Barbed-wire entanglements had been uprooted and tossed aside – like a fey woman discards a necklace – half buried under a layer of bone and tissue and the tons of equipment left by those who had been blown to bits. Human debris, men cut in half by machine-gun fire, armless torsos, bright pink gaping holes, ragged limbs. The horror produced vomiting. Many wept as they came across the bodies of dead pals. In Russ’ dazed estimation there must be six or seven thousand dead within his sight. It seemed, too, as if this destruction had been repeated all along the line, for as he laboured throughout the day, tales of a shambles percolated from other battalions. Though most of the men were ignorant of the true magnitude – sixty thousand of their chums had fallen yesterday; some twenty thousand would not rise. Such butchery would have been unbelievable, even to the handful who had seen it through from Mons, but Hazelwood, gazing out over the endless carnage, had the reality imprinted on his mind for ever.
He turned as the sergeant working with him muttered an opinion, ‘Now I know why they brought us here in cattle trucks.’
Russ moved his head. ‘No… I’ve seen cattle treated with more compassion than this.’ And the grisly task proceeded.
During that day he helped to bury hundreds of his fellows, drifting from corpse to corpse, collecting pay books, sometimes glancing at the pencilled wills in the back of them – ‘To my chum Fred I leave my penknife…’ – before answering the shout, ‘There’s another live one ’ere!’ Piling the dead into shell craters and ruined trenches where the flies sucked their fill and the stench of hot blood drew the bile to his throat.
He never traced Dobson’s body, though he did stumble on the chewed-up remains of Lance-Corporal Heath, Privates Husthwaite and Strawbridge of D Company. Russ gazed down at the latter’s cadaver. A Brownie camera was nearby, spilled from the machine-gun-ravaged satchel. The instrument was shattered, its film exposed in untidy coils. It reminded him of Dobson’s intestines and he staggered away.
Of D Company, Russ was one of only eight unwounded. In all, the battalion had permanently lost sixteen officers and four hundred and fifty men, almost three-quarters of its attacking force.
At midday, Russ ferried yet another screaming victim to the dressing station, at which point exhaustion prompted him to take a rest. With the stretcher disposed of, he lit a cigarette, tried to unclamp the jaws that were welded together by tension and closed his eyes. He took fierce drags, his mind seeing young Dobson’s body, but transposing it with the face of his own son. When he opened his eyes and glanced to his right, a ragged collection of German prisoners was trickling in. Oddly, he felt no desire to kill them now, felt only self-disgust for his mad spell of bestiality. The day before yesterday he would not have believed himself capable of such evil. His only thought now was: poor buggers, they’re getting it as much as we are.
The prisoners were deposited nearby. After a moment’s perusal, the sergeant wandered over the blood-caked ground to sit beside one of them, proffering a cigarette. The enemy’s acceptance was warily grateful. His black-nailed fingers quivered as they placed the Woodbine between his lips, awaiting the Englishman’s match. A long exhalation, then an appreciative nod. The enemy surveyed the shambles with eyes that were dead and, gesturing with the cigarette, said something in German. His meaning was clear. Russ took a long drag himself and nodded disgustedly, ‘Bloody crackers,’ while the cries of the wounded blended together into one inhuman howl that lent him a glimpse of hell.
* * *
While the battle continued around him, Russ spent the next two days ferrying the badly wounded from Basin Wood to Euston Dump where they were collected by ambulance. On the fourth day of July there was a tremendous downpour which flooded the trenches and almost drowned the numerous stretcher cases that lay in them, as yet unattended. It was with real gratitude that the sergeant and what was left of D Company marched to their rest area that night… though they took part of that dreadful place with them; along with the darts of mud on their boots clung tiny fragments of their comrades.
Alas! there was to be little comfort here either. Russ had just sufficient time to write to Dobson’s mother and underline a printed sentence, ‘I am well and unwounded’ on a field postcard for his wife – she wouldn’t care, but he thought it best to tell her after the last cock-up – before the company was ordered to stand to in expectation of a German attack. Consequently, the men who arrived at their new sector were far from rejuvenated, and the mounds of unburied bodies that lay putrefying in the summer sun sparked off murmurs of insurrection over ‘That bloody butcher, Haig,’ who had sent them into this abattoir.
