“Thomas Elkin, I am of the opinion that you have committed a crime of which you must stand trial in the law courts of England. Therefore, you will be taken to the 1st Army HQ at Aire under guard, and from there you will be accompanied to England and handed over to the civilian authorities to stand trial for the murder of your brother, Archibald Elkin,” he said in a monotone voice. “Corporal Baines, place him in handcuffs and keep him in confinement overnight.”
The corporal pushed the pencil into his tunic pocket and closed his notebook and, standing to his feet, pulled a pair of handcuffs from his tunic and snapped the bracelets over Thomas’s wrists. Cuffed to the rear bumper of the open-top automobile, Baines threw a groundsheet over his shoulders and left him to the mercy of the chill autumn night air. The sneering Military Policeman, Private Theakston, who stood guard outside the tent, quickly settled himself comfortably in the back of the vehicle and fell asleep.
That night Thomas spent much of the time unable to sleep due to the throbbing pain tormenting his arms as the handcuffs ground and chafed into his wrists. With his back to the vehicle, he had no way of adjusting his position. The slightest movement brought more agony and he dare not close his eyes and relax. Instead he envisaged a lifetime in prison, confined between four walls until the mind could take no more and he would end up mad, or perhaps when he reached hanging age they would take him outside and pull the noose around his neck. His parents would learn of his crime against their son, everyone would know, and for the rest of their lives they would suffer the sneers and snide comments of those who were once their friends.
Tears welled in his eyes as he conjured up a picture of his mother’s fragility the last time he saw her. She wouldn’t have the strength to survive the everlasting shame, no matter how strong his father was. The tear ducts burst open and a rage of hot unstoppable tears flowed freely from his face. Frantically he struggled to loosen his hands, ignoring the searing pain as the cuffs ripped open his wrists. The notebook… he wanted the notebook in his tunic pocket that held the crushed daisy he’d taken from the windowsill of the farmhouse. He wanted one last contact with his mother.
It hadn’t been Stan Banks intention to stare at Sergeant Bull, not from the corner of his eyes like he normally would, but full on. Sergeant Bull fidgeted aware of Banks’s interest in the whereabouts of Archie. Finally, Stan plucked up the courage and spoke.
“Where’s Archie, Sarge, nobody has seen him since he left with you yesterday?”
“None of your business, lad.”
“Aye, maybe it’s not, but I’m making it my business.” Stan gulped, realising what he had just said.
“Don’t lay your mouth on me, Banks, ever. Do I make myself understood?”
“I asked you a civil question. We all want to know where Archie is,” Stan persisted, growing angry. “We have been through a lot of shit together, and me and the men are not about to let him disappear without knowing the reason why.”
Sergeant Bull reined in his anger and allowed his temper to cool. It was a fair question asked in a straightforward manner. If he’d wanted to he could have eased Stan Banks’s curiosity, or certainly have raised it to a higher level. He remained tight-lipped. He’d been ordered to take Thomas to the Provost Marshall’s quarters, and like all good soldiers he obeyed orders. He knew nothing more.
“We’re moving out tomorrow to a place called Droglandt, an airfield used by the Royal Flying Corps. You’ll receive training when we get there. Tell the others to be ready to leave first thing in the morning,” Sergeant Bull said, turning away.
“Here, get this down you,” Corporal Baines said undoing the handcuffs and handing Thomas a mug of steaming hot tea. “Bloody hell, what’s happened to your wrists?”
“I had a bad night,” Thomas mumbled, grabbing the mug.
“Theakston, you fucking mean minded arsehole, get some bandages and bind the prisoner’s wrists, and keep the cuffs off until I tell you different, understand?” Baines screamed at the sleeping guard. “I’ve had enough of your antics, you cruel bastard. Watch your step from now on or I’ll put a fucking bullet in you myself.”
Theakston pulled himself from the rear of the automobile accompanied by his fixed sneer. He was a coward, and to make matters worse he knew it. He envied the men who waited in the trenches for certain death. He envied their coolness in the face of the enemy and the manner in which they went over the top. To him they were Hectors, Lysanders, Alexanders, men of consummate courage like ancient heroes written in legend. So, riddled with self-hate and wretchedness he tormented his prisoners and never squandered the opportunity to show them that he was their master, happy only when they suffered and bent to his will.
