In a field behind the lines, Letts, Banks and Hill stood in front of each of their nine handpicked men. Thomas’s men waited while he walked slowly along the lines looking at the soldiers.
“I don’t want any smokers, farters, troublemakers, shirkers or complainers. I know most of you men. If I tap you on the shoulder, step to one side and return to your companies,” he said.
Some he touched on the shoulder with a negative toss of his head.
“Replace them by tomorrow morning,” he told the three men. “And from now on you will be referred to as section leaders.”
“He’s bloody changed, I tell you, lad, he’s gone all high and mighty,” Stan Banks said to Leslie Hill. “He thinks he’s a bloody officer, he’ll be riding a bloody horse next, you mark my words.”
“Shut up, you moaning sod. He’s doing the right thing. I don’t want any bloody fools in my section, not when my life is going to depend on them and anyway, where’s he going to get a bloody horse from?” Hill said, walking away and leaving Banks staring after him.
The following day Thomas accepted the replacements.
“One from each group will step forward and fire six shots at the target one hundred yards away, two shots standing, two kneeling and two lying in the prone position, belly down in the mud. If a rat chews at your arse ignore it, or leave the field and don’t come back,” Thomas growled at them.
A few of the men were fair shots – a little tutoring would make them better still – others seemed confused as to which end of the rifle the bullet came out. Soon a large crowd of off-duty men watched with a critical eye offering unwanted advice, each one convinced he could do better given the opportunity. They were only halfway through the exercise when the crowing onlookers ceased their good-natured banter and turned their attention to the sound of chanting coming from the trenches. Selected men lowered their rifles and in wide-eyed silence stared at a company of approximately thirty men shuffling into view. Carrying shovels, picks and spades, and with their heads held high, they approached the overflowing trenches. They wore the uniform of the British Army yet carried no weapons. It was the first time most of the men had ever set eyes on a black man.
“Blimey, real live golliwogs!” someone shouted.
“Go on, mate, they’re painted Paddies they are,” another laughed. “Hey, Sambo, give us a kiss.”
“Sergeant Bull, bring those two men to me immediately!” Captain Devonshire roared. “On the double, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Not at all, Sir,” Sergeant Bull growled. “Casey and Lineham, three paces forward, march, quick about it, left right, left right, left right, move it!”
“Starting now seven days’ latrine duties, these men are soldiers of His Majesty and you will treat them with respect, don’t ever forget that!” Devonshire raged at them, red in the face. Turning to the black sergeant in charge, he called, “Do with them as you will, sergeant.”
“Yas, Sah, thank you very much, Sah,” the sergeant answered, producing a smile fit to put the stars to shame. He reached out and grabbed both men by their collars and hurled them headfirst into the filthy trench. “Give dem children a shovel boys, dey is gonna show us piccaninnies how to shovel shit.”
A huge roar of laughter erupted from the watching troops.
“That shouldn’t be too hard, most of it belongs to them anyway,” a voice called out, bringing another roar of laughter.
“May I ask the purpose of your visit?” Captain Devonshire smiled.
“Yes, sah, we is here to clean out your trenches, so you little white gentlemen don’t get your pinkies wet.”
“Then be about your business, Sergeant.”
“Back to your duties, men, we are here to beat the Hun. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can go home,” Sergeant Bull grinned.
Thomas labelled the four sniper groups simply as sections one, two, three and four, and based the format on the sniper school at Linghem. Competitions were arranged to see which section performed best. Stan Banks’s section came out on top and he quickly seized the opportunity to revel in his newly-found fame. Some days his mood improved, on others he reverted to his morose self. Thomas debated whether to replace him with someone of a more dependable nature, then decided against it and let the matter rest for the time being.
As the days wore on he smiled with pleasure at the rapid progress the snipers were making. His anxiety faded and he enjoyed the warm feeling of pride at his accomplishment.
