At the moment the gravestone was just a simple wooden one, much like they gave to the soldiers they had to bury out in France. George had thankfully never been on grave-digging duty, but he had seen enough of the heaps of mud in his time. The graves were sometimes indistinguishable from the muddy fields, but the soldiers knew they were there. How could they forget? They were told they would get stones later, but he wasn’t sure. The front line didn’t move much, but when it did it often uncovered the graves, and when an attack had settled down, they would have to be buried all over again.
He knelt down nearby, not ashamed to get dirt on his uniform. There were no officers around to pull him up on it, and he didn’t care. This was a private moment. The earth was still fresh over her grave. The grass had yet to make its way back over. There wasn’t much soil, just a small patch about a metre long. She had only been a child, and she shouldn’t be buried; she should be back at her home living her life, unaffected by the illness that had taken her. The small grave could have been one of the many he had seen out in France, even given its size. One of the ones for which they hadn’t found much to bury. He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts. This situation was heart breaking enough without thinking of France. He closed his eyes, but he could just see the freshly dug graves again, row after row.
‘I thought we might find you here.’ It took him a second to recognise his sister’s voice, and he jumped up in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Catherine said, smiling at him like it was a private joke. She looked older than he remembered her, much older, and he wondered if he had aged as much in the time. She had lost the chubbiness to her cheeks and were now gaunt, giving her the look of the malnourished, and she had grown her hair longer, which straightened out the curls. He wouldn’t have recognised her if she had not spoken.
‘Catherine,’ he said, searching for anything more intelligent to say.
‘The very same.’ She smiled, and he finally got a sense of a face he recognised. ‘Gosh, it’s good to see you, George. You look so different, not just because of the uniform, but almost taller.’
‘I’m not the only one,’ he chuckled, but it felt forced. Thankfully, her replying laughter was more natural, and she came closer to get a better look at him.
‘No, it’s not been a kind year.’ She didn’t elaborate further, but placed a flower she had been holding on top of the grave. ‘We had thought that you would come here before heading to the house. It’s a shame you didn’t manage to make the funeral. It was a wonderful service. The others will be along in a minute.’
As she said that, he heard more footsteps on the path through the cemetery. His mother and brother were coming towards them. If he thought Catherine had looked older then that was nothing compared to his mother. The death of her daughter had diminished her in stature and in health, and Joe was holding one arm as she carefully covered the grass. She wore a black mourning dress, and her hair was greyer than it had been before. He had never thought of his mother as an old woman until this moment. His brother looked the same as he had always done, perhaps a little sadder, if that was even possible.
‘Dad?’ he asked Catherine, at his side.
She shook her head. ‘He’s at work. He won’t come up here. To him, she’s gone and that’s that.’ She paused, welling up and wiping a tear away.
‘My George,’ his mother said, coming closer. She put her arms around him, and tried to pull him closer, but she had such little strength. He relented slightly and hugged her back. He couldn’t remember the last time he had embraced her. ‘You’ve grown. God, it’s good to see you.’
He let go of her and stood back, helping to support her with one arm. His brother opened his mouth to speak, nodded slightly and held out a hand. ‘George,’ he said, as George grabbed and shook hands. It was a strangely awkward gesture, but it was what he had come to expect from Joe. He had been about to say something, but George had no idea what.
The atmosphere was awkward. George felt uncomfortable standing there with his brother staring at him. He so much wanted to ask Joe what he had been about to say, to form some connection between them. It had been a long time coming, but he couldn’t think of the right words. France had taken it all out of him.
‘I thought we could say a little prayer for our Lizzie,’ Catherine said. ‘Before we head home and get you settled in.’
He didn’t think he would ever be settled here again. Almost two years of living somewhere else, sleeping in mud and rain, made even this situation feel too comfortable. He couldn’t imagine living back inside a house again, confined by those walls. ‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral.’
The others nodded, saying nothing. What could they say that would change anything? They all stood in silence. George took his hat off and doffed it under his arm, and Joe did the same, focusing their vision on their shoes. He could hear his mother’s lips moving as she silently prayed. He tried to think of words, but once again they wouldn’t come. As he closed his eyes, his mind wandered back to France, to the mud, the blood, and the constant explosions.
*
George had spent a few days back in Egerton Street, but as little time as possible in the house. Being under that roof felt confining, he wanted to see the sky and to always get his bearings. The house was silent as he had expected without his little sister to fill it with her singing. His mother wanted to speak to him all the time and mother him, and he couldn’t take it. To avoid the house, he left in the morning as he used to, and walked. He walked wherever his feet would take him, alone with his thoughts. Perhaps after the war he could use the money he had earned to travel, to go and see as many landmarks as possible and draw them. Perhaps then he could make some money by selling landscapes. That possibility seemed a hundred years ago at that moment. He had to leave Liverpool today and report back to the army. He couldn’t wait any longer; if he did they would court-martial him and he could end up in prison, he had a duty to do.
