The Glorious Dead

by Tim Atkinson

  On the outskirts of the town by the Leie Kanaal, the truck passes the remains of a British Mark IV tank. At that moment Jack is looking down, studying the map, trying to decide which road is best to take. Blake knows better than to ask any awkward questions, but the men in the back of the truck can see it clearly as they pass and it retreats into the distance.

  ‘Well, would you look at that,’ laughs Ocker. ‘Bloody tank corps late to the party as ever.’

  ‘Broken down, too,’ adds Mac. ‘As usual.’

  ‘That wasn’t there the other day, was it?’

  ‘Never seen it before in my life.’

  ‘Christ knows where they’ve found that.’

  ‘Or how the hell they’ve dragged it here,’ adds Mac.

  ‘Or why?’

  ‘Stripping ’em for parts, ain’t they?’ Fuller smirks, pleased with himself for once for knowing something that the others don’t. ‘And then selling off the metal. And them two big howitzers they brought here all the way from Houthulst Forest.’

  ‘Oh aye, son. And who told you that?’

  ‘Lieutenant Ingham did,’ says Fuller, forgetting he’s been sworn to secrecy.

  ‘And you want to know who moved ’em, do you?’ The men stare at one another. ‘Well,’ Fuller smirks, ‘you’re looking at him.’

  The men all turn and look at Fuller for a moment, open-mouthed. Then suddenly, together, they are laughing uproariously. Mac is forced to get the hanky out of his tunic pocket once again and dab his eyes.

  ‘It’s true!’ Fuller says indignantly. ‘Me and Ingham towed ’em here from Zonnebeke behind that fat bloke and his tractor.’

  ‘What did you say, son?’

  ‘What the flamin’ hell is that man up to?’ Ocker shakes his head.

  ‘Swords into ploughshares, that’s what he kept saying. Said it was in the Bible, he did. Said that made it right, y’know. Proper.’

  ‘Sounds proper dodgy to me,’ says Ocker. ‘Otherwise he’d have surely asked one of us to do it.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ says Fuller. ‘He wanted me particular. Said I was the perfect man for the job.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did.’ Townend shakes his head.

  The truck rattles along and they sit for a while in silence. No one thinks about what they’ve just heard or what they’ve witnessed.

  If you want to find the lance-jack, I know where he is,

  I know where he is, I know where he is.

  If you want to find the lance-jack, I know where he is,

  He’s …

  Pause.

  … scrounging round the cookhouse door.

  Laughter. Then the others are joining in the chorus:

  I’ve seen him, I’ve seen him,

  Scrounging round the cookhouse door.

  I’ve seen him, I’ve seen him,

  Scrounging round the cookhouse door.

  Sitting up front, Jack smiles to himself. Sitting in the back, Townend scowls. Ingham is looking down at something scribbled in his pocketbook. Blake has his eyes on the long, straight road to Roeselare.

  An hour later they are there. The men disembark and go straight to work. Spring grass is growing on the gentle slopes that were in enemy hands for most of the war. A burial officer from the Graves Registration Unit has marked the area to be searched with four white flags; the map he holds has pencilled numbers crammed into each square, indicating the likely concentration of bodies. The platoon splits up and each section takes one of the small pegged-out map squares. Within that the men subdivide the ground themselves so that each soldier has an area of a hundred square yards to himself. Then, if he finds a body, the man in the nearby area stops searching and helps his neighbour with the digging.

  ‘Could be worse, I suppose,’ Mac says as the men extract another twisted corpse from the sucking mud of this bulging sector of the Salient.

  ‘I’m not sure how,’ says Jack. He is stripped to the waist. Although the April air is still cool he is sweating profusely from the effort of digging. A body, bodies, digging and burying have been his business now for several months, but the effort doesn’t seem to get any easier.

  Mac, too, is stripped to the waist, braces dangling by his side. The older man’s torso – white as the wax of a candle – ends in a vivid tidemark of sunburn round his neck. It might be the head of a different man. They both pause and pull the April air deep into their lungs, feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs and the heat of their own blood pulsing in their veins. Neither man could be any more alive than in this foul field of death, or warmer among the cold remains of extinct life they are exhuming.

