A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Any respite was all too brief. After billeting for the night at Compagne, they were to march again through the furnace, a similar feat being expected on the third day, at the end of which the mass desire was simply to flop down and drift into unconsciousness. Responding to this urge, Unthank, Rawmarsh and others sought refuge in a barn and had just begun to doze when the order came to turn out for parade.

  Whilst Rawmarsh duly obliged with the rest of his platoon, Unthank showed incredulity that they could be in for yet another inspection. ‘In the middle of a bloody battleground? We’ve just tramped miles! What the hell is it in aid of this time?’

  Sergeant Holroyd, a shop manager in civilian life, tried to be firm. ‘It doesn’t have to be in aid of anything! You’re a soldier and you’ll do as you’re told.’

  Unthank called the other’s bluff. ‘Go bugger yourself. I’m fagged and I’m not budging.’

  Competent at organization but unschooled in dealing with such a ruffian, Sergeant Holroyd was apprehensive at tackling him and stalked off to relay the news to his platoon commander.

  Interrupted whilst trying to make himself presentable in this wretched heat and dust, Louis’s heart sank at being told that Unthank was causing trouble yet again. Bracing himself, he went with the sergeant to handle the matter, employing his firmest tone.

  ‘Unthank, on parade at once!’

  Eyes closed, Unthank ignored him.

  ‘I don’t want to have to put you on a charge!’ Up to now Louis had ensured that it had been others who had done this for him.

  There was still no response, only the steady tramp of boots from beyond the barn walls and the rumble of cannon.

  Acting from a sense of chivalry, Sergeant Holroyd moved outside so as not to embarrass the lieutenant but in so doing attracted the attention of his CSM, who was on his way to parade with a mass of others, chivvying slackers into action. ‘Jildi! Jildi!’

  Caught dithering, Sergeant Holroyd was forced to admit the reason.

  ‘What do you mean he won’t get up?’ Walrus moustache bristling, the elderly CSM Dungworth poured scorn upon this new breed of NCO that the war had inflicted on him. ‘Just give him a kick up the arse and don’t go bothering your superiors with trivia! Call yourself a sergeant…’ Nevertheless, he poked his head into the barn to check on the situation.

  Realizing that he was under observation, Louis felt inept and, not knowing what else to do, he tried to appeal to Unthank’s better nature. ‘Man, you’re letting your comrades down!’

  Unthank was unmoved, mumbling into his bed of straw, ‘I don’t mind getting up at dawn to meet the enemy and I’ll fight ’em as ’ard as you like, sir, but I’m buggered if I’ll be dragged out of bed for some general to check if me bloody hat’s on straight.’

  Frustrated, Louis took a step away, demanding with false jocularity of the CSM, ‘What answer can one give to that? He’s right. It is idiotic.’

  Whilst fully capable of having Unthank moving in seconds, CSM Dungworth was reluctant to denigrate this popular young lieutenant, and so took him aside, speaking in avuncular manner. ‘We can’t have one man acting on his own rules, sir. We’ve got to have regimentation or the whole thing will fall apart.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘If that wasn’t just a rhetorical question, sir, I’d suggest that Unthank be given detention.’

  Louis was dubious. ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’

  ‘We are on active service, sir. He could by rights be shot.’

  ‘It’s not as if he’s refusing to fight – in fact he’s the keenest of the bunch. I’ve no wish to demoralize him. Let him stay there for the moment, I’m sure when he’s mulled over the implications he’ll comply.’

  ‘With respect, sir—’ began CSM Dungworth.

  But Louis felt a big enough fool as it was. ‘Thank you, sergeant-major, carry on.’

  Indicating that the discussion was over, he waited until the CSM had exited, then turned back to the recalcitrant and addressed him firmly. ‘You’ve been given an order, Unthank. I shall expect to see you on parade in five minutes, otherwise it’ll be the captain’s office.’ In as businesslike a manner as he could, he beat a retreat, inwardly cringing at his own inefficiency.

  ‘I’m not having this,’ muttered CSM Dungworth to no one in particular as he himself strode away. ‘If he gets away with it they’ll all be at it.’

  Going directly to the RSM, he informed him bluntly, ‘Unthank’s refusing to parade, sir.’

