When darkness fell, Hazelwood and ten others were ‘volunteered’ for night patrol to sniff out German sniping posts. Visibility was poor. The men had further blackened their faces and all that could be made out was the whites of their eyes, which were darted nervously about them as they waited to leave the trench. A gaggle of butterflies churned Dobson’s stomach at the thought of going out into that murk. The Hun was bad enough in daylight. He began to feel bullets ripping into his gut and with a shudder fought to overcome his vivid imagination, concentrating on Sergeant Hazelwood, who was beside him. The sergeant would never admit to the strong feeling that had developed between them – kicked and drove the private the same as the rest… but Dobson knew it was there and felt better at this moment in that knowledge. Nervousness made him talkative and he offered a quip. ‘What would you like me to buy you for Christmas, Sarg?’
There was a pause while Russ considered: Christmas, and he was still alive. He had come here wanting to die, to find a way out of his shame, but somehow being estranged from home had lessened his suicidal resolve. The thought raised an inward chuckle – what a bloody funny place to come to find out you don’t really want to die!
He finally responded to Dobson’s query with a growl. ‘What I want from you, Private, is not to ask me soft questions like that once we’re out there – and how come I always seem to find you next to me, Dobson, when we’re preparing for any action?’
‘I feel safer next to you, Sarg.’ Dobson had long ago given up the idea that this was a big adventure. ‘It’s sort of like having your dad with you when you’re playing near the big lads. Look at all the men we’ve lost, but you’re still here. Makes me think you must be lucky.’
Russ had trapped the laugh that had risen to his throat when Dobson had likened him to his father, but now it escaped in a snort. ‘Lucky?!’
‘Aye, and I reckon what with you being the bravest, I’m safer if I stick by…’
Hazelwood lopped the soldier’s comment, ‘What the hell makes you think I’m brave?’
‘Well, you are! The way you ran after Wheatley to fetch him back… you could’ve been shot.’
Russ turned to him wanting to shout, ‘You silly young sod! You think I was being brave? I couldn’t have given a bugger if I was hit.’ Instead he replied, ‘Let me just give you a wee tip, Dobson. If it’s a lucky charm you’re after, stick to a rabbit’s foot or a bit o’ clover but for God’s sake steer well clear of me. Now shut up – and that goes for all of you! Once we’re out there I don’t want to hear a peep out of anybody, got it? Any man here speak Boche lingo, by the way?’
‘Wheatley did,’ said Dobson when no one else accepted credit.
‘Right, all hold hands and we’ll call for Wheatley’s assistance – I’m sure that’s very helpful, Dobson!’
The lad gave a smiling shrug. Though the other could be as satirical as Lieutenant Daw, his words didn’t provoke the same bitterness.
The order came for them to move off. Warning a sentry that this section was going out, Russ began to scale the ladder. Out in open ground he felt naked, his only scrap of cover being the intense darkness between flares. At his instruction, the men began a crouched reconnoitre of the area. Dobson tripped and swore out loud as he careened face down into the mud. Hazelwood lashed out to silence him. ‘Sorry, Sarg!’ Dobson dragged an arm across his mud-clogged nostrils. ‘But where are we supposed to be going?’
‘Give me bloody strength, Dobson! We’re looking for bleedin’ Fritz to stick this up him.’ Russ jabbed skywards with his bayonet. ‘Hang onto my frigging belt if you can’t see.’ He squelched on.
After another period of stumbling and silent cursing someone rasped, ‘He’s there!’ bringing the entire party to their bellies.
Russ squinted along the shape of the pointing finger. It was impossible to make out what Jamieson had seen in this pitch.
‘Machine-gunners,’ whispered Jamieson.