He also couldn’t avoid his family any longer. Each chair was occupied that morning, except for the small wooden chair where Lizzie would sit that was left purposefully empty. He had decided that today he would join them, one last time before he went back to the front. They sat in silence, as they often had, eating their meagre breakfast. They looked at each other from time to time, as if daring the other to start a conversation. He knew that he would have to break the silence soon, but he didn’t want to break their hearts yet, not when everything was so peaceful for the first time in what seemed like years. Even his father seemed quietly content at one end of the table, though he was still avoiding any contact, conversational or otherwise, with Joe at the other end.
‘I’m leaving today,’ he said, his voice like a gun in the silence. ‘I have to report back.’
‘Oh, George,’ his mother replied. She sighed heavily and put some plates down. Then she walked over to him and raised his chin with her hand, as she had done when he was a boy. She wiped some food from the corner of his mouth with a cloth. ‘Can’t we keep you for one more day?’
‘Orders are orders, Ma. If I don’t head back today, I’ll be in for it.’
‘Leave him be, Jane. He’s got a duty to do.’ His father didn’t look up from the paper. ‘They’ll be missing him at the front.’
Joe scoffed loudly and put his cutlery down. Once again, he opened his mouth to speak, but this time he was interrupted by Catherine.
‘Don’t start,’ she said to Joe, in a whisper. ‘Can’t we just enjoy this moment together while it lasts?’
Joe looked at her for a few long seconds, then gave a shallow nod. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, it’s about time that there’s some good news, at least. I didn’t want to tell you before, it didn’t seem right.’ Catherine beamed, talking directly to George. ‘I’m getting married.’
He nearly choked on some oats but managed to catch himself. Catherine had been after a husband for quite some time. He would provide
a way out of the Abbott household to her own home. ‘That’s fantastic,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Who is he?’
‘He works down at the docks with Dad. We wanted to get married before he shipped out, but didn’t have the money. So we’ll do it when he comes back on leave. Then we can get our own house and start a new life together. After the war, of course.’
She was so happy it was infectious. George felt himself smiling, despite the fact at the back of his mind he wondered if the wedding would ever happen. He hoped it would, for his sister’s sake, and it would be one less mouth to feed for his parents. His father must have arranged for the two of them to meet.
‘We,’ Joe said, ‘that is Anne and I, are thinking about using the room to house some of those Belgian refugees.’ It was their father’s turn to scoff, and he turned the page of the newspaper with a louder rustle. ‘It was more Anne’s idea, of course.’
Joe smiled a smile that George was completely unused to. The change in his brother was quite dramatic, and he could see that this Anne meant a lot to him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had time to meet her during his leave. Next time.
‘You will have to come back for the wedding. It won’t be the same without you.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He didn’t want to let her down, but he was entirely at the whim of the army. If he could return for her wedding he would, it would give him something to look forward to.
He finished his breakfast and put his cutlery down. He had run out of time. He looked at each of his family in turn, taking them in and storing their image in his memory, then stood. ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘I’d best go and catch my train.’
Both his mother and sister jumped up and hugged him, both lingering in a way that was both heartfelt and made him want to stay that little bit longer. His father finally looked up and bid him farewell but was otherwise unmoved.
He picked up his things and went to leave the house as he had done two years ago. This time, however, he knew exactly where he was going, and what he was getting into. There would be no marching band on his way to the station this time, no ceremony. He would walk there on his own, taking in the sights of Liverpool one last time. He didn’t know when he would be back. It could be another two years.
The only one that followed him to the front door was his brother. Joe reached out a hand again, and he grasped it. The handshake lasted for a few seconds longer than was comfortable, and George felt the urge to pull his brother towards him. He didn’t know if he would see Joe again. There was so much he wanted to say to him, but the worst just wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he tried. Words just weren’t enough.
‘Well, Joe,’ was all he could think of. ‘Goodbye for now.’
Chapter 30
The artillery shattered the morning air, as shell after shell was thrown over no man’s land towards the German lines. Explosions that blossomed like new trees across the landscape, appearing at random fashion, never growing in the same place twice. One thousand and five hundred guns were said to have been brought together for ‘the big show’, and their munitions peppered the landscape. Some shells fell well short of their intended targets. Their aim was still inadequate. George remembered the damage it had caused to their own troops time after time. Or perhaps it was that the very idea of artillery was to put down a curtain of fire, to make sure the enemy kept their heads down. No one had ever told George which it was, and so, with bitterness, he attributed it to the former.
The bombardment had begun in late June as the guns were brought forward and the soldiers were busy training and practising for what the officers were calling ‘the big show’. They had moved along to a place called Le Citadelle de Dinant, or The Citadel, to begin their preparations. The bombardment had proven to be a big show. A light show casting flashes across the landscape in an apocalyptic diorama.