  Still exhausted from the march, Probyn was irked. ‘You’re not telling me you can’t control him, Bert?’

  A grunt of disapproval. ‘I could, if I were permitted to.’

  Probyn got the other’s drift. As bold and enthusiastic as Louis Postgate might be, he still lacked the ability to discipline those under him. ‘What does your officer have to say?’

  ‘Lieutenant Postgate was disinclined to accept my suggestion, sir.’

  As much as Probyn liked the young officer, there was nothing that exasperated him more than those who had to be nannied and in this Louis had finally used up all his patience. Incensed, but managing to keep his temper under control, he strode off to investigate.

  Seeing the beefy individual’s approach, Louis tried to avoid him but failed.

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant Postgate!’ Not caring that others were present to witness this, Probyn pulled no punches. ‘I’m told Unthank is threatening mutiny.’

  Louis blushed with alarm. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t use so emotive a term, Mr Kilmaster. He’s just dug his heels in – quite understandably, in my view.’

  ‘And, with respect, in my view, sir, it is classed as indiscipline. Where is he?’ Upon being told, without further ado he summoned a sergeant and two men, and marched to the barn, a look of grim intent upon his florid face.

  ‘Unthank, on your feet!’ Without giving the offender time to obey he drew back his foot and dealt Unthank a hefty kick in the back, sending him tumbling.

  ‘I’m informed that you’re refusing to obey the order of a superior officer!’

  The man was upright now but no less co-operative. Receiving only a shrug, Probyn wasted no further time. ‘Then let’s see what your attitude is after a week’s detention! Sergeant, remove him!’

  Under close arrest, a seemingly unrepentant Unthank was marched to a crumbling outhouse that acted as the guardroom, and in its dark stuffy interior was compelled to remain whilst his comrades lined up for parade.

  Blissfully ignorant of this internal crisis, the inspecting general expressed himself so very pleased by the men’s appearance and by the way they handled their arms, telling them that from what he had heard of the battalion he was quite sure that when the time came all ranks would acquit themselves well. These words imbuing him with a sense of failure over the handling of Unthank’s obduracy, Louis glanced at RSM Kilmaster, who briefly met his eyes, both sharing the grim hope that Unthank would soon be directing all that vitriol at the enemy rather than his own superiors.

  * * *

  After a night in bivouac at Erquinghem the battalion tramped into the line at Armentières. Still under close arrest, Unthank was released only in order to go on the move and at every halt found himself back in whatever bomb-damaged hovel passed for a guardroom.

  In time of peace it would have been a delight to be in this pretty countryside with its whitewashed farms and red-bricked cottages, roofs of tile and thatch. The air was fresh, the day bright and, though the twittering of birds was punctuated by the sound of gunfire this did not appear to deter the French peasants, who continued to toil in their fields even with artillery shells bursting in the near distance. A stoical grandmother, her ample figure bound in rough skirt and checked blouse, a headscarf to guard against the sun; the daughter with braided hair coiled around a pretty, apple-shaped head; infants romping between rows of cabbages; flowers in the sunlit meadows that were pitted with craters; the smell of smoking ruins; the coils of barbed wire; the fly-blown corpses of
man and beast; a surreal blend of heaven and hell.

  Ensconced in Battalion HQ in a farmhouse near Armentières, over cigarettes and rum, Probyn, the adjutant, the colonel and his company commanders were given intelligence by the outgoing officer, who first unrolled a series of maps that conveyed the position. The Germans, foiled in their initial rush to Paris, had retreated and settled down into a long dug-in line of defence reaching from the Swiss Mountains to the sea. This line had varied little over the past year. An attempt last spring to break through at Neuve Chapelle had been thwarted and, consequently, a desolate air of stagnation had settled over the area. The present incumbent’s relief at escaping this was evident. Despite being worse for wear due to lack of washing facilities, he was quite chirpy as, rolling up the maps, he invited the newcomers on a tour. ‘I’m afraid Fritz has got the upper hand when it comes to observation, so be advised to keep your heads down.’

  Invited to come along, a procession of eager young subalterns followed.

