Dilly didn’t want him and the thought of having his child call another man father did nothing to prick his conscience. Maybe that was down to his immaturity – by now he’d almost convinced himself it wasn’t his child in the first place. Dilly’s mother mentioned she wore her heart on her sleeve and he wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know the meaning of that. Also, he hadn’t forgotten Moses’s remark concerning the simplest way to change his identity. Even now he carried two sets of dog tags taken from corpses on the battlefield. He also had identification tags from the body of a German corporal he’d skewered with his bayonet during a raid, although he wasn’t really sure why he’d taken them. Perhaps I might take tags from Canadians and Australians too, he thought, they’d never find me in Canada. A few men lounged around trying to catch a brief respite from their surroundings; others shuffled playing cards and jingled pennies as they wagered away next month’s pay.
That evening he left the comfort and warmth of his quarters to make one of his regular checks on his men. He found them happy and comfortable in a dry German recess in one of the few remaining trenches inspecting German buttons and cap badges scattered around on the ground after the explosion. With mixed feelings he sat for a moment and took a drink of watered-down rum and grimaced at the taste. Reassured his men were settled, he set out to find Stan. He found him pumping Leslie Walsh about the origin of his surname. Already pre-warned of Stan’s preoccupancy with surnames, Leslie told him it concerned the size of his manhood and the less said about it the better.
***
The following day against all expectations the sun accompanied the dawn and the change in the weather brought a sensation of new life to where death lurked in every crevice. News filtered down the lines that the war was slowly beginning to turn in favour of the allies. The men felt re-born and in a haste to get the job done as soon as possible. Second Lieutenant Bellamy, who hadn’t been seen since before the battle on Messines Ridge, sent a runner informing Sergeant Bull and Thomas to attend his quarters at eighteen-hundred hours that night. Thomas stood with his mouth open at Bellamy’s appearance. Dressed in a new uniform, he looked as though he might have just stepped from a high-class tailor’s shop.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, not bothering to turn and look at them. “We have been chosen to take a town called Roulers, and after the Flying Corps have dropped a few of their bombs to soften up the Hun, we shall advance and capture the railway centre, key to the Hun’s position in Flanders. I know you can do the job – we leave in the morning. Who knows, there may be promotions in the air. Yes indeed, indeed, indeed.”
Thomas swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. You bastard, he thought. I bet a penny to a pinch of horseshit we won’t see you anywhere near the fighting.
“Do you mean we are going in alone, Sir?” he asked.
“No, of course not. We shall be assisted by a regiment of the Irish Rifles and our job is to keep Fritz’s head down while those paddy blighters finish them off.”
“Will you be joining us, Sir? After all, it might be dangerous,” Thomas blurted out.
Bellamy visibly stiffened and his face flushed cherry red, spinning round he faced Thomas, sniffed, ran his forefinger across his neatly trimmed moustache and licked his lips nervously.
“Yes, of course I shall be there to lead you. Where else would you expect me to be?”
Sergeant Bull, sensing the situation might quickly get out of hand, interrupted and offered a desultory salute. “Yes, sir, I’ll have the men prepared to move out at first light. That will be all, Corporal.”
Outside Thomas, unable to rid the acid taste of bile from his mouth, glared at Sergeant Bull in open defiance.
“Get about your business, Corporal. Sharply now,” Bull said, cutting off any chance of conversation.
Thomas restrained his rising temper and watched the sergeant bob away.
It wasn’t long before rivalries broke out and trouble began. Jeb Mooney from the East End of London made no secret of his dislike for the way in which Irish immigrants conducted themselves in the city.
“God made England in six days,” Mooney declared, “and on the seventh, he squatted down for a shit and produced Ireland, wiped his arse on Wales and threw the waste north and called it Scotland.”
Sergeant Bull told Mooney he’d better watch his mouth before racial riots broke out, although he smiled with amusement at the rhetoric.
Thomas set his men out at vantage points on the outskirts of Roulers and their steady, accurate rate of fire sent the German garrison scrambling for cover. The Irish Rifles followed up with mortars, then advanced and began a stranglehold in the town. Going from building to building using hand-to-hand fighting they quickly cleared the Germans out.
“Uncivilised the buggers might be, but by God they know how to fight and I’m glad we’re on the same side,” Leslie Hill said in admiration of the Irishmen’s fighting qualities.
“Yeah, and now the bloody trouble starts,” Mooney said. “You mark my bleeding words, the buggers will start looting and looking for booze.”
All that remained of the Town hall had been cleared and served as a rallying point, and the locals, ecstatic to be rid of the Germans, happily provided the soldiers with cheese, eggs and bottles of rough wine. Thomas reeled in amazement at the behaviour of the Irish, feeling shocked at the extent of their crudeness and ignorance to get more than their fair share of anything placed before them.
“Leave the buggers to it,” Leslie Hill scowled. “They are no worse, or better, than the rest of us and die just as easy.”
Thomas saw the sense in the remark, shrugged and left the men arguing while they deloused and washed their clothes. For a time he sat alone with his thoughts sensing the emptiness of the lonely and felt the need for company – company as far away and removed from squabbling drunken soldiers as possible. On the edge of the town he saw house lights glowing dully, and tilting his helmet forward he slung his rifle over his shoulder and moved away.
