Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  *

  George stepped up to the officers’ dugout at the end of a diagonal run of reserve trench.

  ‘Private Abbott?’ said an officer, coming out of the dugout. The Captain’s adjutant was a short, thin man who didn’t look at George as he addressed him.

  He nodded, not knowing how the officer knew who he was. The Corporal must have warned them of his arrival.

  ‘Go on in. He’s expecting you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The adjutant lifted up the gas sheet for the dugout and admitted him.

  George walked in. An officers’ dugout was an easy place to be out of place and to make a mistake which might cause pain further down the line. A soldier always had to be on guard, never at ease.

  The Captain leant over a desk, writing on a sheet of paper in waning candlelight. The candle fluttered at the inrush of air as George entered. The Captain finished writing what he had been writing. After a few awkward moments he sighed, put his pen down, and looked up in George’s direction.

  ‘Private?’ he said.

  ‘Abbott, sir.’

  The Captain regarded George, then leant back in his chair, took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He must have been in his early forties. His hair was going bald and greying at the sides. His eyes had crow’s feet. He had a slight hint of greying stubble on his chin and cheeks that indicated he hadn’t shaved in a while.

  ‘Ah yes. Jennings told me all about you.’

  George guessed that Jennings must have been the Captain’s adjutant.

  ‘Please do have a seat, Abbott. I can’t abide talking to people stood above me.’

  George pulled out one of the wooden chairs from the table and plonked himself down, his webbing clattering. He was too exhausted to sit with care, and it felt good to be able to sit on a real chair. His backside had never quite got used to sitting in dirt and mud.

  The Captain poured himself a drink, but didn’t offer one to George. He became aware of how dry his throat was, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to reach for his water bottle in the Captain’s company, so he waited, licking his lips to try and force some saliva into his parched mouth.

  ‘Do you write home, Abbott?’ the Captain asked, after a sip of whatever it was he was drinking.

  ‘Home, sir? Yes, sir. As much as I’m able to, sir.’

  He cringed at his own overuse of the word ‘sir’. But the Captain didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘That’s good. I would very much like to write to my dear old wife. However, I spend most of my time writing these.’

  He held up the sheet of paper he had been writing on for George to see, then put it back on the table.

  ‘It’s a crying shame to have to write so many letters to these poor families. It’s a wonder we have any time for actual soldiering. Once I’ve finished writing the day’s letters and dispatches I’m no longer in the mood to write to my dear wife. I wouldn’t want to worry her with all the details. What on earth would I say to her, Abbott?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said, honestly.

  ‘Too right, Abbott. Too bloody right.’

  The Captain stood up with a creak of wood on wood, and paced over to a cabinet on the wall, pulling out another bottle of dark brown liquid, which he brought back to the table.

  He took a moment to pull out the cork and pour a measure. The liquid glugged into the dirty glass. George licked his lips in thirst but knew that the liquid wouldn’t do anything to quench it. The Captain didn’t pour a second glass and sat sniffing the drink. George would have to find himself some of that water that always carried the faint hint of rum, thanks to the rum bottles it was transported in, when he got back to his trench.

  The Captain breathed in deep and put the glass back down on his table with a clunk.

  ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid, Abbott,’ he said at length. ‘Not good at all. Corporal Adams was found miles from the front line without his rifle. While I sympathise with the soldiers, this simply won’t do. What if every man in khaki put down his rifle and walked off?’

  George didn’t say a word; anything he did say would only serve to incriminate his friend further. He was angry at Tom too. His oldest friend had left him in the middle of no man’s land during an assault. There were too few of them as it was, without Tom running away. They could have pressed some kind of advantage, but when it was just George left, he was lucky to be alive.

  ‘We wouldn’t have much of any army left if that happened, Abbott. Then the Germans would walk all the way to Paris after surrounding the French forces. Then what, Abbott? Then what? The Channel is only a short distance to cover. They’d be marching down Whitehall by next Wednesday. The war might not be going exactly to our initial plans, but it’s still infinitely preferable to letting the Germans do as they please. Think of what they would do to the women and children. The stories from Belgium are bad enough.’

  The Captain became more animated as he spoke, emphasising each word. The signs of lack of sleep pulled at his features.

  ‘I’m sorry, son. It simply won’t do. If we let one soldier get away with it then there will surely be more to follow. We’ve few enough men as it is these days. You’re one of the original lot, aren’t you? Came out with us in 1915?’

  George supposed he was, though he had never thought about it that way. He had come over with the regiment, despite being new to soldiering then. Most of the lads alongside him in the trenches these days had come over since, to plug the gaps as it were, and conscription had helped with that.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was in Canterbury with everyone before the war. There’s not many of us left now.’

  ‘Indeed, there’s precious few of you left. The lads we’re getting through now are barely trained.’ He paused for a moment, reflecting. ‘Adams was with you in Canterbury as well.’ It wasn’t a question, the Captain knew well who was who out of his men.

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s why I want to see him, sir. We go back a long way. Lived next door to each other before the war.’

