Hywel feels his father’s forehead and checks for any hint of breath from his mouth, or the glimmer of a pulse at his neck.
‘He’s gone.’
His voice is clear, trying to control his emotions. Both the younger brothers walk out into the farmyard to hide their tears and Bronwyn collapses into Tom’s arms.
Hywel goes over to comfort her.
‘Bron, I know it’s ’ard, like, but go and ’elp the boys. They need someone to mother them.’
He guides her gently to the door, hugging her as he does so.
‘Tom, will you help me get Da on to the cart and take him to the undertaker? Bron will stay ’ere with the boys.’
Bronwyn watches as her father’s body is taken away to Presteigne. It follows the same winding route the livestock take on their way to the slaughterhouse. But this is her Da. She tries to remember him before he became crippled in mind and body by age and anxiety. When he whistled while working in the yard, or when he told her wonderful stories about his own Da and Tad-cu, both of whom refused to speak English and could neither read nor write.
She wants to be strong for Geraint and Morgan but cannot stop the tears or the awful sense of foreboding about the future.
Tuesday 2 June
Royal Fusiliers’ Albany Barracks, Parkhurst, Isle of Wight
Serjeants Maurice Tait and Harry Woodruff loathe the Royal Fusiliers’ Albany Barracks. Both Cockneys and army veterans, they have served all over the Empire in some remote and dangerous outposts but, to them, the rural Isle of Wight might as well be India’s North-West Frontier.
The nearest pub is a mile away and although their serjeants’ mess is comfortable enough, and the barracks as good as any, a location in the green fields beyond a sleepy English market town is not their idea of home. To compound matters, the other battalions which make up the army’s 9th Brigade at Albany – the 1st Battalion Northumberland Fusiliers and the 1st Battalion Royal Scots Fusiliers – both speak alien languages, ‘Geordie’ and ‘Jock’, which might as well be two dialects of Chinese as far as the two London boys are concerned.
Not only are the other soldiers provincials – ‘peasants’, as the Londoners call them – they like their beer full of hops, all pale and frothy, not like the rich malty ales of the south, which are much more to Maurice and Harry’s liking. The Jocks and Geordies keep complaining about the beer in the south being ‘flat’ and ‘sweet’, leading Maurice and Harry to offer what they think is sound advice to remedy their dilemma: ‘Fuck off back up north, then!’
‘Let’s walk into Newport, Mo.’
‘Bollocks, mate; I’m knackered. Let’s get some nosh ’ere and call it a night.’
‘Come on, we’ll just ’ave a couple, then stroll back; it’s a nice evenin’. Maisy will do us some chips when we come back.’
‘She bloody won’t. Your “couple” will be six or seven, and the kitchen’ll be closed when we stagger back.’
‘So, we’ll scoff some chips in Newport.’
‘Bloody ’ell, ’Arry, you’ve got a cast-iron belly. I can’t swill gallons o’ beer like you, then load up on chips.’
‘Is that right? What abaht two years ago in Dublin, then?’
‘Ah, that was different. Mick beer is as weak as piss!’
As Harry knew he would, Maurice eventually gives in and they are soon striding down the road into Newport. It is a pleasant market town, not without a few little architectural gems, and typical of rustic England. But its charms are lost on two fusiliers who have travelled the world and much prefer the hubbub of London. Lifelong friends, they joined the Fusiliers in 1896 at the age of sixteen and are now about as experienced army veterans as it is possible to be. Now thirty-four years old, with eighteen years’ service, they are approaching the twenty-one-year maximum permitted by British Army Regulations.
After serving for three uneventful and tedious years at the Curragh, the British Army’s main camp in Ireland, twenty-five miles west of Dublin, they sailed for South Africa in 1899 to fight in the Second Boer War, an experience that was far from humdrum.
After some banter about the delights of a couple of Newport’s voluptuous beauties, and some whistle-whetting endearments addressed to the ale soon to be consumed, their idle chatter turns to their greatest preoccupation: soldiers’ tales of enemies fought and battles won and lost.
‘D’ya remember that fuckin’ big Boer what nearly did for yer at Colenso, Mo?’
