My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  But there was support from the locals who came out of their cottages to cheer and shout, ‘Vive les Tommees!’ and press gifts into their hands and make them feel like victors without ever having fired a round – though some of them balked at the kisses from the male population. A girl shouted something at Dobson, who demanded a translation from Wheatley.

  ‘She wants a souvenir.’

  ‘Be generous, Dobs,’ japed Corporal Popely. ‘Give her your virginity.’

  Five hours later they were still marching, desperately tired. It was even more miserable now that the sun had gone down. ‘D’you think they’ve forgotten to tell us to stop, Sarg?’ panted Dobson, dragging his feet. ‘When’re we gonna get to this bloody war?’

  ‘We’ve reached it, lad,’ grunted Russ from parched mouth. Despite his fatigue, Dobson showed alertness and asked where. ‘Listen.’ The private made proper use of his ears. There was a faint rumbling.

  ‘Guns?’

  Russ nodded, not betraying the shudder of apprehension he felt. Dobson formed a grin and looked triumphantly at his friend. ‘Well, here we are, Wheaters old mate!’

  But on receiving orders to stop, he could not help a twinge of disappointment. He had imagined there would be some sort of demarcation line to highlight the fighting, but this didn’t look any different from the places they had been before.

  ‘Oh, you were expecting a signpost saying “The Front”, were you, Dobson?’ scoffed Russ as the weary men of D Company entered the barn that was to be their billet.

  ‘I expected there’d be a bit more action than this,’ groused Dobson, unhooking his pack and slinging it down. He made a sudden grab at Wheatley’s arm. ‘Help! Hold me down, I’m floatin’.’

  Wheatley and some of the others also commented on the giddy feeling that the removal of their heavy packs had brought about. ‘I feel as if I’m a fairy dancing six inches above the ground.’

  Russ gave a tired groan. ‘Nay, don’t say that, Wheatley, these lads’ll never dare sleep.’

  Young Dobson was still hanging onto his friend when he gave a cackle and pointed from the open front of the barn. ‘Eh, I’m bloody seein’ things! It’s a number nine bus!’

  ‘Bugger me,’ muttered Wheatley in annoyance.

  ‘If that’s an invitation, Wheatley, I’d just as soon decline,’ said Russ. ‘It’s an imprisonable offence… come to think of it, having to live with you lot night and day is like serving a life sentence.’ He peered out into the starry night. Sure enough, a green bus was rocking its way up the road they had just slogged along – and behind it trundled another. ‘Bloody typical! You wait hours for a bus then they all come at once.’

  * * *

  Dobson didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Morning had just brought the news that this wasn’t the front after all. The boring chores continued, the whole day after their arrival being spent digging trenches – which was maddening, as there seemed to be no purpose in this, and even more maddening to be within hearing distance of the guns yet be unable to be part of any real soldiering.

  After a couple of days they were marched fifteen kilometres to another town. During the march, snow began to fall, making the pavé even more treacherous. But their spirits remained high despite the cold: at last, this was ‘it’… It wasn’t. They found themselves in more billets; this time, a girls’ school. At first this was viewed as consolation, until they found out that all the mesdemoiselles had been evacuated.

  The morning after their arrival, as there didn’t seem anything better to do, Russ decided to have a stroll round the town. It gave him an excuse to be on his own, gave him time to think what he was going to do when this was over. It was a nice place, with quaint streets and houses. It could have been some English town, not a war zone. However, his solitude was not allowed to continue for long. As he reached the gates of the girls’ school, he met up with some of the men from his platoon – Dobson, Wheatley, Jamieson and Strawbridge with his camera – and paused to wait for them, coming out of his meditation as they hailed him. ‘Oy-oy! What you lot o’ bloody scavengers been up to?’

  ‘Just seeing the sights, Sarg,’ replied Dobson cheerfully. ‘Eh, it’s a dead ’oile is this. I hope we won’t be here for long.’

