The Glorious Dead

by Tim Atkinson

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ Jack calls to Katia. She looks at the mess on the floor, then glowers at Jack. ‘Sorry, love.’

  Outside, the night is dark and the air is damp.

  ‘Give over, man – we can’t put him on his bike.’

  Ocker is leaning the boy against a wall and trying to lift one of his legs over the crossbar. ‘Then how the heck are we supposed to get him back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Jack. ‘We’ll have to walk it, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s bloody miles, Jacko. It’ll take hours. And by the time we get back here your ol’ lady will have shut up shop.’

  ‘My ol’ – what?’

  ‘Come on, Jacko. We all know you’ll soon have your feet tucked under Monsieur Steenvan’s family table. And your todger—’

  ‘Thanks, Ocker, I think we get the picture. What I meant was that I’m sure she’ll—’

  ‘I’m sure she will for you, mate. Anything for Monsieur Jacques!’

  The strains of another song drift out from the bar on the still evening air:

  In our little wet home in the trench

  That the rainstorms continually drench

  There’s a dead cow nearby with its hooves in the sky

  And it gives off a terrible stench.

  ‘Ah, Christ Jesus! We’re missing a good ’un this evening thanks to this bleedin’ bum brusher,’ grumbles Ocker.

  ‘Aye, well,’ says Jack. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t heard ’em all before.’

  ‘Invented some of ’em.’ The two men laugh. Meanwhile, on the cobbled pavement, Fuller stirs.

  ‘Come on, yer bastard, on yer feet. I’m not carrying you home.’ Fuller turns away again and is sick. ‘Happen we’ll just leave him for a bit to sober up,’ says Jack.

  Ocker crouches down and slapping Fuller gently on the cheek, starts crooning in his ear:

  Bon soir old thing!

  Cheer-i-o chin chin

  Na-poo, toodle-oo

  Good-bye-ee.

  ‘Come on, Ocker lad, let’s have another.’

  ‘You’re on,’ says Ocker. ‘Hey listen, Jacko,’ he says as the two men push their way back into the bar, ‘they’re singing your song!’

  Oh landlord you’ve a daughter fair, parlez-vous?

  Oh landlord you’ve a daughter fair, parlez-vous?

  Oh landlord you’ve a daughter fair,

  With lily white tits and golden hair,

  Hinkey, dinkey, parlez-vous …

  Jack pushes his way back to the counter. ‘Sorry, lass,’ he says to Katia as the men start on verse three.

  Nein, nein mein Herr she’s much too young, parlez-vous?

  Nein, nein mein Herr she’s much too young, parlez-vous?

  Mais non, mon père, I’m not too young,

  I’ve just been fucked by the butcher’s son.

  Hinkey, dinkey parlez-vous.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ the woman smiles, refilling the men’s mugs. ‘It is only … fun, yes? It is a bit of fun. The men like to have their bit of fun.’

  ‘Nay, lass, I didn’t mean t’singing,’ Jack says, nodding his head in the direction of a fresh pile of sawdust in the middle of the floor. ‘I meant that young ’un being unable to hold his beer.’

  ‘Ah, oui. That is not fun, Jacques, you are right. That is not so much a bit of fun.’

  ‘Good for business, though. Well, not that exactly but … well, you know what I mean.’

  Jack can tell she isn’t angry. Not with him, anyway. And the men are good for business, even if some of them like Fuller still can’t hold this foreign beer. But what the hell, Jack thinks. He makes sure the bar is always busy. The British Tavern does a brisk trade from Number One Auxiliary Labour Company. And there is always a welcome here for the men, and an especially warm one for him.

  ‘Will I see you?’ he asks her. ‘Later on?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jacques,’ she says. ‘My father—’

  ‘The ol’ bastard.’

  ‘Jacques!’

  ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘He is just … protective of me,’ says Katia. ‘He wants what is best for his daughters. That is all. You would understand, Jacques. You would understand if you too had a daughter.’

  Jack stops and stares at her for a moment. ‘Who’s to say I haven’t?’

  She smiles, then looks down at the jug she’s holding. ‘You are too young I think to have daughter, Jacques.’

  ‘You reckon?’ he winks. ‘Might’ve started young for all you know.’

  ‘You will be telling me you are old enough to be my father next.’

  ‘Nay, lass. Although yer little sister … reckon I could easily have been her father.’