‘He ’ad no chance; I were ready fer ’im.’
‘Bollocks! If I ’adn’t plugged ’im, he’d ’ave skewered yer like a pig on a spit.’
‘Yeah, yeah, but I tell yer what, I ’ope we never ’ave to face firepower like at Tulega Heights ever again.’
‘Just stay close to me, mate; the bullet that’ll do fer me ain’t been made yet.’
‘No, ’Arry, don’t say things like that; it’s tempting faith.’
‘Tempting, fate, Mo; tempting fate.’
‘Whatever it is, don’t tempt it!’
Maurice and Harry took part in the relief of both Mafeking and Ladysmith, two events which saw the British Army at its heroic best, winning fierce encounters with courage and discipline. But they also participated in examples of British intolerance and brutality, where vanquished opponents were treated with contempt and worse. Such stories are never part of their reminiscences – in the hope that, if they are not mentioned, they will fade from their memories, but they never do. Even so, like most of their comrades, they have become inured to the horrors of battle and to the barbarity of war.
They returned from South Africa as non-commissioned officers, each with five battle clasps to their Queen’s South Africa Medal and, much more importantly, the extra pay to go with them. They served in India for two years from the beginning of 1903, another sojourn that was hardly dull.
‘D’ya think we’ll ever get sent back to India?’
Maurice’s face lights up.
‘It would suit me. Don’t mind a bit of warmth – and a hot black arse!’
‘Delhi belly and a dose of the pox more like!’
‘As long as we don’t ’ave to trek up them fuckin’ Himalayas again, chasin’ after them mad Tibetees.’
The British Army’s expedition to Tibet was typical of the kind of punitive action all colonial armies are required to undertake from time to time to deal with ‘troublesome natives’. In atrocious conditions, the Royal Fusiliers trudged all the way to Lhasa to quell an uprising instigated by the Dalai Lama. It was a vicious action, where British forces with Maxim machine guns and Lee-Enfield rifles killed thousands of Tibetans armed only with matchlock muskets and sabres. Not particularly proud of what they had to do in Britain’s name in another far-flung corner of the Empire, Maurice and Harry knew there was little point dwelling on it. They did what they were trained to do; they took a breath, stuck out their chins and got on with it.
They returned home with India General Service Medals and Tibet Campaign Medals, replete with Battle of Gyantse clasps, to add to the already strikingly colourful row of ribbons on their chests – and an extra sixpence in their pay.
Upon their return, they transferred to the newly formed 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers to stiffen its ranks. They joined the same platoon, part of C Company, and were barracked at Parkhurst. With their service record, they have become senior soldiers of great renown and are well known as a couple of hard-nosed, seasoned veterans who you would definitely want on your side if ‘push came to shove’.
They thought they had done well to avoid another stint in India, but soon regretted their transition to the 4th when, after a year or so, the bucolic delights of the Isle of Wight began to wear thin.
Now, as the two of them see Newport town centre in the distance and begin to sniff the malty aroma of Burts Bitter, which they regard as one of the island’s few saving graces, they quicken their pace down Holyrood Street and are soon settled into the Railway Tavern, their favourite haunt. It is a quiet pub, full of friendly
locals, and not popular with either the Geordie or Jock fusiliers. If it was, the two Londoners would go elsewhere.
Bitter is only tuppence ha’penny a pint in the Railway, whereas it is thruppence in London. As serjeants, they are earning 16 shillings a week. As single men, they are housed and fed by the army, so have plenty of silver in their pockets for beer and baccy.
Beer, baccy and the occasional liaison with the fair maidens of the island are the men’s only distractions. If they get desperate, some of their female acquaintances are street girls from the town’s back alleys, or tarts who set themselves up in ‘nests’ in the hedgerows near the barracks. Every now and then the top brass clear out the nests for a while, especially if there is an outbreak of venereal disease, but on the whole the girls are regarded as a necessary evil to keep the men content.
