Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  ‘Schnell,’ the elderly soldier said again, hitting Jack with his rifle butt. Jesus, it hurt. There was shrapnel in that shoulder, too. ‘Jack,’ warned Auberon. ‘Do nothing. Just keep going.’

  Each step hurt, jogging his wounds, light though they really were, and his head felt full to bursting. He glanced over at Simon. ‘You doing all right, lad?’ Simon was helping Roger, who was limping and groaning. Jack dropped back, took Roger’s weight. ‘Go ahead, stay with the boss.’

  He heard Auberon’s laugh as Simon nodded. ‘Aye, bloody heavy, he is. Almost a dead weight, but when isn’t he? How much of it is real, Lord knows, but he’ll be stabbed if he falls.’

  Jack grunted. ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  They struggled on, mile after mile, and three of the Lea End lot were here too, Jim, Dave and Mike, and they took turns to help lug the batman along, soon to be joined in the effort by Auberon, which astonished the uhlans. It astonished the prisoners too, the long stream before and behind them. Roger seemed almost unconscious, though there were few visible wounds. As their sergeant, Jack shouldered the lion’s share of the waste of space. It seemed a good penance for capture. The shame of his surrender hurt him more than the shrapnel.

  On they slogged, through the dusk and into the night, and now Roger was a dead weight, requiring two to drag him along. Jim and Jack took their turn as the guards alongside were joined by horse-mounted uhlans now with lances, who jostled them as they marched, the bits and bridles jingling in the pauses between shells. ‘Jack,’ warned Auberon, as he lifted his free arm to beat back a lance. He continued to put one foot in front of the other but his stomach thought his throat had been cut, so hungry was he, so thirsty too.

  He hitched Roger up, but young Dave had caught him up. ‘Give over, Sarge, I’ll have him for a bit. Mike’ll take over from Jim.’

  Jack slipped back one pace, keeping his eye on the uhlans, easing himself out just a foot so that he’d be nudged by the bloody great horse, not the lad. On they plodded, lit by just the moon. He could hear the clink of the horses’ bridles, the guns, coughs, curses, a muttered conversation. Jim behind him was saying, ‘Never thought I’d be here. Thought I’d be in bits, or home. Not this.’

  Jack hadn’t thought it either, he’d known he’d die fighting, but to be lying there in mud and stink, looking up into the eyes of the enemy holding a bloody great bayonet at his throat . . . Why hadn’t he fought, God dammit? He’d done nothing except shake his head, try to make sense of it, his ears whooshing, his head thick and stupid. He’d done nothing except struggle up, then look around, and finally his hand had gone to his knife. It was then Auberon had given his order. It had been the right one. The Huns would have killed the lot of them.

  Soon he took over with Roger again, and Si took the other side, but Auberon dropped back, his face drawn in the weak moonlight, the snow falling. ‘I’ll take him now.’ He pulled him from Jack. ‘Never thought this would happen. Never, ever.’

  ‘You heard my thoughts, Aub.’ He walked alongside his officer.

  ‘That’s right, Jacko.’ They laughed quietly. The marching didn’t stop. The prisoners opened their mouths, letting the sleet, for that was what it was now, moisten their throats. At last, at midnight, they were halted and herded into a wheatfield, its emerging shoots and soil chewed by stray shells. There were shadows in the distance, probably trees. There was barbed wire, higher than a man, being snagged on to makeshift posts by the guards to corral the column.

  ‘Water? For the wounded?’ Sergeant Major Dawson asked. The guard shook his head. ‘Nein.’ The prisoners sank down into the dank earth. Near Jack there was a youngster, his head on his knees. His sniper’s badge was visible in the moonlight. Jack inched across and ripped it off. The lad jerked awake, his face tear-stained. ‘Hey,’ he yelled. Jack hissed, ‘If they see that, they’ll more than likely shoot you. Spread the word. Machine-gunners, snipers, hand-bombers, get rid of the badges.’ The lad was no more than eighteen, if that. Jack pressed his shoulder. ‘Poacher back home, eh, got a few rabbits with an airgun? Did well myself. Stay with us. It’s better in a group, always. Where’s your section?’

  The lad inched back with Jack and settled down next to him. ‘Overrun. Charlie’s my name. I’m a gamekeeper, well learning to be. B section, North Tynes.’

