The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  New Year’s Day 1915 has fallen on a Friday, so it is going to be a long weekend of drinking, especially as clubs like Keighley Green have avoided the strictures on pub licensing hours imposed by the government’s draconian Defence of the Realm Act. But there will not be another delivery of ale until Monday, and John-Tommy is worried that he might run out. He knows he will be able to buy more from Burnley’s plethora of ale houses and small breweries, but he will have to pay over the odds and then give it twenty-four hours to settle on its stillage. Anyway, that is a problem for the morning. D Company has been stood down for the long holiday, and he does not have to open the club until eleven.

  He makes his way over to a group in the corner and bellows at them: ‘On yer way, you buggers, get down t’road. ‘As t’not got ’omes t’go t’!’ He then lowers his voice. ‘Get th’sels back in ten minutes and I’ll stand thee a round.’

  John-Tommy is forty-two, an age which meant he had to have a special dispensation to enlist in the army, but the group at the table are much younger. They are all friends and all proudly sporting their Pals’ blue uniforms. Tommy Broxup and Mad-Mick Kenny are both in their mid-twenties. Tommy was a weaver until he joined up, Mick a collier before he enlisted. Theirs is an unusual friendship in a town where the rivalry between the pit and the mill is fierce. Tommy is there with his wife, Mary, a weaver with strong views and a combustible temperament. Mick’s wife, Cath, also a weaver and a woman with forthright opinions, is also there. In fact, it was the two women’s radical politics that brought Mick and Tommy together. Cath is subdued, still recovering from the tragedy of the miscarriage of her baby just two days before Christmas.

  Mary and Cath offer a rare sight in the club. Young women are not usually seen drinking, and certainly not without the requisite Lancashire shawl. But their presence is tolerated for two reasons. First, few men would challenge them: they are strong trade unionists, vehement supporters of the suffragettes and more than capable of belittling anyone who takes them on. Second, even fewer would dare cross Mick and Tommy, who are both cock o’ t’midden in their local areas, celebrated street-fighters and highly proficient with both fists and clogs.

  With the two married couples is a pair of seventeen-year-old former schoolfriends, Vincent ‘Vinny’ Sagar and Nathaniel ‘Twaites’ Haythornthwaite. They have become friends with the older men through Vinny’s prowess at both football and cricket. In fact, so exceptional is Vinny’s skill at football, he came close to being taken on as a professional at Turf Moor, the home of Burnley Football Club, the Clarets, FA Cup-holders and the most powerful team in the land.

  When the six friends return to the club to enjoy John-Tommy’s offer of an after-hours drink, the rowdy hubhub generated by a mass of drunken men has evaporated. The only other people there, apart from the pot-men and bar staff, are half a dozen bobbies from Keighley Green Police Station, the club’s next-door neighbour. John-Tommy always offers a few gratis beers to the men of the local constabulary; a wise move given that he often stretches his opening hours beyond the club’s permitted licence. Not only that: should a brawl break out, which occurs regularly, it is helpful to have the local constabulary on hand to add their arsenal of truncheons to John-Tommy’s illustrious shillelagh.

  As they lift their jugs of ale, the policemen pay their respects to Tommy and Mick. ‘Respect’ is the appropriate word. Although the two men’s reputation is as ‘feightin’ lads’, they have rarely been at odds with the large, heavily moustachioed keepers of local law and order.

  ‘Ata alreet, Tommy, lad?’

  ‘Aye, grand, thanks, Serjeant; an’ thee?’

  ‘Mustn’t moither, lad; an’ thee, Mick, how’s tha doin’?’

  ‘Alreet, Serjeant Shuttleworth, thank ye.’

  Glasses are held up all round as polite smiles and New Year’s greetings are exchanged.

  One of the policemen, an outsider from Manchester, disrupts the well-mannered atmosphere. ‘So, Mary. Still stirrin’ things in t’mills?’

  Mary fixes him with a steely glare. ‘Well, lad; if I am, it’s nowt to do wi’ thee!’

  There are bristles of displeasure around both Mary’s table and that of the bobbies. John-Tommy intervenes with the kind of gravitas only a local cricketing legend can wield.

  ‘Hey, think on, both on yer. It’s New Year’s Day, thu’s lads at t’Front gettin’ their fuckin’ knackers blown off fer us. So think on; I’ll ’ave no blatherin’ in ’ere.’