“I think you are ready to be let loose on Fritz, men. Well done all of you,” Captain Devonshire said to them, and added for effect, “You are a credit to the Rifles.”
Sergeant Bull watched Thomas and listened with a small smile playing across his lips. He felt a liking for him almost bordering on the paternal. Like most others he felt certain the young corporal wasn’t old enough to be in the army, never mind serve in the trenches, yet there was no doubting his ability as a soldier. He possessed a refreshing innocence forged with a great inner strength that he’d failed to notice in many other men, something others recognised all too quickly and gladly responded to. Weary yet attentive to the needs of others and always prepared to help, he always listened to a complaint or a grumble and rarely passed judgement.
“Well done, Corporal Elkin, you’ve done a fine job,” Sergeant Bull congratulated him.
Thomas tried to hide the blush, moving away he felt ten feet tall.
Morale rose quickly and bets were laid as to who would bring in the most German greatcoats, waterproof groundsheets and leggings. These items, along with German boots, were highly sought after to keep out the ever-present rain. The performance of the patrols improved, and under the night-time protection of the snipers the men became bolder and infiltrated the enemy lines, bringing in prisoners for interrogation from right under the Germans’ noses.
In the farmhouse Thomas settled into a padded chair with the stuffing hanging out and flipped through a month-old magazine. Trying to read seemed pointless, so he stared at the pictures of cartoons of men with small bodies and large heads, not really understanding their meaning. Outside the rain ceased and a pale moonlight hung over the hillside. Away in the distance the prerequisite rumble of guns and the darting flashes momentarily lighting up the horizon became as common as night following day. Startled, he turned his head at the sound of fluttering wings and stared from the window at a ghost-grey flock of pigeons breaking from the hedgerow and wheeling away to better places – there was another world. When the heavy farmhouse door groaned open, Neil Letts appeared, his face caked in black camouflage from a night-time foray inside the German lines. His boots squelched and oozed mud. In one hand he carried his rifle, in the other a German coalscuttle helmet. Snipers often carried two helmets to confuse the German sentries, and on many occasions the Germans became jittery and fired at their own men.
“Got some bad news, Archie, we’ve lost Pete Kenny. Fritz got him with bayonets, poor bugger, I saw it with my own eyes, carved him up good they did, the bastards,” he said, leaning on his rifle to get his breath back.
“Had to happen sometime, I suppose,” Thomas sighed. “We’ll find a replacement in the morning, anything else?”
“No, not really, heard rumours that we’re moving south to a place called Arras I think, and soon by all accounts. Well, I’m going to get some grub. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Archie,” he said.
“Hey, best get stripped off and dry your clothes in front of the fire before you leave,” Thomas called.
“Thanks, if my bones get any colder they’ll fall out my arse.”
Thomas watched Neil strip to his underwear and felt the nip of shame at his nonchalant attitude over the news of Pete Kenny’s death, as if life didn’t matter anymore. Death came easy, unannounced and without warning to those who stood in its path. There was no wringing of hands, wailing wakes, seldom even a solitary tear. Men lying dead like run-over dogs in a ditch were met with just the slightest of shrugs followed by a faraway look.
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Over the following weeks the West Indian Regiment made a first-class job of cleaning up the trenches and lined the floor with a pathway of raised duckboards. For good measure Dan, Dan, the sanitary man made an appearance and left the trenches smelling, as Stan Banks said, “Like a whore’s arse on a Sunday morning,” and for the moment it was possible to walk though the trenches without human excrement disappearing down boot tops at every step. All signs of colour prejudice quickly disappeared, and the West Indians taught the soldiers how to catch rats with a piece of cheese on the end of a bayonet. They even taught some the forgotten art of laughter and even Sergeant Bull’s blue eyes softened at to their banter. All the time they had spent completing their thankless task there was never a murmur of complaint and they became a familiar sight in the trenches and welcomed by all. It was a different story when they said they skinned the rats and ate them cooked. The men turned up their noses and refused to believe the story.
