“Take it easy with her, Elkin, no more than a fast canter, and be back before dark,” the colonel answered, as though in two minds.
The ecstasy exploded within him, and he wanted to laugh, to scream out loud. At the rear of the chateau he followed his nose and the smell of sweating horses and soiled straw guided him with minimum difficulty to the stables. He found her immediately, her proud head protruding from the top of the stable door.
“Monsieur, how can I help?” Michel, the stable boy, asked.
“Saddle her, and use a straight bit, please.” Thomas smiled.
With each passing second his impatience bit into his soul until he thought he might faint with excitement. Her coat gleamed with a mixture of white and grey hairs and her tail and mane near white. She stood seventeen hands high and rippled with carefully exercised sinews and muscles.
“Isabelle, Monsieur, is ready.” Michel smiled, tightening the girth another notch.
Thomas mounted and waited for Michel to adjust the stirrups to cavalry length. Then, with a slight forward movement of his pelvis, Isabelle responded immediately. Thomas’s smile spread into an inane grin and he thought he might lose control of his features. As if Isabelle sensed his delight, she broke into a slow canter and with her head high and her feet hardly touching the ground beneath her, she moved like a well-oiled machine fit only to carry the gods themselves.
Stan Banks saw them approach and his eyes dilated, he felt his buttocks squeeze tight together and his rifle slipped from his grasp. He took off his helmet and held it tight across his chest like a man in shock.
“Bloody hell, what did I tell you? He’s gone and done it, he’s only gone and got himself a bloody horse, now he thinks he’s a bloody officer!” he shrieked, running down the trenches. “It’s General bloody Elkin. We’ll all be on parade in a minute, better get a bit of spit on your boots, lads.”
Thomas slid from the horse and made his way into the farmhouse certain that shortly the whole battalion would be conscious of his presence. As expected, Moses and Leslie Hill were the first to show their faces, and Stan lingered outside for a while, afraid to enter. Convinced that Thomas had stolen the horse, he wanted no part in the crime. When Moses told him how Thomas had gained access to the horse, he changed his mind and reluctantly entered watching Thomas through twitching eyes. Thomas was brief and to the point.
With a pinch of guilt cooling his pleasure, Moses laced up his boots and glanced at the brooding face of Stan Banks. Maybe it was only right that Stan should join Thomas at the chateau. He was married now, and with a young wife to think of it seemed reasonable to assume that he wanted to be out of the front line and away from almost certain death. Thomas had tried his hardest to explain that the war had no bearing on his decision to take Moses and not him. He knew Stan was the best fighter of the four. In the trenches he was ruthless. It was like watching a butcher at work, slicing up a carcass ready for hanging in the window. But this operation was different. It would require stealth and cunning. It was possible they would have to sit quietly night after night waiting patiently for the culprit, or culprits, to appear. Stan couldn’t sit quietly for any length of time without breaking out into a monologue concerning a surname, or how many kids he and Mary were going to have and what he intended to name them. Nevertheless, as expected Stan took it badly, and jealousy raised its time-old green head. With a face as black as Newcastle coal, Stan stalked out of the farmhouse simmering with anger and looking for trouble.
Leslie Hill sat and listened thoughtfully and in his wisdom suggested it could only be wolves.
“Best to set a trap for them buggers,” he said. “You don’t want to be coming face-to-face with one of those at night, especially if the poor little bugger’s hungry. That’s what wolves eat you know, other animals. Entitled to their grub they are. Just like we are, you remember that.”
“I will, Leslie, and the second it gets its teeth round my throat I’ll offer to share a tin of bully beef with it,” Moses grinned, checking his ammunition pouch. “Do me a favour and keep an eye on Stan.”
“Bugger off, you sarcastic sod,” Hill retorted, walking out with a large smile on his face.
Private Cookson, true to his word, had cleaned out two back rooms of the chateau overlooking the rear meadows and the livestock. Each room, once ornate guestrooms, contained a double bed with down mattresses brought from the quarters where guests had once spent comfortable nights during happier days. The rooms were warm and comfortable, with long drapes to block out the muted rumble of guns from the front.