Behind him food and wine relaxed most of the soldiers, others felt their blood run hot and rapid. First came the melancholy air of traditional songs followed by the odd skirl, and finally the raucous songs rang out. Then the wine worked its mischief and threats were issued and quickly accepted as the Irish fought amongst themselves. Atlas and Leslie Hill watched with scowling faces, growing bored with the Irishmen’s tiresome squabbling, and decided it may be time for them to take a hand and join in the action.
“Do any of you pig-ignorant bog-trotters know how to fight without a drink in you? If so, step forward and get your useless Irish arses kicked by an English gentleman, the likes of which pricks such as you lot have never seen before?” Atlas said. “Before you stands The Great Stromboli, the strongest man in the world, and I’m looking for easy sport – and nothing comes easier than a bunch of thick Paddys.”
Atlas stood with his hands resting on his hips snorting through his elbow-shaped nose, his black curly hair hanging limp like a horse’s mane and his huge arms rippled with muscles. As though by an order from God above, silence descended and the world stood as still as the day it began.
“Bejasus,” an Irish voice called out. “You’ve got some gob on you for an English tit. Go home to your mammy, young fella.”
“Step forward, you bog-trotting bastard and show yourself!” Atlas roared, strutting between the tables with his chest puffed out. “I should have known you were a bunch of yellow-bellied bastards.” Atlas watched the big bluff Irishman push his way through the crowd. He was an ugly man with a face like a gargoyle suffering from a bout of acute haemorrhoids. “What’s your name, Irish?” Atlas sneered. “Or couldn’t your whore of a mother think of one?”
“O’Hare, Sean O’Hare, not that it’s any of your business, you English prick,” he said, pushing his fists together and cracking his knuckles.
“Well come on then, Mr Rabbit, let’s see what you’ve got.”
With his fists raised in classic boxing style he circ
led his opponent, first one way and then the other. Jabbing and feinting with his left, he stepped forward, slammed his right foot hard down on the floor and sent his right arm out as straight as a magistrate’s stare. His fist landed flush on the Irishman jaw. Twitching like a tangled puppet he went down like a third-time sinner on his way to hell. Quietness reigned, disturbed only by a stray dog lapping up spilt wine and a door banging on its hinges.
“That’ll do for now, boys,” said the Irish Sergeant Major. “You’ve had your fun. We don’t want to be fighting each other while there are plenty of Germans to go round. Time to get your heads down and save your energy for tomorrow. Good punch, lad, well delivered.”
“The Great Stromboli, who the bloody hell was he?” Leslie Hill grinned, watching four men carry out O’Hare.
“Before I became embroiled in this shit I worked in a travelling circus as a strong man and was known as Stromboli.”
“A circus, you mean a real circus? What else did you do? Tell me, what other things?” Hill said, hardly able to control his imagination ignited by visions of big tops, galloping horses, tumbling clowns and most of all the snarling prowling lions.
“I’ll tell you another day,” Atlas said, leaving Hill seething with disappointment.
The echo of his steel-studded boots crashing on the concrete pathway brought a wry smile to Thomas’s face. After months of floundering through mud it felt strange to walk on a solid surface and he felt a spring in his step. Ahead, the lighted house drew closer and seemed strangely out of place, as though isolated in the darkness of the street. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to continue. Somewhere locked inside him caution gripped his stomach and he turned to re-trace his steps. Too late he saw the movement from the corner of his eye, a strong arm wrapped around his face covering his eyes and cutting off his vision.
The acrid odour of sweat stung his nostrils. Twisting his head he felt the knife slash across the side of his neck, opening up the soft flesh from ear to shoulder. Had he not twisted, the knife would have ripped open his throat. He jerked his elbow back and he heard his attacker grunt as the hard bone smashed into his soft stomach. A light shone from an opened door. Blinking away his blindness he heard a shot fired from a revolver. The arm relaxed and slipped from his face and he could see again.
“This way, Monsieur, please, you must hurry.”
Thomas raised his hand to stop the bleeding and staggered through the doorway, and passing through a small, sparsely furnished unlit lounge, he entered a large bedroom with a double bed in the corner.
“Please, Monsieur, lie on the bed. I must stop the bleeding before it is too late. Take off your coat and shirt, quickly.”
Thomas stared at a boy no more than twelve years old and feeling the blood streaming down his body he began peeling off his clothes while the boy rummaged through a set of drawers next to the bed.
“Who was he, the man who attacked me?” he asked, watching the boy unroll a bandage and wipe away the blood with clean lint.
“Another German deserter. They desert all the time. They have no belly for fighting unless they are winning,” he said, expertly bandaging the wound.
“And you go around killing them. Where are your parents?”
The boy shrugged. “The Germans killed my father two days ago because he would not help them – he was a policeman and tried to stop them from stealing our food. They took my mother a week ago and we have not seen her since.”
“Isn’t there anyone to help you?”
“Most have run away to hide in the country to escape German cruelty. I live with my small sister. Alas, she no longer speaks, the war frightens her. There, it is done, you must rest now.”