  The sound of thumping boots interrupted the dialogue. Instead of entering their billets, they turned their eyes along the road and were met by a strange sight. A band of men trudged wearily towards them. Men? ‘Brigands’ would have been more apt. None of them had seen a razor for weeks – months, by the look of some. Many sported full beards. Their clothes were covered in mud. Only a handful wore caps. All had greasy hair which curled over the collars of their greatcoats. Their eyes were dulled by overwhelming fatigue… but the most shocking thing about them was that under the mud they wore khaki.

  ‘Blimey, they’re ours!’ breathed Dobson as the men drew nearer. ‘Scruffy-looking sods.’ Rags flapped where puttees should have been. Filthy scarves muffled filthy faces.

  As the band of misfits reached the watchers, one of them shouted to his companions, ‘We must be in Savile Row – take a gander at these toffs.’

  The group, headed by a sergeant-major, came to a halt and viewed the others with derision. ‘Must think they’re going on parade.’

  One noticed the plaque that said this was a girls’ school, by which Dobson was poised. ‘Christ! they’ve run out of soldiers, they’re sendin’ bleedin’ schoolgirls now.’ To reinforce this opinion, he winked and puckered his lips at Dobson. ‘Eh, Mam’selle, voulez-vous givez mois une little kiss?’

  Dobson bared his teeth and took a step forward, but Russ gave a low growl of command. The sergeant-major, a Cockney, continued the barracking. ‘Are you happy, lads? That’s the main thing.’

  ‘Quite happy, Sar’nt-Major,’ replied Hazelwood lightly.

  ‘Well, we can fucking soon alter that,’ quipped the other to much laughter.

  The brigands drew round and pressed them for cigarettes which, being outnumbered, Russ and his men had to surrender. With this friendly act, the ruffians gave up their sport to ask the others how long they had been in France and how things were at home. It turned out that these were survivors of the original BEF – the Old Contemptibles – and what tales they had to tell when they and the newcomers met up later over several bottles of wine. Russ watched the faces of his young companions as the tales of butchery and disembowelment were bandied back and forth. He should have known better than to let these old sweats frighten him, they were probably making half of it up, but still…

  Just before the end of November the order came for the battalion to march again. They had been fooled into thinking that this was ‘it’ so many times that today there was little air of excitement – except for when Second-Lieutenant Reece, in command of 5 Platoon, slipped on a patch of ice and someone cried that he’d been shot. It turned out that he had broken his arm, leaving Russ in temporary command of the platoon.

  March, march, march. Five, ten, fifteen kilometres, slithering and sliding up the icy paved road. They stopped only once to pick up sandbags, corrugated iron sheets, rolls of barbed wire and digging implements from a Royal Engineers’ dump. It was almost dark before they reached their terminus… almost, but not quite dark enough to deprive Dobson of his first glimpse of a dead body.

  ‘Eh, look at that!’ The bloated carcass of a horse lay at the roadside, still attached to the cart it had pulled in life. It looked like a lead toy lying on its side, all four legs sticking straight out. Wheatley, his freckles conspicuous on a face paler than normal, tapped his friend wordlessly and gestured. Near the upturned cart was another corpse, who viewed their march past with sightless eyes, teeth bared in a rictal grin.

  The soldiers’ mood changed. Russ sensed this and observed gruffly, ‘Don’t worry, lads, you’ll see plenty more, I don’t doubt.’

  The nearer they got to their objective the truer these last words became. Scores of dead peasants cluttered the verges, the ruins of their cottag
es still smoked, flames flickering round scorched timbers. Marching became more hampered by the mounds of rubbish and shell-holes that pocked the road. Suddenly, a particularly tall soldier issued a squawk of complaint as something cut into his neck.

  The Captain looked back to gauge the cause of the din. ‘What’s going on back there, Sar’nt-Major?’

  Sergeant-Major Copley replied, ‘Sorry, sir. One o’ the men got tangled in the field telegraph.’

  ‘Well, make sure they take more care,’ came the answer. ‘It’s bad enough these Hun shells destroying our communications without our own men doing it.’

  ‘Sir!’ The sergeant-major turned to the culprit. ‘Bodley, keep your head down, you big long streak o’ piss. If you want to hang yourself I’ll lend you me braces.’