  The moment Probyn set foot in the defences it was clearly evident that this was to be a war like no other. In South Africa the word trench had signified a twelve-inch gutter that had taken hours to scoop from ground baked hard as cement; these splendid excavations were much more sophisticated, deep enough to contain a tall man, and shored up with wood and sandbags. With their shovels and picks the Tommies had carved a town in miniature, with high streets and side streets and back alleys, all named, complete with earthen dwellings. Moreover, the surrounding hedgerows and orchards bristled with weaponry, the barrels of machine guns protruding between brick stacks and ruined houses.

  Aside from a reconnaissance of the area, the outgoing officer was also to provide them with snippets of useful information.

  ‘We’ve found that if poison gas is creeping towards us on a night the birds raise a frightful clamour and soar high in the air. It’s a really effective alarm as it gives one time to put on respirators without a mad panic.’

  Ear cocked attentively, Hugh Faljambe stored this away.

  Going along the shallower communication trench they reached a sap where Faljambe, eager to impress, paused to ask the sentries a question. The CO put a finger to his lips and was in the act of summoning the newcomers away when an object plopped in beside them. In a moment of alarm the officers and sentries were about to hurl themselves to the ground when they saw that it was only a piece of paper wrapped round a stone – obviously launched by catapult. Unfolding it, the CO swiftly revealed the message: it was a note of welcome for the new battalion.

  ‘My word, they’re that close?’ breathed Colonel Addison, ducking like the others as they were ushered back down the communication trench.

  His counterpart gave a wry nod. ‘We’re lucky it wasn’t a mortar; it usually is.’

  Their discourse was interrupted by a burst of enemy machine-gun fire, like the cackling of magpies except more deep-throated and ten times more vicious. Moving at a crouching dash, they made for the comparative safety of the farmhouse.

  Thrilled to be here, at first the men responded keenly to the early morning order to stand to, poised alertly on the fire-step with bayonets fixed to ward off attack, their excitement burgeoning as darkness lifted, and exchanged vigorous rifle fire with those in the opposing trench, then retired for breakfast feeling exhilarated. Even the filling of sandbags and digging of latrines assumed an air of importance out here in the thick of conflict.

  But within days the routine grew very tedious – indeed proved to be something of a sham. To young minds the act of going to battle had envisioned valiant charges against the enemy, hand-to-hand struggles, perhaps a medal. But thus far no one could actually claim to have made any impact on the Germans, apart from damaging their trenches. Between random pot shots and the occasional burst of machine-gun fire in retaliation, most of the day was passed in repairing the damaged breastworks, which the enemy proceeded to do their best to wreck again.

  Annoying and dangerous though this was, it did have compensations, the latest being a cache of buried wine. The finders, Pork and Hamm, were sneaking along the trench, intending to stash this away for themselves when Lieutenant Faljambe emerged from his dugout.

  ‘Hello, what have we here?’ Upon lifting a soil-encrusted bottle from the crate, he gave an exclamation of delight before reverting to his stern manner. ‘I trust you were bringing this to me, Hamm.’

  ‘Naturally, sir.’ The dark expression on Hamm’s face made him less than convincing.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. This requires a more discerning palate than either of you fellows possess.’ So saying, the blond officer relieved them of the crate, told them to return to their working party, and was about to duck into his burrow when Major Lewis and RSM Kilmaster came along the line.

  Unable to hide his booty, Faljambe was obliged to hold up the crate of wine as if only just making the discovery himself. ‘Look what I’ve found, sir!’

  ‘Why, how very kind, Hugh!’ Major Lewis seized a bottle in either hand, examining them with pleasure. ‘You won’t mind if I take one for the colonel? And I’m sure our regimental sergeant-major would appreciate a glass with his supper, wouldn’t you, Mr Kilmaster?’

  Though wine did not usually feature in Probyn’s menu, no luxury was turned down in a war. ‘Thank you very much, sir. This will go down a treat with those potatoes Private Arrowsmith unearthed.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, I’m sure.’ Hugh Faljambe spirited his remaining bottles into the dugout before anyone else could make away with them.