Then the battle of the Somme river had begun, and still, almost a month later, it raged. The first waves went in and yet more men went to the front. But still the King’s Rifles sat; they had been moved up to a reserve trench, but no further, waiting for their chance to take part, growing more and more nervous about their prospects. The other Liverpool regiments had gone in before them, with some of their companies being moved forward at a time to reinforce the others. But as of yet, George’s section hadn’t been called on for anything other than relaying the odd message or helping to reinforce the trenches that the French who had occupied this section had left in a sorry state. Some of the others were growing restless. The heavy work of reinforcing the trenches and building firing steps, which had taken all summer, with the boiling sun falling down on them threatening to melt them in their itchy cloistering khaki, had not been enough for some.
George had to admit, at one point he would have been restless too. He remembered the time back in England when they had all wanted nothing more than to get to the front. Now something had changed. He wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps it was that the trench work had been exhausting and had not allowed his brain any time to think of other matters, or perhaps it was the fear of going back into the fight that stopped him. The fear that he had tried to repress, but was always there, just under the surface, waiting to come up and take over his body.
They had sat in that reserve trench, spending hours on repair, hours to recover for most of July, while the other battalions had been thrown at enemy positions in order to try and gain some ground. So far they had failed to take Guillemont village, despite effort after bloody effort. But now it was the Rifles’ turn. This was not some raid to pass the time in the hope of capturing German prisoners, but an actual assault. One for which they had been preparing for over a month now, to the point that George could go through the battle plan in his sleep. That was, if he got any sleep.
The order had come down the line via a series of carrier pigeons and messengers that they were going to move to the forward trench and therefore the front line, to relieve the 30th and 35th divisions, fourth army. They had been waiting almost a month to join the fray and tempers were on edge.
The artillery barrage had been going on for some time before dawn. A constant presence since the most recent battle of the war had begun. More guns had been brought forward and more shells. The dull crump of shells hitting the earth, and the whine as others flew overhead, was overpowering. A whizz-bang flew overhead and exploded somewhere behind them. The British Army may have been firing everything it had, but the Germans were giving as good as they were getting. It was a wonder no shells hit each other in the air, George thought.
The idea was to hit the German positions and keep their heads down, stopping them from being prepared for another attack. The miles of wire that crossed no man’s land were also supposed to be cut, but from where George crouched in the trench he couldn’t imagine it was doing much good. The shells were landing far too close to their own lines, and soil was dislodged to land amongst the duckboards as each shell hit the ground. A big explosion went off to their right and he ducked, fearing the end.
The din of the shelling had become background noise to George, he had been in the trench that long. He still ducked and flinched every time an explosion went off, but he feared the end of the shelling more than he had feared the sound when he first came out to France. The absence of artillery fire would mean that they would soon be going over the top and another big push would finally be under way.
The others didn’t even flinch anymore. Tom often told him not to worry about it, but now he sat with his back to the parapet and stared into the middle distance, the whites of his wide eyes just visible through the muck that coated his face. Another explosion went off in a nearby trench and George could hear screaming. One man was asking to be put out of his misery, but no voice answered him. Tom still sat there staring at nothing. George couldn’t imagine what was going through his friend’s head.
There was an eerie moment of quiet as the bombardment abated and the explosions stopped. The only thing that landed on the plains of the Somme at that moment in time
was the summer sun. Within seconds the officers made themselves known, coming out of their dugouts and walking along the trench to the front. Each officer took to the head of their sections and put a whistle to their mouths. On synchronised watches they blew their whistles and disturbed the calm of the Belgian countryside.
It was also penetrated by the sudden shouts of men charging up the ladders and over the firing step into no man’s land. They shouted encouragement to each other and the officers joined in too, reminding them of their orders and the importance of an orderly charge. Any man who tried to overstep the leading man was shouted back into position and they advanced at a good pace.
George was one of the first up, following in Tom’s footsteps, making sure that the two of them kept together. He had lost Tom in a raid before and he wasn’t about to do so again. This time they had over a year’s experience of fighting and trench raids to help them. Or at least, that’s what George hoped. He couldn’t help but think that experience and training hadn’t helped some of the men they had lost along the way. They had been planning this one for months, and the King’s regiment had had a few weeks behind the lines preparing the raids in formation, whilst trying to avoid the sight of the German air reconnaissance planes. But now when it came down to it, their preparation didn’t count for anything.
It was difficult to see much with the new steel helmet they had been given, it only added to the sweat that was pouring down his face and it slipped with every movement. He could understand why they had been given them, but it would take some getting used to. Although he couldn’t understand why it had taken so long. He had seen the damage a bullet or shrapnel could do to an unprotected head. Too many had lost their lives that way. He shuddered at the thought.
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