‘Can’t see any, sir.’
‘Good.’ Daw walked away. He was to return some fifteen minutes later, assisting the captain to dole out the rum ration. Just as the group reached Hazelwood’s section a sound like thunder came from the sky. The hand tipping the rum jar paused as the roar passed over. Most ignored it, holding out their canteens, until a deafening crash signalled the shell’s landing some two hundred yards to the rear. Only then did the novices realize what was going on and some cowered in alarm.
The boy captain resumed his pouring. ‘Don’t let it put the wind up you, chaps. It’s the poor devils back there who’re getting it.’ Even so, they did get the wind up, and with little to do after their meagre breakfast but maintain the trenches, their minds began to analyse the situation. It was left to Dobson to put into wry comment. ‘I think this is going to be risky, you know.’
After digging sumps to drain the water from the trench, they tried, throughout the morning, to get a fire going. But it was still far too marshy. Hence, they lunched on bully and cold water. Their legs began to ache due to constant standing; only when darkness came round did they gain relief, jumping out of their pit and running up and down to restore circulation.
Again, sleep was sketchy. By the third night the drinking water had run out and their only means of getting more was to line the sumphole with sandbags and catch the rainwater that trickled down the mud walls. All were thoroughly miserable. Was this what they had been brought here to do? Captain Capstaff saw the despondency in his men and tried to lift it by sharing out some bars of chocolate sent by his parents, telling them, ‘We’re all in the same boat, you know, chaps.’ At which, Dobson picked up two pieces of wood and, with a rowing motion, began to splash along the trench, singing, ‘Jolly good boating weather…!’
The young captain laughed and, satisfied that he had done his duty and bolstered morale, squelched away.
The men savoured their chocolate squares and nodded. ‘He’s a grand bloke is the Captain.’
On the fourth night, by now dog-tired, they were relieved and fell back to dugouts. Paradoxically, it brought them within closer range of the German shells, which at times seemed to explode on top of them, so there was scant chance of sleep here either. They did, however, manage to light a fire and have a hot meal: Russ dug up a couple of turnips on the march; they made a palatable mash. The next night they left the firing line altogether and marched back to billets where, utterly exhausted, they fell down and slept until very late the next morning.
Their awakening coincided with the delivery of a sack of letters and parcels. There was nothing for Lance-Sergeant Hazelwood, but that came as no shock to him. Though he had written many letters himself none had been answered. Dobson, the only other man not to receive any mail, was disappointed and hurt.
‘I know she’s mad at me for joining, but bloomin’ ’eck, she could’ve replied to my letter. I mean, doesn’t she know what we’re up against?’ Miserably, he watched the others opening their mail and unwrapping tins of sweets. ‘Not even a sherbet bloody sucker.’
‘It’s your own fault for being a naughty boy,’ the sergeant told him.
‘What’s your excuse then, Sarg?’ demanded a resentful Dobson.
‘I’ve been a naughty boy an’ all,’ was the gruff reply.
After a few days’ rest, D Company was sent at night to form a covering party for soldiers from another battalion who were digging a new fire trench. Dobson groaned his frustration until, finding himself out in No Man’s Land with no other cover than darkness, the reality of this sank home: here they were, lying on their stomachs in the open with nothing to hide behind but a rifle. Every time a flare shot up to the heavens, so the terror clutched at their throats and they would await the sickening rattle of machine-gun fire, while the working party behind froze into statues until the Very light died away. Added to this, artillery shells from both sides constantly whizzed overhead and stray shrapnel pattered in the grass all around them.
Lying as they were about fifteen paces apart, there was no way that conversation could take their mind off things. This didn’t matter so much to Russ, who had other things to occupy his mind than the Germans. Dobson, however, found the sense of mortality quite alarming and, inch by inch, shuffled closer to the sergeant until he was almost on top of him. ‘Sarg?’
‘Dobson, get back where you belong!’ The private had made Russ jump.
‘Sarg… are you scared?’
‘Course I am, you clot!’
‘Oh… good.’ Dobson had been most disconcerted to find he wasn’t as brave as he thought he was. He made no move to resume his former position.