The fact that so many regiments had been almost wiped out meant a period of reshuffling. Hazelwood, those officers who had been left out of battle and the remainder of the battalion, were linked with survivors from different regiments and also a batch of conscripts. In other words, thought Russ bitterly, a set of mongrels. It followed, then, that the men under his charge could no longer be enthused by regimental pride. Add this to the huge slaughter most of them had witnessed and any motivation they might have had was reduced to nil. Hazelwood’s new platoon was not alone in these feelings, and field punishment, instead of being isolated, became the order of the day. Far from subduing the mutinous mood, it served to intensify the men’s anger. Russ had a devil of a time keeping them in line. Gone was the camaraderie experienced before the Somme. The sergeant felt unable to rely on any of these men who were, in effect, strangers and owed him no loyalty. Even harder to enthuse were the conscripts who didn’t want to be here at all. And, oh God… he did miss little Dobson.
There had been few decorations handed out for that first day of July, mainly because there were few officers left to witness acts of gallantry. Somehow, though, Lieutenant Daw had been among those honoured. His shallow wound was healed now. Today in some muddy field he was receiving a medal for his infiltration of enemy lines with only a handful of men at his disposal. He had also been granted a captaincy and appointed command of Hazelwood’s company. Thank God he wasn’t receiving his medal at Buckingham Palace, thought Russ. Rachel would have a seizure. The handful of men who had helped to earn Daw his medal had got recognition too, but as far as Russ was concerned they could stuff their medals. All the sergeant yearned for was sleep. After the savagery of that first day on the Somme, the normal pattern of four days in the front trenches was no longer operable and they had been in this same position for weeks on end. Russ was nearing exhaustion. Thus, his temper was constantly being tested, as it was today.
‘Where’s that bloody Piltdown Man?’ he bellowed to his lance-corporal, a veteran like himself, which gave them some sort of affinity. The private in demand, Jewitt, was nicknamed for his habit of vanishing underground at every opportunity.
Lance-Corporal Holmes peered to right and left, then gave a snort of annoyance. ‘I’ve just this minute dug him out o’ the bloody pit, Sarg. No sooner you turn your back than the little sod’s back in there. I’ll go an’—’
‘As you were!’ interrupted Russ impatiently. ‘I’ll go. I’ve had enough o’ that little skiver.’ Jewitt was one of the more recent conscripts. He had been appointed company pioneer, whose job it was to empty the biscuit tins that served as latrines. Far from turning his nose up at this, Jewitt deemed it a cushy number, a licence to keep him away from the firing line. Russ was forever having to reprimand him for his vanishing acts. ‘Talk about the bloody Missing Link.’
Jewitt, however, was not in the latrine area. The sergeant stormed back up the trench that had been dubbed Windy Passage, ducking his angry face into every cubbyhole as he patrolled the network of trenches. ‘I’ll bleeding kill the little scrimshank! Lonsborough, have you seen Piltdown?’
Though Lonsborough denied knowing Jewitt’s whereabouts, the sergeant knew at once that he did. ‘Come on out with it, Private!’
There was an awkward silence, then, ‘I think he’s gone to see his pal, Sarg.’
‘Aw, that’s nice,’ said Russ casually
. ‘Where does this pal live – bleeding Scarborough?’ He asked the name of Jewitt’s pal.
‘Private Hopwood. He’s in the Cat and Cabbage,’ divulged Lonsborough, referring to the York and Lancaster Regiment. ‘On field punishment.’
Russ spun on his heel. ‘Jewitt’ll be joining him if he deserts his post again – and so will them that cover up for him!’
Instead of sending someone to fetch the boy, Russ went personally. The prisoner on Field Punishment Number 1 was a pitiable sight. The youngster had been lashed to a howitzer by his wrists and ankles. His position among a group of trees afforded no solace, for the heat of the sun bore through the leafless branches. There was a constant buzz of flies around his head. Unable to lift a hand to brush them away, he could only loll his head from side to side and shudder as the insects crawled into his ears and up his nostrils. The sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and sparkled on his brow, his damp hair sticking to it.