With a snigger he looked at the wounds on Thomas’s wrists. “They’ll have plenty of time to heal where he’s going.”
“Corporal Baines,” Colonel Simmons called, “we’ll be leaving within the hour, make sure the prisoner’s fed and allowed his ablutions.”
“Yes, Sir,” Baines answered. “Listen, Elkin. Promise me you won’t try any funny stuff and I’ll leave the cuffs off.”
Thomas nodded and kept his face blank. He wanted to tell them all they could do whatever they wished and that he didn’t give a shit. Instead, he refrained from a futile display of bravado and remained quiet.
One hour later, to the second, they began the journey to Aire and the end of Thomas’s life as he’d known it. Colonel Simmons insisted that Thomas sit in the front next to Theakston, who drove, while he and Baines, armed with pistols, remained in the back. Thomas felt exhaustion suck the marrow from his bones and he slumped back against the stuffed horsehair seat, his body cried out for the release of sleep.
“If you try to make a break, Elkin, I will have no hesitation in shooting to wound” the colonel said. “Be assured, you will stand and answer the charges against you, do you understand?”
Thomas ignored the remark and stared dead ahead as they pulled even further away from the front lines. The previous evening he had willingly allowed his body to be drained of all hope. It was time to pay for his crime and he was fast approaching the end of his tether. Gone were the nerves of iron, the will of steel. Replaced by a trance-like state of lethargy and moral insensibility, even the spattering rain held no interest, or diverted his attention from the darkness brooding deep inside of him. He felt spent, like a used match drifting in the wind.
“Over there, man. By that wrecked farmyard. Get a move on. We can stop and raise the hood on this blasted contraption. Damn weather,” Colonel Simmons grumbled.
Theakston dropped into a lower gear, pulled off the road and headed for the part-roofless building. By now, the rain had increased and Thomas raised his head and looked up into the sky, allowing the moisture to caress his face and cleanse the congested sweat and thick grime from his skin. Suddenly, he felt better, as though the rain had washed away his guilt. He felt clean and free of the past, and closer to God than at any other time in his life.
“Right, everyone inside,” the colonel ordered. “You included Elkin. Out of the rain, can’t have you catching a cold”
Thomas felt the rumble in his stomach followed by the laughter exploding from his chest. For Chrissake, he thought, they can throw us into trenches to get our heads blown off, they can order us across No Man’s Land to be mown down by machine-guns, and they can demand we live in trenches like pigs in our own shit with rats for company, but allow a prisoner to catch a cold? What a catastrophe that would be. Bound to go down in the annals of warfare for future generations to ponder over.
“Something struck you as funn…” the colonel said, cut off mid-sentence by the sound of the gunshot and the bullet entering his heart.
From nowhere the appearance of three German soldiers took them completely by surprise. Thomas automatically dropped to a crouch. Watching and swaying as he chose his target, with his fingers outstretched like claws he launched himself at the German in the middle. Reflexively, he reached out for the German’s eyes and
felt his fingers press into the sockets. The German dropped his weapon and, screaming in agony, fell kicking and twitching to the floor, clutching at the remains of his crushed eyeballs. Lashing out with his feet, Thomas sent his foot into the groin of the German to his left. The man grunted, stood his ground and squeezed the trigger of his rifle, the bullet flew harmlessly over Thomas’s shoulder and into the face of Theakston sending a fountain of blood gushing from his eye. Theakston groaned and slumped to the floor.
Thomas slammed his fist into the German’s face. As he staggered back Thomas wrenched the rifle from the floor and put two bullets into the man’s brain. Spinning round, he saw the third German on top of Baines with the point of his bayonet about to enter his throat. Baines’s eyes sprouted terror and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he bit into his cheek. He mumbled something incoherent Thomas couldn’t understand as the point pierced the skin and blood bubbled to the surface. Thomas did not dare fire in case the German slumped down and sent the blade into Baines’s neck. Instead, he reached out from behind, and placing one hand on the German’s jaw he jerked the head round until he heard the crack of the neck snapping.
