A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Wye Sap, I think, sir,’ offered Louis.

  ‘That damned place again! Well, that’s the final insult,’ announced the colonel, a glint of resolution in his eye. ‘I’m not sitting here putting up with this. Louis, you’ve been dragging at the bit to do a raid, well, now’s your chance.’

  ‘Me too, sir?’ Faljambe and Guy spoke eagerly in unison.

  ‘The whole bally lot of you, if you choose. I want that sap out of action.’

  * * *

  An hour after midnight, under cover of heavy artillery fire, the participating squads waited tensely for the signal to leave their trench. Taking part along with Louis were Guy and Hugh Faljambe, plus two officers from another company, with their faces blackened, only their voices betraying their identity.

  As usual, the waiting was the worst part.

  ‘I’m bloody freezing.’ Hugging himself, Louis grumbled to the person at his side.

  Probyn murmured a gentle tease: ‘You sounded just like Lieutenant Reynard, sir.’

  A laughing groan. ‘God forbid!’

  ‘Besides, you’re not permitted to be cold before October. Army regulations.’

  ‘Right, over you go!’ Directing the operation, Captain Cox gave the order and everyone crept enthusiastically into action.

  Watching the raid from the fire-step, Probyn felt the draught of the field gun’s shells on his neck as they whooshed overhead, his hair bristling at the thrill of it, wishing he could be amongst those young men who disappeared behind the wall of thick smoke, his heart leaping over the parapet with them and on towards the enemy sap. But he must perforce remain here, enveloped in the choking miasma, nostrils tingling at the reek of high explosive, his eyes those of a worried father, deafened by the scream of shells and the deadly stuttering of machine guns, wondering if any of those vicious tongues of flame that licked the night had found a human target.

  Cries of alarm interspersed the gun fire; it was impossible to tell whether they came from his own men. The wait for them to return seemed endless.

  Captain Cox spoke. ‘They should be here by now. I’ll give them some light.’

  Unleashed hissing into the darkness, the cartridge sizzled and shimmered into life, momentarily illuminating the desolate landscape with its ravaged buildings and splintered trees. Through the mist loomed several figures heading stealthily towards his own front trench. Squinting through the drifting veil of smoke and dust, Probyn saw them duck against the unwanted limelight, flattening themselves into the mud.

  ‘No more light!’ called a voice he recognized as Hugh Faljambe’s and as the glare died he turned to address the captain but not in time to stop another launching.

  This time other figures were to be seen, hopping, hobbling, scurrying towards him, crouching under the onslaught of machine-gun bullets, mortars bursting all around them. They did not try to hide from the spotlight now but came hurrying onwards, flinging themselves the last few yards and into the trench.

  Probyn was delighted to see Lieutenant Faljambe in one piece and also everyone under his command. Another anxious wait ensued whilst, one after another, the rest of the raiders hurled themselves into the trench – Lieutenant Buxton, Captain Postgate, all their men intact, Lieutenant Postgate’s squad commanded by a sergeant – but where was Louis himself? Clambering back onto the fire-step, Probyn squinted worriedly through the thick haze. Damn the boy, where was he?

  After another half an hour, the firing petered out, the night eventually becoming quiet. Yet, however much Probyn strained his eyes across no-man’s-land, no human could be seen.

  Still pumped with excitement, Guy had only just been notified that his brother was missing and, sharing the RSM’s anxiety, announced, ‘I’m going out to find him!’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Knowing how Louis would detest being rescued by his rival, Probyn delayed the young captain. ‘Though it might be best just to give it a few minutes.’ But a bubble of nausea had begun to swell in his throat as he wondered over Louis’s fate.

  He had almost given up hope and was preparing to watch Guy go over the top again when two more figures came stumbling through the haze, carrying a third.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ The cry went up and several tense seconds followed, during which Probyn strained to make out the incomers’ identities but not until they heaved themselves and their wounded comrade into the trench and the glint of baby-blue eyes penetrated the smoke did he ascertain that Louis was safe and the heartwarming announcement was made: ‘They’re all back.’

  With an inward sigh of relief, Probyn assumed his normal air of authority and supervised the removal of the injured man, who was suffering dreadfully.

