Dobson frowned and peered at the splintered bark. ‘Looks like blood, sir.’
‘It doesn’t just look like it, Private, it is blood. The man to whom the blood belonged gave this tree a transfusion at dawn this morning. Do you know to what I am referring?’ Dobson faltered, his cockiness dispersed. ‘No, sir.’
‘He was shot for desertion. Now, though we haven’t yet started shooting men for making fun of their officers, we could just as easily start a trend. Would you care to be a blood donor, Private?’
Dobson was aghast. ‘No, sir!’
‘Then you’d better behave yourself, hadn’t you? Sar’nt! I trust I can rely on you to keep order among this riff-raff when we get to the front? There’s brave men dying out there and I don’t intend to replace them with giggling schoolboys. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Sir!’ Though deeply insulted at the reference to his platoon, Russ performed a rigid salute and marched the private back to the ranks, murmuring, ‘Make good use of your bayonet this morning, Dobson. You’ll need plenty o’ practice for all them spuds you’re gonna bash tonight. I’m not having anybody sling mud at this platoon.’
Dobson chanced a question. ‘Sarg, did they really shoot one of their own men?’
‘Shut your bloody mouth and march!’ And Dobson marched on, unaware of just how much the sight of that blood had shaken his sergeant.
There followed a long foot-slog to a beautiful stretch of coastline where, among the sand dunes, a bayonet fight was arranged. It was all great sport at first, sticking bayonets in sacks and pretending it was Fritz, but after two solid hours of non-stop practice the cutting and thrusting became a mite limp. Slight relief came with a period of rapid loading and firing, but then came a further ninety minutes with the bayonet, and all the time the instructors were on their backs, not allowing a moment’s rest, barking, taunting, thumping… when it came to marching back to base, D Company could scarcely put one foot in front of the other.
This sort of thing went on for days. They were drilled and driven, ridiculed, derided and marched until their feet bled, then told it was their own faults for not treating their feet correctly. Even Russ in his previous Army life had never met men so callous as those in charge of the camp. Kill, kill, kill, that was what was drummed into them day after day. ‘The sooner we get the job done, the sooner we’re home.’ The brutal routine grew not only monotonous, but very depressing.
‘When’re we gonna start killing some real Germans, Sarg?’ panted Dobson, after disembowelling his millionth sack. ‘I’m getting bloody fed up o’ this. I mean, when they asked for volunteers I didn’t expect I’d be providing work for the sack factories.’ He wiped his streaming brow with a sleeve, needing desperately to rest his legs but having learnt better than to give way to the impulse.
‘Don’t be so bloody eager, Dobson,’ grunted Russ. ‘These sacks haven’t got bayonets, the Germans have.’ He urged the boy on, nostrils flaring at the smell of his own sweat that rose in warm puffs from his tunic with each plod. How much longer? His mind echoed Dobson’s sentiment. The tedium caused his thoughts to return to his family at home. He wondered how Rachel was coping, what her feelings would be if he really were to get shot. The grimly amusing idea came to him that he might never even reach the front; he could quite easily die here without ever seeing the Hun.
By November, D Company had become used to the brutal regime and had resigned themselves to being here for months. This morning they were greatly surprised when told that there would be no training today. But none of them was likely to question their superiors’ newfound compassion. The day was spent footballing, kipping and sifting through Strawbridge’s photographs, which drew much jocular interest. ‘Eh, look, Sarg!’ shouted Dobson, holding a snapshot aloft as Russ entered the tent. ‘Here’s one o’ you looking really intelligent.’
Russ snatched the photograph and squinted at it, seeking himself in the group. ‘Bloody hell, Strawbridge! You’ve made me look a right prick.’ The shutter had clicked just as Russ had decided to blink.
‘The camera never lies, Sarg,’ defended the private, then objected strongly as Russ applied his fingers to the snap, intending destruction.
‘Aw, Sarg, don’t rip it up! I’ve paid good money for that.’
Hazelwood relented, but tucked the offending photo in his breast pocket. ‘You can have it back when this war’s over, Strawbridge. Until then it’s staying out of sight. I’m not having my noble features insulted by this shower. I hope you’ve not got any more with me on?’
