The Glorious Dead

by Tim Atkinson

  ‘You and your bloody big mouth!’ Mac shakes his head.

  The others sip their drinks then sit and look at one another uncomfortably. Monsieur Steenvan, a grubby tea towel in his hands, continues to polish the glasses. His moustache twitches as he watches the men gather round a table, but his eyes don’t seem to register what he’s seeing any more than his ears hear what the men are saying. His hands go on twisting the same glass in the tea towel, holding it up to the light periodically, before repeating the procedure over and over.

  ‘He’s taking it bad, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well how the bloody ’ell would you take it, losing a daughter so sudden like that?’ Jack whispers.

  ‘Dunno, mate. Haven’t got a daughter. Not that I know of, at any rate.’ He shrugs. ‘None of us have if it comes to that. Have we?’

  ‘Maybe not, laddie,’ says Mac. ‘But we can imagine what it must feel like. And we can be a darn sight more sensitive, too.’

  ‘I’d better go an’ have a word with him.’ Jack pushes back his chair. ‘Make sure the ol’ boy is OK.’

  Jack walks to the counter as reluctantly as if attending his own court martial. He can’t think of anything worth saying but feels he must say something. ‘Sorry, sir.’ Steenvan carries on turning the tea towel, looking down at the glass he’s polishing. ‘I mean … Ik – ben – droevig – over – er, over hem? Over hem. Aye.’

  ‘Who taught you your Dutch?’ Steenvan suddenly looks up. ‘It is filthy!’

  ‘Well …’ Jack’s eyes widen. ‘Your little lass, actually.’ Steenvan nods, smiling even as the tears start welling in the corners of his eyes. ‘She weren’t such a bad teacher, neither.’

  The two men watch each other for a moment. Then Steenvan slowly starts to look around the room, as if searching for something else to say. Jack follows his gaze, but the eyes flit like flies from one object to the next. Eventually, Monsieur Steenvan turns and places the glass he’s been holding back on the top shelf before looking at it, taking it down again and polishing it some more.

  ‘Ma fille était très friande de vous, Jacques.’ The tea towel stops moving for a moment and Steenvan looks Jack in the eye. ‘I am sorry,’ he shrugs. ‘Sometimes it is easier in French.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Jack sighs. ‘I was very fond of ’er an’ all.’

  ‘Mais elle était jeune, Jacques – trop jeune pour savoir ce qu’elle voulait au fond.’

  ‘She was, aye,’ Jack shakes his head. ‘She was too young. Much too young.’

  Jack leans an elbow on the bar and turns, watching the men sitting at their table, drinking beer. Ocker is shuffling the cards and they are talking loudly to one another, waiting for the game to begin.

  ‘They are … what is it that you say?’ Steenvan looks across as the cards are dealt, the conversation never stopping. ‘They are … chatting?’

  ‘No,’ Jack smiles. ‘Not since we had us new uniforms.’ The mere memory of lice-infested khaki makes him itch. ‘No, we’re all clean now. No more scratching or running candles up and down the seams of us shirts.’

  Steenvan shrugs.

  ‘Chats,’ Jack explains. ‘Little white fellas living in your clothes.’

  ‘Chats?’

  ‘Lice,’ Jack says. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t matter.’

  A wagon passes, iron wheels bumping on the cobbled road. Steenvan suddenly stops moving. ‘I thank you, Jacques. I am very grateful for what you did for us, for Françoise.’

  Jack looks puzzled for a moment.

  ‘Non, no – it was a great help,’ Steenvan goes on. ‘And I, er … I do not have the strength, n’est-ce pas?’

  With a shock, Jack is suddenly aware of what it is that Monsieur Steenvan is expressing gratitude for. ‘I wish to thank you properly,’ he says after a while. ‘You and the men – you have always been so helpful to me, to us. And your Captain Ingham too, of course.’

  ‘Aye, well. We didn’t do too bad with this place, did we?’ Jack says, looking round at the tin roof and wooden walls before with a jolt Ingham’s name suddenly registers.

  ‘You what?’ Jack stares across the bar. ‘Who did you just say?’

  Steenvan shrugs again. ‘All of you. You, Jacques, you and the men have helped build this place with the materials you have given us. And of course you are all good customers too,’ Steenvan laughs.

