by Janet Tanner
“A conchie?” Ted repeated, puzzled, and the other sniffed loudly.
“That’s what you are, ain’t it? One of them conscientious objectors the Derby Bill’s pulling in?”
Ted was surprised the man didn’t know it was much too early for the first conscripts to be in France, and that conscientious objectors were among those exempted anyway. Suddenly he felt annoyed to be classed with them when he had volunteered.
“A conchie? No, I’m not!” he retorted vehemently. “I was quite looking forward to a bit of action.”
The cooks looked at one another as if they thought he was weak in the head, and he went on, “ What time are we moving out of here, anyway?”
The cooks exchanged another look, and he laughed. “It’s all right, I’m not a Gerry spy, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just wanted to know, that’s all.”
There was a stirring of movement in the officers’ tents, away to their left, and the cooks busied themselves once more.
“Two o’clock, conchie. Now bugger off,” the fat one hissed at him.
Feeling strangely flat, he walked back to his own tent, and by way of compensation, he allowed himself the luxury of thinking of Rebecca.
What was she doing at this moment? he wondered. Still in bed, perhaps, her face rosy and innocent above the sheets. Or scurrying about the big house, getting Miss Rachel’s clothes ready for her and running her bath.
To his dismay, he found he was unable to conjure up a clear picture of her features, and he stopped outside his tent, sliding his wallet out of his pocket and opening it so that he could look at the photograph she had given him.
“Come on, lad, that’s enough o’ flaming that!” From behind him came the heavy tones of the sergeant-major. “There’s work to be done. This is a bleeding war, you know, not a Sunday school outing.”
Ted snapped his wallet shut, smarting under the sting of authority. It was what being in the army was all about, he supposed, but he didn’t care for it too much.
As the wintry sun got up, the distant shelling became more intense, and again Ted found himself prickling with frustration. With no first-hand experience of fighting, he felt no fear, only impatience to join in the scrap that was going on on the other side of the hills, and earn the badge of comradeship that would make him one of the lads.
When the company assembled for roll-call, he was shocked, however, by the number of gaps in the line, and by the matter-of-fact explanations of absence that were barked out by former comrades.
“He were blown to bits. I saw it with me own eyes,” a sandy-haired man explained when one name was called.
Ted listened with a sense of growing outrage. This calm acceptance of death, spiked sometimes by anger but never by grief, was something as far outside his experience as the shells that soared and whistled on the other side of the hill. How could a man talk so casually of a mate whose life had been so cruelly and wastefully wiped out?
Later, however, marching with the others of the new draft to set up a new camp a mile or two further back from the line, he began to understand.
Out here, death was so commonplace that, if you didn’t treat it matter-of-factly, you would never be able to face another day. It was talked about as much as any other everyday occurrence—for that was what it was.
But the indifference was only a defence. Beneath it, blood ran icy cold, and stomachs churned. A soldier could still feel sick through and through, but he mustn’t show it.
For the first time, Ted wondered if warfare in the trenches might be less of an adventure than he had imagined. But as the days passed and the noise of the guns became more distant, his impatience began to return.
The war had eased a little on the British front, it was said, although there was still fierce fighting on the French lines at Verdun. But it seemed to Ted his company was continually on the move, no sooner getting themselves established in one camp than they were moved on again.
The days were spent marching along slushy roads, heavily weighted down by kit and taking turns in pulling the gun-carts, a painful job if it ran too close to your heels, but a chance, at least, to dump heavy kit on the cart and march free for a time.
At night they slept sometimes in barns where the straw was infested with hen-fleas, or sometimes in billets in evacuated villages that reminded Ted of the ‘ghost towns’ he had seen portrayed in countless Western film shows at the Palace Picture House. As he looked at the gaping windows and abandoned treasures, he had the feeling of moving across time to a different world, especially when one night they billeted in a ruined chateau where the walls on three sides stood tall and elegant and on the fourth the moon illuminated their sleeping faces over a pile of snow-covered rubble.
New recruits joined them, fresh-faced lads who made Ted feel old although he had never yet seen a shot fired, and when they began to march again, a rumour rustled through the ranks that they were heading for a railhead to be entrained for the Front. But the hiatus continued, with only drill parades and practice attacks to remind Ted he was a soldier.
Wherever he went, Ted made friends. Although he had not been able to speak a word of French when he first stepped off the boat, he soon found ways of communicating, and he, Redvers and Wally often found themselves invited into a French farmer’s parlour for a glass of ‘vin rouge’ or—if they were lucky—a tot of brandy.
“I think he had his eye on you to make an honest woman of his daughter,” Redvers joked after one farmer had plied Ted with drinks.
“And she weren’t too bad, neither,” Wally added. “If you was to creep out of your billet tonight and round to her bedroom window, I reckon you’d be all right there, lad.”
Ted laughed, but he knew, and so did they, that a bit of fun was as far as it would go. Some of the men were going overboard for every woman in sight, even leering after dowdy matrons they would never give so much as a second glance to at home, and the VAD nurses from sheltered homes were being almost eaten alive. But for him, no other woman existed but Rebecca; and he much preferred to spend his recreation time in an estaminet, smoking one of his precious cigarettes, drinking the local concoction of apples and potatoes that was known as ‘ champagne’ and playing pontoon, or crown and anchor.
