He hoped that someday, through his actions and through others, they would understand. He didn’t bear them any ill will. It was a changing world, and he hoped it was for the better.
The police station and bridewell was a square brick building that stood on the corner of Campbell Street and Argyle Street. There was a huge lion’s head keystone hanging above the entrance, to instil a sense of fear in all prisoners brought underneath its arch. A small tower looked out over the street as if it was a watch tower.
The policeman took Joe in under guard and signed him in with the Sergeant at the desk. The jail was old, and the air smelt musty. There was a sense of damp in the old bricks. The policeman opened up one of the seven iron doors that closed off the cells, and escorted Joe inside. There was a shelf to the back covered in a thin mattress, and a faint smell of asphalt and sick.
‘I’m sorry for having to put you in here, Joseph,’ said the policeman.
‘It’s all right. You’re just doing your job.’ He sat down on the mattress. ‘You can call me Joe. Only my father calls me Joseph.’
He liked the policeman, there was a kindness to him that was becoming unfamiliar in this new world Joe found himself in.
‘In the morning I will take you to the barracks,’ he said, shutting the door behind him.
He was alone for the first time in months, and he had never slept this far from anyone. Until the war George had always been across the room from him, and even since he could often hear his parents snoring from their bedroom. It was going to be a long, silent night.
*
Joe walked along to the barracks unsure of what to expect. He had grown up around soldiers and some of them, like his Uncle Stephen, could be friendly, but they could also be dark and aggressive if wronged.
The policeman walked along behind him, making sure that he went to the barracks. He didn’t come too close but walked in line several paces behind. He made it clear that he trusted Joe, but that it was his duty to make sure.
Joe walked into the barracks through the front door, unsure of where he should report to. His father had never prepared him for this. Perhaps he had thought it would be natural. Soldiering would never come naturally to Joe.
Inside, an army officer was doing some paperwork. He was too old for military service, much like the officer at the military tribunal, but not as grey, or turning to fat. He was still a fit man, and as he stood Joe could appreciate his commanding presence. The man towered over Joe by almost a head.
Joe passed the officer the enlistment paper that he had been sent and the officer took it with a frown. He scanned the paper and then crumpled it up in one hand.
‘You’re late,’ he said. His voice was a bass rumble, warming. The officer reminded Joe of his uncle. Not just because both were officers, but there was something very similar in their mannerisms and body language. He held himself up well, straight-backed, and stared straight forward, regarding him with a cool air. Joe supposed that was the way that all officers were trained in the army. Although his father was a very different man.
‘Be late again, and I’ll put you on a charge.’
The officer was used to giving commands, and hadn’t noticed that Joe had not yet spoken, nor apologised. Not that Joe had any intention of apologising.
‘You’ll need to go to the Quartermaster Sergeant later to get your uniform. For now, you’ll just have to train in your civvies.’
‘I won’t wear it.’
Joe’s voice came out like a squeak, and he cringed. It was the first time he had spoken that day and his voice had been weak and pathetic. It wasn’t the determined resistance he had been aiming for.
‘You’ll do what you’re told.’
The officer’s demeanour changed. He stood over Joe, his face red. His eyes were as hard as steel, and he no longer reminded Joe of his uncle. He reminded him more of his father now.
‘There is no will and won’t in the army,’ the officer shouted. ‘In the army you do as you’re told. Without question. If you don’t then people will die. It’s as simple as that.’
He strode to the back of the room, then turned around when Joe didn’t follow.
‘You’re also expected to follow an officer if he leaves a room. Come on, will you?’
For some reason Joe followed. The officer’s voice had a strong effect on him. He would have to fight his battles another way. They could shout at him all they wanted, but they couldn’t force him to fight in their war. Even if they dragged him all the way to France then he would sooner die than fire a weapon at another man. They could dress him up in their uniform, but he would be no more a soldier than his mother was, or his sisters were. He would object every time, in his own little way.
On the green behind the barracks building there was a group of around forty men in khaki, busy drilling. As Joe watched, the men squatted down with their hands on their hips, then raised themselves up. They then put both arms up, leant to one side and then the other. This was all led by a man at the front, facing them. The men were all of varying ages; ageing men who had been brought in as part of the conscription act, and boys who had only just turned old enough to be considered.
As the officer strode out, he called to them, his voice booming across the green.
‘That’s enough Swedish drill for now.’
They all stopped what they were doing and stood to attention.
‘Time for bayonet drill. Get to it.’
The group of men began jogging in lines to the end of the green, and the officer turned to him with a red face, nostrils flaring.
‘Fall in, Private Abbott!’ he shouted.
Joe refused to run. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run anywhere and he wasn’t about to start now. He didn’t want to be here, and the best way that he could think of frustrating the officer was to only obey some of his orders. Joe also got a perverse pleasure from it. He was in charge of himself, not the officer. So he walked after the group of soldiers, plodding along at his own pace. The officer eyed him all the way, his frown growing deeper every second.