It was over. Baines lay gasping and wheezing for breath, thankful for his life. Behind him lay the dead bodies of the colonel and Theakston, whose cowardice would never be proven or brought to the fore. He would be feted as a brave soldier who died in action. Thomas gazed at the carnage with a soulless stare and shrugged. In only a matter of seconds, five out of seven men had died and once again he wasn’t included in the body count. Baines pulled himself up and sat on the floor, and with his arms wrapped around his knees he rocked from side-to-side like a child and began to weep uncontrollably. In a moment of unguarded gentleness, Thomas leaned forward and placed his hands on his shoulder.
“Come on, lad. It’s all over now. Get yourself together,” he said softly.
“For God’s sake, where did you learn to fight like that?” Baines sniffed. The two men locked eyes in silence for what seemed an eternity. “Yes, you’re right. Time to move on,” Baines said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Where’d they come from anyway?”
“Most likely deserters trying to find their way home from this shithole, and who can blame them?” Thomas shrugged, making his way to the automobile and climbing into the front seat.
Baines slipped in beside him and fired up the engine. Thomas stretched out his legs and pushed his shoulders back to ease the ache in his arms.
“What are you doing, Elkin?” Thomas frowned and turned his head. “On your way, lad. You’ll go no further with me. I owe you my life, I’ll clear this mess up and no one will be any the wiser. Go and find your regiment, or whatever it is you do, and good luck. Hey, who knows, I might even get a medal out of this,” he laughed, grating the automobile into gear.
Nightfall had stolen over the land when Thomas pedalled into the rest area on the bicycle he’d stolen from an irate Scotsman. Sergeant Bull saw him first and stiffened with surprised.
“Everything sorted, Private Elkin?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I reckon it is.”
“Good. Let me give you some advice lad. Don’t dwell too long on the past. It won’t do you any good. Tomorrow is always more important than yesterday, remember that. Now join the rest of the men, we move out in the morning.” Sergeant Bull nodded.
Thomas derived a brief comfort from the words, then realised they weren’t empty and meaningless. Somehow, Sergeant Bull knew his secret.
“You know?” he said quietly.
“Not much goes on round here I don’t know about,” Sergeant Bull answered. “I know what kind of person you are, Elkin, and I believe your problem was not of your making. Best forget the past and start a new life, let the rest take care of itself. And I’ll tell you something else lad, you’ll not catch me staying in Blighty after this bloody war is over.”
“Where will you go?”
“Canada, that’s the place for me. Land of opportunity and freedom away from the horse-faced bastards that run England. Already been too much blood spilt for that lot.”
“Do you think I could go there?” Thomas said feeling his spirits rise.
“Come and see me when this bloody mess is over, and we’ll have a chat.”
When at last he laid his head on his pillow he felt relief flood into his veins, and once more he contemplated life over death. That night sleep came quickly, but not unaccompanied. Archie came with a vengeance as if seeking retribution for his brother’s unpremeditated escape from the clutches of the law. He came so close with his malevolent bloodshot eyes staring like a madman that Thomas thought he could smell his beer-stained breath and cowered beneath the thin blanket. He tried to call out to tell Archie to leave him alone, but the sound stayed trapped in his throat when he felt the weight on his shoulder. He shot bolt upright in naked fear.
“Hey, lad,” Stan Banks said softly. “Settle down and try to get some sleep.”
He blinked and lay back without uttering a word, feeling Stan pull the blanket over his still body.
Chapter Twenty-Three
1918
Christmas at Droglandt was as Christmas should be, the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Church services, evensong and carol singing were delivered with reverence and controlled gusto. Small trees were decorated with lights and Christmas parcels arrived from Blighty for the lucky ones. In the pilots’ mess Leslie Walsh performed with his flute and brought a sombre silence with a haunting version of Silent Night. Later, he accompanied Sergeant Bull’s singing of the Christmas favourite Oh Come All Ye Faithful, leaving not a dry eye in sight.