The life of a professional soldier in barracks is a long monotony of training, drills and exercises. Although discipline is enforced sternly, it is not as harsh as it used to be, when floggings were commonplace. Besides, experienced soldiers know how to deal with the ‘bull’ and to keep a low profile. The food and accommodation have improved dramatically since the service days of Maurice and Harry’s fathers and grandfathers, when men were housed worse than cattle and fed like pigs. But boredom remains and leads to lethargy and often boils up into tension, bullying and sometimes violence.
The two veterans like and respect most of their officers. They often have to take orders from newly arrived young lieutenants who have hardly begun shaving, and some of the senior officers can be arrogant or unpleasant, but, on the whole, there is mutual respect and goodwill.
Harry’s mood becomes more and more reflective as the Burts Bitter takes effect.
‘Still fancy runnin’ a boozer when you ged out?’
‘I do, a nice little country job up in Eppin’ Forest.’
‘But you don’t like the countryside!’
‘Yeah, but it’s nice up there and I’m talkin’ about a boozer, not a bloody tea shop. It’s on the railway, so it’s easy to get into town and, of a Sunday, it brings all the Londoners up fer a day out.’
‘Sounds like a nice little earner. If I went for a boozer, it would be up in Norfolk somewhere. I went there once as a boy with me old fella. It’s as flat as fuck but pretty, like; you know, windmills and all that. Yeah, a nice quiet pub on the Broads, I fancy that.’
Maurice and Harry joined up together and hail from Leyton, East London. Not real ‘Cockneys’ by strict convention but, like most Londoners in the British Army, it is an appellation they are happy to accept – especially Harry, who cherishes his Jack the Lad persona.
‘I don’t s’pose life’s too bad. We’ll ’ave our pensions soon, and much better ones than our old fellas got.’
‘Not ’alf! Twenty-five years in the Coldstream, both of ’em, right through the Crimea: Alma, Inkerman. Then they ’ad to sell their fuckin’ medals when they retired to keep us warm and fed!’
When serving abroad or away in barracks, Woodruff and Tait senior were heavy drinkers, frequent brawlers and not averse to the charms of the opposite sex, which is why they never rose beyond the rank of corporal. On the other hand, they were, in the words of the vernacular, ‘as good as gold’ with their wives when at home on leave. Except, that is, if anyone challenged their good name, or insulted their loved ones. Then, retribution would be swiftly delivered and brutally effective.
No one messes with the Woodruff and Tait families. Their rented homes are just four doors apart in Bromley Road, Leyton, a modest mid-Victorian terraced row of neat houses with small bay windows to the front and tiny back gardens to the rear. The Drum, which Maurice and Harry still think is the finest ale house in the world, is just fifty yards away on Lea Bridge Road, where their fathers still drink every evening much to their mothers’ chagrin.
As boys, Maurice and Harry were inseparable. They were good athletes. Maurice played for Essex boys at cricket and spent long hours every summer at the county ground on Leyton High Road. Harry was a classy footballer and went down to West Ham Park to play for Upton Park Football Club for a couple of seasons, the proud holders of the title ‘1900 Olympic Football Champions’.
However, both boys’ sporting potential was thwarted when they joined the army. They now sometimes play for their battalion, but overseas postings have meant that opportunities have been few and far between.
Harry comes back from the bar with two more jugs of beer in his hands and a smile on his face.
‘There are two Geordie corporals in ’ere. Bloody nerve! They’re at the bar talkin’ abaht the officers’ mutiny at the Curragh – or at least that’s what I think they was on abaht!’
Maurice has scant regard for officers at the best of times.
‘Officers’ mutiny! If the ranks had mutinied, they’d ’ave been shot! Ireland’s a fuckin’ mess; if the Micks want home rule, I say, let ’em ’ave it. As for those Unionist fuckers up north, running bloody guns from the Germans – they should be put up against a wall, startin’ with that Carson bloke.’
Harry is less vitriolic about the senior ranks, but is not keen on the cavalry – neither its officers nor its men.
‘The fuckin’ Cherry Bums was at the heart of it – 6th and 15th Lancers – stuck-up bastards. I remember them from Ladysmith – tossers!’
‘That reminds me, ’Arry, do you remember that Churchill fella from Ladysmith, riding in, wavin’ ’is hat like the conquerin’ ’ero? He’s done all right fer ’imself, ain’t he?’