  After this the men became more alert and every so often a wave would ripple through the column as men ducked to avoid another wire. Puffs of debris had begun to litter the evening air, air heavy with the smell of graphite. The crump of the big guns grew louder. Wheatley, his former jauntiness supplanted by caution, asked, ‘Where are we?’ as they were ordered to halt and await instructions.

  ‘The Devil’s larder,’ said a voice greatly familiar to Russ, who spun around to encounter his old neighbour.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Sergeant.’ Daw delivered the taciturn greeting, shell-bursts causing an intermittent gleam in his eye.

  Hazelwood’s gaze had flickered over the other’s Sam Browne before he replied, ‘Sir.’

  Daw asked where he would find the Company Commander.

  ‘Captain Capstaff’s up there, sir.’ Russ pointed up the dark road. Daw left the temporarily dumb sergeant to seek out the captain, after which the order came to load magazines. There followed the sound of many rifle bolts snapping into place. Russ peered along the road to watch the murky passage of Daw and the captain, wondering how the former had achieved his new rank and imagining how Rachel would sniff disparagingly and offer some acid remark. It was bloody marvellous! All the tens of thousands of men and he had to meet up with the one he didn’t want to see.

  With his small group joined with the newcomers, Daw set off at the front of the column and led it through a ruined collection of farm buildings, the captain at his side. The night darkened further. Russ plodded on with the others, hoping that Daw was not to be a constant presence. However, he was spared the ordeal of having to speak to the man again, at least for tonight. After walking for a couple of hundred yards the column took a detour through a cabbage field. The ground between the rows of vegetables was extremely muddy and there were continual grunts as men skidded and fell over.

  ‘What’s that funny noise?’ Dobson asked. It sounded as if there was a beehive nearby.

  ‘Stray bullets,’ replied Russ. The familiar whine had reached his ears long before Dobson’s, immediately conjuring images of the veldt… and that of course produced thoughts of Charlie.

  ‘Crikey!’ Wheatley ducked.

  Russ came out of his dream and glanced at the boy. ‘No good walking like a bloody cretin, Wheatley. If your name’s on it it’ll turn corners to get you. Exciting enough for you now, is it?’

  Dobson swore as he slipped for the umpteenth time. ‘God, what a stink! These cabbages are bloody rotten.’

  ‘Don’t be givin’ us that!’ shouted Jamieson. ‘It’s you who’s farted an’ you’re trying to pin it on the poor bloody cabbages.’

  The stench of the field was quite appalling, inducing physical sickness in a few. All of a sudden, a brilliant white light burst upon the sky. Against its glare appeared the outline of scuttling figures and ruined farm buildings, sharp silhouettes of war. Then the rocket sank to earth, plunging everything into blackness more intense than ever.

  There followed stifled gasps of surprise as the leading men, their sight impaired by the magnesium flare, fell headlong into a dark slit in the earth. This turned out to be the firing trench. Orders were given for the men to fan out and inhabit the trench. Wheatley jumped straight in, incurring the wrath of those nearby, for the floor of the trench held several inches of freezing cold water.

  ‘Christ! Don’t they know how to dig trenches round here?’ Dobson, who considered himself to be an expert at entrenchment, wiped the muddy splashes from his face, whilst still wrinkling his nose at the smell. ‘They could’ve picked a sweeter place to dig it.’

  Young Captain Capstaff wandered up then. ‘I’m sorry about the conditions, men. We’ll see if something can be done about it tomorrow.’ Though he was only nineteen and fresh out of officer training school, the captain had the confidence of one much older and a fatherly air towards his men, which had endeared him to all under his command. He knew every man’s name and treated them with fairness – even friendship, earning himself the affectionate nickname of Old Catcrap. After giving orders for sentries to be posted, he told the remainder they could snatch a wink of sleep.

  The men of D Company squelched up and down the waterlogged trench, looking for somewhere dry to sit, but were resigned to spending the night with their bodies leaning against the wall and their feet embedded in slime. All was comparatively calm but for the periodic bursts of light. The wartime sky was strangely beautiful. Russ swore that he hadn’t seen anything so impressive since attending a firework display on Bootham Asylum Fields for Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. A German star-shell burst overhead, thrusting out its tentacles of blinding light to grope the inky backdrop. Russ gazed up at the shimmering arachnid until it petered out and was replaced by another, and another. His comrades watched too, held by the beauty, until Schofield let out a squeak. ‘Aagh, summat ran over me hand!’