  Some of the men had carried injured pals on groundsheets. Auberon asked for water. Two buckets were brought, having been filled from the animal trough. There was nothing else, except the water that would have been present at the bottom of the shell holes, and God knew what else was down there, or who else, or how many. Jack looked round: there must have been over eighty men in the field. Auberon was sitting nearby with Simon. Roger was lying at their feet. Jack said, ‘Had to be a boss who got us water.’ Auberon laughed. ‘Just open your mouth, Jack, and let something in, instead of letting moans about the bosses out, just for a change.’

  Simon laughed. ‘That’ll be the bloody day.’

  Roger moaned. Auberon sighed. ‘Where are you hurt?’

  Roger muttered, ‘It’s my feet, I’ve got blisters.’

  At this no one said a word, but when they were rousted again at dawn Auberon ordered that he walked, or he fell. ‘It’s up to you, Private.’ They marched, or straggled, along straight roads, with poplar trees and grazing land either side. As they fell out at midday, another group of prisoners caught up. A voice called, ‘If it isn’t the poor bloody infantry.’

  ‘It’s Tiger, and more from the North Tynes. Over here lads, let me make sure you behave,’ Jack called. Tiger was ragged, bloodstained, and it was clear he had fought well. Only four out of thirty of the Lea End Lot were prisoners, or at least, prisoners here. Some might have survived and be back at the lines. God, Jack hoped so.

  After two days of being jostled repeatedly by the uhlans who rode the line, pushing in with their horses and lances, they were herded into a barbed-wire square in a field so far behind the lines that it was untouched by shells, and the sound of war was quieter. Not quiet, but quieter.

  Here, as on the last two nights, teams were organised on Auberon’s orders to dig latrines. Who wanted typhus to add to the situation? As the men dug, supervised by the sergeants, who were supervised by Sergeant Major Dawson, they were gawped at by German soldiers on their way to the Front, poor buggers. Jack could barely look them in the eye, so deep was his shame. As he supervised the men on fatigues he pulled out his tin of roll-ups which he’d managed to shove into a rip in his waistband just before he was searched. He smoked as the men dug. ‘I thought I’d die fighting,’ Dawson laughed grimly. ‘Never thought I’d be here, like this. Glad I haven’t a mirror, couldn’t look myself in the face, I couldn’t, but the missus’ll be happy.’

  Jack had been trying not to think about home, Mam and Da, Evie, Tim, Millie, and especially not about Grace. They would know nothing, or perhaps they would have been told they were missing presumed killed in action.

  He dragged the smoke down into his lungs, and looked up at the sky as he exhaled; the stars were bright, there was little cloud. Where was Grace? He heard Simon singing. ‘Nein, nein,’ came the order The singing stopped. Near the far end of the field he could see the officers grouped together. Some men were walking the wire, searching for weaknesses, but there was no way out, Jack and Auberon had already checked.

  ‘Dismiss,’ Dawson ordered. The latrines were finished, and the men limped back, their shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Jack walked the wire again. A German soldier patrolled, coming towards him. He gestured with his rifle. Jack stepped back. The soldier beckoned him forward. Back and forward again. He laughed. Jack didn’t. He was gestured back again. Jack stood still. The soldier lifted his rifle, cocked it. Jack still stood. Auberon appeared from nowhere, standing in front of Jack, saying in German, ‘I am his superior officer, you will withdraw, you will show this sergeant the respect his rank deserves.’ For a moment none of the three men moved, then the German walked on.

  Auberon clapped Jac
k on the shoulder. ‘The Germans respect rank, unlike you, my lad. No need for thanks.’

  Jack smiled. ‘None given, sir. But thank you.’

  They marched the next day, still thirsty to a point where they could have groaned, had they the moisture in their throats. It had been drizzling overnight and raining with the dawn, and close to midday the rain stopped, and the sun emerged. They steamed in the sun. They had not eaten for three days but there was a war on and no one cursed their captors; they understood.

