“Ruby is a horse. I helped her during her birth and treat her as a pet,” he said quietly.
Moses clamped his teeth together and didn’t know whether or not to laugh. Thomas felt certain he would, and tapping his toe in the mud he made a small puddle and waited for some kind of derogatory remark – Moses was famous for his quick repartee – but he never spoke and Thomas was glad.
“I suppose you will tell Sergeant Bull now and I’ll be sent home?”
“No, Thomas, Archie, or whatever your real name is. What you have told me I shall treat with the utmost confidence and will never repeat to anyone, but I would suggest you begin to live your life the way it should be lived. Death will arrive in its own time, it always does,” he said, turning to leave.
Sergeant Bull pulled away from the door and waited concealed behind a small ramshackle shed. Worry lines creased his brow, an expression of confusion darted into his eyes. He had overheard the full account of Archie Elkin’s past and agreed he wasn’t guilty of murder, but of unabridged fear twinned with panic. Yet the thought that he had fed his brother’s dead body to a sty full of pigs floated in his bowels and sank as though he’d swallowed a ton of bricks.
Thomas watched Moses walk stiffly away. He wanted to feel better, as if a heavy yoke had been lifted from his shoulders, but he didn’t, and again his imagination played games with him.
“I am Thomas, not Archie, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” he cried aloud clenching his fists. Then he felt calmness, and serenity fill his mind and he knew who he was, he’d always known. No longer would he abandon himself completely, and with only a squirt of despair he pleaded with God to restore his faith.
Sergeant Bull watched, the sound of Thomas’s pleadings pressing against his skull, and he tried to calm his thoughts, for the time being he would keep the terrible secret to himself.
Chapter Fourteen
It was for no apparent reason that he could think of that Stan Banks’s and Leslie Hill’s attitude towards him had changed for the better after they moved on to Messines Ridge. They became more amiable. Not that he cared much – he was a hardened veteran now, and with his newborn zest for life he relished the fight for survival. What use were friends if the next day they would be dead or missing in action?
“Okay, get cleaned up!” Sergeant Bull roared. “The battalion’s pulling back to a Belgium town called St Eloi for seven days’ rest. Find somewhere to bathe and de-louse yourselves when you get there, and I don’t want to hear any bloody nonsense.”
Much to their disappointment there didn’t seem any chance of a bath or any other particular form of hygiene to ease their discomfort. And, unfortunately, no bloody nonsense either, as Sergeant Bull had so eloquently put it. Those who had a few centimes to spare and were lucky enough to get a pass made their way to the nearest estaminet. Sitting and nursing a cup of coffee they would enjoy the singsongs and company, and round off the evening with a plate of egg and chips. True to form the Hun, in his barbaric sense of reason, had razed most of the small town to the ground. Not that that stopped the American soldiers swaggering and bedding anything that turned a trim ankle, and trim wasn’t always necessarily the order of the day. MPs spent most of the time carting them drunk from bars and breaking up fights. Yet they were fearless fighters and welcomed as well as respected by the allies.
As usual, houses bridges and roads had disappeared and buildings stood skeletal and pitiful. Out in the street the sight of queues of half-naked men clutching bars of carbolic soap, waiting patiently in the drizzling rain for their turn to bathe in the cold water of the village horse trough, nearly led to a riot. A group of Royal Engineers were quickly drafted in and worked furiously through the night to repair a fountain to allow a flow of running water, having been left smashed to pieces and full of excrement by the Germans before they withdrew. The allies hated them for their barbaric and destructive attitude, but they could wait until the time came to push in the bayonet and twist.
The antics of a cavalry troop performing a gas mask drill on horses provided an afternoon’s entertainment, although the horses caused more damage to the handlers than a field barrage.
An elderly Belgian lady called Laura, who never stopped chattering, acted as a hairdresser and shaved most of the men bald to help rid them of nits and lice. Her two fourteen-stone daughters, Fifi and Belle, offered sexual favours but were refused, although it was rumoured their hands and mouths were put to good use.
