Jack listened for humming in the lulls, and continued to do so even as the noise picked up, and how bloody silly was that? Charlie was lifting his boots as he walked. He was a canny lad, a right quick learner. The cage was ahead, but there was a queue. Dave said, ‘Same old stuff, the world over.’ Jack and he leaned against the wall, letting their picks drop to the ground. Charlie and Simon sagged, their heads down. Here it was quieter, and as Jack examined the abscesses on Charlie’s hands he heard someone call out, ‘If you don’t stop that bloody humming, I’ll do for you.’
‘Sorry man, don’t know I’m doing it. Can’t hear too well, since the shell. Nearly took my bonce off, it did.’
Jack straightened, letting go of Charlie’s hands. Another man shouted above the banging and clattering of the approaching lift, ‘Sorry, man, didn’t know. Been here long?’
The cage landed. It was quiet. ‘Just a few weeks. Lost me memory but they knew I was a pitman from me scars, when they collected us up from the farm. Minute I got here I started to remember. It’s like a bloody home from home for me.’
Jack was moving now, Simon in his wake. ‘It’s him,’ Jack said. ‘I know it’s him.’ His German partner was with him, pulling him back. Jack shrugged him off. Simon hauled on his arm. ‘Come back, man. You’ll get us all into trouble. God dammit, Jack.’ Jack shrugged him off too. Dave called, ‘Howay with you, Jack. Find him.’
He was almost running along the queue, pulling round one man after another, checking their faces, yelling, ‘Mart?’ again and again. Men were cursing him as he blocked their way from the cage to the start of their shift, shoving him to one side. A guard unslung his rifle, stopping him. Simon pulled at him again. ‘For God’s sake, come back man.’
Dave was there, armlocking Simon. ‘I told yous to leave him be, you bloody bugger.’ He turned to the guard. ‘And you can stop poking me with that bloody rifle or I’ll stuff it up your arse.’
Another guard made for Dave, who called, ‘Get on with it then, Jack. I’m not doing this for the sake of me bloody health.’
Jack hurried along the line, being patted now by the prisoners, one of whom shouted, ‘Good luck.’
A German miner put up his hand to a guard, saying, ‘Sein freund ist hier.’ The guard hesitated, blocked him for a moment longer and waved Jack on.
Jack continued searching, grabbing shoulders, swinging people round. ‘Mart, Mart,’ he called repeatedly. ‘Mart.’
‘What the hell . . .?’ one man shouted.
‘Mart, Mart, is it you? Mart?’ A figure stepped out from the line. ‘Jack?’
Jack stood quite still. He’d know that bloody idiot’s stance anywhere. His shoulders weren’t the same height. The miners in the queue fell silent, though those heading away from the cage continued, heads down. ‘Mart? Mart, we thought you were dead.’ He broke down then, running towards his marra, who threw down his pick and met him halfway. Jack picked him up, slapped him on his back. He was so light. Mart pounded his shoulders. ‘I’ve found you,’ Jack said, his voice muffled. ‘I’ve bloody found you.’ Mart was sobbing, clinging to him.
The queue moved forward but the guards said nothing, just bypassed the pair of them. Jack could feel Mart’s ribs, the backbone, the shaking that ran through him. He saw the mouth that drooped on the right side, the scar that sliced across his brow, his cheek. He rubbed Mart’s hair. ‘Look at you, you messy bugger. Got to get some food in you, lots of lovely black bread, and then get a letter off to your mam and get some parcels from our Evie.’ He drew his marra to him again, and whispered, ‘Then we’ll get you home, my bonny lad. Never fear, we’ll all get home.’
Mart stepped back, gripped Jack’s shoulders. ‘Aye, that’d be grand.’ Tears were still running down his face, just as they were down Jack’s.
