For the first time in months he looked at his reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person peering back: he seemed to have aged twenty years. His eyes, lifeless and sunken in dark sockets, stared from the deep recesses of his skull, a gaunt witness to the war and horror spent on the battlefields of hell. The lines on his forehead were deep and furrowed above hollowed cheeks, skin pushed tight against his jawbone bristling with a sparse, unkempt beard. His legs were white and thin and his ribs protruded like a man on the edge of starvation. The sobs came uninvited and unaided, the tears ran freely and his body trembled and racked, not unlike a man on the verge of insanity. Yet he wasn’t a man but a boy in an environment invented by the madness of men. Tonight he would take one step closer to a manhood he didn’t relish and take his first shave, and scrape away the coarse hair that gave him so much discomfort. At sixteen years of age he didn’t consider himself old enough to shave. Only men shaved he thought.
He leaned forward with his face in his hands and tried to make sense of his tangled life. Man, boy, what is the difference? He was just flesh and blood like everyone else, he hurt and ached like everyone else, and in his mind he believed only the conclusion of death would give him a welcome release. But when he leapt from the lorry he’d automatically feared for his life. He’d shook and trembled with naked fright in his bid to remain alive and survive to live another day. This time he hadn’t killed in the name of self-preservation but in the name of cold-blooded revenge, and still his stomach ached and knotted for more. He swore he would have it. He no longer knew who he was, or cared. He was lost in a maelstrom from which he felt he would never escape, because there was nowhere else to go, except oblivion.
That night he shaved without the enjoyment or thrill of such a major step into the hallowed halls of manhood. The act meant nothing to him and held no significance. He merely scraped away unwanted hairs from his face for the sake of comfort. No band played and no cherubs appeared, showering him in masculine stardust. With a sardonic smile he wiped the soap from his face, abstractly aware that he would have to do the same again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that – it seemed fruitless.
Surrounded by a deafening quietness after the imprudent sound of shelling and gunfire he felt strange and unsure. Habit caused him to slow his breathing for fear of his presence being revealed to an imaginary enemy lurking nearby. For the best part of the night he forced himself to remember he was far away from the battlefield. Twice he woke with a start and left the bed to check outside, ever fearful of a sudden attack. The second time he dressed and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep, fully clothed. Better to be prepared than dead, he thought.
On a soft mattress he pulled the clean sheets over his head like a child afraid of the dark, and dreamed he was safe in his mother’s arms.
“S’il vous plait,” Fleur said the next morning, gesturing to the chair facing the table. The warm kitchen smelled of a distant past that he found almost too difficult to recollect without straining the archives of his memory. He took off his jacket and waited as Fleur busied herself over a hot stove with his breakfast. With saliva filling his mouth he thought his patience might expire and he would rip the hot food from the oven in his overwhelming desire to satisfy his hunger.
Fleur sat and watched in open amusement while he devoured fried eggs, black sausage and freshly baked croissants, until he could eat no more. She glowed with pleasure, clapped her hands at his hearty appetite and watched him slurp four large cups of black coffee. For five days he basked in all-consuming luxury. It seemed as though the whole village had turned out to shake the hand of the brave Englishman who had fought and beaten the Germans singlehandedly. When he felt ready he gladly helped to repair broken farm machinery, like he did at home on the moors with his father. To be allowed to clean out the barn was the greatest pleasure of all, and the smell of animals brought back the pleasant memories of the times he spent with Ruby. When alone, he would pretend that she stood behind him waiting to play the bullfighting game they enjoyed so much, and he whispered her name out loud and revelled in the sound.
His burning hatred of the Germans neither wavered nor diminished. A primitive abyss of revenge and lust for blood pulsated through his veins like a raging river about to break its banks. Slowly but surely his strength returned and, silently under the cloak of darkness, made his way across the rain-covered fields. Like an avenger from the deepest corners of hell he searched for retribution.
Night after night, week after week he killed indiscriminately using rifle, bayonet and the meat cleaver borrowed from the butcher. Sifting through his victims’ pockets, he took what he wanted and destroyed everything else. Sometimes he left them naked, tied and bound to freeze to death; others, he sliced off the top of their heads like an Apache Indian would scalp an enemy. On his return, he shared the spoils with the villagers, apart from the black chocolate, which he split equally between Fleur and Marie, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the baker who lived on the edge of the village.
Her long black hair and flashing dark-brown eyes confused him and dragged him under her spell. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her tight-fitting dress, struggling to contain the heaving body of a young woman. After a time they became inseparable. Her father, although grateful for all that Thomas had done for the villagers, knew the relationship would one day inevitably lead to trouble. Then one morning, under a warm spring sun he stood with a sad and mournful expression, he twisted his cap with nervous fingers and faced Thomas outside the wooden barn.
“It is with regret, Monsieur, that we have come to a decision that breaks our hearts, but we must be sensible. If the Germans return and find you here, Monsieur, we will be in much trouble,” Marie’s father said. “They will fire the village and kill us all. Women and children will be raped and killed also. I am sorry, and it is with deep regret we must ask you to go. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts, and will always remember everything you have done for us.”