  ‘But Ingham,’ Jack narrows his eyes. ‘He isn’t a regular, is he?’

  ‘Non. No, no – of course. But he has …’

  ‘What? What has Ingham done?’

  Steenvan’s expression changes from bewilderment to fear.

  ‘You in, Jacko?’ Ocker calls across the room as he shuffles the cards. Jack makes to answer, but then notices Fuller sneaking in and quietly joining in with the other men.

  The boy looks at Jack then quickly looks away and goes to sit down. ‘I’m in.’ He rubs his hands together, trying not to catch Jack’s eye again. But he isn’t what Jack is thinking about right now.

  ‘You are aware, I think, Jacques, of what we are trying to do. What we want to achieve.’

  ‘Achieve?’ Jack is puzzled now.

  Steenvan places both his hands flat on the bar. ‘Has my daughter ever spoken to you about her … of son frère? Her brother?’ He looks at Jack. Slowly, Jack shakes his head. ‘Killed,’ the man goes on. ‘In 1916.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I thought not, peut-être. He was my son,’ Steenvan goes on, ‘from my first marriage. So, I suppose, he was not – what is it you would say? – her true brother.’

  ‘Half, we would call it. We’d say her half-brother.’

  ‘Demi-frère,’ Steenvan nods. ‘Oui. And of course, he was so many years older than the girls. They hardly knew him.’

  Jack slowly shakes his head. ‘I know … I mean, I can imagine how that feels.’

  Steenvan closes his eyes and holds up his hand. ‘He served south of Dixmude.’

  ‘Trenches of death,’ Jack nods.

  Steenvan smiles. ‘He was a brave soldier.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But … But he wasn’t killed by the Germans.’

  Jack can’t quite think what to say. He shakes his head.

  ‘He is buried in the churchyard,’ Steenvan goes on. ‘In Poperinghe.’

  ‘So how … ?’

  ‘How did he die?’

  Jack stares at Steenvan for a long time. ‘No,’ he says at last, quietly.

  Steenvan nods, slowly. ‘He was an intelligent boy, Jacques. Very clever. He could have been an officer …’

  ‘But for the fact he didn’t speak French!’

  ‘Or wouldn’t,’ Steenvan shakes his head. ‘He was always, er … I don’t know how to say it? C’était un jeune homme très décidé.’

  ‘Determined?’

  ‘Determined, oui.’

  ‘But more than that?’

  Steenvan nods, thinking. ‘He was a headstrong boy, even when he was un tout petit gosse. He was angry … no, that is not the word. How would you say? Outraged – he was outraged by the injustice in the Belgian Army. So many proud, brave Flemings were treated as no more than … cattle. As food for guns.’

  ‘Cannon fodder,’ Jack adds. ‘Well, we can tell thee summat about that.’

  ‘I am sure you can.’

  ‘So he … your lad. What did he do? Nowt stupid, surely?’

  ‘Stupid?’ Steenvan shrugs. ‘That depends what you mean by “stupid”. Whether you think that joining the Flemish Front is … stupid?’

  ‘Ah,’ says Jack. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Do you see?’

  ‘Well, I see that … I don’t know. I mean – well, I know they was sponsored by the Germans.’

  ‘In the occupied zones, yes. And there were some of them – the Young Flemings in particular – who were very, I don’t know how to say it …’

  ‘Pro-German?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘But not—’

  ‘No, not him,’ says Steenvan. �
�Not my son. He was a proud and patriotic Belgian. But he believed in freedom for the Flemish people. And the Germans …’

  ‘Aye,’ Jack lets out a sigh. ‘It’s a complicated business, that’s for sure. At least—’

  ‘At least?’

  ‘I mean, it’s over now, all that.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, aye. Fritz is finished. You’ve got your country back. You’re free.’

  ‘Free, Jacques? Are we free? Are the Flemings free?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Let us just say that we mean to be.’ Steenvan looks at Jack and pauses. ‘Free, that is. And we are making sure we are prepared.’

  ‘Prepared?’

  ‘In case we have to fight, Jacques. For our freedom.’

  Jack is suddenly distracted by angry shouts behind him. A heated argument appears to be on the verge of getting nasty.

  ‘Hey!’ Fuller is standing up and shouting.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ Ocker, standing over him, is dangling something right in front of Fuller’s face.

