His life force floods through his fingers and, propelled by an involuntary vomit, spews out of his mouth, covering himself and Maurice in a shower of blood. There is just one more cough, ejecting yet more blood, as Smythson falls into Maurice’s outstretched arms. The young Hussar’s head lolls on to Maurice’s shoulder, where it rests as if he is in a contented slumber. Maurice holds him for a while, feeling the warmth of his blood soaking through his tunic, before laying him down on the trench firing platform.
Maurice’s fury at the stupidity of the men who lit the fire has subsided. He speaks calmly and quietly. ‘Corporal, send for the orderlies an’ get a messenger to Division HQ. This officer is Captain Aubrey Smythson, 15th King’s Hussars – an’ get his fuckin’ name right. Finally, ask CSM Woodruff to join us ’ere.’
When Harry arrives, the orderlies have already taken Smythson away. Maurice is holding his head in his hands. Harry has never seen his old friend shed tears, not even when they were boys together. Mo never cried: not when he got hit in the face by a cricket ball as a boy, and never during all the hardships, sadness and terrors of their years as soldiers. But he is crying now.
‘ ’Arry, I’ve ’ad enough. Now I know ’ow you felt in Vailly last September.’ Harry had lost both his company serjeant major, Billy Carstairs, and his commanding officer, Captain James Orred, in the battle. His loathing and dread of shelling and his rage at what had happened had led him into the town for a binge of drinking and cavorting. He could have been court-martialled for going AWOL, but although he lost his commendation for a DCM he kept his stripes. ‘You said it was all bollocks then. And you woz right, it is all bollocks.’
Harry puts his arm around his comrade. ‘Come on, Mo, stay strong, mate. You’re the one who keeps me goin’. Don’t buckle on me now.’
‘I’m fuckin’ cold an’ ’ungry; fuckin’ fed up o’ tom-tit nosh in these khazis we live in like rats in a sewer; an’ fuckin’ fed up wi’ fightin’ Fritz – who seems to be a decent fella, just like us – in a war that no one can win!’
‘I know, but at least Fritz is gettin’ the same. If ’e can stick it, so can we.’
Maurice wipes away his tears with the cuff of his sleeve. It is covered in Smythson’s blood and leaves a crimson smear across a face dirtied by the daily grime of life in the trenches and the stubble of a man unable to shave because no such luxury is possible. He points down the trench indignantly, in the direction of Smythson’s departing corpse.
‘That lad ’as only just fuckin’ got ’ere. He thought soldierin’ was policin’ the wogs in Bombay, so then he volunteers to come to this shit’ole.’
Harry lifts up his life-long friend. ‘Come on, mate.’ He tries to be as mordantly cheerful as he can. ‘It’s only a war: blood an’ guts; misery an’ sufferin’; then we die. Nothin’ new.’
Arm in arm, Maurice and Harry stagger through the mud to the small recesses cut into the side of the trench where the men sleep.
‘I think we both need a swig o’ rum, a couple o’ fags an’ a good nosh. A willin’ young filly from the Mile End Road would be even better, but she’s not on the menu tonight.’
Maurice smiles through his misery. ‘Are you sure abaht that?’
‘ ’Fraid so.’
‘Fuck! Na’er mind, tomorra’s another day.’
Tuesday 19 January
Prince and Princess of Wales Dock, Royal Navy Dockyard, Gibraltar
Tom Crisp is staring out across the harbour of Gibraltar, a huge expanse of water full of British battleships, cruisers and destroyers, almost too many to count. Their new camouflage – swirls and zigzags in multiple shades of grey – seems to be at odds with the spectacular setting beneath the 1,400 feet of soaring limestone that is the Rock of Gibraltar, the European column of the Pillars of Hercules.
Gib is, like Hong Kong, Singapore and Cape Town, a home from home for Britannia’s all-powerful fleet. Many of its residents are more British than the British and proud to be part of its immense empire. Although few have ever been to Britain and most are ethnically Mediterranean and speak Llanito, a form of Andalusian Spanish, the locals think of their little spit of terra firma at the tip of the continent as if it were Dorset’s Portland Bill or Yorkshire’s Spurn Point.
It is a beautiful afternoon; the fierce winds of winter that usually howl through the nine-mile channel that separates Europe from Africa have abated. The sea is calm and the sun as warm as on an English summer’s day. Tom smiles to himself; for the first time in many months, he is relatively content.
The battlecruiser HMS Inflexible has been in Dock One of Gib’s Royal Navy Dockyard since she returned from the Battle of the Falklands in mid-December. She has been undergoing repairs and refit ever since. One of the grand old ladies of the Royal Navy, she attracts large crowds, especially at weekends. They come to gaze at her immense scale and her new ‘Dazzle’ camouflage plumage, designed to make it difficult to detect her range at sea.
