by Tim Atkinson
War Diary or Intelligence Summary:
Army form C. 2118
1921
DIVISION MAIN DRESSING STATION—Remy Siding Map Sheet 28; Grid reference: L.22 d.6.3
January 1st – Observed as holiday. The New Year’s Honours Gazette contained the following awards: D.S.O. – Major B. KEANE; D.C.M. – 23378 Sgt. J.K. TOWNEND; 24789 Drummer T. HODGE; 4493 O.L. PARTRIDGE. M.S.M. – 2761 R.S.M. W.R. MITCHELL; 5611 C.S.M. W. TITLEY; Mentioned in Dispatches – Lt. Col. H.K. ANDREWS D.S.O.
January 3rd – 7 O.R.s reinforcements arrived. Coys at the disposal of Coy Commanders for drill and inspection. Capt. S.J. JAINS departed for demobilisation. 2Lt G.R. UNDERWOOD to Lille for 3rd Army Rifle Training.
January 8th – Rugby versus 12th Sussex Pioneers. Lost 18–6. 18 O.R.s attested for Regular Army under Short Service Scheme. Conference of Company Commanders and OC 5th Labour Battalion concerning ongoing salvage work.
January 10th – Following Warrant Officer and N.C.O.s awarded M.S.M. 4566 FOX. J.; 78443 WOOD, R.G.; 3455 CQMS JENKINS, K.N.
January 17th – Capts SNELL and HARRIS return from leave.
January 19th – Salvage and clearance operations hindered by bad weather. Battalion bath parade Poperinghe curtailed due to water being cold owing to scarcity of fuel for heating.
January 20th – Battalion was employed chiefly in clearing the streets of snow. Men desirous of going before the Divisional Advisory Board were interviewed by the Commanding Officer.
22
‘I don’t know what the devil he was doing out here,’ Ingham is shouting. ‘How the hell would I know?’
‘But how did he get here,’ Ocker says, ‘without his bike?’
‘Without his bike?’
‘Yeah, without his bike. His bike’s back at the local, next to mine, right where he left it. When you came screeching up the road like one o’ the Bentley Boys and rushing into the bar like the Jerries was attacking, first thing I do is check my bike. And Fuller’s is still there, propped up against the wall by the door.’
‘Yes, well. Look – I don’t bloody well know how he got here, do I?’ Ingham shouts. ‘All I know is he’s out here now and he’s hurt.’
‘How, sir?’ Jack says. ‘I mean, how do you know?’
‘How do I know what? That he’s here?’ As the noise of the engine stops, the men hear Fuller’s cries of pain like a wounded animal in the darkness.
‘How do you know that he’s hurt?’
‘Ah … I, er – heard the explosion, Lance-Corporal Patterson. And then I did what any decent officer would do and came out here to investigate.’
‘Funny,’ Ocker says, ‘I never heard any explosion.’
‘The state you were in when I found you it’s a wonder you can still hear anything, Private Gilchrist. You realise I ought to have you on a charge.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Yes, Private – drunk whilst in uniform.’
‘But you’re not going to do that, sir. Are you, sir?’
‘Am I not, Private Gilchrist? Am I not?’
‘No, Lieutenant Ingham, sir.’ Ocker leans forward, looking directly into Ingham’s eyes. ‘No, sir. You are not, sir.’
‘Oh shit! Oh, fucking hell!’ Jack’s voice suddenly breaks like glass. ‘Come on, Ocker, come here – give me a hand.’ Ocker sprints across the mud to where Jack is kneeling by the boy, cradling his shattered face.
‘I want me mum,’ says Fuller quietly. ‘Mum?’
‘Yer mam’s here,’ Jack says, holding the boy’s head together in his hands. ‘Here’s yer mam now, hush, hush!’
‘Jacko?’
‘Aye, lad?’
‘Jack? Is that you?’
‘Aye, lad, aye, it is. It’ll be right, lad. It’ll be right. Shush now.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Ocker whispers.
‘Get us some o’ that dressing will yer? In t’kitbag, over there.’