The occasional break in the sky was a rare treat, and those who were not on duty turned up to witness the shoot-off to replace Pete Kenny. Kenny had been in Neil Letts’ section and he felt keen to have a good man take his place. Four of the five were nowhere near up to the mark; the fifth man was border-line.
“Excuse me, Corporal,” the black sergeant in charge of the West Indian Regiment called. “I’ve got me a man who can shoot de eye out of a black-eyed pea, and he’ll give any of you boys a run for your money. My two shillings say he’ll beat any man here.”
Thomas grinned. “Bring him out, I’ll be happy to take your money.”
“He’ll be doing the taking,” the sergeant grinned back. “Moses, get your beautiful body out here immediately, on de double, man.”
Thomas watched the man called Moses step forward. He stood erect and proud, and tinged with an arrogance that was easy to see. A little over six feet, broad-shouldered and weighing around twelve stone, with strong, honest features, he moved in a relaxed manner like a man sure of himself. Thomas stared in open awe. He was the most handsome man he’d ever seen.
“How may I be of service, my good man?” Moses said in a clipped, precise voice, bringing whistles and cheers from the watching soldiers. “And a very good morning to you, gentlemen,” he responded with a sweeping bow.
“You’ve fired a rifle before, have you?” Thomas asked.
“On occasion, old chap, on occasion,” Moses answered.
“Two shots each, standing, kneeling and prone, in your own time.”
“Splendid. Am I permitted to see the weapon?”
Moses took the rifle and slid the bolt open. Sniffing the breech he rammed the bolt home and ran his hands down the length of the barrel, feeling and caressing, touching every part as though it was made of the finest delicate china and ready to crumble. Hefting it onto his shoulder he swung it first one way and then the other.
“Any objection to us both using this rifle, old chap?” he asked, catching Thomas off guard.
Thomas stood and breathed deeply on the air. Feeling puzzled, he nodded.
“Fine with me, let’s get to it.”
Moses fired first. After the first shot, he stared down at the target one hundred yards away.
“Bull!” Sergeant Bull shouted.
“Sergeant to you,” someone called. A raucous roar of laughter and whistling from the onlookers was brought to an abrupt end with one stare from his manic ice-cold eyes.
Thomas fired next – another bull, and when the shoot-off was over they were even. Six shots each, twelve bulls.
“Damn fine shooting, Sir, if I may say so, damn fine!” Moses extended his hand.
“And you,” Thomas chuckled.
“Bring out the mug,” someone called from the crowd. “A hundred and fifty yards. I’ve got a bob on the darkie.” “I’ll take that,” someone else hollered.
Men quickly hammered a five-feet-tall wooden stake into the ground and placed a brown enamel mug on top, behind which they lashed a strip of wood to mark the spot the bullet struck after firing – the aim was for the bullet to pass though the handle without disturbing the mug. Moses stepped forward first, but feeling a breeze sending ripples over the puddles of muddy brown water he hesitated. A blackbird sang from a blackened branch and he lowered the rifle and waited. Men stood in silence, unmoving, witness to a sight and sound infrequently seen or heard on the Western Front. When the bird finished and flew away Moses raised the rifle, sighted and fired. Silence reigned supreme as Sergeant Bull walked to the target.
“Bull!” he shouted.
Cheers rang out and tin helmets hurled skywards. Thomas nodded at Moses and gave a small smile, waiting for the furore to settle. He’d half expected Moses to miss the shot. The patter of rain obscured the muddy reflections in the puddles and the breeze increased, bringing murmurings of unrest from the crowded onlookers. Thomas raised the rifle and, in one flowing motion, sighted and fired. Silence again. Sergeant Bull walked to the target, turned and shook his head. The crowd groaned and shoulders slumped between heavy shoulder blades.
“Oh dear,” he said, with a twinkle in his icy eyes. “It’s another bull.”