“Keep well away from them, Thomas,” Stan Banks called. “It would be like throwing a sausage up an arcade.”
Thomas smiled good-naturedly, wondering what he meant, and shrugged at the laughter.
Moses, in his own inimitable style, somehow managed to produce a bottle of olive oil to massage Thomas’s shoulder. It responded well to the treatment, and with a slow wink Moses refused to reveal its source when questioned. When Thomas pressed him he relented and said he allowed the ladies of the village to look down the front of his trousers at what he called his Black Beast. Afterwards they gave him whatever he wanted. Some men tentatively chose to look, but then most walked away quickly with a perturbed look on their faces, wishing they hadn’t bothered.
“I’ve seen them licking their fingers and wiping them down his face and chest, men and women alike. They think he’s painted and try to wipe it off,” an Ulsterman said, causing a ripple of laughter.
Despite a thorough searc, the bodies of Masher Martin and Neil Letts were never recovered and both were posted as missing in action. The men gathered inside a bombed-out church and listened in silence with raised eyebrows to Sergeant Bull’s moving testament to the deceased’s lives. When he led the singing not a dry eye remained. Still the war continued, and like others before them they were quickly forgotten and replaced by Alex Taylor and Fred Furlong from York. Under Thomas’s watchful eye the snipers were quickly brought up to full strength. Moses chose to keep his own watchful eye on Thomas, still unsure, yet concerned for his state of mind, though he detected a slight shaft of confidence in his manner, a ratification of assurance. He smiled to himself, pleased with what he saw.
Second Lieutenant Bellamy introduced himself as the new platoon commander. Fresh from Sandhurst he informed Sergeant Bull, and not given to nonsense. Twenty-two years of age and an ex-public schoolboy with matinée idol looks, clipped moustache and brown brooding eyes, he came with a smile that almost matched that of Moses. His keenness mixed with inane statements soon became a great source of amusement to the men, and they waited eagerly for his outbursts.
“I say, chaps, everyone cleaned their teeth and changed their socks?” he asked each morning with a happy smile. “We mustn’t let the Hun see us in a state of poor dress. Good grief that would never do, chaps, never, never, absolutely never.”
Spring was drawing to a close, the season of renewal and the birth of beauty almost completely marred by the never-ending rain. Moses said it was Mother Nature washing away the blood that man spilt in his quest for self-destruction.
“It’s Mother Nature’s revenge more like, pissing over us for damaging her property, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Stan Banks said. “Hey, you don’t think this Bellamy bloke’s family had anything to do with making bells do you? Never heard that name before, I haven’t. I knew someone called Ringer once. He was nothing to do with bells though – his mother took in washing.”
Men tensed when Sergeant Bull bounced in un-announced from the night, accompanied by a tall, thin man looking resplendent in a new uniform with a corporal’s chevrons sewn onto his sleeves. In his left hand he carried a small metal box.
“This is Corporal Crumble. He is our new ammunition technician responsible for the distribution of ammunition, and from now on you go to him when you are getting low.”
Being in charge of the ammunition was a job feared by front-line soldiers, kept mainly in dugouts in the side of trenches, it took only a stray spark from a falling shell to send the whole trench and those in it sky high.
Corporal Crumb
le had a milk-white face, long and angular, and he was so thin that his bones seemed to shine through his skin. His complexion hung sour, almost daring approach.
“Hey up, Corporal, you don’t have a sister called Apple do you?” someone called out, followed by loud guffaws and sniggers from those unsure of the nature of the joke.
“Nay, lad,” Crumble answered, with a voice as deep as a grizzly bear with a sore throat. “But I’ll let you into a secret. I’m from Blackpool, that’s in Lancashire for those that aren’t educated, and I can’t stand bloody tight-arsed Yorkshire men with big gobs.”
A few seconds passed in silence, a match flared orange and a cigarette glowed red, and then twenty voices broke out in a chorus of Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, I do like to be beside the sea.