By the time he reached the group, they were already engaged in bayonet practice. Something about the very nature of the act seemed archaic to Joe. In groups, the men charged sacks that were suspended from wooden joists. Each man stood with his legs spread apart, then shouting at the top of his voice, he charged with his rifle and attached bayonet out in front of him. It seemed to Joe that each man was trying to shout louder and charge harder than the previous man, and the officer was shouting them on, going through each procedure with a clipped growl.
They were like animals, Joe decided. Each one was trying to be the best of the group. He was sure that if any women were present then they would be trying even harder to impress. Some men didn’t look as interested as the others, but they still joined in. It was mindless destruction to get them into the war spirit and it made Joe feel sick. These were only sacks, but the aggression was still horrifying. Would these men be as forceful and deadly if they encountered a German solider? He didn’t doubt that they would.
When the last rank of men went through the drill the officer walked over to Joe, with a wooden mop handle in his hands.
‘Your turn, Private.’
He raised his hands to pass the mop to Joe. It had a bayonet wrapped at one end. Joe guessed that the private soldiers only got a working rifle when they had passed a reasonable level of training. As Joe had already missed the few days’ training that these men had had, then he wouldn’t be given one. He was glad that there were still rules and regulations. At least this wasn’t complete madness.
He didn’t take the proffered mop from the officer. He had no intention of taking part in this barbaric practice. He didn’t expect the officer would go to the effort of forcing the mop into his hands and running him towards the sack himself.
‘No,’ he said as calmly as declining a cup of tea. He didn’t feel calm, but he had practice of forcing his voice to be steady.
‘That’s “n
o, sir” to you, Private!’
The recruiting officer was right up in Joe’s face, and he had the hilarious urge to kiss the man in reply. It would simply be a matter of defiance and jest, but he rather suspected that it would only make him angrier.
‘I am a civilian, not a private.’
‘You are while you’re in my drill ground. Now get on with it.’
‘You will have to make me, sir. I am no soldier, and I will never take a weapon against my fellow man.’ He looked over at the drill group who had started their routine again. ‘Nor against a piece of sacking.’
The officer shook his head. His frown deepened and the corner of his mouth curved up. He scratched behind his ear, then turned to his recruits as if thinking.
‘Look, lad.’ He leant over and whispered, his mouth only a few inches from Joe’s ear. ‘Do you want to go to prison? You do know that’s what will happen if you refuse to follow my orders, right? I’ll be forced to court-martial you. It doesn’t have to be all that bad. We need all the men we can get, and I’m sure a clever lad like you will work his way into a cushy job.’
‘I’m sorry, but no. Thank you. I am of the opinion that the war is wrong and will not permit myself to take part in any way.’
‘Then I’ll not have you in my unit,’ he shouted, for the rest of the men to hear. Some of them stopped in their drill to see what was going on. A quick glare had them back on their way.
‘I have no use for a man that will not fight. You’re a danger to us all.’
‘I’d be a danger to you, even if I put on your uniform.’
The officer frowned at him, then stepped back.
‘I’ll process the court martial myself, and you’ll be hearing from the war council. Now get out of my sight!’
Joe turned around and walked away as calmly as possible. For once in his life he wanted to run, but he wouldn’t give the soldiers the satisfaction. He didn’t know where he would go next. He wanted to see Anne, but he supposed he should tell his parents what had happened. He didn’t know how much time he would have, or how much longer he would be free. He hadn’t expected to get away from the barracks that easily, but the officer mustn’t think he was worth the effort. He would make the most of his time before they sent him to prison. First he would send a letter to the No-Conscription Fellowship, telling them of his experiences, then he would go and see his family, and then to find Anne.
Even with the prospect of prison hanging over his head, for the first time in his life he felt truly, wondrously free.
Chapter 32
‘He’s back. He’s back!’
‘What?’ George jumped up from the alcove he had secured himself in their rudimentary dugout and tried not to bang his head. ‘What are you talking about, Cragg?’
Private Cragg wouldn’t stand still, almost jumping from toe to toe in agitation as he rushed into their trench line, almost upsetting the brazier that they were using to brew some tea. The others glared at him, as they rescued their tin cups from the sodden ground.
‘Sorry,’ Cragg said, as he passed each man to get to George. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’
He turned to look at George who was almost a head taller than him, and he was almost out of breath. George felt like slapping him around the face but kept his hands at his sides.
‘Calm yourself down, Cragg. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’m sorry, Abbott. I came as quickly as I could. I was up at HQ when they came in. It took me some time to get away, but as soon as I could I came straight here. I thought you’d want to know.’ He tried to get all the words out in one go, and sentences merged into one.
George put his hand on the lad’s shoulder and breathed deep, encouraging Cragg to do the same. It worked and after a moment he was calm enough to speak.
‘He’s back, George. They’ve found him. They found Tom.’
