The trial was being staged with a telling simplicity. Viney as President of the Court sat behind a trestle-table -flanked not by his two Australian henchmen but by Hepworth and a round-faced, placid West Countryman called Quayle. What real function these two would serve was not clear, but they helped to give an impression of judicial impartiality which Lothar did not find reassuring. Seated at right-angles to the trio at the end of the table was the new arrival, Corporal Tomkins, the clerk. In his hand was a pencil, on the table before him was a wad of paper, and on his face a look of self-importance.
Two stools had been provided for Lothar and the prisoner, placed, at the far side to Tomkins, leaving a clear well between the table and the spectators who for the most part squatted on the floor.
Viney rapped the butt of his Luger on the table and said, ‘This court is now in session. Bring in the prisoner.’
His tone was sombre without the slightest hint of parody but when a moment later the slender form of Lieutenant Cowper appeared wedged tight between the grinning figures of Delaney and Coleport, there was a ripple of laughter, for the two men were wearing the red caps of military policemen. But the laughter was short-lived, for suddenly there was a scream of pure horror and Josh rose to his feet trembling so much that he staggered against the men seated around him and would have fallen without their support.
Lothar rushed towards him and enfolded the now sobbing boy in his arms.
‘Take those stupid hats off!’ he hissed over the blond head at the two Australians, who looked on in bewilderment.
At the table Viney made an imperative gesture, and they removed their red caps and tucked them out of sight.
‘Look, Josh, it’s all right, it’s just Patsy and Blackie, that’s all. Look.’
‘Yeah, kiddo, it’s only us. Don’t take on. It’s your old oppo, Blackie, see,’ said Coleport. ‘And this here long streak of misery’s Patsy.’
Slowly Josh allowed himself to be turned towards them. After a while his sobbing subsided but his body was still shaking.
‘Josh, son, you’d best go and lie down for a bit,’ ordered Viney. ‘Fritz, see him bedded down, will you? We’ll take a five minute recess.’
Lothar led Josh from the chamber and took him to his bed-roll. A couple of minutes later as Josh relaxed under the German’s constant flow of reassuring talk, Hepworth appeared.
‘Viney says give him a shot of this if you reckon it’ll help,’ he said, producing a bottle of whisky. ‘He also says we’ll be starting shortly, so don’t hang around too long.’
Lothar allowed Josh a single drink of the whisky. It seemed to have a calming effect, but he was still not happy to leave the boy by himself. But he also felt a strong need to be back in the chamber when the trial began.
‘Josh, I will not be long,’ he said. ‘Rest now. Sleep if you can.’
‘Right, Lott,’ whispered the boy. ‘I’ll be all right.’
Back in the chamber, Viney asked, ‘What was that all about, Fritz?’
Lothar said, ‘His brother was tried by a court-martial and shot. Josh saw him brought before the regiment by two military policemen to hear sentence.’
Viney’s face darkened.
‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘That’s what they call justice back there. Shooting their own lads! Bastards!’
There was a general murmur of indignant agreement, and Fox screamed out, ‘Fuck this for a lark. Let’s shoot the cunt straight off and be done with it!’
Lothar said, ‘Viney, couldn’t we postpone this so-called trial? This atmosphere, it is not helpful to the lieutenant. It is unfair.’
‘Unfair?’ said Viney. ‘I suppose it’s not unfair to gallop around out there, rounding up men like cattle to take ’em back to be shot? I suppose that’s not unfair!’
‘It is not relevant,’ asserted Lothar. ‘The lieutenant here is accused of what? Of making war, I think you said? Of murder? These are absurd accusations . .
‘You mean he’s pleading not guilty?’ said Viney. ‘Make a note of that, Tommo.’
Corporal Tomkins scribbled away,
‘No!’ said Lothar. ‘He makes no plea. He acknowledges no trial. He will refuse to speak.’
‘Won’t speak, eh? In that case, it don’t matter much what the atmosphere here is, does it? But I’m a fair man, Fritz. I don’t want Mr Cowper here feeling the deck’s been stacked against him. So let’s start off on a friendly footing, shall we?’