  He shouts to one of his bar staff. ‘Our Stan, fetch another tray o’ Massey’s; lads ’ere a’ parched like smoked kippers! An’ fetch a Mackeson’s an’ ruby port fer Mary and a ginger ale fer Cath.’

  Serjeant Shuttleworth nods at John-Tommy, appreciative of his wise intervention. He also scowls at the officer who tried to provoke Mary, making his displeasure very obvious. Several trays of drinks follow over the next hour, after which the bobbies go home to their beds, leaving Kitchener’s recruits alone. Mick Kenny, his grieving wife, Cath, asleep in Mary Broxup’s lap, is drunk and brooding. He has not been himself since the miscarriage.

  ‘Yer know wot, I can’t be doin’ wi’ another week, let alone a month, troopin’ up an’ down t’moors like toy soldiers. I joined up to feight fuckin’ Germans.’

  Tommy Broxup echoes Mick’s ire. ‘Aye, we’ve finally got rifles, but we’ve not a clue how to fire t’buggers. We get bayonet practice every day, but no firing practice.’

  Vinny perks up, suddenly roused from a stupor induced by multiple pints of Massey’s. ‘That’s cos there’s no bullets fer us! Whatever they’re mekin’ is goin’ t’lads at t’Front.’

  As he always does, Twaites agrees with Vinny, nodding his head and repeating verbatim what he said.

  Although tens of thousands of men from around Britain have answered the call to join Lord Kitchener’s Pals’ battalions, their training has been tedious and their uniforms and equipment slow in arriving. The initial enthusiasm for a war to save the civilized world from evil which swept the country in the autumn has begun to wane. This change in mood has spiralled yet further downwards as the scale of the casualties has become clear and as injured army regulars have come home with unnerving stories about the atrocious conditions in which they have been fighting.

  Just before Christmas, D Company heard that it would go to an army training camp in Caernarvon with the rest of the Accrington Pals in early February. The news meant that their training became more serious, but there was no indication of how long they would be in camp, nor did it suggest that they would be on the front line in the foreseeable future.

  John-Tommy tries to lift Mick’s spirits. ‘Mick, lad; it’s like laikin’ at cricket.’

  ‘What is, John-Tommy?’

  ‘Trainin’ to be soldier.’

  ‘I don’t laik at cricket. I’m from Irish stock, wi don’t tek t’cricket.’

  ‘Aye, but yer know ’ow it’s played.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, then. It starts slow, teks a long time, an’ tha’ needs to be patient wi’ it.’

  Not convinced by the older man’s analogy, Mick smiles politely and takes a final swig from his beer mug. ‘I’m off ’ome, lads; ave to get Cath to her bed, she’s been fair wore out since she lost our wee lad.’

  With Mick and Cath gone home and Vinny and Twaites staggering arm-in-arm through the club’s door, Mary Broxup turns to John-Tommy. ‘Ata stoppin’ ’ere t’neet?’

  ‘Aye, lass, tha’s a bed in t’loft.’

  ‘An’ wheer’s Mrs Crabtree?’

  ‘In Wynotham Street, up Colne Road. We rent it off t’mill where Mary works t’four-loom.’

  ‘She’s called Mary?’

  ‘Aye, Mary Cooney; Tyneside Irish. Her father, Gerry, was from Armagh. He went to t’Tyne fer work. He wer a riveter.’

  ‘Yer got childer?’

  ‘Aye, our Jack, he’s four; an’ Eileen, born last September.’

  ‘Can I ask thee a personal question?’

  ‘Go on,
lass.’

  ‘Tha’s John-Tommy Crabtree, local hero, earnin’ a bob or two ’ere; you’re wed, got childer; why ’ave yer joined up wi’ these daft buggers?’

  ‘Na’then, our Mary; answer’s plain as day: Wot’s goin’ on in Belgium’s not reet. Nowt in Britain is reet, but if wi feight fer wot’s reet in Belgium, we’ll be able to feight fer wot’s reet at ’ome.’

  ‘Oh, John-Tommy, that’s as good an answer about this bloody war as ’ave heard. But, ata reet abaht wot it’ll mean fer Britain when it’s o’er? I do ’ope so, I really do.’

  ‘So do I, lass.’

  John-Tommy gives Mary a big hug. ‘Get your Tommy ’ome to bed; he’s pie-eyed!’

