The Glorious Dead

by Tim Atkinson

  ‘See? No work left for us to do.’ The man shrugs and grins.

  ‘What? No work? Then where are the guns?’ Ingham asks. ‘Where’s the metal? Come on, man. Where’s the scrap? If you’ve sold it on to some bloody Belgie bootlegger, then I’ll have you shot. D’you hear me?’

  But the man is simply nodding, smiling, pointing over to the field where a large patch of brown earth stands out vividly against the snow.

  ‘Right, men,’ Ingham says. ‘Follow me. We’d better take a look.’

  They stamp across the frozen hillside while the Chinamen turn back to their roadside fires and the tea they’re brewing. All around them, shell-holes and bomb craters have been smoothed out and softened by fresh falls of snow, but the snow around the hole they have been sent to clear is grimy with soil from a recent excavation.

  ‘This is British government property,’ Ingham shouts when they reach the site to take a closer look. ‘You have no right …’

  ‘Dit is van mij,’ the farmer shrugs, and carries on throwing splinters of wood and old elephant iron over the top of the hole.

  ‘Dammit, man, stop what you’re doing. Stop, I say. And that’s an order.’

  ‘I don’t think he understands you, sir,’ Jack says, stepping forward. Ingham tries again in French, but the farmer carries on shovelling, this time even faster.

  ‘Niks van aan trekken!’ Jack calls over to him. The man stops digging. ‘They speak Dutch now,’ he says to Ingham. ‘Not French no more.’

  ‘Spreekt u Vlaams?’ The farmer smiles.

  ‘Er, I understand a bit, aye, but … Spreekt u Engels?’

  ‘What the devil are you and he on about, Patterson? Tell him we’re here on the authority of the King – his bloody King – Albert the whatever-he-is.’

  ‘He says it’s his farm, sir. He also says look at the mess you lot made of it.’

  ‘Tell the bugger he’d not have a bloody farm if it wasn’t for the mess we’ve made of it. Tell him he’d not even have a country if it wasn’t for the stuff he’s so conveniently burying in this field and the men who left it here in the first place. Ask him if he’d prefer to be spoken to in German by some Jerry clearance party instead?’

  Jack smiles. Three years in Flanders have given him enough of the language to transmit the basics. And three years in the Army have taught him enough about human nature to calm the current situation. The officer is a pillock, he is saying in his pidgin Flemish. The Belgian farmer laughs. Oh yes, the men do all the work, Jack tells him. But if he wouldn’t mind stepping aside for a while he can rest on his shovel, have a smoke and watch the British Army do a morning’s unpaid digging for him. Jack offers the man a cigarette. Some of the Chinamen wander up the hill from their roadside camp to find out what is happening.

  ‘Well?’ Ingham snaps.

  ‘He says we can get all t’stuff out of t’hole …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Aye. But only if we fill it in agin – afterwards.’

  ‘Christ, man, can’t you speak English either?’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Right, you chaps.’ Ingham turns to the Chinamen. ‘We need to uncover this hole and collect the, er … GUNS AND THINGS,’ he shouts. ‘And then …’ he mimes a digging action, ‘then we FILL – IT – UP – again and put the soil back. Be careful though,’ he adds quietly, careless now about whether they are listening. ‘Probably some live ammunition down there.’ Ingham stops, looks, shouts ‘BOOM!’ suddenly and throws his hands in the air. The Chinamen stare back blankly.

  ‘I don’t think they understand you either, sir.’

  ‘Speak Chinese too, do you, Patterson?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Ingham pushes his cap back on his head. ‘Christ! Bloody Belgians one side, Chinamen the other, and a damn Yorkshireman as my translator. How in God’s name did it come to this?’

  ‘I dunno, sir,’ Ocker chips in. ‘But I reckon you ought to be grateful. Got quite a flair for the lingo has our Jack.’

  ‘If mimicking what you hear and repeating the sounds dumbly like a child is a flair for language, Private Gilchrist, then I’ll grant you, Corporal Patterson might indeed have something of a facility for translation.’

  ‘Well,’ Jack turns and starts to walk away, ‘happen you’d like to tek o’er yer sen then, eh, sir? If my effort in’t reet enough for thee!’