  ‘You are teasing me, Jacques. Stop.’

  ‘How old is she anyhow?’

  ‘Françoise is just a girl. She is only … treize ans.’

  ‘Dix, onze, douze … Thirteen!’

  ‘Oui, she is thirteen. And so to be her father you would have to be at, er … un moment.’

  ‘Well, let’s drop it, then, eh, love? Anyway, I’m no cradle snatcher. It’s you I’m after.’

  ‘After?’

  ‘You know what I mean, lass. So – later?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she smiles. Jack watches closely as she turns to serve another customer. The flickering light of candles dances in the dark brown of her eyes, fringed with the few stray strands that have escaped the heaped, pinned loaf of auburn hair she has hurriedly piled on her head. Her mouth is open slightly, lips parted as if on the verge of speaking, but the only words he wants to hear remain unspoken. Her pale white cheeks are flushed with the heat of the bar and the heavy work she has been doing.

  ‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he tells her when she finally turns to face him. ‘I saw t’way you were looking at that chap you was serving just now.’

  ‘You are jealous, Jacques.’ She looks back at the customer a little farther up the bar. ‘That man – he really is old enough I think to be mon père,’ she laughs.

  ‘Bit like that fat bloke who was trying to kiss you the other week. Where is he tonight, anyhow?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ol’ fatso.’

  ‘You mean Monsieur de Wulf?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘The man you … how is it said?’

  ‘The man we taught a lesson, aye. In manners.’

  ‘You should not have done that, Jacques.’

  ‘He had hold of you. He was hurting you. And he spilt our beer.’

  ‘He is an important man,’ she looks down at her feet. ‘And a … de valeur – he is a valued customer.’

  ‘Well, he’d better not try anything like that again, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Ah, mon chevalier!’ She clasps her hands together, fluttering her eyelashes.

  ‘Hardly in shining armour though, eh, love?’ Jack looks down at his mud-stained tunic.

  ‘I don’t mind.’ The smile returns.

  ‘Anyway, you never did tell me where he is this evening.’

  ‘Monsieur de Wulf? He is meeting your captain, I think. He is speaking to him about some of the land clearance. I think that is what he said he was doing.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jack grumbles. ‘Wanting to get us to do some work for him for nowt, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Nowt?’

  ‘For nothing. Something for nothing. Isn’t that what de Wulf does best? Getting everyone else to do t’grafting for him while he sits on his fat arse and counts the money!’

  ‘Not joining us tonight then, Jacko?’

  ‘View better over there, is it, mate?’

  ‘Smell is, certainly!’

  Jack turns. ‘Just coming, lads,’ he calls over, before quickly turning back to Katia. ‘Hey, lass,’ he beckons her closer. ‘I’ve got something for you. Message for ol’ fatso next time you see him. And for your father, an’ all.’ He leans across the bar, takes her head in his hands and pulls her towards him, kissing her lips, hard.

  ‘Wh
ooooooaaaaaa!’ A huge roar goes up from the men.

  Katia pulls away, looks down at the floor and smooths her hands down her apron, blushing furiously.

  ‘Blimey, Skerritt, mate, you’d be picking your jaw off the floor by now,’ Ocker says, ‘if you had one. Ain’t you ever seen a sheila getting kissed before?’

  ‘Put the wee lassie down will you, yer great oaf?’ Mac shakes his head as Jack takes his seat with the men.

  ‘But I wouldn’t put her down for long if I was you, mate,’ Ocker chips in.

  ‘Oh, I don’t intend to,’ Jacks says quietly. ‘I don’t intend to.’ He takes a long drink from his mug and then realises, with a sudden shock, that the taste of her lips and the gentle, lavender fragrance of her skin, the soft touch of her smooth cheek and the warm sensation of her firm hand on his arm, have vanished.

  ‘Damn!’

  War Diary or Intelligence Summary:

  Army form C. 2118

  1919

  DIVISION MAIN DRESSING STATION—Remy Siding Map Sheet 28; Grid reference: L.22 d.6.3

  May 4th – Ceremonial drill; programme of educational classes under supervision of Capt. J.K. HARRIS resumed today with book-keeping and commercial subjects added to arithmetic, reading and writing and Empire history.

  May 8th – Draft of 1 officer and 6 Other Ranks proceeded to Town Hall, Poperinghe, as firing squad for execution of 44735 Wang Jung Zhi, 107th Chinese Labour Company.