Private Jewitt uncorked his water bottle and, with a quick look about him, applied it to the dry lips. His friend had been standing here for one and a half hours. With his legs spread and lashed to the hot metal, it was agony. ‘Here you are, chum.’ Jewitt tipped the water bottle gingerly, allowing a drop of water into the parched mouth whilst keeping an eye open for the guard. His stance was one of furtiveness – not simply because he was out of bounds, but because this was Jewitt’s natural pose. His shoulders had a permanent stoop that even an RSM could not unbend. Maybe it was an attempt to make himself less conspicuous, for he was very tall and thin. If so, then it was unsuccessful – made him look even more conspicuous than ever; when this crouch was twinned with Jewitt’s foxy eyes it epitomized slyness. And this of course made him a target for every NCO.
‘Jewitt!’ Russ came striding into the clearing, the effect of his voice bringing the water bottle away from the prisoner’s face and splashing the front of his vest. A guilty Jewitt prepared for the roasting… but the sergeant’s eyes were for the prisoner. ‘Bertie!’ He rushed forward and cupped filthy hands to his son’s face. ‘Oh Christ, Bertie! You daft little… Here, let’s get you untied! Oh, lad…’ Impatient fingers picked at the knots in the rope and all the while he struggled to release his son he talked to Bertie, asking what he had done to warrant this.
Freed, Bertie put his feet together and rubbed his wrists. ‘I shot the captain.’ At his father’s look of astonishment, he added bitterly, ‘Oh, don’t worry – only in the foot.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ breathed Russ, envisioning Wheatley’s body being dominoed by bullets. He looked more carefully at the boy – no, not a boy, thought Russ. Those eyes had seen the realities of war, his body drilled to that of a man’s and his mother’s pudding-basin haircut sheared into regulation style… ‘How did it happen?’
Bertie looked away, massaging the ache in his shoulders. ‘We were off over the top the day before yesterday. I got the wind up and let me gun off, put a hole in the captain’s foot.’ He wanted to laugh at the memory of the officer dancing about but he wouldn’t whilst in his father’s presence. ‘I thought he was going to shoot me.’
‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ The guard sergeant appeared from nowhere. ‘Who’s untied that man?’
‘Man? Man!’ Russell’s temper came to the boil. ‘Has no bugger got eyes in their head round here? This lad is thirteen years old…’
'Fourteen!' yelled Bertie. ‘I’m bloody fourteen! You don’t even know!’
‘I asked who fuckin’ untied him!’ bawled the guard sergeant.
‘I fucking have!’ Russ yelled back. ‘He’s my son! He shouldn’t even be in the Army, let alone trussed up like this!’ The other swore again. ‘And I’m expected to know how bloody old he is, am I? Come on, you!’ He grabbed Bertie. ‘We’d best have this out with your CO.’
‘Hang on!’ Russ put a hand out, then removed it at the look it produced on the guard sergeant’s face. ‘Just let me have a word with him, will you? Please,’ he added more politely. With the other’s consent he tried to clamp reassuring hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, son. We’ll get this sorted out with your CO and you’ll be off home.’
Bertie shrugged the hands off. ‘I don’t want to go home!’ Oh, he did, he did, away from the blood and the noise… All he wanted was to sink into his warm bed and have his mother tuck him in and smooth his brow… but Charlie would be there.
A frustrated Russ thumped his son’s arm. ‘Well, you’re bloody well going! Your mother must be grey with worry.’
‘I don’t see too many grey hairs on your head, Father!’
Russ took control of his voice. ‘Listen, it’s me that’s been trying to find you, showing everybody your photograph. See!’ He fumbled for the snapshot to illustrate how much his son meant to him. ‘I’ve been carrying it around with me since you ran away, hoping somebody might recognize you, hoping to God I’d find you before you got hurt.’
Bertie delivered a nasty laugh. ‘Hoping the picture would remind you what your son looks like. Do you carry his picture round too?’