  ‘Thank goodness. I was just coming out to rescue you,’ Guy told his brother.

  Fizzing with exhilaration, Louis was deaf to the insult and, as the firing petered out and the night became quiet, he made his report.

  ‘Wilson did a marvellous job! It’s a devilish shame that he was hit on the way home.’ Despite his genuine concern for the man his eyes were bright with invigoration. He did not even seem to notice that he had left part of his sleeve on the barbed wire along with a fragment of earlobe, the rest of it encrusted with dried blood. ‘But we scuppered their listening post! Managed to get two of the occupants before the other bolted. Sorry about the delay in getting back but Corporal Bebby and I were forced to lay doggo in a hole with Wilson until it died down.’

  Congratulating everyone on a good job, Probyn went off to bed, though it was to be a very brief sleep, broken by a shower of earth and stones as Fritz showed his displeasure by blowing a mine in the early hours.

  There was to be further hate throughout that day, the Germans sending over everything they had but only managing to inflict one slight wound. Encouraged by the previous night’s success, the members of the battalion were equally vigorous in their response. After such a demoralizing time it was an uplifting moment. Probyn hated to be the one to knock Louis from his dizzy heights.

  On a morning visit, he chose to hold the good news until later, first announcing the bad. ‘I regret that Private Wilson died of his wounds, sir.’

  Louis screwed his eyes shut and hung his dark head. ‘I was the only one who lost anybody.’

  ‘Can’t be helped, sir.’

  ‘It could if I’d taken better care of him.’ Louis’s tone betrayed self-disgust.

  ‘On a happier note, the CO asked me to convey his congratulations, sir. He’s received a message from Brigade HQ complimenting you on your night’s work.’

  Louis nodded, still downcast. All at once the thrill of his exploit was lost.

  * * *

  After eleven consecutive days, the longest it had spent in the trenches, the tired and worn out battalion was relieved in the early morning.

  Jaws that had been clamped so long in fear of death, now fell slack, giving their owners an idiotic appearance, but Probyn held them in the greatest esteem as he marched his beleaguered force back into Divisional Reserve at Hennencourt Wood.

  They were to remain there for the rest of May, training, supplying working parties and digging trenches.

  Here to make up the numbers of those who had fallen, the first draft of Derby Scheme men began to arrive, in their undefiled uniforms sticking out like sore thumbs. Many of the old hands were to grumble that this distinguished battalion must adopt such reluctant recruits and told them to their faces that they would never be able to fill the boots of brave men. Probyn treated all alike. To him they were here, that was all that mattered and he drove them as hard as the rest in preparation for the return to Albert.

  For others, though, the mention of Derby had different connotations. ‘Hold on,’ said Colonel Addison, a spark of interest in his weary eye. ‘I’d forgotten what day it is. The big race is coming up. We must have a sweep.’ Seizing a mud-streaked newspaper, he produced a list of runners and requested his servant to cut up scraps of paper for the draw. ‘We’ll require a bookie. RSM, you’re the most trustworthy of u
s!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t allow you to entice me into bad ways,’ Probyn reproved him with a frown. ‘I was raised in a non-gambling, teetotal household.’

  ‘Oh, I do apologize…’

  The frown turned instantly to a grin. ‘Just teasing, sir. The army led me into bad ways years ago. I’m sorry, though, I can’t be your bookmaker, I haven’t the foggiest what it entails. I wouldn’t object to a little flutter, though, if that’s all right.’

  The colonel assured him it was and a sweepstake was duly organized, though he was to be less than complimentary when his RSM turned out to be the one who won the large cash handout.

  Sending his winnings home to his wife, Probyn enjoyed a quiet smile, wondering what comment his strait-laced father would have made on his gambling. Then a shell burst to distract him, sending the horses into a panic as several of their number were maimed, and the thrill of his windfall was to be overridden by a fleeting sense of parody as he imagined his winner bursting past the finishing post whilst these poor unfortunate brutes were blown to bits.