Dobson, who was shuffling through the photographs, shook his head. ‘Yours was the last on the film, Sarg. It knackered the camera.’
The sergeant rose to his full height and crooked an intimidating finger. ‘Come here!’
Dobson’s face fell at the tone. Laying down the snapshots, he scrambled to his feet and came to stand at attention before the sergeant. Russ leaned forward and whipped the hat from the soldier’s head. From it he unpinned the regimental badge, then plonked the hat back on skew-whiff. ‘And now, Private,’ came the growl, ‘I’ll have your name tag.’
During this display, the private’s face had adopted a look of horror. ‘Sarg, I didn’t mean…’
‘Shut up! I’ve had about enough of your insubordination, Dobson. I’ll have your name tag, now!’
With sickened features, Dobson unhooked the tag from his neck, while the others in the tent looked on with grave interest.
‘You are incorrigible and worthless, Dobson! What are you?’
‘Incorrigible and worthless, Sergeant.’
‘Correct! Which is why you’re finished here, for good!’
Dobson could scarcely believe that he could be discharged for such a paltry offence – people were always insulting the sergeant. The injustice helped to revive some of his usual grit. ‘What for? I’ve a right to know what I’m being finished for. I’m not off! I’ve done all this bleeding training. I want to stay here!’
‘Oh, he wants to stay here, does he? Lapping it up at Eat-Apples are we, Dobson? Likes being tortured, does he?’
‘Yes, Sarg!’ Dobson became more persuasive. ‘I’m sorry I gave you that cheek. Go on, let me stay… I’ll clean your boots for a month!’
The sergeant became unexpectedly amiable again. ‘Very well, Dobson. I’m not a man without mercy. If you’re so attached to this place you can stay as long as you like.’
Disbelief. ‘I can?’
‘You can… mindst, you might be a bit lonely. Here you are then, you might as well have these back if you’re not coming with us.’ Russ shoved the confiscated articles at Dobson, knocking the breath from him. Then turned away. ‘Right, I want the rest of you to trot along like good little soldiers to the quartermaster sergeant who, in exchange for cap badges, shoulder titles and name tags, will give you each a necklace of little pointed things called bullets. At the double…’
‘Sarg!’ Dobson had recovered his breath and his lifted expression showed he was now aware that he had been the target of the sergeant’s perverse humour again.
‘That’s right, Dobson!’ Russ spoke cheerfully and took hold of him by the ear, to a buzz of anticipation from his comrades. ‘You’ve got your wish at last. We’re off to the front.’
Chapter Nineteen
Bertie had rather enjoyed his convalescence. For the first few days after the shooting he was kept in bed and his mother had stayed home to take care of him. All he had to do was shout and she would come scurrying to fetch whatever it was he asked for. The girls had been most attentive as well – especially Becky. Once again it was her brother and not Charlie who was the hero to be worshipped. Bertie made the most of this by picking at the scab on his wound to have blood seeping through the dressing when his sisters came in from school, and revelled in the tears that would spring to Beany’s eyes when he groaned his agony. The only bad thing about it was having to be in the house all day with his enemy. Of course, Charlie wasn’t allowed into his bedroom, but there came the
day when Bertie was forced to exchange his sickroom for the kitchen sofa. Once he was on his feet, his mother returned to her duties at the shop, relying on Biddy to tend him – though before she went out, Rachel would make a great fuss of seeing her son made comfortable. He would be tucked up on the sofa by the fire with a book on his lap and something nice to eat and Charlie would be told to ‘Stay right away from him!’ Charlie had no trouble adhering to this rule. He had given up trying to be friendly. Whether Bertie had wanted to shoot him or had simply wanted to get him into trouble didn’t really matter – either way it just showed how much Bertie detested him. You couldn’t like someone who hated you so much. Bertie had set everyone against him – even Becky, who had always been his friend. Only Rowena was speaking to him, but even this had to be done in private for fear of inviting her siblings’ wrath. Little Rhona, with whom he had played while the others were at school, now spent her days with Bertie. And though the latter had always scorned the company of females, he certainly played on this when his half-brother was around.