  ‘Me watch!’ The boy swipes at the spinning jewel.

  ‘Your watch?’

  ‘My fuckin’ watch …’

  ‘Anyone round here seen Fuller’s watch?’ Ocker looks around the room.

  ‘Anyone know the laddie even had a watch?’ says Mac.

  ‘Anyone even know that Fuller could tell the flamin’ time?’

  ‘You’re just …’

  ‘Just what, mate? Green? Wet behind the ears? Nah, not us, mate – you! You’re just a bad loser.’

  ‘Give him back his watch, Ocker.’

  ‘Not likely, Jacko. I dealt fair and square and Fuller wanted in. He didn’t have a stake so he put his watch down.’

  ‘I was tricked,’ moans Fuller.

  ‘I’ll trick your bloody arse!’ Jack grabs the boy’s wrist, twisting his arm back sharply.

  ‘Ow! Argh!’ Fuller is forced to stand and turn, trying to unwind from the pain, but Jack pulls, hard, and holds the boy still tighter.

  ‘Never mind your watch, lad.’ Fuller is so close now that he can feel the tiny flecks of spittle on Jack’s breath as he speaks. ‘You won’t have a wrist left to wear it on unless you start to come clean about what’s been going on.’

  ‘Goin’ on? Arrgh. You’re hurting me, Jacko.’

  ‘That what Ingham does, is it, lad? Hurt you? Is that how he gets you to—’

  ‘Get’s me to what? Let go o’ me arm!’

  ‘The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac, but I don’t reckon Fuller’s gonna tell us about sealin’ wax …’

  ‘Or cabbages!’

  ‘Or kings.’

  ‘I don’t know what you fellas are talking about. Let me go, Jacko. Please!’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Ocker sweeps the cards from the table. The others pick up their beer. Jack pushes Fuller down hard onto an empty chair and then sits next to him, close. Mac draws closer on the other side, wedging the boy between them.

  ‘Right-o, court of enquiry …’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Shut it, prisoner!’ shouts Ocker. ‘Court of Enquiry into illegal – and unnatural – activity by 567211 Private James Fuller.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘We all know he’s guilty!’

  ‘Guilty o’ what? What the fuck ’ave I done?’

  Rain has suddenly begun beating hard on the tin roof of the British Tavern, driven by sudden gusts of wind, making a noise like falling shrapnel.

  ‘You know what Steenvan were just telling me?’ Jack suddenly loses interest in Fuller and turns to look over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll have the abridged version, Jacko, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Well, you know we’ve helped the ol’ man out a bit with scrap and stuff.’

  ‘As well as helping him use it to rebuild this place in our precious free time.’

  ‘Aye, that an’ all.’

  ‘Yeah, and we know why you’re so keen on doing it, too. Got to have a table to get your feet under, eh, Jacko? With the lovely Katia?’

  ‘Aye, well. Seems I might not be the only one wi’ an ulterior motive.’ Jack eases the pressure on Fuller a little and the boy frees his arm.

  ‘No – lost me at “ulteri—” whatsit, Jack.’

  ‘Are we gonna put the screws on Fuller here or not?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ says Jack quietly.

  ‘Let me go, Jacko,’ Fuller pipes up. ‘I didn’t mean nothing.’

  ‘Aye, lad,’ Jack says. ‘Happen you didn’t.’

  ‘Would somebody please mind explaining what on earth is going on?’ Mac moves his chair and Fuller suddenly crashes to the floor. Jack rises and stands over him.

  ‘You’re a pathetic little bugger, Fuller. But I don’t reckon you know what you’ve got yourself mixed up with.’

  Fuller is trying to crawl away on his back, kicking his feet like a frog on the stone floor. ‘I dunno what you mean, Jacko.’

  ‘Ah well.’ Mac cups his hands around his tankard and shakes his head. ‘That’s that, then.’ Skerritt – eyes wide – twists what remains of his mouth into a smile. Blake gets up from the table and walks over to where the frightened boy has shuffled blindly forward, nose now flat against the bar. Monsieur Steenvan continues polishing the glasses.

  ‘Reckon Blakey’ll bust his nose?’ Ocker is rubbing his hands together. ‘I’ll give odds that Fuller doesn’t even raise a lily-white hand in his own defence.’