‘Dress that, mate, and you’ll be here till next Christmas. He’s a goner, mate.’
‘Shut up, will yer! Shut the fuck up or lad’ll hear yer. Here, pass bag to me.’
‘This one?’
‘Aye. Unwrap that. And I’ll need a lint pad and …’
‘Jack?’
‘What is it, lad?’
‘Am I going to die, Jack?’
‘Nay, lad. Don’t talk daft.’
‘There’s a … pack o’ …’ Suddenly Fuller retches a bowlful of blood and filth from his mouth.
‘I know, lad. Them cards. I know. I’ll see it to it for yer. I’ll see to it.’
Jack is fumbling in Fuller’s breast pocket. He knows, of course, exactly what he’s feeling for. But the sensation of rummaging for a pack of dirty postcards against the warmth of soft, living flesh beneath the fabric of the tunic pocket, rather than the cold, damp stiffness or the sticky, smelly bones of an old corpse, is unnerving.
‘Here.’ Jack hands the postcards to Ocker. ‘Get rid o’ these, will yer?’
‘Jeez!’ Ocker winces, shining the torch on the first of the pictures. ‘Didn’t have Fuller down as one o’ them.’
‘Christ, man, don’t you ever give up? Here, shine that bloody torch over here.’
‘Sorry, mate.’ Ocker kneels at Jack’s side. The two of them listen for a moment to the crackling, gurgling, spluttering noises that Fuller is making.
‘Shhh, lad, shhh …’ Jack whispers. Suddenly, and without thinking, Ocker reaches out and starts to stroke the boy’s head. A ghost of a smile starts to spread across his bloody lips. The crackling sound of Fuller’s breathing rises for a moment. His eyes dart in the darkness, searching for something. His remaining hand grips hard onto Jack’s long fingers.
Then the noise stops.
Ingham is the first to speak as they bump along the road back to Ypres.
‘Thank you, chaps,’ he says eventually. ‘Thank you for that.’ Then, after a short silence, adds: ‘I think we’d better say as little about all this as possible.’
‘Suits me,’ says Ocker.
Jack says nothing. Suddenly they see the fat man waiting by the roadside in the shadows by the gap in the ramparts. Newly excavated trenches have been dug, exploratory foundations for a planned memorial arch.
‘What’s he doing there?’ Jack asks, turning his head.
‘Ah,’ says Ingham. ‘Leave this to me. I won’t be a moment.’
He drives across the moat and into Ypres, parking the truck about 100 yards down Menen Straat. The engine shudders to a halt. ‘Remain here,’ Ingham says, stepping down from the van and walking back towards the gate. A short while later, in the silence of the night, the two men can be heard talking.
‘Napoo weapons this time,’ Ingham is holding out his hands. ‘Napoo anything.’ But the fat man is arguing, a finger jabbing in the darkness. Jack can’t quite hear what he is saying. Then, suddenly, Ingham’s voice is raised. ‘Look, I’ve lost one of my best men this evening,’ he is shouting. The fat man is turning, retreating into the darkness. But Ingham takes a step towards him and pushes him – hard – in the small of the back. Jack sees a reflection in the truck’s enormous wing mirror – the shadowy figure is stumbling over; a flash of moonlight glints like a sudden spark as Ingham unclips his revolver.
‘Oh Christ, no!’ Jack and Ocker sprint from the van, but by the time they reach the two men, Ingham is already replacing the gun in his holster. The fat man is crawling through the dirt. But there is no blood.
‘What the … ?’
‘Oh don’t fret, man,’ Ingham sneers. ‘I was only warning him off.’
Jack helps the frightened victim to his feet. He feels the man’s fat sausage fingers close round his hand as he takes the weight and pulls him upright.
‘Thank you!’ says the man, brushing the dirt from his clothes. Then he looks at Jack and smiles, suddenly. ‘Ah, Tommy! How are you, Tommy?’
‘Come on, men,’ says Ingham. ‘Back to the camp.’
By the time Jack reaches the van and t
urns again to check, the man has gone – vanished into the shadows of the shattered trees that line the Menin Road.