  Grinning at each other, the RSM and the major went on their way, Probyn continuing alone as Major Lewis branched off on separate business. It was a very pleasant morning and comparatively quiet. With no hostility from either side the men were repairing breastworks damaged in the last bout of hate. It promised to be another sweltering day, yet down here the sun’s fierceness was deflected by the cool piles of turned earth.

  Appreciating this same coolness after the suffocating heat of his prison, Tom Unthank was coming along the warren of trenches from another direction. Completing his sentence this morning, he had been given back his rifle and was determined to use it. There was little action at the moment though: men squatted smoking or writing letters home. In fact it was so quiet he could hear faint banter wafting through the long parched grass of no-man’s-land. Reaching his own sector he hopped onto the fire-step and peered cautiously over the mound of bleached sandbags.

  Almost fully exposed to enemy fire, a group of men were erecting new stakes and rolls of wire where the section had been destroyed by artillery shells. So narrow was the distance between his own trench and the enemy’s that on this bright day Unthank was able to recognize men from his own platoon. Showing not the slightest caution, Skeeton was sitting upright, working away with his pliers on the wire, chatting as he might on a street corner. Outlined against the blue sky, he made the perfect target. Damning him for a bloody idiot, Unthank hoisted his rifle to his shoulder and pretended to take aim. But no sooner had he fixed Skeeton in his sights when a pickelhaube crept into his field of vision and hurled something at the group of friends. Without a moment’s hesitation Unthank fired at the wearer. The German fell, there was a cry of shock and a collection of stunned faces wheeled round to see where the shot had come from, before there was a mad scramble for cover.

  But Skeeton was transfixed by the agonized death throes of the German to whom he had only a moment ago been chatting. Lying flat on his back in no-man’s-land, the man’s fingers clutched at the hole in his throat, his eyes wide and staring, pleading with Skeeton to do something as the blood poured into his lungs.

  ‘Skeets! Come on!’ In anticipation of the enemy’s wrath, his companions had hurled themselves into the nearest sap, abandoning the rolls of wire. They called to him frantically again and again.

  But Skeeton remained motionless, hypnotized by the worm-like writhing of the wounded man, until, braving the retaliatory whip-crack of rifle fire, his friend Rawmarsh perform
ed a mad, crouching dash and forcibly dragged him to safety.

  At the far end of the main trench, Probyn heard the disturbance and turned about, but as yet remained where he stood.

  Behind the wall of sandbags Unthank rushed up to claim his glory. Expecting thanks, he was taken off guard when a mortified Skeeton turned on him, his eyes bright with tears. ‘You dirty bloody dog!’

  There came an incredulous laugh. ‘Sorry, I thought that was what we were here for, to kill Germans. He was creeping up on you, for Christ’s sake!’

  The other’s hand brandished an artefact, his tone almost hysterical. ‘He was just returning the mallet I lent him!’

  ‘Well, you got it back, didn’t you?’ scoffed Unthank, before turning away with a derisive snort.

  The Germans had set up a ferocious volley of rifle fire, but the bullets smacked harmlessly into the pile of sandbags. Skeeton did not even hear them as, deafened by the thunderous roar of blood in his skull, he launched himself at the retreating figure, flattening Unthank beneath his full weight and by this element of surprise managing to inflict a frenzied series of blows with the mallet. ‘You murdering bloody swine, we had a truce!’

  But so inflamed was he that most of the blows fell wild and Unthank soon had the upper hand, bucking Skeeton off, spinning him round and delivering a few more accurate punches of his own before the two were wrenched apart by their comrades.

  Unfortunately the matter could not be contained within the ranks and they were still struggling as Louis Postgate barged his way through.

  ‘I’ve come here to kill fooking Germans!’ Unthank railed at Skeeton. ‘If you don’t want to do it you can go sit in a bloody shed for a week like I’ve been doing!’

  Louis berated him. ‘Unthank, if you don’t cease this disgraceful behaviour you’ll find yourself back in there!’

  There was a marked lack of deference. ‘What, for killing the enemy?’ Above the jutting shelves of slate the jade eyes were sardonic.

  ‘For brawling!’ Chagrined at the other’s constant trespass against his good nature, the young officer projected uncharacteristic fury. ‘I’m damn well sick of you, Unthank, and if you don’t stop this insubordination it’ll be Field Punishment number one!’