By the end of January, they were within reach of the lines again, billeted in a half-deserted mining village, and for the first time he felt homesick. Although the dusty buildings were brick-built, and the familiar black batches were referred to as ‘slag heaps’ by the other men, it gave him a strange feeling to think of the coal seams beneath his feet. He had a sudden longing to see the great wheels turning, and feel the rush of air against his face that came when a cage dropped beneath the level of the earth.
He said as much to Wally as the two of them stood in line waiting their turn for a change of shirt and underpants. “We none of us knew when we was well off, lad,” he said mournfully. “But we shan’t have time to think about it much from now on, if it’s right what I hear. They’re starting carrying parties up the line tonight, so I reckon we’ll soon be seeing a bit of action.”
“Carrying parties? Carrying what?” Ted asked.
“Gas cylinders. But you know what that’ll mean, don’t you? We’ll have to wear gas-helmets, and you can’t breathe in the bleeders. I hate ’em.”
Ted did not answer, merely moved up in line, unbuttoning his dirty shirt and stripping it off. He didn’t care for gas-helmets, either, but he was excited by the prospect of some action at last, and he hoped he would soon be detailed for one of the working parties.
That night, when darkness had fallen, he and Wally were amongst those who were sent from the billet on the three-mile march to the British trenches.
It was a bitterly cold night. As they waited to set off, they stamped their feet and sang a chorus or two of ‘Mademoiselle from Armetiers,’ but when they had been loaded with the poles, one between two, on which were slung the gas cylinders, they had no breath left for singing. The cylinders dragged them dow
n so that their boots felt like lead weights in the mud, and the carrying poles cut into their shoulders.
“This is a bleedin’ mug’s game, in’t it?” Wally grumbled, but Ted was determined not to be depressed. Hard work and discomfort had never bothered him, and he strode out as boldly as his mud-caked boots would let him, savouring every moment of the new experience.
As they approached the trenches, it was fairly quiet. Most of the men had pulled out to their dug-outs, leaving only observers and a cover of gunners, and although the occasional shell lit the sky, Ted had no real premonition of disaster. He and Wally followed the pair in front of them to the fire-trench where they were to dump their load. It startled them both to realize they were so close to the German lines that they could actually hear Gerry in his trenches.
The pair of men in front of them dumped their load and turned aside; now it was their turn. Easing the pole on his shoulder with palms that were sweaty in spite of the cold of the night, Ted followed suit.
It was as he turned away from the trench that he saw it—an elongated shell that seemed to appear from nowhere and curve with incredible grace across the sky.
For a moment he watched it, mesmerized. It looked as if it would overshoot by a mile and come to earth harmlessly somewhere in the wilds of the country behind the line. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, some instinct of self-preservation took him in its grasp.
With a yell to Wally that was muffled hopelessly by his gas-mask, he leaped for the safety of the slit trench, tumbling on to his hands and knees and rolling over. He never saw the sausage bomb come to earth. He only heard it, and felt the earth tremble and rock as it exploded, showering him with clods of dirt and stones.
Half-stunned, he lay motionless, his face pressed into the mud. “Christ, that was a close one,” he muttered to himself, and at the same moment he thought of Wally, who had been close behind him when he had leaped for safety.
He raised his head a little, turning towards the bay, and saw to his horror that the ground where he had been standing seconds before was now a gaping crater.
Shaking, he scrambled up, holding on to the rough sides of the slit trench and steadying himself with hands that were scratched and bleeding.
A stretcher party from one of the dug-outs pushed past him, almost knocking him over. He opened his mouth to shout Wally’s name, but no sound came out. Within moments he was leaning against the wall of the trench, retching. Beside him, one of the younger lads was crying softly from fear and shock.
Someone else was swearing. “ The bastards. The bleeding bastards. You don’t know where the sods are going to land.”
Again Ted lurched forward, hitching up the khaki that he felt had been almost torn from his body, then stopped, horrified. Right in front of his eyes, the stretcher party were gently lifting the remains of what had been Wally Gifford from his muddy grave. His face was almost unrecognizable, his features blackened and bloody, and his legs had gone.
Ted took a step towards them. “ Let me … he’s my mate…”
But the stretcher party were in command, grimly efficient where shock had left him weak, and they brushed him aside.
“There’s nothing you can do. Leave ’im …”
Ted, recognizing the truth, let them go. But sudden anger consumed him.
Senseless, it was, bloody senseless. What had they gained, those sodding Germans? They’d killed one bloke, one good bloke, and they weren’t a fuck closer to winning the war. Let him get hold of them—just give him the chance, and he’d kill the bleeders with his bare hands …
“You lucky sod, Hall. How d’you do it, hey? By rights you ought to be on that stretcher an’ all!”
The comment, at Ted’s elbow, brought him out of his trance, and he felt his flesh crawl.
By Christ, he’d done it again—been so close to death that it had missed him only by a whisker. But missed it he had. Why, now he came to think of it, he was hardly touched.