Auberon stood to attention at the start of the second hour of the punishment roll call or appel as he now called it. It was the end of November, so not surprising it was snowing, with the wind whipping across the square, but did it have to bloody snow and blow quite so hard? He felt it on his eyelashes, in his eyes, down his collar, and he thanked God for his cap. Saunders, his boyhood tutor, had told him the head was the greatest area of heat loss and to keep it covered. As he swayed, just as his neighbour had done a moment ago, he grabbed on to a thought, any thought, to keep him upright. The cedar tree. That would do; strong, and immovable. He was a tree. He shifted his weight from his toes to his heels as Jack had told him to if he ever had to stand for a long time. It could stop you fainting, he said. Well, you would faint wouldn’t you, standing like this with all the blood sitting down there, not up here, in his head, leaving a damn great space which was wobbling about all over the place.
All the prisoners of the Offizier Gefangenenlager were standing to attention as a punishment for Colonel Mathers’ complaint about parcels and mail being withheld without cause, and the insistence that the prisoners continue to write innocuous letters home to allay the concern of relatives. Mathers’ adjutant, Captain Crawford, had had a bash at the Kommandant, Oberst Habicht, first, standing to attention like some naughty bloody schoolboy he’d said later, spouting that it was totally against the Hague Convention, but was chased from the office. ‘Chased, you understand,’ he’d exploded in the mess hut, ‘with a bloody bayonet up my backside but what can you expect from some jumped-up clerk, made up to maître d’hôtel for God knows what reason.’
Auberon thought it might have done the arrogant sod Crawford a bit of good had he had his buttocks pricked, but it was bad form, nonetheless, and what was worse, the rations were then cut, and no one was allowed to buy from the village, or have access to their parcels. Crawford had ordered a hamper from Fortnum and Mason, so he could kiss goodbye to that for a while.
Mathers had taken it on next and was now in solitary, and they were standing here. It was a bloody disgrace, but the Kommandant was a nightmare and even the guards were nervous and on their toes all the time, likely to get a belt round the ear for nothing. German officers had a right to lay hands on their men, and that was a bloody disgrace too, and wouldn’t be tolerated in the British army.
Auberon swayed again, and grabbed on to the cedar tree, taking himself under the lower branches, laughing alongside young Harry Travers, and John Neave, and waving Jack and Si into its shade. For he had brought the sun into his head, just as it was when he imagined the whir of his fishing line, the light catching his fly as it descended to the reaches of the river Somme which were well back from the front line, because that was his first stop after this bloody war. It was his road to tranquillity, for tranquillity was what everyone had come to realise was what they most longed for.
His neighbour pressed against him, whispering, ‘Can’t be for much longer, old chap, surely?’ Smythe was a good sort, a former Territorial Force officer, and therefore a bit beyond the pale, as Auberon was. Not proper army. Well, as Frost, another former Terrie who shared his quarters said, in the front line he couldn’t see much ruddy difference.
Major Dobbs had kept his eye on him on the journey here, and subsequently, disapproval in every glance, but why should the officers leave their men? This was what Auberon had said, and that was the stain on his reputation now, all put down to his Territorial roots. Dobbs had said they’d find a way to get his blokes here as orderlies, but so far there had been no opportunity. What was needed was an upsurge in prisoners. Well, the one certainty in this bloody war was another futile push, so that was a definite possibility.
He transferred his weight from toe to heel and back again, and straightened his back as Uberleutnant Baader inspected and counted them, yet again, followed a step behind by Krueger, his hauptfeldwebel, a sergeant major whose boots were like mirrors, even in this weather, and whose every stride squeaked as he compressed the fresh snow. But his boots squeaked whether there was snow or not. Another inch had fallen since the last roll call an hour ago. Back to the cedar tree, toute suite, he ordered himself as he started to shiver again. He was just so damned
cold, and wet. But so were they all. This time Veronica was there, with the baby that had been born in October and named for him, using his second name, James. Evie had taken over her commandant duties as well as the kitchen with Mrs Moore while Veronica was so busy with James, and worked hand in hand with Richard. Evie. He rolled the name round in his head. It was getting crowded now, under the branches, no room for her. No, it was safer that she was kept away.
What other letters awaited him in the mailroom? They had received none for a month. Was there more news about his men? Veronica had written that they had been taken to the mines and at last could write; were they still safe? He should have seized Dobbs by the throat and made him request them as orderlies there and then, when the officers were taken off and brought here. Why the hell hadn’t he? He shook his head. Actually he had, but not in so many words and perhaps that was the problem. He really should have throttled him. It was what Jack would have done. Shame enveloped him.