  ‘Tha’s reet, ’e is. Sithee, then. An’ thanks fer t’beers an’ lookin’ after t’lads; tha’s a good lad, John-Tommy.’

  Admiralty House, Whitehall, London

  Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty, spent most of Christmas Night 1914 and well into the early hours of Boxing Day poring over his charts of the Eastern Mediterranean. He has done so, hour upon hour, every day since. It is now two hours into 1915’s bleak and cold New Year’s Day and he is back at his desk, searching for a solution to the stalemate in the war against Germany.

  He can still hear in the distance the remnants of the noisy revellers who have seen in the New Year in Trafalgar Square. His own celebration was a modest family celebration, a brief respite from his toils. His wife, Clemmie, his brother, Jack, and Jack’s wife, Goonie, together with close friends the brilliant young lawyer and politician F. E. Smith and his wife, Margaret, joined him for a supper as good as the Admiralty’s chef could muster. It had ended about an hour ago when the three women went to bed. The children, seven in all, in bed shortly after supper, are asleep in their bunks in the Admiralty’s attic.

  Jack and FE, both sipping cognac, are trying to persuade Winston, who also has a snifter of brandy close by, to leave his desk and call it a day. But he is not really listening. He simply repeats a forlorn sentiment both men have heard many times before.

  ‘I cannot rest until we have an answer. Kitchener is gnawing at the war in France like a dog with a bone. The man’s a born soldier and a good general, but he’s as flummoxed as everyone else about what to do for the best. The PM is desperate; he says everyone has an opinion but no one can make a compelling case. There seems to be no solution to the stalemate; only more and more sacrifice. Our men are wallowing in the mire of the trenches and I’m in front of a roaring fire, quaffing Hine’s finest brandy. I can’t bear it.’

  FE, from Birkenhead and a modest middle-class background, and who has used his extraordinary intellect and commanding oratory to propel himself to the centre of British life, is a man Winston admires more than any other. Said to have the sharpest tongue in England, many of the things he has said have already passed into legend, especially those emanating from his eloquence in court and his cut and thrust with the judges. Famously, as a young silk, he so infuriated a judge that the judge snapped at him, ‘You are extremely offensive, young man!’ To which FE replied, ‘As a matter of fact we both are; the only difference being that I am trying to be, and you can’t help it.’

  Concerned for Winston, believing that he is driving himself too hard, FE tries to reassure his old friend: ‘Winston, you didn’t put our men in the trenches, the Kaiser did.’

  ‘I know, but I want to get them out of their morass and end their suffering. I want them marching to glory in Berlin, then I want them home.’

  ‘Don’t we all? But you can’t do it on your own.’

  ‘No, not yet, FE, but when I’m Minister of War I can … and will!’

  Jack smiles at his brother’s single-minded fortitude, a marvel he has witnessed for as long as he can remember. He and FE have to be on a boat back to France tomorrow evening, and he knows that if any man can think of a way to prevent him and others repeating the daunting journey for years to come, it is his brother. Jack is on the staff of Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force. Abjuring his lucrative work as a barrister, FE is filling the mundane role of Recording Officer of the Indian Corps attached to the BEF, a job that involves writing glowing accounts of their bravery for the British press.

  Knowing how best to tempt him away from his maps, he looks at Winston mischievously. ‘I’m going to make you an offer that would entice the most obdurate of men,’ he says.

  ‘Not another wager, FE. You know you always lose them!’

  ‘No, it’s a more sensual lure. New Year’s Day will dawn in a few hours. It’s going to be fresh and crisp. Put your maps away for a day. We’ll all go to Hampton Court. Jack says he’s going to brave the icy Thames for a New Year dip. I’ll buy lunch at the Mitre: rib of beef, pink, and a first-growth claret. They have a very good ’97 Haut-Brion. Clemmie says you won’t come, but I insist. If you refuse, I’ll tell Asquith that you’re working too hard and losing your mind.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I suppose you might. My dear fellow, you are a card! A very thoughtful offer; a good lunch by the river is very tempting, nearly as tantalizing as watching Jack make an arse of himself in a bathing costume! But I must stay here. Asquith is at Walmer Castle, reading papers both Lloyd George and I have sent to him about opening a new campaign. I expect a response any day.’