  May 11th – Capt. S.F. KEIGHTLEY M.C., 2/Lt. N. GRAINGER and 40 O.R.s left Battalion for duty with No. 6 Prisoner of War Company ETAPLES.

  May 12th – C.O. inspected billets. Exhumations east of the Ypres-Roulers railway completed.

  May 14th – Draft of 3 Officers and 47 Other Ranks (for Rhine) proceeded to Calais to join 10th Suffolk Regiment, 61st Division.

  May 16th – Salvage work undertaken in Wood N.36.a., M.35b and adjacent battery positions. Captain E.R. WINNICK gave a lecture in the Salvation Army hut entitled ‘An Approach to Peace’.

  May 18th – Further salvage work carried out, same location as on 15th inst. Parades held under Coy Commanders.

  May 21st – Capt. ARMSTRONG, Lt. WILLIAMS, 2/Lt. LEWIS and 26 O.R.s left Battalion for demobilisation.

  May 23rd – Battalion reorganised into two Companies (Nos 1 & 2), No. 1 being composed of men for the Post Bellum Army or Army of Occupation, No. 2 consisting of all others except those under the control of Transport Officer and Quartermaster and those attached to Graves Registration Unit.

  May 26th – Battalion Auxiliary Labour Coy (G.R.U.) to proceed north to ref: map BELGIUM 2.L. 1/100,000 in accordance with Army Orders 137 (below).

  ARMY ORDER No. 137

  The 1st Aux. Labour Coy will relieve the 19th G.R.U. exhumation unit in the Ypres salient, sub-section Y on the 28th inst.

  Sick parade on 28th inst. will be brought forward and take place at 0615 to allow for any members of clearance party to attend if necessary.

  Breakfast will be served at 0630.

  Coy to form up in one column before Battalion Orderly Room (Hut 7) at 0700 hours.

  Stores and equipment will be loaded onto vehicles at 0705 hours on 28th inst. Coy transport unit consisting of 1 Mobile Field Ambulance, 1 Motorised Stores Wagon and 1 troop transport vehicle.

  Dress will be fighting order. Leather jerkins will be worn. Shovels to be slung over right shoulder. Each man to carry canteen in canteen cover properly fastened to haversack.

  7

  Almost imperceptibly, by early May, spring has arrived – the first since the end of the war. Birds begin to sing; the few remaining trees and shrubs and bushes shimmer in a pale green halo of new growth. And as winter and war give way, the Flanders mud becomes a little drier – at least on the surface.

  ‘Still hitting water though,’ Jack says when the men assemble that morning to receive their orders. ‘Only got to dig a few feet and it’s sodden.’

  ‘All that rain’s got to go somewhere, Jacko!’

  ‘Aye, well, I’d just as soon it didn’t have to go in my boots.’

  With longer days and warmer weather the earth appears to breathe again once more. Grass begins to grow in fields and tiny wild flowers – calendula, oxlip, violet – begin to dot the barren landscape like a galaxy of stars.

  ‘Right, men,’ Ingham briefs the platoon. ‘We’re covering several adjacent squares north of Ypres from now on – map sheets twenty-nine and thirty.’

  ‘Is it searches, sir?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Searches mainly, yes, but some cemetery concentrations too.’ Ingham checks the typed orders. ‘And so to reduce time wasted in travel we’ll be taking the tents and the mobile kitchen and staying in the field for a few days. The weather is set fair this week, so I’m told.’

  Jack sighs, much louder than he had intended.

  ‘Apologies, Private Patterson, if that interferes with your nascent romantic enterprises.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s just that …’ Jack stops short and looks down at his boots.

  ‘It’s just that it does,’ Ocker says. ‘Interfere with his love life, that is.’

  ‘Mind you,’ adds Mac, ‘all that cycling to and from Ypres each evening is giving the laddie devilishly strong thighs, isn’t that so, Jack?’

  ‘Hmmm, really, really?’ Ingham is nodding.

  ‘Give o’er,’ Jack says, swatting Mac’s hand away from his leg like a fly.

  ‘Aye, sir. D’ye reckon we can get him a transfer to the cycling corps? Only takes him half an hour you know!’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘Give over, Mac, it’s not the cycle ride that’s given Jacko legs like a bloody buffalo, is it, Jacques-the-lad, eh?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re on about, yer daft bugger …’

  ‘Private Patterson?’