Cowper stared stonily at a point a couple of feet above Viney’s head, but Lothar studied the big Australian’s face anxiously. It wore a faint smile which matched his suddenly reasonable tone.
‘Fair do’s,’ proceeded Viney. ‘You’re entitled to know who we are. Well, we’re just what you see, a bunch of ordinary blokes who’ve tried the Army and done our bit and decided it’s the civvy life for us from now on. It’s a choice we reckon everyone should have. Wipe the slate clean, so to speak. Everything we’ve done in the past is the Army’s fault. Now we’re our own men. So here’s what I’m saying to you, Mr Cowper. How about it? How would you like to join our happy little family?’
It was a masterly move, Lothar acknowledged. Cowper’s resolve to meet accusation with silence was going to be hard to keep in the face of this absurd but courteous invitation. Sure enough, the young officer’s gaze slowly dipped till it locked with Viney’s. But when he spoke his words took everyone by surprise.
‘It’s Viney, isn’t it? Sergeant Viney of the Australian infantry?’
‘Used to be, sport. Have we met?’
‘No,’ said Cowper. ‘But I’ve heard about you and read your description.’
‘You hear that, friends?’ grinned Viney. ‘It’s like the old days back in the bush. They’ve got wanted posters out on us!’
Most of the audience laughed, but Lothar was watching Cowper’s face. It wore an expression of contempt which seemed to have its origins beyond his present situation.
He said, ‘I knew I’d fallen in with a bunch of cowards and deserters, but I didn’t realize till now just how low I’d fallen.’
An uproar of protest arose from the men. One or two of them scrambled to their feet. Viney too rose up, leaning across the table and bellowing, ‘You chuck accusations around pretty easy, sport. Cowards you call us! There’s men here done more real soldiering than you and all your fucking horses have ever managed! What’ve you lot been good for but galloping round the Desolation, chasing down poor bastards too weak to walk? What are you but a redcap’s bum-boy, eh, sport?’
‘At least I’m not a woman-killer!’ flashed Cowper.
It was hard to think of a riposte which might have reduced the chamber to silence but this did the trick. Viney subsided on to his seat and said, ‘You’d better explain that, sport.’
‘It’s very simple, Sergeant,’ said Cowper. ‘That nurse you tied up in the hospital when you removed your friend. She died. She’s dead. At least that puts you on a footing with your British comrades, doesn’t it? They don’t execute men for desertion from your Army, do they? But they hang them for murder!’
7
Lothar watched Viney very closely during the next few moments. There was a buzz of speculation among the spectators. Slowly Viney’s gaze moved away from Cowper and travelled round the room till it found Delaney. The long, thin Australian gave a minute shrug.
Viney, his face now expressionless, returned his attention to Cowper.
‘It was an accident, sport,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know. I wish it hadn’t happened.’
‘Accident?’ sneered Cowper, enjoying his period of ascendancy. ‘You don’t look the kind of man to me, Sergeant, who has accidents.’
‘The redcaps were OK, weren’t they?’ said Viney. ‘If I’d wanted someone killed, don’t you think I’d have started with them? There’s millions of men all over France let out a cheer every time they hear a redcap’s been killed!’
‘You may wish you’d killed one of them before you’re through,’ said Cowper softly. ‘I
should not care to have Jack Denial on my tail.’
‘Denial? He was the captain?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the nurse was his girl? Yes, I thought there was something,’ said Viney softly.
He shook his head violently as though to clear away a pain.
‘I’m sorry about the girl,’ he said. ‘Something else for you to answer for, Cowper.’
‘Me?’ cried the lieutenant in amazed indignation.
‘Yeah. You. And all them like you who still order men to fight this sodding war.’
‘Men don’t fight because I order them,’ protested Cowper, sucked into debate in spite of himself.
‘Why then?’