Fitters, carpenters and gunnery engineers swarm all over her with added urgency, as word has just been received that she is to put to sea in two days’ time. The destination is not officially known, but the word below decks and in Gibraltar’s bars and brothels is that it is the Eastern Mediterranean, where the ship will feature in a major new theatre of operations. A landing in Palestine is frequently mentioned, but the more informed gossip is an attack on the Turks through the Dardanelles and onwards to Constantinople.
For a young man from Presteigne, a small Welsh town in Radnorshire set hard against the English border and almost encircled by it, Tom has travelled a long way in a few short months. Having left his home, destroyed by his fiancée, Bronwyn’s, affair with an older man, he found work as a carpenter, and was working on Inflexible when Winston Churchill, Lord of the Admiralty, ordered her to the South Atlantic in an emergency on 10 November, with all the craftsmen working on her. Chief ship’s carpenter Cornishman William ‘Billy’ Cawson, an old sea dog with thirty years’ experience in the navy, noticed his skills and when most of the artisans were put off at Gibraltar, Tom was asked to stay on. In early December Tom was in the treacherous waters of the South Atlantic, taking part in a memorable naval encounter, the Battle of the Falkland Islands.
Here in Gib, Tom turns as he hears Billy’s familiar whistle behind him. As usual, the old mariner is on about the ‘good old days’.
‘No matter what they reckon about trickin’ the enemy, you’ll never get me to agree with it. When I started out as a lad, ships were built of finest oak; lovely dark brown they was, like a gorgeous brunette. It took me a long time to get used to cold cast iron; made the old girls look cold and ugly. Then, ten year ago, they started paintin’ ’em grey. I liked that; they looked well out at sea. But look at this lot.’ Billy throws out his arms in despair, gesturing to the fleet in the harbour. ‘It looks like a child’s been let loose with a paintbrush! Bloody criminal; makes us look like a bunch of buffoons in toy ships. I ran into a bunch of Yanks the other day – laughing their socks off, they was! Had to turn round and walk the other way.’
‘Oh, it’s not too bad, Mr Cawson. I don’t mind it, especially if it puts off Fritz’s gunnery crews.’
‘Well, you can keep it, as far as I’m concerned. Bring back plain battleship grey for our ladies. Anyway, we’re off agin soon. I hear it’s the Dardanelles.’
Tom looks blank.
‘The Bosporus, lad, a bit like ’ere, between Europe and Africa, except it’s between Europe and Asia. Constantinople; the Turks; they’re in with Fritz.’ Billy laughs. ‘At this rate, young Tom, you’ll have seen all the world’s continents and not stepped foot on any of ’em.’
‘Well, I’m in Europe now.’
‘No, you’re not. This is Britain, part of the empire. Britain’s not in Europe.’
‘That’s not what my teacher used to say.’
‘Your teacher sounds like a traitor! Must be a socialist!’
Tom is not as excited about putting to sea as he would have been a
week ago. Since then he has fallen for a local Gibraltese girl, Violeta Robba, a waitress at the Horseshoe, a pub in the old town owned by her father. Small and dark with a well-rounded figure, she is not unlike Bronwyn, except her hair and complexion are even darker. He has seen her three times since he first asked her to stroll along Main Street with him after her morning shift at the café.
All his carnal appetites have returned, especially since Violeta allowed him to fondle her breasts at the end of their last encounter. He was certain that more of her delights would be on offer the next time they met, but that may now be a long time in the future, as Inflexible will soon take him far away from Gibraltar. Then again, it may not be so bad. A common phrase among Jack Tars is ‘a girl in every port’; not too gloomy a prospect for a healthy young sailor.
‘So, are we invading Turkey, Mr Cawson?’
‘I don’t think so, lad. There’s no sign of troop ships. I think we’re to force the Dardanelles from the sea and go on to blockade Constantinople.’
‘Sounds dangerous.’
‘It is. Johnny Turk will have artillery on both sides of the Straits, and the little buggers know how to use them. They’re not afeared of a scrap if it comes to it – tough little blighters, them Turks.’
The Duke’s Head Hotel, Market Place, King’s Lynn
‘Not a bad supper, given that we’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Oh, Kitty, I thought the lamb excellent and the pud very well done. I do love sticky-toffee! And, darling, I don’t think King’s Lynn’s the “middle of nowhere”. The middle of Norfolk, yes, but not the middle of nowhere.’
‘But isn’t Norfolk the middle of nowhere?’
‘Oh, don’t be so haughty, Kitty. You sound like a snotty duchess!’
‘Really! Well, I’m not a snotty duchess just yet, but I soon will be.’