It took all George’s composure not to run off and find Tom for himself. He had been holding back all this time, wondering what had happened to his friend and frightened if he did anything he would make it worse. Besides, he had a duty and that duty was to remain here in the trench should he be called upon to fight.
‘Where?’ was all George could say, and the word came out as a whisper.
‘He was hiding out in a nearby village. Some Military Policeman found him there when he was off duty. Still had his khaki on ’n’ everything. Stupid bugger.’
George grabbed Cragg by the collar of his tunic, lifting the smaller man off the ground.
‘Don’t say another word,’ George growled into his face. To their credit the other men carried on brewing their tea, ignoring the confrontation. He gripped harder, his knuckles going white through the lining of dirt, and he tried to calm himself. He didn’t know if he was angry at Cragg, or angry at himself for not going after Tom. He’d left his best friend to wander through no man’s land, while he hid in a shell hole. He was the true coward. Cragg stared back at him, eyes bulging in shock, and George felt guilty again. He released his grip and set the other man down.
‘Where? Where is he now?’
Cragg’s mouth moved, trying to form words, then stopped. He tried this a few times, before deciding to keep his silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ George said, a whisper. ‘Tell me where Tom is… Please.’
‘I don’t know, Abbott. All I know is they’ve locked him up somewhere, awaiting the Captain’s judgement. I came as quickly as I could…’
‘I know, I know. Thank you.’
George pushed passed him and walked down the trench. He could feel Cragg’s questioning gaze boring into his back. He squeezed past the waiting soldiers, some brewing, others snoring in their dugouts. He hadn’t been ordered to leave the trench and he knew that doing so was a dereliction of duty, but he didn’t care. He had to see Tom, he had to know what had happened in the shell hole out in no man’s land. He had always relied on Tom’s strength of character, and Tom had always told him when he was being stupid or did something rash. This time, however, Tom wasn’t there to stop him.
Men moved up and down the reserve trench going back and forth about their tasks. George ignored them all.
A hand caught him on the arm, arresting his march. He almost shook it off in his haste but turned to reprimand whoever had dared to stop him.
‘Where do you think you’re going, lad?’
George looked down at where Corporal Owens’ filth-covered hand gripped the arm of his tunic, then back up at his face, regarding him with cool eyes. He was an older man, in his early thirties, hair turning to silver at his temples. He had the calm demeanour of a former school teacher or doctor. He was always so patient. Sometimes it was infuriating. Owens let go.
‘You’ve heard then?’
‘I have, sir. I was just on my way—’
‘Why?’ Owens interrupted him.
‘Why, sir? I don’t know—’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Come now, Abbott, there’s no good running off all guns blazing. Being around here should have taught you that much, not to mention your experience. Do you even know where you are going?’
George shook his head. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure. All he had known was that he had to act. He had to do something.
‘I didn’t think you did. Rushing off isn’t going to help Tom one bit, or yourself for that matter. You have to calm down and think. What are you going to say? What are you going to do? This isn’t being very smart, and I thought better of you, lad. Give yourself five minutes to think.’
He couldn’t wait any longer; unlike the Corporal he wasn’t patient. He needed to act and soon, otherwise the guilt would eat him up.
‘But if I don’t go now—’
‘Nothing will change in the next five minutes. Do you honestly think decisions in this army happen that quickly?’
It was so easy for him to say, but what did he know? Tom needed him. George stood as if any moment he was about to leap, his body wouldn’t allow him to stand still and he
kept looking off down the trench.
‘Look at me,’ Owens said, with force, and even with George’s willpower it was hard to resist the command. ‘There is nothing you can do, especially in this state. You have to accept that.’
He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t give up, he would never give up on Tom as Tom would never give up on him. The Corporal had taken his arm again, and he thought about breaking free from the grip, but knew it would only make things worse. He didn’t know the Corporal well, as he’d only been with them a few weeks. Another one of the endless promotions and reassignments to stem the thinning ranks. For all he knew this man could turn angry at any moment, and even though George didn’t want to hear it, he suspected that he was trying to help him.
‘I want to see Tom. We go a long way back.’
The Corporal’s mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes grew softer.
‘I know you do. Perhaps the Captain will let you see him, perhaps he won’t.’
‘I need to know why.’
George didn’t know what he meant by those words, but they had come to him out of the corner of his subconscious. He needed more than anything to speak to Tom. To ask why. Why had he given up? They were all in this together. Why had he run? What did he hope to accomplish? Why had he left George to die? Bitter anger flared for a moment in his mind, but he forced it back under the months of torment and mud with all his other emotions.
‘We all do. We all do.’ Corporal Owens sighed, and let go of George’s arm once again. ‘Just promise me that you will stay calm? Anger and rashness will do you no favours in front of the Captain. I can’t afford to lose another good man. Be polite and put your case before the Captain. Then whatever you do, accept his decision with good grace. Promise me, and I will cover for you here.’
‘I will,’ he said, and left the Corporal behind in the reserve trench.
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