Russ was still unable to make out the shape, but could not risk disbelieving the observer and so inched his men forward. Then he saw that the man had been right. There was something; a sort of mound with what looked like two machine-guns perched on it. Whispering soft instructions, Russ waved a small party out to each of the enemy’s flanks and when they were in situ performed a virtually noiseless charge. Dobson hurled himself forward, preparing to wreak vengeance for the vile conditions Fritz had made him suffer and thrust his bayonet deep into the shadow that was spreadeagled before him, reciting: thrust, twist, withdraw! The feel of metal slicing flesh was different to stabbing a sack. He felt sick. Someone else joined him, their bayonet plunging frenziedly. The Germans made no sound of expiry, other than a long sigh.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Russ balked at the stench and forgot to whisper. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’
Dobson ceased his paranoid thrusting as the putrid smell overpowered him, and with the others began a rapid retreat, slithering and falling over the churned-up ground in his haste to escape.
Then one of the runners gave a panting laugh of relief and pretty soon the whole patrol was guffawing at their foolish action.
‘Jamieson,’ sighed Russ with exaggerated patience as they thudded to a halt, ‘if you can’t tell the difference between a machine-gun post and a dead hoss, how d’you expect to win this bloody war? And you, Dobson! If you use as many bayonet thrusts as that on each Boche you’ll not be around long. Didn’t you tumble what it was when you heard the pop and the stink?’
‘No, Sarg, I just thought Fritz was on a richer diet than we are.’
Hazelwood quashed the laughter, rasping, ‘All right that’s enough! What d’you think this is, a bleedin’ circus? We’re not supposed to let Fritz know where we are.’ He ran his fingers over his moustache, relief making him feel light-headed. ‘As if your feet don’t smell bad enough, Jamieson, you have to get us reeking of dead hoss. Away, I’ve had enough for one bloody night.’ His boots made sucking noises as each was lifted from the mud. ‘Still, I suppose it has saved us a job – if there were any Hun in the vicinity that stink’ll have driven ’em back to Berlin by now.’
The return to their own trenches was not so easy. In the darkness, they stumbled about in circles and became completely lost. Finally, however, they found a landmark, allowing their stomach muscles to relax as they entered their own territory.
‘I’ve just thought what you can get me for Christmas, Dobson,’ said Russ, coming out of his crouch and walking upright now. ‘A new brain. This one can’t be working proper if I allow myself to be landed with a bunch of clots like you. Pff! Bloody dead hosses – now, I could’ve understood it if Fritz’d made that mistake, seen a big lump on the ground and thought it was a member of the British Infantry.’ He tucked a boot under Jamieson’s wholesome backside.
Jamieson was still grinning when the bullet hit him. Russ didn’t cotton on to what had happened at first – thought his playful kick had been heftier than intended – but then he heard a crack and felt something sting his ear. His first confused thought was that he had directed his men into enemy lines. But after flinging himself on the ground he regained his bearings and knew that he was under fire from his own side.
‘Stop! You bloody fools, we’re British!’ he screamed.
The firing petered out. ‘What’s the password?’
Russ dropped his face to the mud. Christ! What sort of an outfit are they? came the mental scream. Fire first and ask the password later! He racked his brain which, numbed by the unexpected attack, refused to come up with an answer. Instead he lifted his chin and spat an angry expletive.
‘Bollocks is not the password,’ a voice called back. ‘Advance and be recognized.’
Tentatively, Russ scrambled to his feet, showed himself to the trigger-happy sentry, then moved to see how badly hurt Jamieson was. He was dead. Wounded were Privates Dench, Hartley… and Dobson. Horrified, the sergeant dropped to his knees by the boy and applied gentle hands to roll him over… when Dobson rolled over for himself, comp
letely unscathed. ‘You little…!’ Russ slapped the boy’s face, then sat back on his heels and gasped, half in relief, half in fury.
Dobson raised himself on one trembling elbow and listened to the groans of the wounded. ‘Told you you were my lucky charm, Sarg.’
Hazelwood threw his despairing face to the heavens. ‘I’m beginning to wonder which side we’re on.’
* * *
A few days before Christmas, the battalion was sent to rest billets far behind the line, which promised some kind of celebration after all. Following the customary foot slog, Russ and his pals arrived in a picturesque town untouched as yet by German shells. The locals were eager to welcome them, shouting encouragement as the weary soldiers came limping in. ‘Boches finis!’