  Ingham shakes his head. Jack mutters something in the guttural dialect of Dutch that the West Flanders locals all speak, and the exotic Flemish cadences are more than enough to fool Ingham. The Belgian farmer laughs. The work begins. And Jack’s vocabulary has suddenly expanded.

  12

  By the time the men get back to Remy Siding that evening it is already dark and the frost is freezing harder by the hour.

  ‘Reckon we’d better stick to Pop tonight, lads,’ Jack says when the men stand down. ‘It’s not a night to be cycling anywhere, least of all to Wipers. Who’s coming for a drink?’

  ‘Count me out,’ says Ocker, rubbing his hands by the brazier. ‘It’s brass monkey weather out there.’

  ‘It’s not much warmer in here, either!’

  ‘I’m staying by the fire.’

  ‘Fuller, you coming? Blakey? Tell you what, I’ll stand you a glass o’ water!’

  Blake smiles, apologetically. ‘There’s a talk in the Salvation Army hut tonight.’

  ‘Cheap round, this one,’ Jack shrugs. ‘Don’t you let me down, Mac.’

  ‘Aye, son, why not?’ Mac gets to his feet. ‘Someone’s got to keep ye out of mischief, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll have no worries on that score, Mac,’ laughs Ocker. ‘Jacko’s mischief is stuck in Ypres minding the shop and not even his tallywhacker is long enough to get stuck into her at that range.’

  *

  A short while later the two men leave camp, turning left past the guardroom to walk the mile or so up the slope to Poperinghe. The night is cold and clear. Although the moon is new, the stars are bright as flares, casting clear shadows. When they reach the town it is deserted; the first estaminet they come to is already closed. Another, the one at the end of Duinkerkestraat, is to be avoided. So they turn instead towards the market square, passing Talbot House and the Hôtel de la Bourse du Houblon.

  ‘I doubt they’ll want to see the likes of us in there,’ says Jack.

  ‘What? In Tubby Clayton’s place?’

  ‘Nay,’ Jack laughs, ‘not there. I’m not that desperate.’

  ‘Aye, well – there’s napoo booze in Toc H,’ Mac says.

  ‘That’s why Blakey’s such a regular.’

  ‘Aye, he’s lining up a little job there once the Army lets go of him.’

  ‘I thought it’d closed down?’

  ‘For sale,’ Mac says. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘The owner came back once the war was finished but cannae stand all these tourists and ex-Tommies coming knocking at his door.’

  They pause at the imposing façade of number 57 Rue de l’Hôpital or Gasthuisstraat as the locals are now calling it, outside what used to be the Officers’ Club.

  ‘Well would you take a look at that,’ says Mac, pointing to a sign on the door. ‘Skindles Hotel.’ He reads the printed notice. ‘Now offering the luxury of bathrooms and central heating.’

  ‘Better than t’others,’ Jack says.

  ‘Aye, son – but better for whom?’

  ‘For all them battlefield tourists,’ he answers. ‘Pilgrims. Widows. Orphans. It’s not just the privileged few like us over now, you know.’

  They laugh. The street opens out onto Grote Markt, the brooding and ominous outline of the Town Hall looming in the darkness in front of them. They cross the square quickly and head off down one of the narrow streets that lead off from the market square like drains.

  ‘Is Ginger’s still “Officers Only”, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Dunno, but Ginger’s not there no more.’

  ‘Not much point in
going, then.’

  Turning away from the town centre, the men find themselves in Rekhof. ‘There’s always Katia’s old man’s place I suppose,’ Jack says.

  ‘I thought he’d packed up now and moved the family back to Wipers,’ Mac says. ‘What with the war being over.’

  ‘Happen he’s hedging his bets,’ Jack says. ‘Keeping both places open, just in case …’

  ‘In case what? In case the Germans decide to do an encore?’

  ‘That’ll never happen,’ Jack shakes his head. ‘Anyway, let’s see how much business he’s still doing in Pop, shall we? I reckon he might have some more work for us back in Wipers, you know.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Expanding, I reckon,’ Jack says. ‘After all, t’British Tavern’s always pretty busy.’

  ‘He’s a canny businessman, that’s certain.’

  ‘Pretty good barman, too.’

  ‘And with a pretty wee lassie for a barmaid.’