‘Because it’s a soldier’s duty. All soldiers of all ranks. That’s what soldiering is about, fighting for your country. When you take the oath, that’s what you’re promising.’ ‘But most of these jokers here aren’t soldiers,’ said Viney. ‘Not in the sense of choosing to be. Most of ’em were forced to it by conscription.’
It was a good argument, though probably inaccurate. Cowper shook his head stubbornly.
‘It makes no difference.’
‘You mean if I force you to make a promise, by putting this against your bollocks, say,’ said Viney, producing his Luger, ‘you’d feel obligated to keep that promise?’
‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Cowper. ‘War is different. A war like this threatens the whole country and everyone in it. Everyone has to take a hand in the defence. Individuals can’t be allowed to pick and choose, any more than they can be allowed to pick and choose whether they pay taxes or wear clothes in public places. Everyone has to pull his weight in time of need.’
‘Regardless of class, colour or creed?’ said Viney.
‘Yes.’
‘All equal, eh?’ mused Viney. ‘When did you last go on leave, Mr Cowper?’
‘Home, you mean? About two months ago.’
‘And not home? Local. When did you last have some local leave?’
‘Three or four weeks ago. What is the point of this?’ ‘Where’d you go, sport.’
‘I went to Paris, as a matter of fact.’
‘Paris, as a matter of fact! Enjoy it, did you? Had a bonza time, I bet! And before that when did you have local leave? And when was your home leave before last?’ ‘I can’t recall precisely. This is absurd …’
‘Can’t recall precisely? Is that because the gaps are so long, Mr Cowper, sir? Or is it maybe because there don’t seem to be any gaps at all?’ Viney was half out of his seat now and shouting. ‘You know how long it is since my men have had home leave? Not this bloody year, I tell you that, and with most of ’em, it wasn’t last bloody year either! And local leave! Jesus Christ! What’s that? These lads don’t get local leave like your sort, Cowper. They get a few days in rest areas, that’s what. And with a bit of luck they might find an estaminet where they can get pissed before their money runs out, or a knocking-shop where they get to the head of the queue before their bollocks freeze off! And that’s their local leave, that’s their bit of fun to keep them going another six months or more.
‘And if they do get home, what’s waiting there for ’em? No little place in the country, Cap. No dinners at the Café Royal and front row stalls at the theatre. No, there’ll be a cold and draughty hovel; a wife who’s so worn out capping bombs down at the munition factory, or skivvying for the likes of you, she’s no strength left to comfort the returning bloody hero; kids in rags sitting in the gutter watching the landlords and the factory-owners and the gallant bloody officers driving past in their motorcars.
‘All equal when the country needs them, you say? I say crap! I say this isn’t where men like these should be, fighting Jerry for the protection and profit of you and your sodding class! Home! That’s where they should be, not fighting to protect what they’ve got which is mostly sod-all. But fighting to get what they ought to have, which is a fair bloody deal under a fair bloody law!’
He paused. There was a moment of almost stunned silence, then pandemonium broke out with men on their feet stamping and cheering so that the timbered walls of the underground chamber rang with the din.
Lothar himself remained seated only by an exercise of the will. Every cell in his body wanted to be upright, cheering and shouting. Here was the true spirit of revolutionary socialism made manifest! Here the soul of the people had been uttered forth in the accents of the people! Did it matter that it was Viney who’d done the uttering. Should the truth of the message be judged by the form of the oracle?
But as the applause died in the chamber, so the excitement died in Lothar’s mind. Of course the form of the oracle mattered. Viney was no inanimate object, no mere cavern mouth or hollow tree, but a living man with plans and purposes which had nothing to do with the truth of the message. What they had just heard was no divine message, but mere demagoguery. Its aim was not the freedom of all men, but the death of one.
When there was silence again, the lieutenant tried to speak, but Viney silenced him with a simple gesture of one huge hand.
‘I reckon we can see why you wanted to stay quiet, first off,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Every time you open your mouth, you start more trouble for yourself. We ain’t heard much from the prisoner’s friend, though. Come on, Fritz. Do your duty. You’re an educated man just like the lieutenant here. Surely you can find something to say in his favour.’