  ‘It’s no good. I can’t afford to lose more experienced men like you and Adams, but HQ will want to set an example to the other men. I will put in a recommendation, but there is very little possibility that they will take it into consideration.’

  ‘I just want to see him, Captain,’ George said, a whisper.

  ‘Hmmm.’ The Captain put his hand around his jaw and considered George for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Abbott. Now isn’t a good time I’m afraid. He’s about to go up in front of the court martial. As much as I may wish to, I cannot allow you to see him.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘No, Private. That’s quite enough on that matter. You’ll have to forget all about Adams and get back to the trenches. That’s all there is for it now, I’m afraid.’

  It wasn’t callous. The Captain gave off the air of a caring uncle, and he very much reminded George of his Uncle Stephen. The strain in his eyes showed that he wanted to help George, but that regulation and principle wouldn’t allow him.

  George stood up and threw a quick salute.

  ‘I will be going then, sir,’ he said, then turned to walk away. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Abbott?’

  He stopped in his tracks and half turned, not wanting to look the Captain in the eyes lest hope take over. The Captain had stood too and was holding his glass between two hands, staring into its depths.

  ‘I am sorry, son.’ That was all he said, before turning his back on George, indicating that he was dismissed.

  George pushed his way back through the gas curtain, and nodded to the adjutant, his will deflating all the while. He didn’t know what he had expected. Most officers wouldn’t have given him the time of day, but the Captain had been different. If anything, that had made things worse. He could handle it if the Captain didn’t care, but he seemed genuinely upset, and that made George wish even more that he would do something. It was no good. He was restricted by military regulation. The same
regulation that had Tom in solitary and was about to have him up in front of a court martial.

  There was nothing that George could do, and not for the first time since coming to France, he felt useless.

  Chapter 33

  Walton Prison was a heavy presence, as Joe walked towards it trying not to glance around like a frightened animal. His heart was beating in his chest, but he wouldn’t let the sensation overcome him. He was terrified, but so too would those men be, out in France forced into a war they shouldn’t be fighting. It was the least he could do to show them respect and prove that he wasn’t a coward after all. For some reason the authorities had let him arrive on his own, even though he had resisted the tribunal as much as possible. He wondered if they were looking for an excuse to send the police after him, expecting him not to turn up at the prison under his own volition. He had heard about the games of cat and mouse the police liked to play with conscientious objectors and suffragettes.

  Some of those who disliked him for his objection to the war could be quite aggressive towards him, policemen included. He had had to keep his head down since it became public knowledge. Perhaps it was better that he would be locked up for some time, if only to keep him away from such people. But then he wondered what the other inmates would be like. What were their crimes? There must be some much worse than objecting to the war.

  He had come alone and carried no personal belongings. He had been told that he wouldn’t be able to take anything in with him, should anything be used to break out, or as a weapon. Anne had wanted to accompany him to the gates, but he had flat out refused. He didn’t want her anywhere near this place, and he wasn’t sure he could have kept it together had she come with him. Instead they had said a tearful goodbye at his home before he had left, walking all the way to the prison to collect his thoughts. His mother had hugged him, Catherine too, but his father had left without a word. There were only the three of them left now in a house that had once housed five. And soon Catherine would be gone too. Of course, he would miss her wedding while in prison, but there was nothing he could do. It brought a tear to Joe’s eye to think of them all, and he brushed it away with a finger. He wouldn’t allow himself to walk inside the prison with a tear in his eye. He had to remain strong, otherwise who knew what would happen?

  From the outside, the prison was like some kind of medieval castle. There was a towered archway that led off from the main road, like a barbican. Joe could imagine a portcullis hanging overhead, its spikes facing down at the unwary, but instead two heavy wooden doors barred his way.

  He reached one fist up and knocked, as heavily as he dared, on the smaller door inside a larger door. After a few uneasy seconds, just as he thought about knocking again, a slot slid aside with a creak of wood on wood. Cold eyes peered out at Joe, but the man the other side of the door didn’t say a word. Remembering, Joe reached around in his pocket searching for the piece of paper that was his order to attend the prison. He held it up.

  ‘Joe Abbott,’ he said. ‘I’m to come inside and be held at your convenience. I would ask you to open the door, but I would rather forget it and leave.’

  He flashed a grin that he didn’t feel, but the eyes just stared back until Joe, embarrassed, coughed into the same fist that had knocked on the door.

  The slot closed again, but Joe knew better than to feel any hope at that sudden action. With a further creak the smaller door opened back on its hinges, giving way to a slim view of the courtyard across the threshold. A thickset man obscured that view as soon as the door opened fully, the man with the cold, dead eyes that had stared at Joe through the viewport. Joe had half expected him to be wearing chainmail and a tabard, a sword scabbarded at his hip. Anne was right, he did read too much. He smiled and laughed under his breath at the thought. The other man gave him a sideways look, his breathing slow and controlled, just about discernible even over the distance between them.