Russ gave a snort of exasperation as Wheatley’s outline appeared next to Dobson’s. ‘What are you two – Siamese twins? Get back up there, both o’ you.’
‘I couldn’t see anybody,’ explained Wheatley nervously. ‘I thought you’d gone and left me.’
‘Now there’s a good idea…’
Russ turned his head as Daw’s voice floated down the line. ‘Sergeant, you’re supposed to be providing cover for those men back there, not playing Sardines.’
Bloody sarcastic sod, thought Russ, and was still chivvying the two privates back to their posts when another voice piped up, seeking permission to visit the latrine. ‘No, you bloody can’t, Schofield! Make use of your piece of string.’ Another puff of white breath hit the night air. ‘It’s not string I need, Sarg, it’s a bung.’
Russ sighed. The whizzing bullets did have a loosening effect on the bowels. ‘Go on, then, but don’t make a meal of it.’
‘It’d be no worse than the rations we usually get,’ grumbled someone.
‘Ho, ho, Jamieson – and will you all bloody get back to your posts!’ The line of men seemed to have concertinaed. Most did as ordered, but Wheatley lingered. ‘Did you hear me, Wheatley?’
The boy was trembling. ‘I can’t move, Sarg.’
‘You’ll move quick enough with my cat-stabber up your arse – Wheatley, I have given you an order!’
Just then another Very light flooded the sky, illuminating Schofield as he trotted off to relieve himself. A hail of gunfire crackled out. The terrified men in the working party, instead of standing still, fell flat on their stomachs. So did Schofield, yelping in pain.
Wheatley shouted, ‘He’s hit! Schofield’s hit!’ Hazelwood caught the hysterical tone. ‘Keep your napper down, Wheatley, else you’ll be hit an’ all!’ He pressed a hand to the boy’s neck, forcing him down, but Wheatley struggled and managed to leap free. Before the light died, his fellows saw him throw down his rifle and scoot off like one possessed.
‘Wheatley, come back here!’ hissed a frantic Russ. Then, ‘Oh, soddit!’ he sprang up and raced after the boy.
‘Sergeant, get back to your post!’ barked Daw over his shoulder.
But Russ ignored him, leaping over the half-dug trench, careering across the muddy field in pursuit of Wheatley. Another flare ignited the sky. Russ heard Wheatley scream, saw him fall. With a groan, he hit the ground himself, using his elbows to pull his body along before darkness enabled him to rise. Finally he reached the shell-hole where Wheatley had capsized. He slithered over the top and down to the bottom as the glare came again, reaching Wheatley. There was not a mark on him.
‘Wheatley, you little shit!’ Coated in mud and furious, Russ grasped the sobbing boy’s lapels. ‘Do you want your mother to hear you died a coward?’ He shook the terrified soldier. ‘Hear you were shot by your own side for deserting your comrades? Do you? Do you?’
‘No!’ screamed Wheatley, then blubbered, ‘But I’m frightened, Sarg. Oh! Oh, bloody hell I didn’t know it’d be like this!’
Hazelwood slapped him across the face. ‘Shut up! Pull yourself together. You’re a soldier. You’re going back with me.’
The heat of Wheatley’s ‘No!’ hit him full in the face. ‘They got Schofield – I can’t!’
‘You frigging can! They haven’t touched Schofield. I’ve just s
een the bugger, he hasn’t a scratch.’ This was mostly true; the private was in a ditch with a wrenched ankle. ‘Wheatley, I won’t have own goals in my platoon. If you’re gonna get shot it’ll be by the bloody Hun – now move!’
With great caution, Russ emerged from the shell-hole, dragging the petrified boy after him and, at an awkward crouching run, returned to a severe grilling from Second-Lieutenant Daw.
The next morning when D Company assembled for roll-call, Wheatley had gone.
* * *
He was picked up twenty-four hours later, cold, hungry, wide-eyed with fear and returned to his unit. Russ spotted him outside the CO’s quarters and instantly went over to him. ‘You dozy little devil… what did you do it for?’ At the lack of answer he took out a flask which held several measures of rum he had saved from his rations and passed it to Wheatley. The boy cupped shaking hands round it and drank with gratitude until it was snatched by his guards.