  ‘It’s not a problem, sir,’ Jack lies, aware that Ingham has started giving him an old-fashioned look.

  ‘Jolly good,’ Ingham says at last, clapping his hands. ‘That’s settled then. Patterson will tear himself away from the bosom of his best-beloved—’

  ‘It’s not her bosom that’s the main attraction, sir!’

  ‘Shut it, Ocker!’

  ‘—and we will be away until …’ Ingham consults their orders, ‘until next Friday. Now, Sergeant – fall the men in and we’ll get the equipment issued.’

  Shortly afterwards they are on the road – not north-east, as anyone taking any notice might have been expecting, but almost due east along the gentle incline down to Vlamertinghe.

  ‘Pardon me for asking, sir,’ says Jack, ‘but why are we going this way? I mean, if we’re trying to save time and everything we could’ve just gone straight to Poelcapelle across country via Langemark rather than via Ypres. Not that I’m complaining or owt.’

  ‘I bow to your superior local knowledge, Patterson,’ Ingham says, passing the map he has been holding to Jack. ‘And I’d hate to squander such a valuable resource. When we alight in Ypres you will move to the cab with the driver and myself and navigate.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Ocker stifles a laugh. Townend mutters at the prospect of sitting in the back.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Ingham goes on, ‘since you ask, there does happen to be a good reason for going this way and for stopping off in Ypres.’

  By now the truck is turning past the railway station and along the narrow Vooruitgangstraat towards the Rijkswachtkazerne. Ingham orders Blake to slow down, briefly, tantalisingly close to the corner of Station Straat. Jack can almost see the sign for the British Tavern swinging at the end of the street, but Ingham is looking for something – or someone – else.

  ‘Pull in here please, Blake,’ he says as the truck turns into the Grote Markt. ‘Sergeant Townend?’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘Get the men down and let them stretch their legs for a minute, will you?’ He stops and looks at Jack. ‘But make sure no one leaves the market square! I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’
>
  ‘Bad luck, Jacko,’ one of the others mutters.

  Ingham marches off across the cobbles, the studded heels of his boots sparking on the stone like a pocketful of loose change.

  ‘Right, lads, you heard the officer. Stick close to the truck. And no funny business!’

  ‘Surely we’ve time for a quick one, if we hurry?’ Ocker asks.

  ‘Not a chance,’ says Townend. ‘And anyway’ – he looks at his watch – ‘your minute’s up. Now get yer arses back on board.’

  ‘Say please!’ says Ocker.

  ‘Get up there into the back of that van before I kick your arse from here into the fuckin’ engine.’ Reluctantly, the men begin to make a move. ‘Not you, Patterson,’ Townend smirks. Jack’s shoulders slump heavily and he jumps back down from the tailgate. ‘You’re up front with the map – remember?’

  ‘Hey, Jacko! Don’t let it go to your head, mate. Don’t go all lah-di-dah on us.’

  ‘He’ll have a stripe by the time we get there,’ Fuller jokes.

  ‘Aye, and a medal too!’

  ‘Give over.’

  Jack walks round to the front of the truck, takes a step up onto the running board, then hauls himself into the cab. Townend is busy fiddling with the bolts on the tailgate, so, sitting on the hard wooden bench and staring absent-mindedly through the mud-splattered half-windscreen, only Jack notices the brief exchange occurring in the shadows underneath the scaffolding that shrouds the campanile. Monsieur de Wulf – greasy, corpulent, smiling like a shark – and Lieutenant Ingham are deep in conversation. Their heads briefly draw near to one other as if they are about to kiss. But de Wulf’s lips aren’t puckering: his mouth is moving; he is whispering in Ingham’s ear. Then, almost unnoticed, a small brown parcel changes hands and de Wulf disappears quickly through a gap in the ruins.

  By now, Townend is standing at the front of the truck, waiting to crank the starter. Ingham climbs abroad and freezes momentarily as he catches Jack’s eye, before settling himself alongside the driver and giving Townend the signal to start the engine. As the truck shudders into life the driver releases the huge brake-handle, two-handed like a railway signalman switching points, before grinding into gear, turning towards the market square and heading out past the cathedral and along Elverdingestraat. Not a word is spoken.