‘He has that. Lord o’ the fuckin’ navy, ain’t he?’
‘Yeah, he was all right, though; came up and spoke to us. Not many of ’em do that.’
‘Funny little fella, baby-faced with a little ginger tash. Couldn’t ’alf talk!’
‘What about those Geordies in our boozer?’
‘Oh, they’re all right; one is a ’ell of a good left-hand bat an’ a decent bowler.’
‘That’s all right, then … I didn’t think Geordies played cricket.’
‘Neither did I.’
Wednesday 3 June
Dieppe Harbour, Normandy, France
Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill has been First Lord of the Admiralty for two and half years. Only thirty-nine years old, but a seasoned veteran of politics, war and controversy, he has always been a ‘young man in a hurry’. Since his schooldays, he has been convinced that, like his prestigious ancestor John Churchill, the 1st Duke of Marlborough, it is his destiny to lead his nation to glory.
Winston has crossed the Channel on the Admiralty’s yacht, HMS Enchantress, to spend a couple of days with his wife, Clementine. Heavily pregnant with their third child and having left her young children behind with their nanny in London, she has been staying with her mother, Lady Blanche Hozier, in Dieppe. Lady Hozier’s home is a commonplace, bourgeois house in a narrow street close to the centre of Dieppe. Divorced from her husband, Sir Henry, she has sought refuge in Normandy, well away from the opprobrium caused by her reputation as a notorious gambler and a woman of dubious virtue.
As Clementine gets ready for dinner, in between sips of champagne, Winston is pacing up and down the First Lord’s quarters rehearsing his latest speech.
‘ “I say this to you all, to the good people of this ancient land and to the people of our glorious Empire, we must take the measures I have outlined in order to protect our noble heritage. If we do not consider these threats to our future security, we will face grave consequences.
‘ “I say this to you now …” ’
Clementine would have preferred a quiet dinner alone with her husband but, as usual, he has made sure that the Enchantress’s wardroom table will be full.
‘Pig, why have you invited so many to dinner? I see F. E. Smith is here. He might be a brilliant lawyer and a good friend, but he encourages you to drink too much.’
‘Darling Cat, don’t fuss. FE has the sharpest mind in that dreary profession, and he amuses me with his very droll stories. He told me one
this morning. Apparently, a friend of his, a very senior judge, was recently presiding over a case involving some very inappropriate behaviour by a senior civil servant and asked FE, “Could you tell me, what do you think one ought to give a man who allows himself to be buggered?” FE replied, without any hesitation, “Oh, thirty shillings or two pounds; whatever you happen to have on you.” ’
‘Really, Pig, that’s disgusting! I hope he doesn’t repeat it at dinner.’
‘I’m sure he won’t, darling, not with the Mayor of Dieppe there. Mind you, as you have the best French among us, if he does, you will have to translate.’
Clementine’s face breaks into a smile for the first time as she gives her husband a playful slap on the back of the hand. ‘Clemmie’, as she is known, is ten years younger than Winston. Sharp featured with warm, gentle eyes and wavy russet hair, she captivated Winston as soon as they met. They dote on one another.
Clemmie places her hand on Winston’s cheek.
‘Winston …’
‘Oh dear, if it’s “Winston”, I fear a reproach is imminent.’ He adopts a thespian pose. ‘The dark clouds of doom hover above me; an awesome bolt of lightning is about to strike a poor defenceless soul.’
‘Stop playing the fool! You’re right; here’s the bolt you fear. Despite your promise, I hear you have been flying again.’
Winston deliberately adopts a boyish docility.
‘Only once.’
‘Twice! I have my sources, you know.’
Winston abandons the theatricality.
‘So you do. Well, twice then. But you’ve heard me say it many times: in the future, wars will be fought in the air as much as they’re fought on land and at sea.’
‘That’s as maybe, Winston, but you won’t be fighting in them. You will soon be forty; your days as a soldier are over.’
Winston suddenly looks forlorn. He knows Clemmie is right, but does not want to admit it.
Sensing that she has touched a nerve, she continues her onslaught.
The Shadow of War Page 2