Displaying a set of teeth that would shame a carthorse for size and quantity, Crumble grinned and sat down. Pulling out a pipe he struck a match and puffed until the contents glowed red and he contentedly disappeared into a cloud of grey smoke. To the chagrin of the men time passed all too quickly. On the final day of their welcomed rest period, the Scottish entertainer Harry Lauder made a concert appearance with his five-octave piano and brought the house down with such songs as I Love a Lassie and Roamin in the Gloamin.
Thanks to Moses’s oil, the pain in Thomas’s shoulder eased and he reported back to Sergeant Bull the following morning, declaring himself fit for duty.
“Pull another stunt like last time, Elkin, and I’ll have your stripes, bloody Military Medal or not, do you understand? Going off half-cocked is dangerous, liable to get somebody killed it is, and I won’t have bloody liabilities in my company,” the sergeant said, glaring directly into Thomas’s face.
“It won’t happen again, Sergeant,” Thomas answered.
“Bloody right it won’t. Right, day after tomorrow I want you to send some of your men up on the ridge and keep an eye on Fritz, see what he’s up to. The Royal Engineers along with the Canadians and the Australians are tunnelling below and we don’t want Fritz sticking his bloody great nose in. It’s your job to cause a distraction.”
“Right you are, Sergeant.”
Two days later Moses gathered the men together. Thomas split each section into five pairs and explained exactly what he wanted them to do.
“Keep out of sight and work your way as near to their lines as you can. Use your bayonets if you have to, but no gunshots. Have any of you got cudgels?”
“Yeah, we’ve got five between us, and we’ll use the buggers if we have too,” Robert Sadler, a new addition to the snipers, said.
Thomas nodded. For some time the Germans had taken to sneaking over to the British lines during the night and splitting the heads of sentries wide open, putting the fear of God up them and given them cause to fire at anything that moved, and that included their own comrades. Now it was payback time. Dusk fell and the landscape resembled a picture painted in hell: black, stark and forbidding, like Satan’s cemetery. The wet summer weather came accompanied by a welcome rise in temperature, allowing the men to discard most of their heavier clothing and carry only the bare essentials, assisting them to move quickly and silently. Stealthily, they moved within earshot of the unsuspecting Germans. The inviting aroma of cooked fat from hot black puddings sizzling in pans wafted into their nostrils and the clinking of beer bottles tested their patience. The guttural sound of a German singing brought a twisted smile to Stan Banks’s face.
“You won’t be singing that tune in a minute, you fat bastard,” he chuckled to himself, withdrawing his bayonet.
Silently, under a threatening moon darting in and out of the scattered rainclouds, two German machine-gunners died from slit throats, their guns pushed into a slime-filled bomb crater. Two more were despatched in the same manner and relieved of their helmets. Four snipers slipped into the German trenches wearing the stolen German helmets and greatcoats.
“Robert, you go first with your cudgel,” Banks said.
“I can’t bloody wait,” Sadler answered hefting the weapon.
“Right, we’ll work our way down to the first bend and finish them off as we go, is that clear?”
“Yeah, clear enough for me,” Sadler grunted impatiently.
“Then we fill the swag bags and scarper bloody sharpish,” Banks said, looking at the blackened faces of his three men.
Robert Sadler wasn’t a big man, in fact he was slim and wiry yet when he wielded his cudgel it was as though it were part of his body. With a sadistic grin he made his way down the German trench, staving in heads while humming a tune no one had yet identified. By the time he’d finished there wasn’t a part of his body or uniform not covered in the blood of his terrified victims. Banks nodded and worked his way along the trench behind Sadler, ripping open the throats of those still alive. They were aware the Germans weren’t adept at handling surprise attacks with any speed: their mentality bordered on the offensive with overpowering numbers. Silently they filled the sandbags with food and any objects that might later prove useful. Finally cobblers, bakers, clerks and candlestick makers, covered head to toe in the blood of the hated Hun responsible for a thousand sins, made their way back to their own lines. Tomorrow they could do the same, and the day after, until there were none left.