  ‘He’s been underground a long time, this one. Probably since First Ypres, I reckon.’

  Mac squats by the grave to take a closer look. ‘Waterloo, more likely. Crikey, Jack, there’s nothing left of him but bone.’

  ‘No, hang on,’ Jack says. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Mac winds the wire frames of his spectacles round each ear, then stares at the identity disc.

  ‘Odd that he was, y’know …’ Jack nods at the ground. ‘Odd that he was so deep down.’

  ‘Bloody awkward, more like.’ Mac removes his spectacles.

  ‘Aye well.’ Jack swings back his arms like a battering ram then slices the spade hard beneath the corpse. ‘He’s been down here long enough. And he’ll be going down below again before the week’s out.’

  ‘Aye, but a wee bit more dignity this time.’

  ‘Aye – and for a darn site longer.’

  ‘True enough. Pass the wee laddie up, will ye?’ Mac opens a sandbag. ‘Let’s give the poor blighter a feel of the sun on his bones for the last time.’

  ‘Until t’parson gets hold of him, eh?’

  ‘Aye, and seals him in his little patch of Belgium until Judgment Day.’

  ‘There’s just one problem,’ Jack says as he passes the first shovelful out of the hole to Mac.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Look’ – Jack points to the remains of an arm, a crumpled body and a random, gloved hand. A pair of stout leather riding boots gape round the man’s leg-bones like a child’s oversize wellingtons.

  ‘Summat’s missing.’

  ‘By crikey, you’re right! I thought you said you’d found his ID disc?’

  ‘Aye, I did. But it was tied round his wrist, not his neck.’

  ‘Hey, fellas,’ Ocker calls out from the neighbouring hole. ‘Is this what you’re looking for? Thought my bloke was a bit on the small side, even for a bantam,’ he says as he passes Mac the empty skull.

  ‘Strange,’ Jack says, scratching his head. ‘He doesn’t seem to have copped a shell.’

  ‘Ach, no. It’s a bullet wound, laddie – will you take a look?’ Mac’s finger traces the outline of a jagged hole in the top of the man’s cranium. ‘He’s shot himself. It’s as clear as day.’

  ‘SIW?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think an officer would have done that to himself,’ Mac says. ‘Anyway, he’s blown the top of his own head clean off.’

  Jack takes a closer look. ‘Bloody ’ell, Mac, I think you’re right.’

  By now the rest of the men have gathered round the hole, helping Mac assemble the bones on the tarpaulin and speculating about what might have happened to the soldier.

  ‘I reckon it was a minnie-whiffer did for ’im,’ Fuller is saying.

  ‘A minnie-what?’

  ‘A minnie-whiffer.’

  ‘Woofer! Jeez, can’t even get the lingo right, this joker. And don’t kick the flamin’ ground like that, you mongrel, or you’ll blow all our heads off the same way. There’s grenades and all sorts o’ stuff down there.’

  ‘You know, I can’t quite work this one out,’ Jack says, ignoring the bickering between Fuller and Ocker.

  ‘I can,’ says Ocker. ‘I reckon I know what’s happened here.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Mac raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah. One of our company did this once,’ Ocker goes on. ‘Four days without so much as
a wink o’ sleep and he’s been put on sentry duty, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Never!’ says Fuller, still unable or unwilling to believe some of the men’s front-line tales.

  ‘Yeah, mate. And that’s not all. The week before we’ve all been lined up on parade to watch a cobber being shot dead for dozing off while he should’ve been on watch.’

  Fuller is silent now, as are the rest of the men.

  ‘So this bloke says to himself, that’s not going to be the death of me. And he has a plan. He stands his rifle butt in front of him with the point of the bayonet under his chin.’

  ‘What the bloody hell did he do that for?’

  ‘So if he nods off, his chin will hit the point of his bayonet and give him a shock and wake him up good and proper.’

  ‘So what happened?’ says Jack.

  ‘Forgot to put the bloody safety catch on his rifle, the silly bugger. Closed his eyes for a minute, nodded off and jabbed himself under the chin just as he’d intended.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then he must’ve kicked the flamin’ gun in surprise, mustn’t he? Bang!’

  Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Fuller bites his lip and says nothing. Jack lights a cigarette. Mac shakes his head, tuttutting.

  ‘Poor bugger.’

  ‘Daft bugger, more like. Looks like this chap must’ve done the same.’

  ‘Ah well. I suppose we’ll have to assume that is his head?’

  ‘Aye. Let’s stitch it up in t’bag, quick!’ Jack says.

  By the time the grisly jigsaw is complete and the last stitch sewn into the canvas shroud, the men are ready to call it a day. Bone-weary from the day’s labour and with their heads hurting from the memories of front-line duty, they are tired and hungry. But as they trudge back across the field there is good news. The driver has managed to park the mobile kitchen just a few yards from their camp. One of the last of the Chinese labour companies has been detailed to set up their tents and a brazier has been lit.

  ‘Bloody luxury,’ Ocker shouts as they trudge back up the hill. ‘All we need now is some entertainment. Who’s gonna start the sing-song?’ He takes hold of Fuller’s hand and kneels in front of him in the mud.

  ‘If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy …’

  ‘Gerroff me, yer daft …’

  ‘Oh, come on, Fuller,’ says Ocker, pulling himself back up. ‘Give us a kiss.’

  8

  The summer of 1919 is warm and dry. The men rise earlier and work from four a.m. till noon, leaving the stench of the battlefield to the flies and the maggots in the midday sun.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  ‘Come an’ have a look at this,’ says Jack, standing back from the shallow hole he has just dug.

  ‘Ah!’ Townend crouches down to take a closer look. ‘Fritz dead?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ Jack says, looking at the dirty scraps of grey-blue fabric wrapped tightly round the bones. ‘What shall we do with him?’

  ‘Well he can’t stay here,’ says Townend, ‘that’s for sure.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, dig him up, Jack. Check his pockets – if he’s still got any. Cop a gander, see if there’s any ID.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we’ll take him up to Langemark,’ Townend says. ‘Drop him off there on our way back home.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What the fuck is it now, Ocker?’

  ‘Another bloody Jerry here, I’d say, Sarge.’

  ‘Oh bleedin’ great,’ Townend says. ‘We must’ve hit upon a fucking Fritz cemetery. Ingham will be happy.’

  ‘Reckon there’s two or three of them in this trench.’

  ‘Never mind,’ says Townend. ‘Dig the fuckers up and pile ’em on the lorry. Just be quick about it. We’ll let the POWs dig the graves and do the burying.’

  But the Germans that the men are digging up haven’t been buried deliberately; these aren’t marked graves, which is why the men have hit on them by accident. Apart from the lone corpse Jack has found, the rest of the bodies lie in a tangled heap of mud-encrusted bones in what might have been a shell-hole or the line of a reserve trench. An explosion, a bombardment, something sudden and terrible, has buried these men alive. And yet, amid the accidentally entombed Germans, one grave, properly dug and marked, seems against the odds to have survived intact. Ein unbekannter Englander is carved into the rough wooden cross with a penknife, possibly by the very hand – and the very knife – that killed the man beneath.

  ‘This is the one we’ve come for,’ Townend says, taking the cross out of the ground. ‘Don’t get this poor bugger’s bones mixed up with them krauts.’

  ‘Aye, sir. We’re taking care of it.’

  Once the bodies have been sewn into tarpaulins and loaded on the motor transport, the men trudge back on foot to the road while the ex-Red Cross ambulance bumps and bounces over the rough ground, shaking up the dismembered, desiccated cargo still further.

  ‘Jeez!’ Ocker shouts at the departing vehicle. ‘They’re gonna be a right flamin’ mess when they get ’em there.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ Jack says, stepping up into the front of the Albion. ‘All t’Germans do is shovel ’em into a ruddy great pit anyway.’

  A short time later both trucks stop at the side of a quiet road just south of Langemark. Grey-uniformed German prisoners – shovels sloping over shoulders – stand smoking on the verge.

  ‘This is it,’ says Townend, climbing down from the cab. ‘Come on, you buggers.’ He bangs with his hand on the side of the ambulance. ‘Everybody off. This is your stop.’