‘I wish some bugger would tell Fritz that,’ grumbled Russ. His feet were in an atrocious state. All he wanted to do was to get his sodden boots off. A woman stepped out of the crowd and began to hand out small sachets to those on the flanks. Russ accepted one with a ‘Merci, mam’selle!’ and a grin. Dobson had one as well. Neither of them could decipher the writing, but a quick sniff gave a hint of lavender, producing laughter.
Excitement soared as the word came that they were to march to a brewery. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to mention that it had been converted to a bath house. But the sight of a tubful of steaming water drove aside any grumbles. Russ was swift to divest himself of the wet puttees and boots, though this was not the ecstasy he had imagined; his feet were even more painful as the circulation began to return; like two throbbing pieces of tripe, chalk-white and pudgy to the touch. The sergeant beside him was already stripped and plunging his hairy body into the hot tub while an RAMC man took charge of his soiled clothing.
Russ did likewise and, taking the sachet that the woman had given him, slipped into the welcoming water. It was the first bath he had had in three months. He groaned in euphoria and submerged his shoulders, then, ripping open the sachet, rubbed the lavender soap flakes into a glorious lather, inhaling lungfuls of the scent as he massaged his body. Two handfuls of the lather were deposited on his chin. A soapy hand grappled around for the razor he had taken from his pack, then lifted it to shave off his beard.
The luxury lasted five minutes. The ‘Poultice Walloper’ yelled to him that his uniform was ready and with great reluctance he heaved his dripping person from the water. He found his uniform brushed and pressed. On top was a clean shirt and underwear. His boots were still wet but he could remedy that tonight. Oh! but it was heaven to be free of the stench of sweat. But the best part of all was to sink onto his straw-filled mattress after weeks of sleeping rough. With beatific smile, Russ was just snuggling down for the night when Dobson poked his face round the door of the NCOs’ billet.
‘Just thought I’d let you know, Sarg, you’re in line for a medal.’
Russ opened one eye. ‘Oh God, it’s here again! Come on then, Dobson, let’s be having it and allow me to get some kip. What have I done to deserve this medal?’
‘Provided us with a new secret weapon. They’ve just stuffed your dirty underpants in a howitzer and sent ’em over to Fritz. He’s surrendering in droves.’
Russ picked up a tin mug and threw it at Dobson, who disappeared. ‘Night, night, mummy!’
Russ slept until eleven the next morning. When he swung his feet from the mattress he was relieved to see they had returned to near normal size, even though they were still very tender. His boots, having benefited from the warmth of the brazier, were dry now. He pulled the paper from their innards and put them on. Then he went to break his fast. While he was eating, a delivery of mail arrived. Names were shouted out and the lucky recipients grabbed their parcels and letters.
‘R. C. Hazelwood, Sergeant – Arsey Hazelwood, where are you?’
Russ looked up in surprise, then strode over to collect the parcel. It bore his wife’s handwriting. With excited fingers, he tore it open. Inside were six little parcels; one from each of his children, apart from Regina who was too young to buy a gift. Smiling, he cast a brief but joyful eye at each sender’s name – Rhona, Becky, Rowena, Lyn, Beany, Ber… no, not Bertie. His expectant smile changed to a frown as his eyes read ‘Charlie’. The boy was still there! What had happened to the priest? However, he wasted little time in pondering over this. The more pertinent matter was that Bertie was still hostile to him – there was no gift bearing his son’s name. All of these six gifts could not compensate for the lack of that one. He could not bear to open them. Laying them to one side, he searched around the packing for a letter. There was none. The only concession his wife had made was to address the parcel for the children. The paper was loosed and fluttered to the ground; down to the ground like his spirits. One by one he fingered the small parcels again. Somehow, they made Christmas seem even emptier… With a click of his tongue, he bundled them back into the wrapping and shoved them out of sight. He was damned if he was going to let this make his leave miserable.