The Uberleutnant was in front of him now, looking as cold, if not colder than Auberon felt. ‘Achtzig.’ Eighty, dear God, another seventy men to go. The Hauptfeldwebel ticked him off on his clipboard chart soaked by the snow, his fingers white from the cold, and Auberon wanted to wrench the clipboard from him and beat him to death with it, beat them all with it, and in particular Dobbs, but how easy it was to be brave after the event.
Thank God he had a dry uniform to change into when they were dismissed. What a war that allowed officers to send to their tailors, but of course the Germans demanded that the prisoners be correctly dressed in order to salute their masters. Civilian clothes were also permitted, but only with the insertion of the yellow stripe. However, what one tailor could do, another could undo for escape purposes. He’d requested a grey uniform from his tailor, which might have surprised him, but khaki would have been a giveaway when he finally escaped.
They were also permitted to have contact with their banks and the money enabled him to buy food from the village, though the entente blockade was causing increasing shortages. Within the camp they had to exchange their money for that issued by the camp. He snatched a look at the orderlies in their squares. They had only their one uniform. He must check with Roger that he was sharing the blankets Auberon had bought off the baker in the village but it had to be said, never had the little brat been so helpful. He was determined not to be sent back to a work camp, because he had a relatively easy life here.
Auberon leaned back against the trunk of the cedar tree, looking up at Easterleigh Hall. He had been twenty-five in October, ten days after the birth of his nephew. With that birthday had come the release of his inheritance from his grandfather, his father’s father. He had instructed his bank to allow it to be accessed by Veronica and Richard for the upkeep of the Hall and hospital. That, with the fund-raising efforts of Sir Anthony Travers and his friends, had helped to make up the shortfall now that his father had totally withdrawn his support after that appalling drunken fiasco. Thank God for Evie and Richard, standing up to him; the upset could have caused Veronica to lose the baby. What about Harvey, too? The old boy deserved a medal.
Things were still difficult, however, as Sir Anthony hadn’t yet provided extra funds, so it seemed that weird and wonderful tea parties, and sales of work were under way to help, as well as many and varied economies. Auberon made himself remain unemotional as he thought about all this. His father would be dealt with, at an appropriate time.
The snow was lighter, surely? He looked ahead at the barracks opposite, and the steep roof that allowed the heavy snow to slide to the ground. Lieutenant Rogers had collapsed into the snow, and his friends either side were hauling him to his feet. He was unconscious, but perhaps that was preferable to the sheer misery of this. Auberon’s sense of powerlessness was growing, his rage too, and finally he understood Jack, and all the other pitmen, who had known that a strike couldn’t succeed, but had to do it anyway, just to be heard.
He stared ahead, straight at the Kommandant, who had come out of his office in which would be a stove throwing out heat. He strutted backwards and forwards, safe in the knowledge that he had total power. Or ruddy had he? Auberon thought of the union reps, Jack and Jeb, and now that held him, not the cedar tree, mulling the strike over, then creating detailed plans. At last they were dismissed, and once in his warm dry uniform, he marched to Major Dobbs’ room.
‘We need to strike,’ he said, without preamble, standing briefly to attention.
The major sat in his chair, his legs crossed, his novel on his lap, his pipe tamped but not lit. His nose was still red from the cold, his stove plentifully supplied with wood bought from the village.
‘We need a salute, old chap,’ Dobbs drawled, moving to his desk, laying his book and pipe neatly side by side.
‘You’re not wearing a cap, old chap, even Terries know that,’ Auberon snapped. ‘We need to strike to bring about a change of Kommandant. We should refuse to write home, to order uniforms, to contact our banks. We have sufficiently well-connected families who would be concerned enough to ask questions of their tame politicians, which would create waves, and even make headlines. The powers that be will then ask questions via diplomatic channels, and something will be done. We need the action to be universal. We don’t need strike-breakers.’