  He took Joe in a rough grip under one shoulder and hauled him inside. He let go and turned, methodically shutting the door behind him. The gatekeeper may have been a man of few words, but he appeared to be fastidious about his work. He took care to replace each bolt in its lock before turning back to Joe.

  ‘You’ll have to see the chief warden.’ His voice was pitched higher than his frame would suggest. Joe had expected a deep rumble, not a such a high-pitched voice, and it took all his willpower not to laugh again. He didn’t suspect that the man would put it down to being nervous, or if indeed that was even a concept within his ken.

  ‘After you,’ Joe said, and the big man pushed past him towards the main building. He reached out a meaty hand, grabbing Joe under the arm again, and pulling him along with him.

  The main building was even more castle-like than the entranceway. Two big red brick towers were joined by a central archway and building, with white stone bricks used to represent the crenellations. In its day it may very well have been magnificent, but now it was an oppressive edifice staring down at Joe in judgement. Thick black smog had coated the stone in a layer of grime that gave lie to the medieval impression it was trying to give. A chimney stack sat atop one tower, giving out faint black and white smoke and the smell of a fire drifted through the air to congeal with the smog. Joe felt like a pauper being dragged to a dungeon.

  The main door opened and another warder stepped out. The gatekeeper pushed the paper he had taken from Joe into his hand and let go of Joe’s arm. He walked away.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Joe muttered under his breath, already feeling alone before he had even stepped foot in the prison.

  ‘Abbott, eh?’ the new warder said. His deep voice was more what Joe had expected from the gatekeeper. Joe wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. He had Joe’s name in front of him, so Joe nodded, already suspecting that his mouth might get him in trouble here.

  The warder just glared at him and waved a hand at the door.

  ‘Get on, then,’ he said.

  Joe put one foot inside the door and was met with darkness. The inside of the prison was dim, and full of stale air. His eyes took a second to acclimatise to the difference in light.

  The warder moved behind him and blocked out the sunshine. Joe felt a force on his back, and his trailing foot caught on the doorframe. He fell. He tried to put his arms out to arrest his fall, but the floor rushed up to meet him. His face smacked into the cold concrete, and splitting pain rushed through his head. The room went even darker for a second before his senses reasserted themselves. His nostrils were overwhelmed with the smell of the place, a thick cloying staleness that reminded him of his old school. His only other notion was of the sound of laughing from behind. He rolled onto his side.

  The warder towered over him and laughed, a deep booming laugh that rocked his whole body. ‘I didn’t think you would go down so easily,’ he said, in between fits of laughter.

  Joe rubbed his head, trying to soothe away the pain, but it was a constant stinging in his temples. He put out a hand for some help to get up, but the warder ignored it. His laughter had died down now, but he still smirked.

  ‘Pick yourself up, coward,’ he said.

  *

  Minutes later, Joe was being led into his cell. The heavy metal bolts slid back and the door opened for him. Of course, he had no control over when the door might open or close, and he was sure any attempt to get in the way would only result in another ‘fall’. He didn’t remember being that clumsy.

  The cell stank of rusting iron, the pallet in the corner had seen better days, and the only piece of metal that looked as if it had been maintained was the grey painted door. Even still, flecks of paint dropped off when it moved. As he was shoved inside he was met with an even stronger smell, the smell of piss and shit. He gagged at the stench. There was a small metal bucket in the corner of the room.

  He turned round to face the warders, so many questions on the tip of his tongue, but they remained unspoken. He willed them to say this was some kind of joke, but he knew that it was futile; this was
his new home. He hadn’t even seen any other prisoners yet. Was he to be kept isolated? Away from any other human contact, with only the warders as his occasional company?

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the larger of the two warders asked Joe. He looked like a brute, someone Joe would expect to see working down at the docks, hauling cargo. Far from laughing at Joe again, he was back to scowling at Joe as if he smelt of something indecent. Perhaps, he was just scowling at the smell in the cell. He had a broken nose. From the way he held himself, Joe could very well imagine this man being some kind of boxer. His black hair was cut close to his skull, the same way George’s had been after he had enlisted in the army. Joe wondered why the warder wasn’t out in France. He was of the right age, despite his weathered appearance.

  ‘I…’ Joe started, confused. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’ It was true. Prison had always been so far from his thoughts that he had never thought about what happened to someone when they were imprisoned. He was sure that his time would be spent in this cell, but the warder seemed to want something, otherwise they would have closed the door and been gone by now.

  ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Joe was incredulous.

  ‘You didn’t think you’d be able to wear civvies in here did you?’ The warders smirked at each other, then back at Joe. ‘Who knows what you might have hidden in there.’

  The bigger of the two men stepped inside the cell, closer to Joe.

  ‘Now take them off,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I will have to do it for you.’

  Joe did as he was told, not wanting to be asked again by the big man. He started with his shoes, undoing the laces and kicking them towards the door. He had had enough of the men for one day and he didn’t want the warder closer than was necessary. Who knew what he might do if he had to remove Joe’s clothes with force? In seconds he was down to his underwear, his clothes a brown pile on the floor next to the door. One of the warders bent down and picked the pile up.