But later he did open them, finding a comb from Becky, one of Rhona’s picture books, a homemade bookmark from Beany, an initialled handkerchief from Rowena, a packet of five cigarettes from Charlie and a sticky bag of liquorice comfits from Lyn – ‘Bullets to shoot the Germans with’. With a sad chuckle, he decided he must write a letter of thanks. He wrote one to his wife too, but only got as far as ‘Dear Rachel’ before folding it up. This might be the only break he got for a long time; he was not going to squander it by writing letters that may not be read. He was going to have a damned good time, get drunk and enjoy himself.
His platoon was obviously of the same mind, for when he slipped into the estaminet that same evening, Dobson and twelve others were already under the influence of local hospitality. There was only as much space as in Hazelwood’s front parlour, and all the drinking was done at one big table in the middle of the room. An oil lamp hung from a beam over their heads, casting the perimeter of the room into shadow. Madame stood behind the bar, which was like the dock in a courtroom.
‘Oh Christ,’ muttered Private Husthwaite into his glass. ‘Don’t we get enough o’ this bastard?’ Nevertheless, he made space for Russ on the wooden bench.
Russ snapped his fingers at Madame. ‘Witness for the prosecution, please state your evidence.’
‘Pardon, monsieur?’ Madame came from behind the dock, bearing a large jug and a glass. Her corseted bottom rolled from side to side as if she suffered from some hip displacement.
Russ accepted her offer of beer and passed over half a crown, which was examined before he received his change in francs. He sampled the ale, which was no better than it had been in any of the other places they had stopped in. The vinegary taste produced a face of disgust. ‘Eh, we usually reserve this stuff for our chips at home.’ Madame gave a pronounced shrug and sauntered round the table, refilling glasses.
‘Dobson, budge up a bit, I can’t get you all on!’ Strawbridge had his camera trained on the group of drinkers.
Russ groaned, but poised with glass aloft for the photograph. When it was accomplished he took another shuddering gulp, then put down the glass. ‘Well now… and what are our little chums going to be getting up to in the next few days?’
‘I’m gonna get a bit of Christmas shopping,’ Dobson told him.
Russ laughed. ‘Still trying to get round Mother, are we?’
Dobson nodded. ‘I’ve seen one or two things she might like. There’s a house down the road that has this real bonny lamp in the porch – red it is. I’m thinking of going over to ask if they want to sell it.’
Russ took this as a jest, but then saw that Dobson was completely serious. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’ll go down like the Titanic!’ He winked at the others and laughed into his glass, making bubbles in the beer.
Dobson’s face fell. ‘My dad was killed on the Titanic.’
Russ wiped the splashes from his chin and showed instant contrition. ‘Eh, I’m sorry, lad, I didn’t mean…’
Dobson guffawed and elbowed his sergeant. �
��Hah! You should see your face, Sarg! I’m only kidding – me dad got run over by a steamroller.’
‘Aye we’ve heard he made a lasting impression on your street,’ Russ beat him to the punchline and cuffed him. He tried his beer again. It didn’t go down any better. ‘Before you send your mother one o’ these red lamps, Dobson, I’d just better tell you what they stand for. I mean, she’s going to kick your head in as it is when she catches up with you, I should hate her to really hurt you.’ He then explained the significance of the intended gift.
Dobson’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean there’s women what… specially for us lads? Well, nobody told me!’ It was said with chagrin… then his face became intent. ‘Eh, Sarg…’
‘No, Dobson!’ Russ anticipated the question. ‘You stay away from them places.’
‘Aw, don’t be a killjoy, Sarg,’ pressed one of the older men, seizing onto the idea. ‘Think what it’d be like to get blown to bits and never had your wick dipped. Let the lad go.’
The others joined the persuasion. ‘Aye, let him go, Sarg!’
‘Well, I’m off!’ shouted Husthwaite and stood to emphasize this.
‘Listen to the voice of experience, Dobson,’ persisted Russ. ‘You keep clear o’ bloody women – anyway, it’ll not be much fun, you know, stood in a queue for hours.’ He shook his head.
There was further banter in favour of Dobson visiting the brothel. In the end it was proposed that they all go.
My Father, My Son Page 34