  The two men turn and head down Peper Straat. The stars have disappeared behind successive waves of cloud, and rain has started falling on the frozen streets. They hurry on in search of warmth and a welcome.

  ‘Strange,’ Jack says as they finally reach Monsieur Steenvan’s temporary wartime estaminet. ‘Why would he be closed tonight, of all nights?’

  ‘Why are they all closed? Is there something they’re not telling us?’

  ‘Come on, Mac.’ Jack turns and sets off walking in the opposite direction. ‘This is no use.’

  ‘Back to base, then?’

  ‘Nay,’ Jack calls over his shoulder. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with Ocker’s snoring, to be honest. I know – how about t’picture house?’

  ‘What are they showing?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know,’ Jack shrugs, then grins. ‘But it’s got Lillian Gish in it.’

  ‘Broken Blossoms?’

  ‘That’s the one!’

  ‘In that case …’ Mac rubs his hands together.

  A solitary truck rumbles past in the darkness as the two men approach the cinema on Vuermer Straat. Neither of them turns to look and it heads out of town, ignored, turning right onto the Switch Road and heading off in the direction of Ypres. By the time the Albion lorry pulls slowly away from the town through the gap in the ramparts half an hour later, heading out on the road towards Menin, it is raining steadily. The dim light from the gig lamps catches the falling drops like sparks in the yellow beams as the truck slowly negotiates the potholed road. It continues east in the direction of the old front line. At Hell Fire Corner the truck turns along the old corduroy road that once fed supplies of men and horses towards the almost certain death that awaited them at Railway Wood.

  ‘Look out, sir!’

  Ingham swerves to avoid a crater, but the road is still surrounded by shattered timber. ‘Damn coolies,’ he grumbles. ‘Surely they should’ve cleared this road by now?’

  ‘So, where exactly are we going, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Never mind, Private Fuller. There’s no need for me to bore you with the details. And no need for you to tell the others, either.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Sir?’

  ‘What is it, Fuller?’

  ‘Pardon me for asking again, sir, but why are we going there – wherever we’re going – at night?’

  ‘As I explained, Private, this is a delicate mission. Secret. Top secret.’

  ‘Top secret?’

  ‘Yes, Private. Which is why I have chosen you specifically for the purpose.’ Fuller sits a little taller in his seat. ‘That’s right, Private. I need a man that I can trust. I can trust you, can’t I, Private Fuller?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  ‘I thought so, Private Fuller.’ Ingham pats him on the thigh. ‘And, of course, there’ll be extra pay. I can’t promise much, but you will of course be compensated for volunteering for extra duties like this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ Ingham says, bringing the truck to a halt a few moments later. ‘I think this should be it.’ He unfolds the map across the steering wheel and shines a torch at the lines and grids and contours, looking for a particular spot.

  ‘It’s like a treasure map,’ says Fuller. ‘Like we’re in search of hidden gold.’

  ‘Ha. Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say that’s exactly what we are doing. Right, come along. And bring the pick and shovel with you.’

  The two men climb down from the cab. Ingham, Fuller notices, is carrying a large army haversack across his shoulders. ‘Should I bring the rubber gloves an’ all, sir?’

  ‘No no, don’t be silly, Private. We’re not looking for a body.’

  ‘What are we looking for then, sir?’ Ingham doesn’t answer. The two men pick their way across the wasteland, taking care in the inky blackness to avoid shell-holes and old trenches. ‘Is this the field we searched the other day, sir?’

  ‘Er … no. It looks a bit like it I’ll admit. They all look the same in the dark, don’t they, Private Fuller?’

  ‘I suppose they do, sir.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. This is nowhere near where we were the other day. Nowhere near.’ Fuller isn’t so sure. The mud smells the same, a mixture of cordite, crap and a vague hint of gas. ‘Right!’ Ingham shines his torch onto a patch of bare earth. ‘This looks like the spot. Yes, this is it. Well don’t just stand there, man. Get digging!’

