daylight. With his mouth gaping open in disgust, he turned away feeling the heat burning into his face.
How far he walked he didn’t know or even care. Eventually the rack of fatigue stretched into his legs and he felt numbness creep into his feet. Outside an inn he paused and looked up at the sign creaking and swaying in the breeze: The Fiddler’s Elbow. For so long he had wondered how it felt to drink with grown men in a public house. He sniffed, wiped his nose with the palm of his hand and pushed his way through the veil of thick smoke and stench of stale beer and leaned on the bar. Around him people laughed and milled in crowded contentment, some drunk, others almost. A thin man with a long mournful face leant on the bar with one foot resting on the brass foot-rail. He turned and looked him up and down with suspicious eyes. Thomas nodded and the man sullenly returned the greeting.
“Pint,” Thomas said, displaying a false bravado to the barman. “Give me a bloody pint of your best piss.”
He’d heard Archie say the same when Pa had sent him to fetch him from the Melbourne Arms in the village.
“Coming up, lad, best piss it is,” the barman chuckled.
Thomas watched the beer foam to the top of the glass and suddenly felt different. He didn’t know why, he just did. He felt a strong determination. A new-found confidence flooded into his body and for the first time he knew what he must do. He must die; he must force death’s hand to touch his shoulder. Somewhere, somehow, he must plan his death and forfeit his life to atone for the crime he had committed against his family, against his friends and against God.
The last five weeks of hard training had toned his body and burned away any excess fat leaving hard muscle. Upright, he stood one inch short of six feet and was still growing; in a few weeks it seemed unreal that he would reach only his sixteenth birthday. Nevertheless, it seemed a good age to die, he told himself. Better to do it before he got much older and suffer a change of heart. With a self-satisfied smile he downed the drink without pausing for breath and slammed the empty glass on the bar.
“Fill her up, landlord,” he spluttered.
Three times he repeated the process, until the foaming beer made an unexpected bid for freedom. With his hands clamped over his lips preventing the liquid escaping, he stumbled to the door. Too late – like a fountain gushing beer, he sprayed everyone in close proximity.
“Bloody hell you clumsy drunken bastard!” a soldier roared, backing away with puke dripping from his uniform. “I’ll bloody kill you, so I will.”
Thomas never felt the blow that caught him flush on his jaw. Under the mind-numbing influence of alcohol he staggered back. His heavy boots clomped and scraped across the wooden floor and his arms whirled out of control. For a moment he tottered and swayed, then fell backwards over a table sending the occupants cursing and crashing to the floor. Clumsily he scrambled to his feet and gazed through glazed eyes at the man dancing towards him with his fists raised, ready to strike again. Without thinking, he raised his balled fists to protect his face, the way his father had taught him.
“Can you not finish me, lad?” Thomas snarled. “Because I’m going to bloody finish you, you bloody cock-strangler.”
People sensing free entertainment turned and shifted tables and chairs to one side, eager to form a circle for a better view.
“Go on, hit the drunken bastard,” someone called out.
Shaken by the venom in Thomas’s remark, the man paled and backed away. A flurry of prodding hands pushed him forward and his eyes sprouted fear. Thomas lashed out sending the man cannoning into the crowd. With his lips pulled back in a twisted sneer he pummelled his fists into the man’s face like a blacksmith striking an anvil. Then strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him off the man already lying unconscious on the floor.
“That’ll do, get out of here and don’t come back. Save it for the trenches, you young fool. On your way!” the landlord bellowed at him, swabbing the bloodstained floor with a wet mop.
The nauseous taste of vomit gagged him and soured his mouth. His eyes refused to focus. His world dipped and swayed and his brain spun out of control, from the waist he bent with his arms dangling and swinging like those of an ape. Streams of saliva hung from his mouth like a teething child. In desperation, he attempted to focus his glazed eyes on the man telling him to leave. He’d go when he was good and ready.
“Go on, lad, the police are on their way, unless you want to spend the night in a cell,” said the barman, guiding Thomas outside.
Fumbling for his cap, he stuck it crookedly on his head and made his way through the door, away from the gut-wrenching stench of stale beer and fetid cigarette smoke. Outside he stopped and sucked in the cool, fresh air and cleansed his lungs. In spite of his haziness he stumbled across the uneven cobbles and perched unsteadily on a fountain cascading water into a huge concrete receptacle. For a few seconds he blinked and waited for his mind to clear, then splashed cold water over his face. He felt only a fleeting respite from his first ever foray into the mind-numbing world of alcohol. His right hand ached, and blood seeped from his knuckles – the blows must have been harder than he imagined – and he plunged his fist into the cold water.
When the pain eased he wrapped his hand in a wet handkerchief. He knew drink changed men, but he’d never known why or how. Most men he’d seen leaving the village pub sang bawdy songs and continually fell over, roaring with laughter each time they lay flat on their backs in the middle of the road. Apart from Archie, he became even more nasty and violent than usual. He’d return home, staggering and lurching clumsily into the bedroom they shared, his voice slurring as he belched and broke wind. Then, for no reason, he’d become aggressive, tearing the bedclothes from the bed in a frenzied fit of rage.
Thomas quietly left and made his way to the barn and snuggled between Ruby’s legs and warm belly fell asleep, wondering how drink could make one man so happy and another so violent. It had made no sense then, and it made no sense now.
The water in the trough settled, smo
oth like a mirror and he gazed at the bright reflection of the moon next to that of his own face. Suddenly, he shrank from the images staring back at him, like the accusing eyes of a judge about to pass a death sentence. He felt fear and shame, and suffered the self-imposed agony of his own stupidity in the stark knowledge that drink had brought him closer to his brother. He had discovered that drink made him angry and vicious like it had Archie and he trembled at the thought that his life might mirror that of his brother. Archie, the bully who had isolated him from everything in his life he’d ever loved. He belonged where he was, locked inside a pig’s gut, away from decent folk. Thomas flicked the water with the back of his hand, disturbing the reflections, and watched the circular ever-widening ripples. There was one thing certain about fate: it never asked for an opinion or considered another’s needs. He vowed he’d never drink again.
The next day his stomach felt like a storm drain and his head thumped like a bandsman’s base drum on parade. Bullied into line the following morning by his ever-present tormenter, Corporal Woollard, he stood nervously to attention, waiting for whatever form of medieval torture lay in store for the squad that day. Today they stood in full battledress. On their backs they carried sixty-six pounds of extra equipment. Each man held his own counsel, this was going to be a day when they would be faced with the impossibility of sustaining their dignity, in a situation so often degrading.
“Rumours say the company is about to weed out the no-hopers,” Stan Banks sniggered. “Those not up to scratch will end up as clerks or officers’ batmen behind the lines. No medals or glory for those buggers, only the opportunity to remain alive, lucky sods.”
“Oh aye, well, that bugger will go down a treat with me. I’ve no bloody wish to get me bloody arse in a sling,” Joe Cavanaugh said.
The previous night Cavanaugh, a man possessed with the dubious curse of being unable to stop talking, laid his hands on one of the national newspapers that occasionally found their way into the huts, extolling the horrors of France and Belgium. The headlines reported the story of the monumental loss of life caused by incompetent leaders responsible for thousands of troops dying needlessly. Lions led by donkeys, the headlines proclaimed. He had fretted so much that he worked himself up into a lather of sweat and lay on his bed, foaming at the mouth.
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