Then there had been the party. Charlie had at first been delighted when Mrs Hazelwood had told him one Sunday that he was to be allowed out to evening Mass with Biddy. The maid had been somewhat put out – Biddy always went to morning Mass, her free afternoon was spent visiting her parents; taking Charlie to church would involve trailing right back here then back into town.
‘No it won’t,’ Mrs Hazelwood had said. ‘You can take him with you when you go to see your parents.’
‘Take him home with me?’ cried Biddy. ‘Sure I cannot. The mammy’ll flay me if I fetch a darkie home!’
‘What nonsense!’ snapped Rachel. ‘The tone of your neighbourhood can hardly be lowered any further than it is. Besides which, it’s high time for him to go out or there’ll be more vicious rumours circulating about my cruelty.’ Rachel didn’t see any point in keeping Charlie confined to the house: all her neighbours knew he was still here; they’d probably seen him when he went galloping round the streets after shooting Robert. She had decided that the best way to tackle this was to let the boy be seen, lull everyone into thinking that all was in order, and no one could report that she was mistreating him, could they? If Mrs Ingram got to hear of his presence, well, Rachel would meet that when it arose.
And so off Charlie had set with Biddy, drawing many curious glances. People actually called their spouses to the window in order to watch him as he passed. A self-conscious Charlie faced the same scrutiny on arrival at the Kelly home, but once the initial moments of suspicion had passed – and the couple had ascertained that Biddy had merely brought the darkie here as a duty – then Charlie enjoyed the chat with Mr and Mrs Kelly. They hadn’t been half as despotic as Biddy had made them out to be. Even more enjoyable was the visit to church, then the trek back through town, during which Biddy pointed out all the things in the shop windows that she would buy if only she had the money. Simple pleasures, but after being cooped up in the house for weeks Charlie felt very warm towards Mrs Hazelwood… until he got home and discovered that it had all been a ruse to keep him out of the way while Bertie had some schoolfriends to tea.
For Bertie, the most important development was that his legs were now clothed like a man’s. His mother had presented him with two pairs of longs. Rachel was relieved to have heard nothing from the police about the shooting and had paid a final visit to Ella Daw, insisting that the gun be kept under stricter guard or she would inform the authorities – though of course this had been a bluff. After this, the two women did not speak again and life just went on as it had done, with no sign that the war would be finished this month either.
* * *
‘What’s that mean?’ Dobson asked his friend Wheatley, pointing at a sign on the railway truck into which they were now being loaded: Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.
Wheatley, who had learnt rudimentary French at school, translated, ‘It means men forty, horses eight.’ He held up his hands, seeking a hoist, and was summarily hauled into the wagon, which was fast filling up.
‘They’ll never fit forty of us in there!’ objected Dobson.
‘Oh, they will, lad.’ Russ came alongside to supervise the entrainment. ‘I hope you’re fond of horses, by the way?’
‘They’re not putting…’ Dobson frowned, then, seeing that the sergeant was joking, made a face and clambered into the truck, grunting as Russ threw his kitbag at him. ‘Forgetting your handbag, Dobson!’
‘I’ve always wanted to travel first class,’ grumbled the private, backing up to allow the last few men on board.
‘Better than marching,’ commented Wheatley, whose feet were still ulcerated from previous neglect.
‘Bloody hell, I think you were right about them horses, Sarg!’ Dobson nipped his nostrils. ‘What a pong.’
‘Oh hang on, I’ll just hop off an’ buy a pint o’ that French scent to alleviate your delicate senses,’ said Russ and, after the last man had been crammed on board, perched his buttocks on the edge of the wagon. He had the best of it here; for those inside it was a terrible crush, there being no room to sit down. He looked down as a small boy tugged at his trouser leg. ‘Tommee! Jig-a-jig, five francs!’
Russ did not need an interpreter for this remark, ‘Bugger off, you little pimp!’ and shook him off.
‘J’ai une belle soeur! Tres, tres belle! Sister, ver’ good jig-a-jig!’
Russ beckoned to the child as if to whisper, then fetched him a stinging blow round the ear. ‘That’s what happens to little swines what sell their sisters!’ As the boy scampered away to solicit another, Russ envisioned his own little girls at home and was about to slip back into his retrospection, when the train gave a sudden lurch and began to groan its way from the sidings. Its wheels growled complaint at the amount of bodies it was forced to pull. Squashed inside the cattle truck, the men waited, cramped and uncomfortable, for it to pick up speed, but it never did.