Wheatley wiped his mouth with his cuff, his eyes amber spheres set in wax. ‘What’s gonna happen to me, Sarg?’ He tucked his blue hands under his armpits and shivered.
Hazelwood repossessed his flask, making light of the offence. ‘Ah, probably a bloody good dressing-down. Old Catcrap’ll put in a good word for you. I shouldn’t worry too much about it.’ Yet, haunted by the memory of that bloodstained tree at Étaples, Russ himself felt apprehension over the query. He decided to go and see Daw.
Jack, seated on a crate in his sandbagged lair, was scribbling in a book. ‘They’ve found him, then?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Russ. Then, when there was no information about what was to happen to the recalcitrant, he added, ‘I don’t suppose you could forget about Wheatley’s bit o’ panic the other night?’
‘Failure to obey orders, you mean.’ Daw kept his eyes on his writings, giving the occasional lick of his pencil.
‘He’s only a lad, sir, and it was very frightening.’ Russ detested having to grovel like this, but he would do so for Wheatley’s sake.
‘He’s a man, Sergeant, and we all get bloody frightened, but a fat lot of good we’d be if we all went haring off at the first sign of shooting.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but it wasn’t as if he was letting anybody down. There were plenty of us left to cover the digging party.’
Daw turned a page and drove his pencil on. ‘You’ve heard the little rhyme about the war being lost for want of a horseshoe nail? We all depend on each other, Sergeant. We can’t have men running off willy-nilly while others stay to fight.’
He’s enjoying this, thought Russ angrily; enjoying seeing me beg. ‘No, I’d agree with that, sir. But Wheatley’s got enough on his plate with this spot of AWOL without…’
‘AWOL?’ Daw looked up now. His face was incredulous. ‘This is war, Sergeant! In my book, the word is “desertion”.’
‘And you always adhere to the sodding book, do you?’ hissed Russ, in his concern forgetting the other’s rank. ‘He could be shot!’
‘Quite possibly.’ After this laconic statement, the lieutenant threw him an interested glance. ‘And so could you, Filbert. You heard my command to stay at your post, yet you ignored it… Anyway,’ he went back to scribbling in his book, ‘I didn’t mention that when I made my report to the captain.’
‘Oh, so kind!’ said Russ, bitterly insolent.
His attitude irked Daw. The pencil was tossed aside and he laced his fingers over the book. ‘Why the great concern, Sergeant? Is he another one of yours?’
Hazelwood’s eyes hardened even further at this sarcasm and he took a step forward. ‘You… that’s no more than I’d expect from you! You couldn’t give a bugger about any o’ these young lads – after all, they’re only bloody vermin, aren’t they, Jack?’
Daw snapped the covers of his notebook together and slammed it down. ‘Stand to attention when you’re talking to an officer, Sergeant!’
After the briefest opposition, Russ squared his shoulders, but his mouth retained its mutinous angle.
‘Now, let me put this to you,’ said Second-Lieutenant Daw tightly. ‘If you were in a dangerous position and you had a choice to make between me or Wheatley as your back-up, which one would you choose, I wonder?’ Russ’ eyes answered for him. Jack stared into them for a long time, then said smartly, ‘Now go and prepare your men, Sergeant! There’s some lads in a corner in a place called Eeprez. We’ve been ordered to give them support.’
When Russ walked past the commanding officer’s quarters again, Wheatley had gone.
* * *
‘Do they have Christmas where you come from, Charlie?’ The children were grouped around the kitchen table, making decorations out of gummed and crêpe paper. Bertie sat apart, favouring the sofa with his mother, who was stitching a hat. Evening was the only time she got to do this now. It was she who responded to the last question.
‘Oh Robina, what silly things you say!’
‘Why do I?’ demanded her daughter with a flourish of her rag-bound hair.
‘Don’t ask me! Sometimes I wonder if you belong to this family. I can’t ever foresee you passing your scholarship.’ Rachel turned the hat around in order to accomplish a neat finish. ‘All this disruption is going to affect your chances of passing, too, if it goes on.’ She was addressing Rowena now. The disruption to which she referred was the occupation of the schools by the military. Since the ninth of December, the juniors of Scarcroft Road School had been transferred to Castlegate School, which was quite some distance away. As if this wasn’t inconvenient enough, the school hours had been reduced. One advantage of this chaos, however, was that no one seemed the slightest bit concerned about Charlie’s education. Rachel had heard nothing from the NSPCC nor any other body.