  At thirteen hundred hours they walked and limped through a village and then into the outskirts of a town, before they reached a railyard. Jack’s wounds were infected, but whose weren’t? Engines huffed and puffed as they edged along the track. One halted and German soldiers streamed down the ramps from the carriages, staring at them. Some were marched off, but a small group were gathered up and marched to the Uberleutnant who was in charge of the prisoners. He was an old man, but it was the uniform the troops respected, and the salutes were smart. Within half an hour all the sergeants were called to a wagon and handed cards to be given out to their men. They were to list basic details of name and battalion and say that they had been captured and were not injured. This would be true, because the wounded had been carted off in trucks the day before. The cards would be forwarded to Britain via the Red Cross, and in due course food parcels would be sent, their own officers told them. It was this information that cast a hush over the men, because it hit home that this situation was not a temporary one; it would last until the war was won, or lost.

  Jack hunkered down, drawing out his pencil, feeling bleak and despairing and wondering how he would survive his shame. Simon said, ‘Evie will be pleased, she’ll want me safe.’ Jack said, ‘And you?’ Simon nudged him, grinning. ‘Better than the alternative, isn’t it, bonny lad.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Aye, you could say that.’ But he knew that he never would speak or think those words. At that moment, he missed Mart more than he ever had.

  Dry biscuits were given out as the men were formed into squares of forty, Charlie staying with Jack, and a bucket of clean water was dispatched to each group. Jack nodded his thanks to the German who brought theirs. In an open field there was none but trough water and the Germans, no more than the British, had wands to wave. Everyone understood.

  The cards were collected. An engine arrived pulling cattle trucks. The wheels screeched as it ground to a halt. The air was full of smuts and the smell of sulphur was similar to that of Auld Maud. Jack smiled and saw that Auberon and the Lea End lot were grinning too. They exchanged a nod. ‘Home from bloody home,’ he could hear Mart say, as loud as though he was here. Steps were brought and they were gestured up into the trucks, forty to a truck. Jack heard Auberon being ordered by Major Dobbs to travel with his fellow officers, but Auberon shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with my men. I have one in trouble, my batman. If you don’t mind, sir, of course.’ The major turned away, red-faced with rage. Roger had not stopped grumbling since he had had to walk on his own, even though Auberon and Jack had hauled a stocky branch from a hedge and passed it to him to use as a walking stick. He still grumbled as he limped up the steps.

  They travelled with no water, or food, and only one excrement bucket, not knowing when it would end, or where they were going. They feared it was Germany. Jack sidled across to Auberon, who was hunkered down as far from the bucket as possible. It had been on the point of overflowing until Sergeant Major Dawson and Corporal Vance had hoisted Jack up to the small barred window at the end of the first day. He had tipped out the contents, but the wind had thrown back a good percentage all over him. He smelt like a cesspit and to save anyone else having to undergo the same trial and have more soldiers stinking, it had become his job.

  ‘I don’t remember volunteering to empty the bucket, sir,’ Jack told Auberon. All they could hear was the clattering of the train. The sound of the guns was fading with every mile as they powered away from them.

  Auberon was sitting with his arms on his knees. Charlie was beside him in the same pose. Jack and Auberon had taken him under their wing. ‘In the army volunteering is not a decision you necessarily make yourself, Jack.’ Auberon grinned, so did Charlie.

  Jack sat as close to his captain as he could. ‘I expect you’re rethinking your response to Major Dobbs, aren’t you, sir?’ he murmured. Auberon nodded, his face as filthy and drawn with tiredness as the rest of them. ‘You’ve read my mind, Sergeant, now perhaps you’d move away, at least a fraction.’ They were both laughing. ‘You are no violet, and I simply fail to believe that I couldn’t smell burning onions at one point, so sensitive does my nose seem to be now.’

  Jack inched as far from him as possible, but came up against the corner. He had moved barely six inches away, but better than nothing, or so Auberon seemed to think. Everyone else had left a circle around them, preferring close proximity rather than the smell of Jack. Auberon had clasped his hands together, and Charlie followed suit. Jack smiled to himself. Auberon muttered, ‘I wonder if Ron Simmons has a sense of smell?’ Jack made no reply. ‘What must they be thinking?’ Auberon said. ‘They’ll have been told Missing in Action, believed killed.’ They lapsed into silence, listening to the rackety-rack of the wheels on the track. ‘What will they think when they know?’ Jack murmured.