Thomas listened for a moment he felt hurt at the sudden coldness. His personal knowledge of German cruelty and bestiality cut deep, yet he harboured no desire to bring reprisals to the village. Reluctantly he promised to leave the village the next day. That night in the barn he met with Marie to say goodbye. There was a chill in the air and everything seemed calm and quiet – the war might have been a million miles away. The straw felt soft and warm when she leaned over and kissed him softly on his lips. He remained motionless, confused, his body taut. His breathing came faster when she gently squeezed his cheeks with her fingers, causing his mouth to open. She kissed him again and he felt her tongue probe into his mouth. He pulled away, unsure what he should do next. When he noticed she had closed her eyes he followed suit.
A pigeon fluttered noisily in the loft, sending him bolt upright with nervousness, like a man on a scaffold unsure when the trapdoor would spring open. She smiled. It was going to be his first time and she felt glad it was with her. André, the carpenter’s son, had stolen her virginity twelve months previously, and often ever since. She had quickly learned that making love was far more enjoyable if the initiative was hers. Taking his hand she placed it on her warm heaving breast. He squeezed gently. Undoing the buttons holding the thin cotton blouse she allowed it to fall. Gently cupping her full breast in his hand, he ran his thumb over her chocolate-brown nipple and listened to her soft sigh. She pulled his head down allowing his tongue to replace his thumb, as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Her sighs became more urgent, and holding him tighter he sucked and licked greedily, driven by a frantic haste.
For the first time in his young life he felt the fire in his groin and her darting fingers released the buttons of his trousers. His whole body became engulfed in a tempest of primitive desires and all thoughts were swept from his mind. When his hand automatically sought the moist treasure between her legs she brushed it away, and with her body trembling and more urgent she lifted herself over him and engulfed him. He felt her warm and moist, and seco
nds later the sky opened and the stars exploded. He jerked and bucked, his body spiralling out of control, and in a sublime frenzy he felt the surges from his body. He lay back, drained and exhausted, bewildered that something so natural could be so wonderful. When he opened his eyes, she was gone.
That following morning Fleur pulled his jacket collar tight around his neck, like a mother would with her child about to venture out into the cold. Again, she spoke words he didn’t understand, and kissing him lightly on both cheeks she handed him a hunk of boiled ham, a slab of cheese and a loaf of freshly baked white bread wrapped in white cloth.
Chapter Nine
It was the time in England when nature begins to break into beauty, a time when heavy scented roses peeped shyly from unfurling green buds and fairies could be seen flitting from blossom to blossom at the bottom of every garden. It was springtime.
In France, for three days the flashes of the thundering guns drew closer and shellfire destroyed nature’s efforts indiscriminately and without conscience. Yet Thomas felt his mind calm and untroubled, his thoughts unshackled and crystal clear. Satisfied that German flesh had felt the press of his revenge for the brutal treatment they had meted out, he calculated how many had died by a swift stroke of the meat cleaver he’d borrowed from the village butcher, or those who had died with a bullet in the skull. At least fifty, possibly more – he hadn’t thought to count.
Then there was Marie, with the dark eyes that had transported him to a world of ecstasy and pleasure such as he’d never known, and perhaps might never know again. He felt certain he’d made love to her, but couldn’t remember because it had all happened so quickly. From now on he held the right to consider himself to be a man. After all, what else must a boy do to attain manhood? He smiled.
A vision of his parents sprang into his mind. Only six months had passed since he’d left the small village on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors, more than a hundred thousand lifetimes on the Western Front.
On the fourth night a cold wind penetrated his skin and he found shelter under a small wooden bridge spanning a slow-running stream. With lips blue from the cold he tried to rest. Reluctantly plagued by constant shivering and accompanied by scurrying rats he finally gave up the remote hope of ever snatching a few hours sleep. Throughout the night he huddled as best he could to keep out the cold and listened to the sounds between the rumble of cannons – the cry of a fox, the hoot of an owl. Then with his eyes closed he recalled every swear word and expletive he’d ever heard, and repeated each three times out loud over and over again; until sleep eventually came.
When he woke he listened to the non-stop sound of hungry ducks and hissing geese; overhead a bright sun shone in the sky and he smelled the burning wood of a campfire nearby. Seized by fear he pulled the rifle close and slipped off the safety catch, pulled back the bolt and slowly pushed a bullet into the breech. Not far from where he lay he heard the whinny of tired horses accompanied by the jingle of harnesses followed by the deafening rumble of heavy artillery crossing the bridge. For a moment panic rushed into his heart at the thought of being captured once more by the Germans. He fought to find a reason to live and cursed Archie beneath his breath. First his hands, then his legs, then his whole body trembled and he lost control. The rifle slipped from his hands, slithered down the bank and disappeared into the clouded water. In a panic and blinded from any semblance of reason he climbed from under the bridge and pulled himself up onto the bank.
“Come on then, you German bastards, get it over with!” he roared, raising his arms sideways and clamping his eyes shut.
The four men in shirtsleeves brewing tea on a makeshift fire turned with startled eyes and stared up at him. A fifth man stepped from behind a row of tethered horses with his rifle aimed at Thomas’s head.