‘Christ, I could walk quicker than this,’ said Dobson, and to prove his point squeezed between the outer occupants and jumped from the truck to mince alongside. The others laughed – he had already established himself as the jester – as he fell behind and was forced to run and jump back on. ‘Well, nearly!’ He grinned as his sergeant grasped a handful of tunic to drag him back on board. A lengthy grind followed. When the train finally stopped, Lance-Corporal Haines asked if they were there yet.
To which Russ replied, ‘How would I know, since I’ve no idea where we’re supposed to be going.’
‘Well, permission to get off an’ have a pee, Sarg?’
With permission granted there was a mass exit and putteed legs ran to line up against a hedge. Strawbridge captured this on the film he had loaded before leaving Étaples. The train gave an unexpected jolt and was in motion again. The men, seeing it, began a hurried buttoning and started to run back.
‘Sure you haven’t left anything behind in your hurry, Dobson?’ asked Russ hauling one after the other on board.
‘They don’t give you much chance, do they?’ objected an embarrassed Wheatley on facing raucous laughter at his unbuttoned state.
‘The war can’t stop for a pee, lad,’ chided Russ. ‘Oh! and by the way, that reminds me. When we get where we’re going you’ll all be given a piece of string, short arm for the use of. Now I shall expect each man, you as well, Wheatley, to take full responsibility for his piece of string, making sure that it’s the same length as when it started. I won’t tolerate any frayed ends in my platoon. Of course, some of you will require a longer piece than the next man. Are you with me so far, Wheatley?’
‘Yes, Sarg.’ Wheatley’s angelic face looked concerned. ‘Er, what exactly is it for?’
‘I thought you said you were with me? I’ve just told you what it’s for! You don’t want me to draw a diagram, d’you? You should be conversant with standard Army issue by now.’ Russ tutted his exasperation. ‘To tie round your short arm, Wheatley – well, you don’t think the General will allow his men to disappear for a pee halfway
through the battle, do you? Be reasonable, lad.’
Wheatley and a number of other young recruits were nonplussed. Dobson laughed mockingly. ‘He’s having you on!’
‘Am I, Private?’ asked Russ, mildly.
Dobson, with a sideways look at the others, donned a worried expression. Russ winked at a corporal and lit a cigarette, then leaned his back against the timber and waited to meet the war.
The train stopped for longer next time, enabling the men to light fires and cook a billy-can meal. Before eating, Wheatley took the opportunity to revise on the entry for ‘feet’ in his small book. Stripping off boots and socks, he soaked his sore feet in the river by which they had stopped, and worked up a lather with his soap.
‘Oy, Wheatley!’ Private Schofield berated him. ‘I don’t want a head on me tea, thank you very much. Do you mind getting downstream?’
Wheatley apologized but said he must get this done before the train moved again, he may not get another chance. He was glad he had made this decision, for no sooner had he rubbed the insides of his socks with yellow soap and redonned them, than orders came to retrain. ‘I haven’t had a cup o’ tea yet!’ He hurried to relace his boots.
Russ shouted to a particularly overweight man, ‘Jamieson, whip out your titty and breastfeed this bairn.’
And then it was back on the train for another interminable stretch of railway. The banter wore down to the occasional acid comment. Some dozed as best they could. Some pencilled notes for their wives. Others, like Russ, sat silently with their thoughts. When the unbelievable happened and the journey ended, the men spilled out of the truck, rubbing aching limbs and surveying the location.
‘Where’s all the bloody fighting, then?’ asked Dobson.
‘They’ve probably heard you’re coming to stick it up ’em, Dobson.’ Russ narrowed his eyes. There was no sign of the war. He waited for orders.
Orders were to march, which they did for the rest of the day in atrocious conditions. For miles in front and behind him, all Russ could see was khaki heads bobbing. The cobbled roads were not conducive to precision marching. Boots slithered and skidded on the patches of ice, calves became knotted, thighs pulled. On top of this, each man carried a pack weighing the equivalent of a well-grown child.
My Father, My Son Page 30