  The Germans POWs slowly gather round at the back of the truck. One of the guards slings his rifle on his shoulder as he lights a cigarette. The men of Jack’s platoon jump down from the back of the truck, keen not to miss the rare pleasure of watching as someone else does all the hard work for a change. But things aren’t going smoothly.

  ‘Jack? Jack!’

  Townend is having trouble persuading the prisoners to unload the packages of bone and uniform. Standing at the back of the ambulance gesticulating, he points to the bundles lined up on the stretcher shelves. He mimes the action of unloading the truck and carrying the sacks to the German cemetery. But none of the prisoners moves. The escort – a couple of absurdly youthful Canadian privates – shrug and shake their heads when Townend asks them to communicate.

  ‘Jack, Jack? Come over here will you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Speak kraut, do you, Jack? I can’t seem to get the square-headed bastards here to understand.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge. Bit o’ French, bit o’ Flemish – that’s about my limit.’

  ‘Oh bleedin’ hell!’

  In desperation Townend climbs into the back of the motor ambulance, takes one of the bundles off the shelves and tosses it down to the first of the waiting Germans. But instead of catching it, the prisoner steps back, startled, and the wire binding splits. The contents of the bundle spill out at the man’s feet. From the back of the group comes the sound of a cigarette being spat out. Several of the POWs remove the shovels from their shoulders, knuckles whitening on the handles of the spades as they stare up at Townend. The muttering – in a language none of the men understands – is getting louder.

  ‘Who the fuck’s in charge here?’ Townend shouts. He jumps down and turns, walking back to the front of the truck. The clod of earth hits him full force between the shoulder blades and Townend stumbles forward, picks himself up and then scrambles quickly to the cab. He checks that the revolver is loaded, then walks round the other side of the ambulance to where the prisoners are still standing.

  Bang!

  ‘Missed the bleeder, sir,’ shouts Ocker. But Townend isn’t laughing. At least the single shot he’s fired into the air has silenced the muttering prisoners. Reluctantly, they make a move and slowly begin unloading each of the remaining bodies.

  ‘We’ve got a record of their IDs here, you
bastards.’ Townend waves a handwritten scrap of paper in his hands. ‘Not that you’re getting it until I’m satisfied. Now’ – he picks up a shovel and mimes the action of throwing soil, fast, over his shoulder – ‘get bloody digging!’

  ‘Trouble is,’ says Mac, stoking his pipe as the prisoners get to work at last, ‘none of these fellows thinks they’ve actually lost the war, you know.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘No, not really. Look at them. They all feel terribly hard done by. They seem to have got it into their thick, square heads that they’re an undefeated army, that they’ve merely withdrawn tactically from the field of battle …’

  ‘That they’ll be back?’

  ‘Stabbed in the back, more like,’ says Mac. ‘But who knows?’

  ‘Well,’ Ocker says, ‘let’s just hope we’re not around to find out.’ He looks at Jack. ‘Unless you were planning on being here for the second half, eh, Jacko?’

  Jack shakes his head.

  ‘Yeah, just look at ’em,’ Fuller laughs. ‘They all fink they should be back ’ome in Berlin, celebrating.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones,’ says Ocker. ‘They think they’ve got it bad, just look at us. And we bloody won! Didn’t we?’

  ‘Quiet in here tonight, love.’ As the men gather for a drink in the British Tavern in Ypres later that day, the mood is still subdued. ‘Here, Françoise.’ Jack reaches inside his tunic pocket. ‘Present for you!’

  ‘Chocolate!’ the girl’s eyes widen. ‘Where did you—’

  Jack taps the side of his nose. ‘I didn’t,’ he smiles. ‘Well, not on me own. Happen you’d better go and say summat to your Uncle Mac,’ he nods. ‘He was the one who found it.’

  ‘Found it?’ Katia hands Jack a heavy, foaming mug of Vermeulen bièr blond. The young girl wanders over to the table where the men are sitting. Within moments Mac is patting his knee and Ocker is ruffling Françoise’s hair. ‘Where do you find chocolate?’