‘But why is it a silly question?’ Beany persevered.
‘Because Christmas is everywhere,’ answered her mother. ‘Biddy, pass me the scissors.’
‘Why is it?’
‘Oh, really!’ An exasperated Rachel shook her head. ‘Get on with those paper chains or they won’t be finished by next Christmas.’
Beany contorted her mouth – Mother always changed the subject if she couldn’t answer a thing.
It was then Becky’s turn to address Charlie. Now that her brother was mended, she felt able to speak to the other boy again, though she was more careful not to show any favouritism. ‘What’s Christmas like in Africa?’
Charlie shrugged, his tongue travelling the gummed strip. ‘The same as here.’ His eyes rested momentarily on the child’s hand, which still bore the scar of the scalding. Though he was participating in a family occupation, in no way did he belong to that family – the scar was there to remind him of that. Oh, they were back on speaking terms with him, but it was in a very conservative manner. One relief was that he was now allowed to go to Mass regularly with Biddy. Mrs Hazelwood didn’t seem too bothered who should see him now, although Charlie knew he must never go into the front parlour when she had a caller.
Father Guillaume had written on his arrival in Belgium, suggesting that Mr Hazelwood arrange some schooling for the boy. But Rachel, who naturally had opened the letter in her husband’s absence, had said it was pointless if his stay was only temporary, and anyway, if she had entered him at school there were bound to be questions over his parentage and she was certainly not going to suffer all that again. She did, however, allow Charlie to get books from the library, so that in between studying and helping Biddy round the house, life was not quite so stale.
‘But do you have snow?’
Charlie gave a negative response, hooking the ends of the gummed strip through another. ‘It’s very hot.’ He thought of it then, experiencing a pang of homesickness, and wondered if Father Guillaume was feeling the same way. He longed for another of the priest’s letters.
Becky wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll bet it’s not very Christmassy without snow.’
‘It’s not snowing here,’ Rowena pointed out.
‘I know… but it’s cold, isn’t it?’ The walls of
the yard were furred with frost. ‘I couldn’t imagine Christmas in the sunshine.’
‘But when you think of the First Christmas,’ said Charlie, ‘it wouldn’t have been snowing then, would it? I mean, Jesus came from a hot country like me.’
Beany cocked her head. ‘Then why wasn’t he brown?’
‘Put the kettle on, Biddy,’ Rachel interrupted. ‘We’ll have cocoa.’
Charlie, seeing that the maid was in the middle of a stack of mending, jumped up. ‘I’ll do it!’
‘Oh, Mona!’ Beany turned to her mother in annoyance. ‘Mother, she’s gone and licked all the sticky stuff off the paper – look!’ She displayed a large pile of damp strips.
Rhona delivered her excuse. ‘Well, I like the taste.’
‘You know what glue’s made of,’ murmured Bertie, shaping his own decorations from card and tissue paper. ‘The skelingtons of dead horses – you’ve just licked off a whole dead horse.’
Rachel chuckled and broke her thread, holding the finished hat aloft to examine it. Robert had recovered well from the shooting and with plenty of cosseting seemed almost to have returned to his normal self. The absence of his father had probably helped. Though doubtless Russell would upturn everything when he came home. ‘Make the most of it, my girl,’ she told Rhona. ‘It may have to serve for Christmas dinner the way things are going. The price of things… I don’t know how we’ll make ends meet.’
‘Maybe Aunt Ella would show us,’ said Becky, receiving a quizzical look from her mother. ‘How to make hen’s meat,’ she illuminated.
‘How many times have I told you, that woman is not your aunt!’ Rachel remained hostile to her neighbour.
Charlie finished measuring the cocoa powder into each mug and then mixed it to a paste. After pouring on boiling water – Mrs Hazelwood had started to conserve milk lately – he dropped a saccharin tablet into five of them and carried them to the table on a tray. ‘Could someone move that pile of paperchains, please?’ Becky did this, enabling him to put the tray down. ‘Where do you want yours, Bertie?’
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