For Stan it was a posting made in heaven. No more sombre nights and days spent sharing filthy trenches with hordes of squealing rats. No more chewing on tinned food accompanied by the nauseating stench of human excrement. From now on they sat at tables and ate like a normal human being. Of the pilots he stood in awe, and with respectful eyes he stared in unbridled admiration as they waited like knights of old for the call to aerial combat, dressed in cap, goggles and large pairs of leather gloves. Most, still in their teens waited for their first trip into air warfare. A jollier bunch he had never seen, always happy and laughing away the horrors of the war as they smoked their pipes, drank coffee by the gallon and acted as though they were already grown men. The war as Stan had known it seemed far away.
The 28 Squadron was aptly commanded by a Canadian whom everyone addressed as Major Billy, a man with a reputation for bravery and the distinction of a flying ace with over twenty kills to his name. Just to even matters up, Thomas, Stan and Moses put on a shooting display of their own. They stood at four hundred yards and with apples as targets the young pilots were left with their mouths hanging open in astonishment at their speed and accuracy. The pilots responded with a show of Ariel musketry in their Sopwith SE5as, and a mutual respect quickly sprang up between the men of the air and their protectors on the ground.
Of the original forty snipers only Thomas, Leslie Hill and Stan Banks remained. The rest, including Moses, were relative newcomers. Those who died had served bravely and paid the ultimate price for being born into the world at the wrong time and led by men unfit to do so. Most were never found to be put to rest in the eyes of God. Apple kept the records of their names and places of their demise. A padre billeted outside the airfield in the village and Sergeant Bull arranged a service to bless those who no longer served with them. Moses refused to attend, still unsure of the meaning of Christianity and adamant that he would never seek God again. God would have to seek him and ask forgiveness for allowing the killing fields to exist to return him to his faith. The men murmured quietly between themselves. Some disagreed and some gave a non-committal shrug, muttering that religion was a personal matter between man and his soul, but Moses was steadfast and the nine men prayed without him.
“Who’s he, Sir?” Stan asked pointing. “That man over there with the bandages on his head and playing around with the golf club.”
�
��That, old boy, is Lieutenant Singh, one of our best pilots,” the young pilot chuckled. “And they aren’t bandages on his head, that’s his turban. He’s a Sikh and it’s a sign of his faith.”
Stan looked nonplussed, why would anyone who was sick, regardless of his faith, wear a turban on his head instead of bandages?
Thomas sloshed cold water over his head and face and rubbed hard with his hands. His hair had grown long and he reminded himself to visit the cook who doubled as a hairdresser for the squadron. Today he and Stan were manning the Vickers on the west side of the airfield, and he glanced through the thin grey light of dawn, feeling pleased at not seeing the drizzle of cold rain. It was early April 1918 and soon spring, his favourite season, would be upon them. He had put on weight and now stood at over six feet. Time had healed the scars on his neck and face to just faint white jagged lines and the loss of his fingers was never a factor. True, Archie visited most nights, more enraged than ever, but he waited expectantly and pushed him to one side.
The sharp rapid clattering of cold aircraft engines warming up disturbed the vibrancy of a fresh spring morning. Overhead a skein of migrating geese honked a warning that better weather was on its way. Mechanics waved and signalled, and teased the aircraft onto the grassy area used as a runway ready for take-off. The young pilots ran their perfunctory tests before they gunned the engines to full pitch, and with a cheery smile and friendly wave sent the flimsy aircraft bouncing across the field on pram wheels before pulling back on the stick and left planet earth trailing in their wake. Thomas looked up and saw the rapid orange flashes as the pilots tested the guns and circled while waiting to be joined by the remainder of the squadron. Shortly, they would fly off in their familiar arrowhead formation, seeking the excitement of a mid-air joust with Fritz. Their life expectancy in the air was no more than eighteen hours.
“Hello, Stan, you’re early. You didn’t shit the bed last night did you?” Thomas grinned, slipping into the fox hole.
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