“This is Private Cookson,” Thomas said by way of introduction.
Cookson sighed with relief and nodded his gratitude at being referred to by his correct name. “Kenneth, that’s my name,” the weedy private smiled.
“Absolutely splendid name,” Moses said, extending his hand.
“Aye, bloody sight better than Cockshead,” he laughed. “Follow me, I’ll show you where the copper boilers are and you can wash those filthy uniforms. Old Dickhead’s a bit funny about his men’s appearance.”
Kenneth brought pitchers of hot water and soap, and the two men stripped and scrubbed each other clean with rough sponges they found under the sink. Later, they asked Cookson for a pair of scissors and trimmed each other’s hair, and using their fingers as a comb they made themselves as presentable as possible.
Alone in his room, Thomas gazed wistfully into the mirror set above the sink. His once youthful face held a sickly pallor, save for the black shadows that stained the skin beneath his eyes, which stared back, blood-veined under their heavy lids. Even in the sanctuary of the chateau, far away from the lunacy of the trenches, the madness felt close, like a shadow confined to a permanent dusk. In a bid to distract his devils he fumbled with his thoughts and pre-occupied himself with his minor ailments.
Sores and boils abounded on his back and thighs, and an occasional searing cramp in his legs caused him to wince and stretch out his limbs for relief. Worst of all was a persistent cough that racked his chest and produced mouthfuls of thick yellow phlegm. From the mirror he moved to the window and embraced the vista of multi-shades of green pastures overlooked by rows of trees already shedding their leaves in deference to the approaching winter. For him to return to the way he once was, the way he wanted to be, time would need to stand still.
Mid-afternoon the next day Thomas walked with Moses out into the meadows behind the chateau. He closed his eyes and inhaled the country air. All seemed so peaceful and yet so uncommonly unreal that it became almost threatening, as though a thousand field guns waited impatiently to rent the air and cast their reverberations upon the outer cortices of his brain. In the distance he heard the faint tolling of a church bell and listened to the sound of his own breathing. For a moment, no more than brief fleeting interval, he attempted unsuccessfully to wash away all thoughts of war and brutal carnage from his mind. Caught in a dream of his own making, he hardly listened as Moses told him how he had been raised in a building similar to the chateau called a manor. Then with rising interest he listened enthralled to his friend’s dulcet tones extol tales of a privileged childhood, with no thought of malice.
Happy to be of the same frame of mind they rounded up the livestock and herded them into a nearby pasture close to the chateau. From their rooms overlooking the pastures they could keep a sharp eye on anything causing a disturbance.
Kenneth scratched his head and frowned at Thomas’s suggestion he take a horse-drawn cart to the area where the Pioneer Corps buried unwanted litter and rubbish. His job was to collect as many empty tin cans as possible. Nevertheless, he was more than happy to escape the dreary employment of sweeping around objects that collected dust with amazing regularity.
“As they say in the army, if it moves salute it, if it doesn’t, paint it,” he grinned.
While he was away a young lieutenant walking arm-in-arm with Charlotte introduced himself as Lieutenant Cheeseman, the colonel’s aide. Thomas held grave doubts over what h
e called fraternising with officers, and felt ill at ease when the colonel and his daughter joined them during an afternoon break by the lakeside. It was like the meeting of a dinner jacket with a rough leather jerkin, and Thomas writhed in the clutches of intimidation.
Moses, however, thought differently and turned his attention to Charlotte. “May I ask what you are doing in such a hazardous environment for such a charming young lady?”
For a second she stared at him with raised eyebrows, visibly surprised at his eloquence. She hesitated and then turned her head away without answering.
“Answer the question, my dear,” her father said, watching her closely.
“I work for a London newspaper. I’m doing an article on the psychological effects that modern warfare has on the men serving in the trenches. I believe you might refer to it simply as shell shock. Does that answer your question?” she answered, breathing heavily through her nose.