Thomas lay back and sank into the warm feather mattress, allowing the pleasure of weariness to envelop his body. He felt his muscles relax and time slowly spooled away. For a moment he fought to stay awake then drifted into a deep sleep.
When he woke the bright morning sun beamed shafts of light through a weather-stained window. He raised his hand, blinked and looked down at his body. A black waistcoat with the top button missing replaced his bloodstained shirt and a pair of worn corduroy trousers covered his legs. His eyes swivelled searching for his uniform then jerked with surprise at the sight of a small girl wearing a pale-blue dress. Waif-like, she sat frail and frightened at the bottom of the bed. A flush of colour stained her cheeks and her eyes widened, the pupils dilating as she stared at him through doleful soft caramel eyes.
“Hello, who are you?” he said, feeling a sharp pain sear into his arm. Twisting round, he grimaced at the sight of the handcuff locked around his wrist with the other end fixed to the steel bed. The child smiled revealing dimples used to a better life, and slipping from the bed she disappeared through a doorway. Thomas pulled frantically against the handcuffs, and felt the neck wound open up and begin to bleed.
“Hello,” he shouted. “Is anyone there? What the bloody hell’s going on?”
In turmoil he ignored the pain and struggled to free his trapped hand. Suddenly, the door swung open and the boy entered.
“Undo these cuffs, lad, now, before you get into serious trouble when the soldiers come for me,” he demanded.
“No, Monsieur, I am sorry,” the boy answered. “It is Françoise. She wants you to be her new papa, and until she is better and learns to speak once more you must stay here with us. Do not worry, Monsieur. We will feed you well and care for you.”
Thomas froze and looked at the boy through incredulous eyes, and feeling his breath die in his chest. He shook his head and leaned back with a sigh. The boy watched wild-eyed, as though he had slid into an unreal world. His trousers were at least three times too large for him and tied around his waist a short length of frayed rope prevented them from falling down. His jacket and cap the kind a train driver might wear, also too large for his slight frame. He exuded a look of determination yet his lucid brown eyes portrayed a subtle glint of fear while he fought to maintain courage that slowly but surely drained from his body. For a moment Thomas felt an empathy with him. They were two of a kind, kindred spirits, both without hope and in the middle of a war neither really understood.
“Don’t you have any other family, aunts and uncles, grandparents perhaps? There must be someone here who can help you and your sister,” Thomas snapped rattling the chains. “And for God’s sake take these chains off.”
“We have an uncle in Antwerp, but we don’t know his address,” he answered quietly, almost hopefully. “Will you help my sister to talk again, please?”
For the first time since he ran away to Catterick Thomas felt a brief surge of pity for someone other than himself. He knew the agony of losing parents, the cold twist of vulnerability and the loneliness, all sense of hope draining away to leave a gnawing fear and a fading memory. His overriding selfishness and desire to die had made him lose all consideration for others. Now his mind told him his troubles were less than trivial compared to the plight of these two young children. A warning bell sounded somewhere in the back of his mind. What can I do? he thought. I’m only sixteen and it isn’t my responsibility. Or is it? Should I make it my responsibility and to hell with the consequences?
“What is your name?”
“David.”
“I want to thank you for saving my life, David, it was very brave, and not many boys of your age would have the courage.”
He shrugged. “Many of my friends have killed Germans, some have been caught and shot, some hanged and left for the crows to eat as a lesson to us, but still we kill them,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Where do you get your food from?”
“We find it where we can. When the Germans were here we stole from them. Now we will steal from the British to live. Sometimes we steal potatoes and turnips from the farmers. They don’t mind so long as we don’t get too greedy.”
“Undo these chains and I will do all I can to help you, I promise,” Thomas said.
“I am sorry, Monsieur,
I must do what I must do,” he answered firmly.
Anger flared in Thomas’s eyes. No matter how hard he argued and threatened, the boy was adamant that he would remain shackled until his sister regained her voice. That night Thomas lay on the bed trying to figure a way out of his predicament. She still sat there, Françoise, on the end of the bed, her hair, matted and tangled, hanging in disarray. Her small face, pale where it should have been pink and vibrant, gazed into his eyes with look of forlorn hope. He held her gaze and smiled, slowly she edged toward him, her expression never changing, until she was close enough to climb onto his lap.
Melancholy shook away his resistance and a flow of pity trickled into his soul. Automatically his arms enclosed her small body. He felt her trembling and searched his brain for the right words to ease her pain. Without looking up into his face she slipped her thumb into her mouth, gave a deep shuddering sigh and fell asleep. He stroked her hair and face with grimy caring hands and fought against the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Silently, and with no small amount of rancour, he cursed the war for the misery it brought to the innocent, like he had so many times before.
David sat with his arms folded across his chest, like a judge in his high-chair waiting to pass judgement, and watched from the corner of the room. His face taut and serious, his brown eyes alert and brimming with hope, the slight flicker told Thomas he approved.
“If you undo the chain I’ll show you how to make proper stew,” Thomas said the following afternoon. “You will escape.” “No, I give you my word.”
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