  ‘Nuffink happened, honest, Blakey. Jacko, listen …’

  ‘Listen to what, lad? To you?’ Jack drains his tankard. ‘Reckon I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jacko. Jacko, please …’

  Jack bangs the empty mug down on the table. ‘Come on,’ he says to the others. ‘Best be getting back.’

  ‘What about me?’ Fuller whines.

  ‘You can walk.’

  The men get to their feet and follow Jack to the door. Only Fuller, still on the floor and cowering against the bar, remains where he is. It is raining harder now – the noise on the corrugated iron roof is almost deafening. As Jack opens the door, leaves from the street blow inside and swirl around the bar.

  Jack pauses on the threshold. He looks round, stares at the boy, then nods almost imperceptibly. Fuller scrambles quickly to his feet and hurries after them.

  20

  Back at the Sidings next morning the sun is clear and bright in a pale blue sky. Last night’s rain has passed and the wind has dropped.

  ‘Parade in ten minutes,’ a voice calls into the darkness. Light from a hurricane lamp illuminates a disembodied orange face peering in at the door. Ocker groans, turns over, pulls his blanket higher and then starts snoring even louder.

  ‘Come on, lad!’ Jack gives his backside a gentle kick. But the Aussie doesn’t stir.

  ‘This is yer lance-jack speaking. Parade in ten minutes, Ocker lad. And that’s an order!’

  ‘Well I’m staying here,’ a muffled voice protests from underneath the rough brown blanket. ‘You’ll do fine without me.’ Jack pulls back the cover like a conjuror revealing his finest trick, but Ocker springs up, snatches it back and holds it close to his chest. ‘Look, mate – if I hadn’t been woken by you snoring like a train at two in the flamin’ morning I might’ve had a bit more of a spring in my step.’

  ‘Aye, well, I had a bad night,’ says Jack.

  ‘Aye, we heard,’ says Mac.

  ‘Heard?’

  ‘Son, you sometimes have more to say when your eyes are closed than when you’re wide awake.’

  Ocker suddenly sits up in bed and rubs his hands together. ‘So what did I miss?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh well,’ Ocker sighs, lying down again and pulling up the blanket. ‘Nothing worth getting out of bed for, then.’

&
nbsp; ‘Leave him be,’ Mac says, pulling on his boots. ‘Let him suffer the wrath of Ingham.’ A comic burst of snoring starts up loudly from the bunk.

  ‘Aye well.’ Jack turns, straightening his own bunk. ‘Some of us didn’t have any sleep last night and we still manage.’

  ‘Yeah, but you were tucked up nice and warm in the lovely Katia’s arms, laddie.’

  ‘Bet that’s not all of hers he was tucked inside, neither.’

  ‘Watch it, Ocker. Not in front of the children.’

  Fuller, red-eyed, snotty-nosed, looks up briefly but knows better than to say anything.

  The men continue getting ready before sauntering out onto the parade ground, avoiding groups of workmen pushing wheelbarrows, and gardeners with their arms full of flowerpots shipped across from Britain ready for the planting season.

  ‘Look at that,’ Jack mutters as they pick their way through the melee. ‘No parades for them chaps. They get their orders and just get on with t’job without all this bloomin’ fuss.’

  ‘Fancy joining them, do you?’

  Jack looks down at his fingers. White flakes of skin crust like sugar on the brown, mud-stained surface of his hands. ‘Need to get these greened up first,’ he says, turning them one way, then the other.

  Across at the other side of the camp, in the nursery, Commission gardeners are already busy potting shrubs and pricking seedlings and getting on with the business of preparing for the second post-war spring and the work of planting and tidying the cemeteries the War Graves Commission is creating and the Army is filling. The first batch of a delivery of bright white Portland headstones to replace the rows of makeshift crosses is being unloaded from a train which has that morning pulled into the railways sidings.

  ‘I reckon I could get the hang of it, you know,’ Jack says at last. ‘I’ve got the hang of this job, after all.’

  ‘Aye, but they’re not Army, are they, laddie?’ Mac swells with all the pride of an Old Contemptible.

  ‘I know. The lucky buggers!’

  The men shuffle into line in shabby uniforms, buttons dull and caps askew. Their boots are permanently caked with mud. The uniform the search teams wear is little smarter than the corpses they uncover. But parade they must. King’s Regulations.