Next morning, at Parade, Major Rennard informs the company of its most recent casualty. ‘The chaplain is already on his way from Poperinghe,’ the CO is announcing, ‘and Private Fuller will be laid to rest this afternoon at Lijssenthoek with full military honours.
‘Patterson, Gilchrist!’
The two men stamp their feet. ‘Sir!’
‘You will proceed directly to the cemetery and dig the grave. The plot has already been marked out. MacIntyre?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You will lead the firing party. Select half-a-dozen men and report to Captain Harris for arms and ammunition. The rest of the company – Blake, Skerritt and the others – you will act as bearers.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery is already marked out as the second-largest concentration of war dead after Tyne Cot. One more will hardly make a difference. The graves sprawl across the flat, featureless fields east of the railway sidings, creeping on towards the nearby village of Lijssenthoek itself.
Jack opens the tiny gate beneath the enormous brick arch that now separates the busy road to Poperinghe from the fields of wooden crosses. In the far corner of the cemetery someone is busy tending the ground. Jack calls over to him, but the man doesn’t hear and carries on with whatever he is doing.
‘Bloody ’ell.’
‘Problem, Jacko?’
‘Can’t get the ol’ boy’s attention.’
‘Want me to give him a shout?’
‘No. Come on, we’ll get cracking. Here, lift that wire will yer, we’ll take a short-cut.’
‘Hey!’ The gardener has suddenly seen them and is striding over with surprising speed. ‘Mind your bloody boots!’ he shouts as the men wheel their barrows across the cemetery.
‘What? Messing up the flamin’ mud, are we?’ Ocker shouts as he turns down the end of one of the rows of crosses.
‘Look,’ the gardener puffs, taking his pipe from his mouth and catching his breath.
‘Hey, steady on, grandad,’ Ocker laughs, putting down his wheelbarrow. ‘Don’t want to be digging two graves. They’re not on special offer, y’know.’
‘I’ll address the organ grinder if it’s all the same to you,’ the man says, panting, ‘rather than the flippin’ monkey!’
‘What’s the problem, sir?’ asks Jack, walking over to where the man is standing.
‘These areas here, and here, and here.’ The man points to freshly levelled patches of bare soil with the stem of his pipe. ‘We’ve only just seeded them with grass this week. That’s why they’re cordoned off, you see. To give the seeds a chance to grow.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ Ocker says. ‘Didn’t see your dainty bits of string.’
‘No, well …’
‘Come on, Ocker,’ Jack says. ‘We can walk around the side instead. It’s no further. Give t’grass a chance to grow.’
‘Why don’t you plant a few flowers for ’em while you’re at it, mate?’ Ocker shouts over his shoulder as he goes to collect his barrow.
‘Oh we are,’ the gardener calls after them. ‘We’ve got some dwarf roses ready to plant this spring, and I’ve asked for some nasturtiums. That should nicely set off things like cornflowers and chamomile and charlock that grow here naturally – to say nothing of the poppies, of course.’
‘Very pretty, mate, I’m sure.’
‘Well, we like to do our best,’ the man says. ‘For the relatives, y’know.’
‘Aye,’ says Jack as he wheels the second barrow along the duckboard track to where the gardener is still standing. ‘And we like to do our best for the dead. We’ve got a grave to dig, so if you’ll excuse us …’
‘Of course.’ And the man removes his cap and stands aside. Too old to have fought. Jack wonders what has brought the old man out here to this windswept patch of bare earth to tend a thousand graves and to create a cottage garden round the crosses.
‘Hey, Ocker!’
‘What’s up, Jacko?’
‘Take yer time, will yer?’ Jack nods towards the gardener, still standing bare-headed. ‘Just … slow down a bit, will yer?’ he whispers. ‘We’re not under fire.’
Ocker follows Jack’s gaze to where the old gardener is standing, and both of the men are suddenly acutely aware of what they are doing. Ocker kicks some stray soil into one of the divots in an effort to tidy things up a bit.