In a fury, Russ tore the photograph to shreds and scattered the pieces. ‘Sod the picture! I don’t need that to tell me who my son is!’ His tone became earnest. ‘Bertie, you know how much I think about you, always have. I understand what a shock it must have been to find out about Charlie, but I don’t look upon him as my son – you’re my son… I love you, Bertie.’ He snatched an embarrassed glance at Jewitt, who ran a hand over his neck in the same manner and distanced himself from the pair. The guard sergeant was not so compassionate and made a point of listening to every word.
But Bertie didn’t care who was listening; he didn’t want to listen himself. Turning to the guard sergeant, he said, ‘I’m ready to go.’
Russ exhaled, all his spirit emerging with that breath. ‘I’ll see you before you go home then, Bertie.’
‘I don’t have a home now,’ replied his son. ‘You destroyed it.’
Completely deflated, Russ watched the boy limp away beside the man, then turned on Jewitt. ‘I’ll overlook your skiving this time, Private, seeing as how you were helping my lad… You won’t say anything about this, now?’
Jewitt promised he wouldn’t. He had been rather surprised to discover that his sergeant possessed human emotions. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t a clue he was your lad or I would’ve let you know before. He told me they called him Hopwood.’
Russ grimaced. ‘As you may have gathered, Private, me and my son don’t get on too well. How come you know him, anyway?’
‘I don’t really,’ admitted Jewitt. ‘We just came over on the same boat. I felt sorry for him ’cause he told me…’ he broke off, as it clicked that the man Hopwood had spoken about in such derogatory terms was the sergeant.
Russ guessed. ‘He told you all about his troubles at home. About Charlie as well?’ When Jewitt asked if this was the coloured boy, Russ gave a tight smile. ‘I trust you won’t repeat any of what he told you, Jewitt, otherwise…’ He didn’t finish. Jewitt, acting hurt, said that the sergeant didn’t need to use threats; he had never broken Hopwood’s confidence.
‘I never saw him again till we were sent to this place and were billeted near to each other. He seemed a quiet lad, didn’t have much to do with anyone else.’
Russ fingered the redundant pieces of rope. ‘And what about this?’
‘I only learnt about it by accident. Overheard two blokes talking when…’
‘When you were skiving in the bog.’ Hazelwood nodded and, after poking at the discarded pieces of photograph with his boot, began to walk away. ‘How many times have I told you it’s the most dangerous place to be? There’s nowt Jerry likes better than a sitting target. One o’ these days…’ With a heartfelt sigh, he told Jewitt he was going to ask Captain Daw to have a word with Bertie’s CO. ‘You get back to your section – and keep out of that bleeding lat!’
* * *
Bertie did not complete the rest of his punishment. After his CO had
been acquainted with his true age he was given a ticking off, officially discharged and ordered to return to Blighty. Before his son left, Russ went to visit him. The atmosphere between them was still that of a brick wall.
‘You promise to go straight home and not re-enlist?’ pressed Russell.
‘Why should I do that?’ Bertie’s experience of war had terrified him, but he managed to hide it very well. ‘I only joined because I thought you were home for good.’
‘Oh Bertie…’ Russ gave a helpless gesture. ‘It’s tearing your mother apart, all this bad feeling.’
‘And who’s responsible for it, Father?’ shouted Bertie.
‘I am… I know that…’
‘Oh, good!’
Russ saw that he would never have his son’s forgiveness, could only be grateful that he had found him and he was now going to safety. ‘Ah well… goodbye, Bertie. Give my love to your mother and the girls. I’d be grateful if you’d do that much for me. It won’t cost you anything and I might not live to give them it myself.’ He had hoped that the thought of his father’s death might sting the boy to repentance. But Bertie’s expression never even wavered. ‘Maybe Charlie will be out of your hair by the time you get home. I wrote to the priest last year and asked him to arrange for the boy to go to boarding school, I can’t say what’s come of it because your mother never writes to me. But I think we can assume that he’ll have gone by now. So, you see, you won’t have to get on with him at all. Take care of your mother. She needs a man to support her. Tell her not to worry, if I should happen to get any Blighty leave I’ll spend it with Aunt May down in Gloucester, I shan’t bother her again.’
My Father, My Son Page 43