Slowly Lothar stood up. There were a few derisive jeers but they faded quickly as Viney growled, ‘All right. Enough of that.’
‘Lieutenant Cowper,’ said Lothar. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘What were you when this war started?’
‘Twenty-three. Can’t you count, Fritz?’ some wag shouted, but Viney crashed the butt of his Luger on the table and roared. ‘Next interruption gets the other end of this!’
Lothar resumed, ‘What I meant to ask is, what did you do before the war?’
‘I was just starting in the family firm. We are wine importers. I wasn’t long down from Oxford, and I’d spent a year abroad partly learning the business, partly just getting a taste of … things.’
Cowper was answering with the frankness of a man who wants to hear his own answers.
‘So already you were twenty-three, perhaps twenty-four, and you were starting work for the first time in your life in a wine-importing business owned by your family.’ There was a sigh of resentment from someone, but Viney’s last threat prevented it from becoming the indignant protest it clearly longed to be.
‘That’s right.’
‘I presume you had good hopes of doing well in this business?’
‘One day I would own it.’
Again the sigh. This time Viney interpreted it.
‘Come on, Fritz, you’re supposed to be on this joker’s side, not showing us what a useless fucking parasite he is!’
Lothar ignored him.
‘Are you married, Mr Cowper?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Spring 1914. After I came back from the continent.’
‘Do you have a family.’
‘One boy.’
‘Born when, please.’
‘In April 1915.’
The officer’s voice almost broke for a moment, but just held.
‘So, Lieutenant Cowper, in August 1914 you were a young man, not long out of university, just starting a job you liked in a firm you would one day own, with a young wife, pregnant with your first child? A life of privilege, full of all the comforts, of pleasure, of love, with nothing but happiness either before or behind you.’
‘Yes, you could put it like that,’ said Cowper in a soft, melancholy voice.
‘And what did you do in August 1914 when the war was declared?’
Peripherally, Lothar sensed Viney stiffening as he spotted the trend of the questioning.
‘I joined the Army.’
‘All this you gave up? Or at least put at risk?’
asked Lothar in mock amazement. ‘Why? Were you perhaps a military family?’
‘No.’
‘Were you perhaps persuaded by your parents or your wife?’
‘No.’
‘Then why? Please. The President of this Court has explained why so many men volunteered. They lost nothing but poverty and cold and physical and emotional starvation. But you … Why?’
‘It seemed … the only thing to do. Most of the chaps I knew, university chums, boys I’d been to school with … everyone seemed to be …’
‘So, it was not to protect your privileged life then that you joined?’
‘No. I don’t think so …’
‘Yet you had very much to lose.’
‘I had an idea, I think, that I would lose something else, I’m not sure what, by not joining.’
‘Something else? What?’
‘I don’t know. Honour, perhaps. Or perhaps just an opportunity. It seemed perhaps this was a chance to, well, try oneself out, and one had to move quickly or it might go by, and then there’d be a lifetime of wondering …’
The audience was rapt. Lothar let the silence grow and deepen. Then: ‘Do you still think of the war in this way, Lieutenant?’ he asked softly.
‘No!’ cried Cowper with sudden emphasis. ‘It’s very different now. All those 1914 ideas, they’re long dead! They looked back to the past, you see, and now, now it’s the future we’re fighting about. For better or worse, this war’s changing things. Nearly every other war in history was a hiccough compared with this one. I don’t know what it’s going to be like, that future. But I do know that what we’re fighting for now isn’t any of the things it all started over. They’re insignificant, puny, and no one should ever have been allowed to shed even a single drop of blood for them. But it’s gone past that. It’s the war itself that’s important now. It’s a great changing force, and it’s been let loose, and there’s no controlling it. So all we can do is sit on its back and make sure we’re the ones in the saddle still when it finally dies away. It’s too late to opt out. You can’t opt out of a hurricane, can you? You just can’t!’
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