The cheers erupted, drowning out the sound of the rumbling guns in the distance, and the soldiers surged forward to congratulate both men. For a fleeting moment, the cruelty and slaughter of war was forgotten and smiling faces stretched away haggard looks of misery. Men remembered how to laugh, how to enjoy a moment’s jollity. It seemed a good time for everyone.
“Ere, he can come out on night patrol with me any time, no bugger will see him in the dark, will they?” Masher Martin laughed.
“Really?” Moses said amidst the roar of laughter. “Better not let me catch you bending down in the dark then, old chap.”
“What’s he mean? Eh, what’s he mean?” Masher said, with the smile draining from his face. “Ere, I don’t think I like the sound of that, I don’t, I never said nothing about bending down, did I?”
The next day the necessary paperwork was hurriedly completed and Moses became the first ever black Yorkshire Rifleman.
Moses Pendleton had been raised by a wealthy family in the county of Dorset, Southern England. His mother had been head housekeeper to Earl Howard, a wealthy landowner and farmer. His father, from America, served the family as head groom, but died shortly before Moses’s birth after being trampled to death by horses while saving the earl’s daughter in a hunting accident. The earl, a fair man, showed his gratitude by insisting that Moses should receive a proper education. How his parents ever came to be present at the house Moses never knew, although when he grew older he guessed they were bought as slaves. They were treated well and his gender and origin were never relevant factors in his childhood.
Moses left Dorset shortly after his mother died and headed for London. Time after time he applied for numerous positions in the city and each time he encountered hatred and prejudice. Educated and outspoken, with a mind of his own, he quickly gained a reputation as an uppity nigger. When the war broke out he enlisted in the army, hoping he might be treated with respect and become an officer. Easily passing the officers’ board with flying colours, he was sent to an officers’ training academy on the outskirts of London. It wasn’t long before the constant baiting and insults became intolerable and eventually a young titled officer ended up with a broken jaw and three broken ribs. Brought before his commanding officer, Moses stated that British officers were a bunch of pansies that possessed neither the ability nor the brains to start a fire in a match factory, and should never be allowed to command men in the field. Without awaiting a response, he turned and walked out. Three weeks later, he signed up with the West Indian Regiment as a private and was assigned to digging trenches, cleaning latrines and doing the work no white man had the stomach to partake in.
In the trenches he quickly became popular with the men. Always prepared to help them pen letters home to their loved ones became a regular pastime and on two occasions he helped write offers of proposals, both of which were accep
ted. Some of the soldiers spent their spare time trying to teach him slang-words and profanities, yet he would have none of it and took their banter in good spirit. He had learned to shoot in the country during his upbringing and his skill with a rifle brought gasps of admiration from onlookers. On his first venture out into No Man’s Land he returned with a German greatcoat and, to everyone’s astonishment, two piping hot German sausages, which he shared. The banter continued, and he won the hearts and respect of the others.
“Cor blimey, something smells good,” Masher Martin said, holding his hooked nose in the air and sniffing the wind.
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right there, and whatever it is it’s making me feel hungry,” Leslie Hill said, hunkered down next to Martin in the trench and wringing water from his socks.
“Come along, gentlemen,” Moses called, clanking a spoon against an empty fuel can. “Anyone care for hot meat and vegetable stew?”
By the time Hill put his socks back on he was last in the queue and knew it would be pointless to push his way to the front because revenge would be meted out later. Left with no choice but to patiently wait his turn, he fervently hoped that enough would be left for him before the pot was emptied. Anxiously, he kept his eyes on the pot, then at the array of mugs and cups the men carried. It would be a tight call, he thought. He might just make it, and then again maybe he wouldn’t. Inhaling through his nostrils he held his breath for a few seconds and then ripped out a fart so loud they must have heard it in the German lines.
“Stone the bleeding crows, what a stink, you dirty bastard! I hope you’ve shit your drawers,” Martin said, moving out of the queue with his hand clamped over his nose. Others followed suit and Hill progressed closer to the head of the queue.
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