It was almost as if something, or someone, was looking after him.
Chapter Eighteen
One day in the spring of 1916 Rupert Thorne contacted Alfred Church at the Co-operative Society offices.
“I wondered if I might come to see you, Uncle,” he said in the affected drawl he liked to use on the telephone. “Under the present circumstances, I’d like to talk to you about our … arrangement.”
“What present circumstances?” Alfred asked.
“I think it might be easier to discuss it face to face,” Rupert said smoothly.
“I see,” Alfred said, his mind racing.
Since the previous Christmas when he had written to Rupert, outlining his plans for his future with Rebecca, things had slipped effortlessly into gear. First, the two men had met to discuss the settlements Alfred was prepared to make if Rupert married Rebecca, and Rupert had accepted his suggestions more readily than he had dared to hope. Rupert had been so enthusiastic Alfred had realized that, quite apart from the settlement, he found the idea an attractive one.
But now, hearing the guarded note in Rupert’s voice, he found himself wondering anxiously if some snag had arisen. And if Rupert, in spite of having taken his money, now wanted to back down.
“When did you want to come?” he asked. “I’m very busy at the moment. But I could spare an hour tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, Uncle. That would suit me very well,” Rupert said, and put the telephone down.
For a moment, Alfred sat frowning at the receiver. As he had told Rupert, he was very busy at present. He had recently bought himself a motor car, so there was no longer any need for him to live within walking distance of the Co-operative offices. Immediately he had mastered the gears and steering, he had begun looking around for a house out of Hillsbridge.
He soon found one, six miles out into the country on the Bristol road, and now he was embroiled in all the problems of buying and selling property and moving his household from one place to another.
But busy as he was, if Rupert wanted to see him, then time must be found for him. The ‘arrangement’ was of the utmost importance to both of them. Alfred fervently hoped the request for meeting did not mean. Rupert was getting greedy. If so, he would have to draw his attention, very gently, to the paper he had signed, and point out how awkward it could be for him—and his career—if he should become known as a man who could not be trusted to keep his word.
Rupert arrived the next evening riding a motor cycle combination.
Paid for with my money, I suppose! thought Alfred as he watched the young man come up the path looking like the grounded pilot of a flying machine. But he greeted him with just the right amount of pompous warmth, keeping his suspicions to himself.
“Come in, my boy! Take his jacket, Winnie—and his gloves. And will you have some refreshment after your journey, Rupert?”
“Thank you, Uncle. A small brandy, perhaps.”
“Certainly, certainly. We’ll take it into the parlour with us so we can talk.”
When they were alone, he turned to Rupert expectantly.
“Well, my boy? What did you want to see me about? There’s nothing wrong, I hope. I should be most disappointed if…”
Rupert gulped at his brandy, the only sign he was nervous.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Uncle. I was wondering if you might agree to bring the date of my wedding forward.”
“Forward?” Alfred was so surprised he almost choked on his drink.
Rupert nodded earnestly. “I know you think Rebecca is very young, and I’m not qualified yet, but … I don’t think I can wait, Uncle.”
A slight smile twisted Alfred’s mouth. He remembered being young and impatient too well.
“The flesh is weak, Rupert. I understand.”
Rupert looked puzzled. “ The flesh? Oh, I see what you mean. But that’s not the reason.”
“It isn’t? Then what?”
“You’ve heard about the Derby Bill? Conscription for men between the ages of eighteen
and forty-one? I fall into that category. I think I may be liable for service in France.”
Alfred set his glass down heavily. “ Forgive me, Rupert, I hadn’t even thought of that. Conscription. And you don’t want to go.”
“It would set my career back no end.”
“Of course, of course.”
“But if I were married, I’d be exempt. For the time being, anyway. It’s only single men being pulled in at the moment.”
“So you want to bring the wedding forward. Well, Rupert, I don’t know. There would have to be a proper period of betrothal, and Rebecca is away at present.”
“Couldn’t you get her home?”
Alfred considered “ Possibly. We shall be moving soon to our new house at High Compton. Rebecca would be well away from … yes, perhaps it could be done.”
“I do hope so, Uncle. It really is very urgent.”
He nodded, and topped up both glasses from the brandy decanter.
“There is just one thing, Rupert,” he said after a moment. “ I have never told Rebecca about our ‘arrangement’. She knows, of course, that I have always hoped you and she would one day marry, but that is all. I thought that any serious approach would be better coming from you—as a young man’s natural approach to courtship. I am sure I can rely on your discretion in this matter. You do understand what I am saying, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Uncle.”
“And you will treat her as a young woman should be treated if a man wishes to marry her?”
Rupert raised his glass, and above the rim, his eyes were narrow with anticipation.
“You can be sure I shall do my best to please her, Uncle,” he said smoothly.
REBECCA heard the news that she was to leave Wycherley from her Aunt Amelia.
“I’m to go home? But why? Why?” she asked.
“I really couldn’t say, Rebecca,” Aunt Amelia snapped. After taking the trouble to arrange employment for her niece, she was annoyed that Alfred was removing her again so abruptly. “All I can gather is that your father has moved house, and wants you at home.”