Dobbs was listening, but at this he barked, ‘We’re not a load of your ruddy miners, for God’s sake, we’re officers and gentlemen. Pull yourself together.’
‘I’m quite together, but I repeat, we do need to take action, and the only way we can do this is by striking. I repeat, we don’t need strike-breakers.’
Dobbs’ smile verged on contempt. ‘Ah yes, I was forgetting you are in trade and understand these things. I gather your father obtained his peerage through the good offices of the Liberals, no less.’
Auberon strolled around the desk, sat on it, and leaned so close to Dobbs there was a mere inch between their faces. ‘Do you, or do you not, want to rectify this situation and bring about the removal of Habicht? If so, forget your damned airs and graces, and remember what I said. Then you can trot to the adjutant to get a message to Mathers and present it as your idea, and earn a few points to buff up your sense of self-importance, not that it needs it.’
Dobbs leaned away, speechless it seemed, so Auberon proceeded to tell him what he had said, all over again, and the detail of what the major needed to do, and left.
The next day the order came round via the adjutant forbidding contact with home, bank, or tailor. By January 1916 Kommandant Habicht had been removed, and Kommandant Klein installed. Mail was released, and letters could be written again.
On 12th January, when work had begun on an escape tunnel under the dining hall, which doubled with the concert hall, to head out beneath the foundations of the barrack wall, Auberon entered Major Dobbs’ room again, and plonked himself down on the edge of the desk before speaking. ‘I have repeatedly asked for your support in my request for the transfer of my men. You have refused to take it to the colonel, though you promised before I agreed to leave the transit camp. I was told that to remain with my men would set a bad example. I know exactly where they are now, thanks to letters they have written home. We have had many more officers join us, many without orderlies, such are the hardships of war. Colonel Mathers will just have to hear whose idea the strike was, unless you explain to him that we have need for more orderlies, but more importantly, we have need of miners for the tunnel.’
Dobbs laid down The Thirty-nine Steps, borrowed from the camp library, and found his voice. ‘Get off my desk, and we dig our own tunnels. It is a matter of honour, and how dare you blackmail me?’
Auberon ignored him. ‘I repeat, my men are miners, there are four of them, these are their names, and the stalag where they are being held.’ He slapped the paper on Dobbs’ desk. ‘My sister, Lady Veronica Brampton, has been in touch with your family, to be supportive, you understand. If you do not, in turn, support this request they will hear of your duplicity. My men will be bro
ught here as orderlies by the end of January, they will also help in the digging of the tunnel which should prevent falls as happened, last week, and injured Captain Frost. The existing orderlies will assume their duties. My men will, of course, be amongst the escapers.’
He stood now, his shaking hands deep in his pockets. His heart was hammering so hard he was surprised that Dobbs could not hear it. Throttling the bastard would not achieve anything, but doing so metaphorically could be extremely productive. Still keeping his voice level, he continued, ‘Finally, of course, this is your initiative, your idea to seek advice from such men, in order to expedite the work. Who knows, it could raise you to Lieutenant Colonel, especially if a remarkable number effect an escape from a well-built tunnel.’
He sauntered from the room, hearing Dobbs almost scream, ‘You bloody Terries, you have no sense of what is good form.’
Auberon whirled on his heel, and re-entered. ‘That reminds me. Smythe and Frost will be in the escape party. Frost’s arm should be healed by then. It will take a long time to tunnel, such is the subterranean composition of the ground.’
As he left he heard Dobbs’ high-pitched voice. ‘Go to hell.’
Auberon slipped and slid across the icy square where some officers had created skates and were twirling. No doubt he would do as Dobbs said, but at least hell would be warm. He entered his hut. Frost was lounging on his bed, his arm strapped, and Smythe was writing a letter. They looked up. ‘Well?’
Auberon grinned. ‘Carrot and stick. Now we wait, but he’s had a bloody bayonet up his backside and I reckon it will move him. He feels we have no sense of good form.’
‘Hooray to that,’ Smythe laughed. ‘If you could have gone straight to Mathers it would have been different. He’s a good sort. Let’s see now.’
Easterleigh Hall at War Page 17