  Fuller looks at the earth in the dim pool of yellow light. He can’t be sure, but the soil looks almost freshly turned. In spite of the rain there is still a hint of frost on the otherwise black earth. Hard, he thinks. Maybe a pickaxe? Fuller hesitates, then pushes the blade of the shovel into the ground. It is soft. Placing his foot on the bar, he presses the blade down a couple of inches, levers back a lump of sticky clay topped – like icing on a cake – with an inch of snow, before setting it neatly to one side. The blade goes in surprisingly easily; soil falls from the shovel without much effort. Repeating the procedure a couple of times, he makes what begins to resemble a shallow, V-shaped moat like the kind a child would dig around a sandcastle.

  ‘Good God, man,’ Ingham says. ‘We’ll be here all night at this rate. Dig, for pity’s sake. Get the shovel working.’ He snatches the spade from Fuller’s hands to show him how it’s done. Within a few minutes the metal blade hits something hard. Ingham crouches, shines the torch and, with a gloved hand, scrapes away some of the soil. He smiles.

  ‘Right, Private. Now – get digging around this crate. And digging properly this time. I want that box out of the ground and back on the truck within the next fifteen minutes. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ingham throws the shovel down at Fuller’s feet and lights a cigarette.

  ‘Can I … can you shine the torch for me, sir? Please?’

  ‘Bloody hell, man!’ Ingham turns on the torch and a dim circle of yellow light illuminates the top of what looks like an ammunition crate. ‘That bright enough for you?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Fuller starts digging carefully around the wooden crate. ‘What’s in the box, sir?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ says Ingham. ‘Just keep digging.’

  The excavation takes a little longer than Ingham had anticipated, but soon enough, the two of them are manhandling the coffin-sized crate down the frozen slope to where the van is parked. The contents rattle as they stumble on the rough ground. The box is heavy – far too heavy – for its size. Fuller still wonders what might be inside.

  Once on board, Ingham covers the box with some of the tarpaulins the men use for wrapping bodies and they set off back to Ypres. Turning the corner into the deserted market square half an hour later, Ingham parks the truck and gets down from the cab, nodding as he does so to a man standing waiting in the shadows. He orders Fuller to remove the crate and they load it into the back of the stranger’s car without a word.

  ‘Right-o, Private. Dismiss.’

  ‘Sir?’
/>
  ‘And not a word of this to any of the men, understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.’

  Ingham turns on his heels and starts to walk away.

  ‘Sir,’ Fuller calls after him. ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘What now?’ Ingham sighs. ‘What now? I don’t know “what now”, man! Whatever you bloody well want to do “now”. Go and knock up some tart. Go and have a drink if you can find a bar here that’s still open.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Fuller says, not moving.

  ‘Well, go on then, man.’

  ‘But, sir,’ Fuller goes on. ‘How will I … I mean, how will we get home? I mean, I haven’t brought me bike.’

  ‘Christ, man – what do you think this is for?’ Ingham kicks one of the truck’s solid tyres. ‘I’ll be back here in an hour. If you’re not in the square I’ll assume you are where you are usually to be found when in Ypres – the British Tavern. Isn’t that where you men choose to spend your time when off-duty? Yes, go and amuse yourself in what’s left of Wipers and I’ll collect you in the truck. And remember – not a word of this to anybody.’

  ‘No, sir. You can count on me, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. Ah’ – Ingham waves his arm as a car pulls up beside them in the darkness – ‘my chariot awaits.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you, sir? Please?’

  ‘Out of the question!’ Ingham calls out, climbing into the passenger seat of the waiting vehicle. ‘You get yourself over to the British Tavern and I’ll see you there in precisely one hour.’

  Fuller notices something being passed between Ingham and the driver: an envelope, he’d say, at a guess. But it is too dark to see properly. Then suddenly the man behind the wheel grinds the big car into gear and pulls out of the market square at speed. The noise of the engine fades and the black bulk of the vehicle slowly melts into the darkness. The sudden silence is broken only by the screech of an owl perched high on the ruined campanile.

  Fuller turns on his heels and walks slowly back across the cobbles to where the truck is parked. He pauses briefly, one foot on the running board, ready to climb into the cab and wait, before stepping down again. He pulls up the collar of his greatcoat, turns and marches away from the black ruins of the Cloth Hall, turning quickly down Boomgarde Straat towards the Rijkswachtkazerne. There, at the end of Station Straat, he can see that the lights in the British Tavern are still lit. Someone must still be awake, he thinks. And didn’t the officer just give him permission to ‘knock up’ a whore?