  Realizing that his proposal has made little impact on Winston and that one of his friend’s less endearing qualities is pig-headedness in the extreme, FE relents. ‘How bad is the situation?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, you two don’t need me to tell you how grim it is at the Front. God help us, but at least it is no worse than a stalemate. It is in the east where we have our greatest crisis. All our reports suggest that the Russians are on their knees. If they capitulate, the Kaiser can hurl all his eastern divisions on to us in the west. If that happens, it will take time, but I wager that there will be no French celebration of Bastille Day in Paris this July. There will be field-grey uniforms marching along the Champs-Élysées, not the blue and red of the little poilu, and the tricolor flying over the Arc de Triomphe will be the black, white and red of the German empire.’

  FE pours another large Hine into his even larger brandy balloon. Jack refuses the same, but Winston nods for one. FE sits down heavily, draws deeply on his cigar and follows it with a mouthful of cognac. ‘Damn fine Hine, this!’ He realizes he still cannot get Winston to focus on anything other than his maps. ‘What will be the timing in the east?’

  ‘Winter is providing a respite of sorts, but with the thaw will come a huge German offensive. The Russians can fight and are reasonably well equipped, but their leadership is bone-headed and their transport and logistics are calamitous.’

  Winston at last stands up and takes a sip of his brandy. He does not savour it; he does not even realize he is imbibing it: he is too preoccupied. He starts to pace. ‘On Wednesday, the head of our military mission to the Tsar’s army was told by Grand Duke Nicholas that the Turks are rampaging through the Russian defences in the Caucasus. That makes the case much stronger for an attack against the Turks in the south.’

  ‘The Dardanelles?’

  ‘Yes, but I still prefer an attack to outflank the Kaiser in north Germany and join with the Russians. However, Lloyd George prefers the south, utilizing anti-German and anti-Turk sentiment.’

  ‘So, is the scheme flawed?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but it needs to be a joint navy and army undertaking, and Kitchener says he can’t – although I think it’s more “won’t” than “can’t” – spare any men from France. Without infantry, I have serious doubts.’

  Jack’s smile of admiration has turned into a furrowed look of concern. ‘Winston, take a breather. It will do you good … and our cause: you will think clearer for a day off today.’

  ‘That sounds like a reproach, Jack.’

  ‘Not at all. We will have you back here for dinner, then you
can catch up on the day for a couple of hours before getting an early night. You are mortal, like the rest of us. Or at least I think you are.’

  ‘Tosh! It’s the mortality of the boys at the Front that is of much greater concern than mine. I’ll rest when they can. Now, bugger off to bed, the pair of you.’

  The two men know when they are beaten. With Winston wearing his current mantle as Britain’s warrior-in-chief, neither brotherly love nor the acumen of the cleverest advocate in the realm can prevail.

  Almost three hours later, with FE and Jack sleeping off more than enough brandy, Winston climbs the Admiralty’s grand staircase to bed. It is midwinter, so dawn is some way off, but if it were high summer the sun would be well up and the cock would have crowed long ago. He asks the marine on duty for a 6 a.m. call, before slipping into bed next to Clemmie. He has woken her up.

  ‘Darling, it’s turned four in the morning. You’re flogging yourself to death,’ she says.

  ‘Hardly, Cat. There’ll be plenty of time for sleep when I’m in my dotage.’

  ‘At this rate, you won’t reach old age. When have you asked for a call?’

  ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘That means six, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s a question of national security, darling. You may not be privy to the answer.’

  ‘Don’t be infuriating! Please go and sleep upstairs. I don’t want to be woken again by some ham-fisted marine knocking on the door. And don’t wake the children.’

  ‘Darling, may I not go in and give them a kiss?’

  ‘Of course, but do it quietly.’

  Winston slips out of the bed and walks to the door.

  Clemmie whispers after him, ‘Pug … I have a madman for a husband … but I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too, Cat … and I have a saint for a wife.’

  Breakfast at the Admiralty the next morning is a light-hearted affair. Winston, perhaps feeling guilty about his obstinacy in declining lunch and despite having had almost no sleep, is in good humour and is keeping the children amused. When one of them teases him about his noticeable lisp, he repeats for them the phrase he used to recite as a child to help him overcome it: ‘The Spanish ships I cannot see for they are not in sight.’ But, as he does so, he greatly exaggerates his lisp, to the huge enjoyment of everyone.