  Two day later they were all herded into a transit camp, but it was in Belgium, not Germany. They had thought something was amiss because the sound of artillery had grown louder and louder again. Unknown to them they had been rerouted back to where labour was needed, Auberon had discovered. As they detrained, they could see flashes in the dusk. It was chaos at the camp: captured soldiers, French, Indian and British, were all milling about. Jack stripped and had bucket after bucket of fresh water thrown over him by Simon, Charlie, the Lea End lot who were delighted to get their own back for the Fordington rout, and Auberon. Jack then doused his uniform, shivering.

  He dressed again, in soaking clothes, but what else could he do? He lay in the old pigsty they were allotted, on the bare ground, and shivered all night. In the morning it was still damp and cold, though it was only drizzle that fell. They were told they had to start work immediately, the officers too. Major Walker, Dobbs’ friend, spluttered, ‘This is against the Hague Convention.’

  The officer in charge said, through Auberon whose schoolboy German was improving with each day, ‘Once in your proper camp, rules will be observed. Here, there are no rules. Officers will work. No one expected so many of you, so many months of war. We have no proper place. You must work.’

  The major replied, through Auberon, ‘We should not help your war effort.’

  The officer sighed, and broke into English. ‘You are filling in roads, you are not handling munitions. Work.’ He was as tired, worn, drawn, as the Allies were.

  ‘You will transport munitions over those roads,’ Major Walker protested. The Uberleutnant spun on his heel, his revolver in his hand. ‘You chose disgrace over death. I can oblige you with death now, if you prefer?’ There was no feeling beyond impatience in his voice. Auberon and Jack exchanged a look. Walker capitulated, avoiding everyone’s eyes as he turned away. They all felt the same shame.

  There were boulders in the nearby quarry to be split and crushed for road repairs. Auberon worked alongside Jack, Simon and Roger, wielding a sledgehammer, while most of the other officers supervised, and not a word of complaint was made by any of them at the end of the first day. Auberon tore off some of his shirt to make rags to wrap around his blistered and bloody hands once they straggled back to the camp, a camp which was strung around with barbed wire, not once, but twice. Their guards watched them all closely and escape seemed far away.

  ‘You’ll get out of it soon enough, into your officers’ camp,’ Jack told Auberon as he undid his bandages, washed the wounds and redressed them, finding it hard to be sympathetic, because it was true, the enlisted men were to be workhorses, but did any of them deserve better? They were out of the firing line. They had surrender
ed. They were safe. He still couldn’t believe it. He had to get out, get back to the lines, and at least they were near the Front, from the sound of the guns. It should be possible. ‘I won’t go,’ Auberon protested. ‘It’s better I stay with you men, keep you out of mischief.’

  The next day they worked slowly on the roads, because lorries bound for the Front were passing, and how could they justify working hard for such a cause?

  That evening they all poked at one another’s embedded shrapnel, as the sick-bay orderly had advised. Auberon had collected all the medication that had been missed by the searching uhlans, and gave out a little iodine to share. Some shrapnel was near to the surface and working its way out and it was like getting out splinters, but much worse. The pus gushed, along with blood. ‘It’s a good thing,’ gasped Auberon, as Jack dug into his back. ‘Gets rid of the poison.’

  Jack dressed Auberon’s hands again, and that was when Auberon told him of the compass in the heel of his boot. ‘We should get out while we’re still near the lines,’ Auberon muttered. Jack laughed. ‘You don’t need a compass, just follow the sound of the guns, bonny lad.’

  Out on the road the next day his group watched the changes of the guard, checking for any moment that would give them a chance. There were none. That evening Jack strolled the perimeter again and again. Another fence had been created, and the wire was coiled and wicked, with prongs fit to rip a cow to pieces, let alone a man. They knew all about that from the advances they’d made, when the wire should have been cut by artillery. He paused where the ground rose in front of the perimeter. What if coats were thrown over the wire? He stood looking over the countryside. There was a wood half a mile distant over the thick clay of the early barley field. They had a chance if they reached the trees. He inched closer to the wire, looking both ways along the length of it for possible breaks.

  There was a thud, a grunt, and he was shoved hard into the barbs, and pushed again and again with the guard’s rifle butt. He was ripped and torn, and he screamed. He was knocked again, the barbs digging deeper. He strained to keep his face from the wire, his eyes. God, not his eyes. There were shouts, British shouts. ‘Leave him, you bastard.’ It was Sergeant Major Dawson. Another shove, and the barbs tore deeper. Jesus, the pain. He heard Auberon shout, ‘Enough, God damn you.’