  * * *

  Gradually, the unrelenting quagmire succumbed to the persuasive caress of sunshine and a new layer of grass fought to take hold, soon to be adorned with cornflowers and poppies. Between the deadly blasts of noise, those birds that had so far managed to escape the German guns and the French pot were singing their hearts out.

  It was hard for the soldiers to enjoy the lengthening days of summer, their lines continually strafed by machine-gun fire, pounded by shells, shrapnel and grenades, tormented by black clouds of bluebottles, but they managed to make the most of it, grasping at aught to stop themselves from going mad.

  A pair of robins had nested amongst a pile of stones in one of the trenches last month and, though thought to be doomed, had managed to hatch three chicks, an amazing feat of endurance that Probyn was discussing with the CO and Major Lewis when Guy Postgate’s servant appeared, handing each an envelope.

  Colonel Addison read his aloud in a tone most appreciative. ‘Captain Postgate asks if we will attend a convivial evening at his residence to celebrate his brother’s twenty-first birthday – why, we should deem it an honour! Wouldn’t we, Harry?’

  Major Lewis gave cheery confirmation.

  Probyn too inclined his beefy head in gracious acceptance. ‘Please tell Captain Postgate I regard his invitation as uncommonly kind.’ ‘Thank you, sirs. The captain would also be obliged if you kept it under your hats. It’s a surprise.’

  It certainly was. Louis had just seen his batman die in agony after being disembowelled by a shell, but, desperate to blot out the image and touched by his brother’s gesture, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the party that had been arranged for his coming-of-age. With the MO, the adjutant, Padre Farrington, Major Lewis, Captain Cox and the rest of the company officers on the guest list too, the dugout was cramped but the atmosphere immensely chummy, all rank dispensed with and the colonel telling a series of risqué jokes, giving rise to others. Slightly disapproving, Probyn nevertheless laughed out of politeness, thinking to himself what a remarkable thing was the human spirit as he watched those laughing mouths spouting endless humour whilst inside they must be almost insane from the awfulness that enveloped them.

  Eaten from makeshift utensils, the contents of the birthday hamper were scrumptious, as was the wine, drunk from empty jars that had been preciously hoarded over the year.

  ‘I considered serving drinks on the terrace but perhaps it’s a trifle windy,’ smiled Guy, then led the toast to his brother. ‘To Louis!’

  ‘To Louis!’ Those gathered raised their variously shaped jars.

  There was a brief hiatus, invaded only by the ever-present buzzing of flies. Urged to put a record on his gramophone, Hugh Faljambe selected a lively tune, causing feet to tap.

  Major Lewis remarked, tongue in cheek, ‘I’m rather surprised that you didn’t invite Private Unthank. Surely no guest list is complete without him?’

  Whilst others laughed and continued to beat time to the tinny refrain, Colonel Addison went on to shake his head in mock despair. ‘In all my years in the army I have never known a man without one redeeming feature – not one. Even a civil question he takes as an insult.’

  Guy made chuckling addition. ‘You tell him to do something and he snarls at you – like this.’ His accurate demonstration brought laughter from his audience.

  From his brother too, though Louis entreated them, ‘Oh, he’s not that bad!’

  ‘He is!’ Captain Cox threw up his eyes. ‘Normally I wouldn’t stand for a tenth of the insubordination he presents but were I to take action he’d never be out of the blasted guard room. Any other commanding officer would have him shot, but all that would achieve is to deprive us of a damn good sniper. Better just to give him a wide berth and let him get on with it, I say.’

  ‘I’ve got one just like him at home.’ This was the RSM’s first contribution and all looked at him expectantly. ‘She’s just over a year old. You should have heard the stink that bairn kicked up at bedtime! I tell you, we should employ her as a secret weapon. The Germans would soon give up.’

  The officers found it hilarious that their iron-handed RSM could be so outdone by an infant.

  ‘Still, I think it rather cruel of you to compare her with Unthank, Mr Kilmaster,’ smiled the colonel, turning to Louis with a frown of incomprehension. ‘Tell me, Louis, how can you possibly defend him? He is the most appalling fellow.’