“What are you waiting for? Fucking do it, shoot me!”
“Who do you think you are, you noisy big bastard?” the man said, lowering his rifle.
Thomas frowned and opened one eye. “You’re not Germans,” he said in a bewildered voice, “you’re English?”
“Bloody hell, he’s quick off the mark, ain’t he? Can’t be a bloody officer, that’s for sure,” the man grinned. “Who the bloody hell are you, and where did you get them clothes from?”
“Stone the crows, he’s a bleedin’ frog,” one of the men crouched round the fire said. “That’s what he is, I can tell.”
“You might be right, Bert, you always was a clever sod, too clever for this army. Take his shoes off and make sure he ain’t got web feet,” someone chuckled.
“I’m a deserter,” Thomas said, staring into the grimy black face.
“Well, you didn’t get far, mate, you’re in the middle of the British lines, you daft sod. What’s your name then, and where’s your uniform?”
“I’m Lance Corporal Archie Elkin, 3rd Yorkshire Rifles. Uniform? I threw it away.”
A small crowd of soldiers curiously aware of the disturbance gathered round and nervous fingers fondled cold rifle triggers.
“Hang on, hang on. Elkin, did you say, Archie Elkin?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s him, ain’t it? I recall the name. They’ve been looking for you for bloody ages, mate. Stone the bloody crows, never thought I’d ever set eyes on you. Kangaroo shaggers said you were dead. Shot by Fritz trying to escape. Come on, him up there would like a word with you,” the man with the cockney accent said.
“Up there? Who’s him up there?” Thomas frowned.
“Him up there, that’s what we call the bloody useless officer ain’t it, him up there, them up there, what’s the bloody difference? They’re all bloody officers and that’s what we call them, when we don’t call them donkeys. Ain’t lost your memory, have you? Blimey, that’s a turn up that is,” the cockney said, pushing his cap back and scratching his head.
Thomas pushed out a long sigh of relief – at last his war was over, and rising like Samson in his blindness, he set his mind on his death.
“Come on then, matey, my patrol’s nearly over, some other poor bugger’s turn to wander round freezing his balls off half the night,” the cockney said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
They passed the burned-out and gutted remains of a large roofless farmhouse, still smoking, and dropped down into a narrow trench. Even with duckboards piled three high the water reached their ankles. As they moved forward row upon row of shivering dejected men leaned belly down on the sides of the wet, greasy trench grasping rifles with fixed glistening bayonets tight to their chests as though they offered a last bastion of comfort. Their filthy uniforms, now a familiar sight on the Western Front, hung soaking wet and water squelched from their boots like squeezed sponges at the slightest movement. In another time they might have been shadows of his imagination if it were not for the utterance of oaths and curses falling from their downturned mouths. Some turned with a disinterested glance at those passing; others, with a cigarette dangling from their lips, coughed and shook their heads to escape the stinging smoke blurring their sight, and prayed to God they wouldn’t go over the top tonight and God would spare them to see another dawn.
An assortment of dirty canvas sheets and boxwood covered in a thick layer of earth concealed the dugout serving as officers’ quarters. Two old splintered decaying front doors, still complete with brass door knockers and handles taken from a bombed house, lay over the canvas to prevent the wind from blowing it away. To the left an annexe had been hacked into the side of the clay trench, similar to the one used by the arrogant German officer with a penchant for pink coloured cigarettes. Two thin candles hung from the roof offering minimal light, flickered over the pages of an opened book describing the art of fly-fishing. Lieutenant Devonshire, wearing his cap back to front, sat at a small table studying a map through a magnifying glass. He turned and looked up when the sentry came to attention.
“Brought in an escaped prisoner-of-war, Sir,” he said. “He says his name is Elkin, Sir. Lance Bombardier Elkin. If you ca
st your mind back, Sir, you might remember they’ve been looking for him for weeks. A deserter, Sir, that’s what he is, Sir, or that what he says he is. Says he deserted months ago, Sir, from the 3rd Yorkshire Rifles.”
“Thank you, Private Knowles, that will do for now, carry on. Come in, Elkin,” the officer said, noticing Knowles’ reluctance to leave. “Carry on!” he bawled at the soldier.
“So you’re Elkin? I’ve heard quite a bit about you, old chap. The Australians look upon you as a hero. We all thought you’d bought it, you know. Captured while out on a sniping mission, eh, to bring a few captured goodies back for the boys? Jolly clever ruse of yours telling them you were a deserter. The Germans are not over fond of snipers. I imagine Fritz gave you a bad time. By all accounts they have an unsavoury reputation for torture and ill-treatment of prisoners. Well, they’ve got it coming jolly soon,” Lieutenant Devonshire boomed, “but organising the escape of over twenty Australian prisoners-of-war, capturing enemy vehicles and killing the guards… the stuff of heroes, that’s what this is, and I won’t hear any different – responsible for sending the morale in the trenches sky high. Even the papers back home are having a field day. Be a medal in this for you, that’s for certain, and a promotion most likely.”
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