“And what conclusions have you arrived at, might I enquire?” Moses continued.
“Do I have to talk to this man, Daddy?” she pouted. “He’s black, for goodness sake.”
Moses stiffened.
“He is a serving soldier in His Majesty’s army,” the colonel reminded her coldly.
Her eyes blazed like hot coals and she turned to face Moses. With her fists clenched white she reluctantly responded to her father’s wishes.
“I have a considered opinion that some cases often referred to as cowardice are unfounded, and a man’s refusal to fight is not always intentional but brought about by a form of nervous disorder and a loss of co-ordination due to the trauma of the battlefield. May I enquire as to your function in this war?”
Thomas tensed, confused by Charlotte’s reference to the colour of Moses’s skin, and he watched Moses squirm. Moses wasn’t accustomed to confrontation, let alone the vitriolic directness she hurled at him without mercy. He preferred to pass on his opinions, unquestioned and without argument, whether others wanted to hear them or not. He could hardly tell her he was employed to shovel shit out of trenches.
“I am employed where the authorities deem fit, miss,” he said, looking out over the lake to avoid her eyes.
“How very convenient, Mr Moses, how fortunate we are to have such versatile people at our disposal,” she answered haughtily.
“Moses Pendleton, ma’am, Private Moses Pendleton, at your service,” he answered with a curt nod of his head.
“How dare you, you impertinent man?” she hissed though clenched teeth.
Thomas saw a coldness appear in Moses’s eyes that he’d never seen before, and the whole point of the conversation eluded him. He stood stiff-legged for a moment, as if at attention, and his right hand twitched and nervously patted his leg. For a moment he thought Moses might turn and verbally cut her down like he’d seen him do on numerous occasions to people who irked him. Instead, he turned and walked away without a word. Thomas frowned and glanced across at Charlotte, feeling as if some light had gone out inside him. She returned the frown with raised eyebrows, blinked slowly and with an unspoken act of dismissal turned her head away. He suddenly realised that people such as he only spoke to people such as Charlotte when spoken to.
Kenneth, although completely intrigued as to the use of the tin cans, willingly volunteered his services and helped Thomas and Moses punch a hole in each tin. Passing string through the holes, they tied three cans together. Then they tied the string onto lengths of thick twine from the gardener’s shed and strung this to the trunks of the trees surrounding the meadow. Anybody, or anything, making contact with the twine would set the tins rattling warning of their approach. Kenneth scratched his head in bewilderment and swore it was the daftest idea he’d ever heard of. Finally, Moses marked the distances from the chateau to the meadow and they adjusted their rifle-sights. That night Moses elected to sit on the roof of the stables. Thomas remained at his bedroom window with the Mauser resting across his legs.
Throughout the night they maintained a sharp vigil pushing tiredness to one side. Soldiers serving in the trenches learned quickly how to sleep with one eye closed and the other open, one ear readily cocked and the other deaf to the world.
A wild array of birds orchestrated the arrival of dawn and the sky streaked pink against dark blue. Moses yawned, stretched and blinked simultaneously. He scratched his head and hoped his hair would soon grow back. As a child he’d read the story of Samson and Delilah, and the thought of having no hair caused him a certain amount of anxiety. Thomas filled the earthenware bowl from the water pitcher and with a sudden gasp sluiced cold water over his head. With his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose, he snorted and cleared his nostrils making a noise like a deflating balloon. The night watch had produced nothing, apart from the occasional hoot of an owl and the inevitable faint rumble of far away guns.
Marie Antoinette never allowed her eyes to wander from Moses and hastily dropped the plates of fried eggs and black pudding onto the table, taking great care not to make contact with him. Utterly convinced that his colour was caused by an incurable disease and ignoring all advice to the contrary, she kept her distance and threw away each plate he ate off.
“Eet,” she ordered.