  Louis let forth his contagious laughter. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but you sound just like…’ another giggle, ‘just like my old nanny! She used to say I brought home the most appalling boys.’ Having succeeded in infecting everyone with his merriment, he finally simmered down and replied philosophically, ‘Oh, under all that hostility I feel sure there must lie a noble streak. After all, Unthank and his fellow miners gave up a well-paid job to be here.’

  Smiling into his jar, Probyn wondered whether to disabuse the optimist of this notion, but, remembering when he himself was young and idealistic, decided to remain silent.

  But the colonel spoke his mind. ‘I hate to shatter your illusion, Louis. Whilst the rest are undoubtedly spurred by patriotism I suspect it’s not a motivating force for Unthank.’

  ‘Why else would he exchange good wages for a soldier’s pay?’ demanded the young lieutenant.

  ‘Because it’s worth the drop in money to be allowed the legal right to murder!’

  ‘Oh, surely—’

  ‘Louis,’ a hint of weariness in his tone, Colonel Addison spoke as if to a simpleton, ‘the man’s here because he wants to kill people and they won’t allow him to do it at home.’

  Major Lewis shared a laughing nod with the adjutant.

  ‘Well, I beg to differ.’ Louis turned to Probyn. ‘What’s your opinion, Mr Kilmaster.’

  Probyn weighed his words. ‘Unfortunately, I have to agree with the colonel—’

  ‘Unfortunately, RSM?’ Colonel Addison donned a look of mock reproach.

  Probyn smiled before continuing: ‘But I don’t think anyone here can say he isn’t a handy man to have around in a war.’

  ‘There!’ said a triumphant Louis.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a compliment, sir—’

  Louis would not be swayed. ‘He’s risking his skin the same as the rest of us, and that’s good enough for me.’

  This induced a chorus of, ‘For he’s a jolly good fe-llow!’ And afterwards: ‘Speech! Speech!’

  With Hugh’s gramophone stilled, Louis was about to oblige when a soldier entered and saluted. ‘Excuse the interruption, sir, but it’s important.’ He handed over a communiqué.

  Puffing to remove the fly that invaded his nostril, Colonel Addison unfolded the piece of paper and a look of shock wiped the smile from his face. He bowed his head, allowing it to rest on his chest for a second, before raising grave eyes. ‘I’m sorry to ruin your party, Louis, and I’m afraid it’s going to cloud many birthdays to come, but as
everyone’s gathered…’ Reciting from the message, he took a deep breath and announced: ‘“By His Majesty’s Command. The King has learnt with profound regret of the disaster at sea by which the Secretary of State for War has lost his life”—’

  The listeners shared a groan.

  ‘—“while proceeding on a special mission to the Emperor of Russia. Field Marshal Lord Kitchener gave forty years of his distinguished service to the State and it is largely due to his administrative genius that the Country has been able to create a place in the field the Armies which are today upholding the traditional glories of an Empire. Lord Kitchener will be mourned as a great soldier, who under conditions of unexampled difficulty rendered supreme and devoted service both to the Army and the State.’”

  Finishing his reading, the colonel folded the message and stared at the earthen floor. ‘Now we really must make the attack count, as a memorial to the great man.’

  * * *

  To this purpose the following days of June were devoted to intensive rehearsal, Probyn driving the men perhaps harder than ever across the training area, not caring that he earned less flattering nicknames than before or that many cursed him as heartless, focused only upon the Great Advance and having the battalion totally prepared for it.

  It was difficult to imagine how they could fail with such massive power at their disposal and the amount of times the strategy had been enacted. Despite not taking part in the real attack, he had attended the officers’ lectures and knew every single stage of the plan, from Zero and the amount of water carried on each person to the clearing up details, felt a thrill of pride to be associated with such an enormous undertaking and in what was surely to be the turning point in the war.

  It was to transpire that others besides Probyn would not be taking part in the attack. After another brief stint in the trenches the battalion was moving out of the line when a shell exploded at its centre, the smoke eventually clearing to reveal the usual carnage. The only creature still upright was a horse, the sight most unusual in that it was not galloping about in the crazed way that Probyn had witnessed a hundred times before, but remained completely motionless, its head hanging low and blood dripping from its lip, not even screaming, just making pathetic whickers of distress. Then it just keeled over and died.