  Everyone came to life. Dobson darted a finger at a scuttling shape. ‘Eh, it’s a rat! Look, there’s another!’ The animals’ eyes shone red in the sudden flare of light, looking incredibly evil. The boy looked round nervously. ‘Hell, they’re all over!’

  ‘God love us, Dobson.’ Russ closed his eyes and tried to assume a more comfortable position. ‘What’s the Boche going to think of an army what’s scared of a few rodents? Now shut your mouth and let us get some sleep.’

  The men of D Company shut their eyes… but few slept.

  * * *

  When dawn came, Dobson discovered the true source of the stench – not rotting cabbages but rotting men. He gave a wail of alarm as his heavy-lidded eyes came open to find a human hand under his nose. The noise alerted his comrades, who jumped into attacking positions, then stared dumbly at the limb which protruded from the wall of the trench, hand cupped as if begging for alms. It was clothed in the blue uniform of a French soldier.

  There was united paralysis until Russ squelched up, grasped the muddy hand, shook it firmly and said, ‘Bong jour! Can vous tell nous the way to Berlin?’ and the platoon emerged from its shock.

  ‘Crikey, have I been using that as a pillow?’ marvelled Dobson. ‘The poor lad.’

  ‘He won’t mind, Dobson,’ replied the sergeant casually. ‘Better that than the other way round. Look, there’s dozens of the poor sods up there.’ The soft shafts of light fell on more patches of muddy blue. The bodies of the fallen had been used by some enterprising soul to revet the walls of the trench. Might Russ, one day, be used as building material? He understood now the presence of the rats which still scuttled about completely unafraid… which was more than could be said for the men.

  But their unease was soon overcome by curiosity: just whereabouts was the enemy? Several of the men poked their heads over the parapet. The view was quite pleasant if one ignored the shattered outline of the town which stood on a ridge some couple of hundred yards away. As their eyes travelled back down the grassy slope, they fell on a dark line of rucked-up earth that was the German front trench. Dobson felt the hairs on his neck prickle at the thought of his enemy only a short distance away. This was what he had been waiting for. Why then had his limbs become jellified?

  A figure appeared in the gap beside Russ. It was Daw. He made instant address of the curi
ous ones. ‘Shake your heads!’ Puzzled at the odd command, they nevertheless carried it out. ‘Still connected to your shoulders, I see.’ The second-lieutenant’s face was droll. ‘You stupid sods! If you keep sticking your heads up like that they bloody soon won’t be. Fritz must be havin’ his breakfast or he’d’ve sent a few bullets over. Sergeant! I want to see every man on the firing step, bayonet fixed and ready for him if he comes.’

  As the men snapped into action, Daw turned to face his neighbour. ‘All right, Sergeant? Have a good night?’

  Russ replied with a simple, ‘Yes, sir.’ Daw nodded and was about to move off when Russ added, ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  His old pal looked back to see if this was genuine, which it appeared to be. He gave a nod of acknowledgement and an explanation of the new rank. ‘Field commission, about a month ago.’

  ‘What company are you with, sir?’ Oh, Rachel, if you could hear this!

  ‘As of last night I’m with this company – this platoon, in fact. I’m replacing Lieutenant Reece.’ Jack saw the shadow pass over his neighbour’s face and made a caustic addition. ‘If that’s all right by you, of course, Sergeant?’ His testiness sprang from the fact that up until last night he had been acting company commander; all the officers in his own outfit had been killed in a recent skirmish, as had a great deal of men. The survivors had been ordered to join up with these new arrivals. Consequently, Daw reverted to his former rank.

  ‘It’s fine by me, sir,’ replied the lance-sergeant quietly.

  ‘We’re not going to experience any difficulty working together, are we, Filbert?’ Jack’s droopy eyes looked down enquiringly.