“Right, tomorrow we’ll head away from the ridge and take up positions further down the line and skirmish. We don’t want the Hun to think we’re hiding something. If they grow suspicious they might discover the mines,” Thomas said.
Sergeant Bull nodded his approval and remained silent.
Contented with their early-morning brew nestling in their stomachs, they left with their respective sections and headed away from the ridge. Their job, to harass the enemy by any method possible; death their first choice, any other would be considered a failure. Each man carried a sneer fixed on his lips, ready to take the battle to the hated Hun and finish him forever. One section at a time went out for the duration of one hour only, and when each returned after wreaking havoc, another section left for a different location. Concealed in No Man’s Land they waited level with the enemy trenches picking off nervous sentries at will. When midnight spread her cloak and under the cover of a moonless sky another section made its way across No Man’s Land, crawling through the mud and slime over the remains of bodies and severed limbs of the enemy to haunt and torment.
Slippery Stewart, so named because he had a knack of knowing everyone else’s business and relished in passing round misinformation to anyone who would listen, was the oldest man in the section. He wore a set of false teeth too small for his mouth and had developed a habit of clicking them together. In the dark stillness of night, without thinking, he began his habit in the middle of No Man’s Land. The younger men, unable to control themselves, found it impossible not to giggle and on one occasion one of the men burst out laughing and gave away his position. The patrol was quickly recalled, and the next time Slippery crossed No Man’s Land he went toothless.
Corporal Crumble retained the nickname Apple. He took it in good heart. There were more pressing matters like staying alive to worry about than a friendly round of banter.
“How come you’ve got a new uniform, Apple?” Leslie Hill enquired. “Just in from Blighty are you?”
“Just in from Blighty? What the bloody hell are you talking about? Been here two bloody long years I have, you cheeky big bugger. Arras, that’s where I got this uniform from, bloody Arras, down the trenches I were, dishing out ammo, when a mortar bomb landed smack on top of me stock. Bloody lot went up and killed most of the poor buggers, but not me. Tore every shred of clothing off me it did, aye, lad. I stood there as naked as an ostrich on Derby Day I did, except for me boots, I kept me boots on, strange that.”
“Did you get any leave? You could have worked a stinker there, got a bit of cushy Blighty.”
“Nay lad, that were second time it happened. There’s a war on you know, best get it finished and go home for good, I reckon,” he said, snatching up a rat by the tail
and hurling it towards the German lines. “And you can bugger off back to where you belong.”
The men nodded their silent approval at his words. Some stared down at their boots and conjured up images of loved ones waiting for them back home. Others undid tunic buttons and searched for photographs and with melancholy looks gently wiped their muddy thumbs over the paper faces smiling back at them. In the distance the strains of We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside drifted in mournfully from further down the trenches.
“Hello, the Welsh must be getting ready to attack,” Apple said.
“How do you know?” Leslie Hill asked.
“Cos they only sing when they are shit scared,” Apple laughed. “That’s why they are bloody good singers.”
Signs of an impending offensive became more and more evident over the following weeks and extensive preparations began to take place. Field guns were brought in, ammunition depots were enlarged and additional railways were laid to bring in men and stores in readiness for a big push. When Sergeant Bull bobbed into view, Thomas looked at him expectantly and blinked.
“Corporal Elkin, get your three section leaders and follow me.”
For approximately three hundred yards the five men made their way down the trench in single file, passing men shoring up the damaged ramparts with strips of wood and sandbags. Other working parties re-hung the telephone lines onto the sides of the trenches to prevent soldiers from tripping over. The ledges, where snipers stood and plied their deadly trade, were rebuilt in readiness for the next onslaught. Stopping at a dugout concealed by a canvas gas curtain the sergeant turned to face the men.
“What you are going to see you will keep strictly to yourselves, is that understood?”
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