With bulging overfed stomachs, Thomas and Moses stepped outside and felt the cold breeze sending a low murmur from treetop to treetop. Moses shivered, picked up his rifle and followed Thomas for an extensive tour of the surrounding countryside. The last few days had proved difficult for him and the raw morning chill caught his face. He regretted his decision to leave the trenches and become subjected to the bare realities of racism, and then he smiled with a little dry twist of his mouth. He should have grown used to people by now, people with minds readily corrupted by stupidity and ignorance as though it were a fashionable flair to be displayed without shame.
Whatever attacked the animals must have come from somewhere nearby, perhaps a snug lair hidden away in the crowded countryside. Tall elms fronted a small wood and a worn path looped its way through the trees and circled the lake. Overhead the rasping sound of rooks mingled with the gentler call of nesting pigeons. Occasionally the path gave way to clearings and Thomas, familiar with country lore, searched for tell-tale signs of animal presence: flattened grass, snapped branches, defecation and perhaps the bones or remains of victims. For hours they searched diligently and fruitlessly.
“We’ll walk round to the other side of the lake and sit a while. Might catch a glimpse of something,” Thomas said hopefully.
Moses shrugged silently and dropped in a few yards behind him.
On impulse he turned. Whatever it was that smashed into his shoulder sent him crashing into the lake and for a brief second he smelt the rancour of its foul breath. Instinctively he reached out to hold the gaping jaws away from his face. Kicking and struggling they both sank down into the cold water beginning to cloud as he fought to escape. Razor-sharp claws scratched and ripped frenziedly at the front of his shirt, and water poured into his mouth and nose cutting off his air supply. The fear of drowning pierced his mind and he wanted to cry out, a pain like a searing red-hot poker forged into his shoulder. Whatever it was that gripped him refused to let go and shook him from side-to-side like a wet rag doll, and the water turned blood-red. In blind panic and fearful for his life he kicked out with all his might and felt his strength fading. His mind became overcome by the paralysing terror of a violent death in the jaws of something he couldn’t see.
Then the scratching and ripping stopped, and he rolled over and floated face down to the bottom of the lake. Something grabbed at his arm and he tensed, waiting for the pain to start over again and keep him underwater. Propelled upwards, he looked at the blue sky and gasped for air, his lungs refused to respond. A thundering blow cannoned into his back and the blood-red water retched and spurted from his mouth and he gasped and groaned out loud, feeling as though his chest was about to burst.
Thomas left him half in the water and half on the bank and prised the dead animal’s
jaws from his own hand. His index finger and the finger next to it on his left hand hung by a twist of gristle, and blood poured from the claw gouges running down his face and across his forehead. Against the edge of the lapping lake the carcass of a German shepherd dog floated partly submerged, with the bayonet still embedded in its neck. With his good hand he pulled the dead dog onto the bank and, sinking to his knees, stared at his loose dangling fingers.
Marie Antoinette bandaged his fingers and bathed his wounds, adamantly refusing point-blank to touch Moses for fear of turning black. Her damson eyes turned to ripe plums fit to burst when the colonel told her she was being silly and insisted she treat Moses as well as Thomas. If anything, it made her worse, and in a fit of uncontrollable pique she began hurling cups and saucers across the room interspersed with home grown obscenities, until he beat a hasty retreat and sent Cookson for a medical officer.
“Well done, men,” the colonel said. “You bagged the blighter good and proper. Only right you stay a couple of weeks until your wounds heal before you return to the trenches.”
“The trenches, why do they always say back to the trenches?” Thomas said to Moses later. “Like we’re rats and belong there.”
“Maybe that’s how they see us, as rats that belong in the trenches. Perhaps they view me as a black rat. Who knows what the upper middle class thinks?”
Thomas frowned at the remark and recalled the stories Moses had told him of his upbringing in the large manor, where he played freely and rode horses throughout the day and at mealtimes gladly sat at the earl’s table to be waited on by servants. It was the first time he’d referred to himself as a black man, and it was obvious that Charlotte’s offhand dislike and reference to his colour had left him in a state of constant disdain.
Kenneth brought hot food to their rooms to save them from the histrionic ranting and utensil bombardments of Marie Antoinette.
Coming Home Page 35