‘Hope we’ve not done too much damage to the grass,’ Jack says as they walk back to the cemetery entrance once the grave is dug.
‘I’m sure it’ll recover,’ the man says.
‘Want a Woodbine, cobber?’
The old man smiles and puts the pipe back to his lips.
‘So what brings you out here then?’ Jack says.
Puff after puff of blue-grey smoke billows from the bowl as the gardener gets the tobacco lit. He shakes the lucifer before tucking the matchstick into his top pocket and sucking on the lip of the pipe several times.
‘Well …’ He takes the pipe from his mouth. ‘There’s no work back in England, for a start.’
‘Plenty o’ work out here,’ says Ocker.
‘And I lost me wife four years ago, in 1916.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack says.
‘That was the same year our lad was killed,’ the man goes on. ‘She never really got over it, didn’t Hilda. Died of a broken heart, the doctor reckoned.’
‘Christ, mate!’
The old man smiles. ‘I’m not one to mope,’ he says. ‘Like to keep busy. And with all you lads coming back from France and taking your old jobs back, there wasn’t much back home to keep me occupied.’
‘So you came out here?’
‘That’s right. I thought it best. Thought I might, y’know, do my bit. For our kid; for the rest o’ the poor blighters.’
‘It’s certainly looking a lot better since you fellas came and started taking care of things,’ Jack says.
‘Thank you,’ the man says. ‘I’ve always had green fingers, me. Mind you, you’ve got to be able to turn your hand to most things in this job.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes, next job is to take down all them crosses,’ he tells them. ‘They’re putting proper headstones up this year.’
‘That’s not going to do the grass much good.’
‘Aye, I know. That’s why I’ve told ’em I’ll take the crosses down myself. At least grass’ll not be churned twice over.’
‘I quite like it with the crosses, myself,’ says Ocker.
‘Didn’t have you down as a holy Joe,’ Jack laughs.
‘I’m not. Had enough bloody religion down under. What are they gonna do with ’em, mate’ – he turns to the gardener – ‘once they’re taken down?’
‘Burn ’em,’ the man replies.
‘What?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told,’ the old man explains. ‘They’re going to burn ’em and scatter the ashes on the ground. Be good for the soil, that will.’
‘To say nothing of what the poor fellas underneath are doing for it.’
‘Look out,’ Jack says, throwing his cigarette to the ground. ‘Here comes the next.’
‘Another one for the trench?’ The gardener shakes his head as the cortege approaches. The padre slowly leads the way to the open grave.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
Following behind the flag-draped coffin and at the head of the firing party, Mac gives the gardener a nod and then, as if the words have touched off some long-forgotten memory, breaks into a quiet, private recitation of his own:
Who’s for the trench—
Are you, my laddie?
Who’ll follow French—
Will you, my laddie?
Who’s fretting to begin,
Who’s going
out to win?
And who wants to save his skin—
Do you, my laddie?
Jack and Ocker join the line behind the firing party, completing the procession. Once at the grave, the men remove their caps and wait. The chaplain coughs. Then the burial service begins, the words loud and clear in the afternoon air, the chaplain’s voice unhurried, unchanged and unchanging. Somewhere nearby, a fluty-throated blackbird starts to sing.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Did Fuller believe? Did any of the men believe? Jack isn’t sure what he believes any more. Ocker? Who knows? Mac, though – Mac believes. For all his hard talk and Scottish oaths, Mac’s Calvinist conviction never falters. No one sings the hymns more loudly at the church parade on Sunday. To have such faith, such certainty, never occurs to Jack. And he knows now it is probably too late.
Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death …
In the midst of death, in the midst of this expanding city of the dead, in the vast killing fields and among the twisted corpses, in the graves they dig but which aren’t theirs, and in the tidy, newly levelled graves, in a dead man’s tunic pockets, ripping identity discs from the relic of a neck or wrist, removing boots from rotten feet, examining mud-blackened teeth in an empty skull … in the midst of death there is the life of Jack and the rest of the men, the life of Katia and her father and the other locals. And there was the life – the brief life – of the boy, Fuller.