In order to discuss plans for 1915, Katherine Furse, Commander-in-Chief of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, has agreed to meet Kitty, Lady Katharine Stewart-Murray, one of her committee members, at a halfway point. Kitty, who normally resides amidst the splendour of the family home at Blair Atholl, is living at the home of family friend, Matthew, Viscount Ridley, at the far-from-modest Blagdon Hall in Northumberland. From Blagdon, her husband, Bardie, Lord Stewart-Murray, heir to the dukedom of Atholl, can be close to his regiment, the Scottish Horse, which is undertaking coastal defence duties.
‘Any more news of your brothers-in-law?’ asked Katherine.
‘Dearest Geordie is gone, I’m afraid. It looks like he was killed in September. I doubt we’ll ever find his body.’
‘I’m so sorry, Kitty.’
‘The Duke is in such a frightful state as a result. He spends his time locked away with his mistress in a tiny cottage on the estate. Hamish is somewhere in Germany, in a camp. But we did have a letter from him the other day. He’s allowed to tell us that he’s in a disused oil factory. All the other prisoners are officers, thank goodness; mostly Russians, some French and a few Belgians. He’s learning Russian and playing patience!’
‘What a miserable, worthless existence. It would try the resolve of any man.’
‘Indeed! Capricious Frenchmen, cowardly Belgians and smelly Russians – truly awful!’
‘You’re exaggerating, Kitty. The French are charming, and the Belgians are holding their own. As for the Russians, I’m sure they don’t smell; I’m told Petrograd is very sophisticated.’
Kitty is in a bad mood because she is disappointed about the midway rendezvous with Katherine. In a mutually agreed ‘free’ marriage, Kitty has made frequent trips to London for VAD work, which have allowed her to carry on a rumbustious affair with George Grey, a major in the Grenadier Guards. Since losing an eye and the use of his left arm to shrapnel in France, Grey is doing desk work for Lord Kitchener at the Ministry of War. Kitty found the dashing Grenadier irresistible when they first met at a reception at the St John Ambulance headquarters in St John’s Gate, Clerkenwell. Ten years younger than her, tall, handsome and a war hero with a Military Cross to his name, he provides the kind of sexual exhilaration she lost with Bardie long ago.
Almost forty now, Kitty feels like a twenty-year-old after a tryst with her young lover. They meet at his flat in Pimlico whenever she is in London but take care never to be seen together, even at the most modest of Pimlico’s eateries. Their very satisfying routine involves sex before and after a home-cooked supper and another pre- and postprandial session the following morning: an early morning ‘loosener’, as George puts it, and an after-breakfast ‘goodbye kiss’, as Kitty puts it.
Furse has just returned from France, where, after initial rejections and not a little hostility, the VAD has won its spurs as a worthy medical and welfare support operation. She is now desperate to expand the work of the VAD.
‘Since we’ve been recognized and affiliated to the Red Cross and the St John Ambulance, things have improved dramatically. But there is so much to do. We need so many more recruits.’
‘Well, lots of my friends are joining all the time.’
‘Yes, but they’re all independently wealthy aristocrats. We need middle-class women – even working-class girls.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Why not? Most of the men we are caring for are working class.’
‘But how will they be paid?’
‘The trade unions. I’ve spoken to Harry Hyndman and others. He thinks it’s feasible.’
‘Good God, Katherine! Hyndman’s a bloody socialist!’
‘Indeed he is, but a nice one.’
‘No such thing!’
‘Well, he can bring us lots of girls. We need drivers, cooks, cleaners – skivvies of all sorts. Are your friends prepared to be skivvies?’
‘Yes, of course. Some are doing it already.’
‘But are they any good? I’d rather have girls who are professional skivvies.’
‘It’s crazy, if you ask me. If Hyndman sends them, they’ll be socialists, suffragettes and dangerous. Do we want women like that in our –’
Kitty’s tirade is cut short by a loud bang that shakes the foundations of the Duke’s Head; glasses smash to the floor and one of the barmaids screams in alarm.
‘What on earth was that?’
There is a look of terror etched on Kitty’s face as she gets to her feet and rushes to the door. Outside, in King’s Lynn’s pretty Georgian market square, a crowd, many in it screaming and very distressed, gathers as people empty from pubs, restaurants and homes. Sirens begin to wail from fire engines, ambulances and police cars. Several people point to the sky. Overhead, emanating from a very large but distinctive silhouette partly hidden by the clouds, there is the low drone of an engine. Bewildered, Kitty turns to Katherine.
‘What is it?’
A huge black shape moves across the night sky above them. In its wake are bright-red glows from the flames of the devastation it has wrought.
‘It’s a bloody Zeppelin! It’s dropping bombs. They’re attacking from the air!’
‘God, do you mean they’re invading?’
There has been talk of a possible German invasion on the East Coast since the war began and rumours that they would use their airships as a weapon to begin the attack.
‘I suppose so. The coast’s not far.’
People start to run, some towards their homes, shouting concerns for their loved ones; others back inside buildings, fearing that more bombs are about to drop on them. There has not been any kind of military conflict in the town for over 270 years, when it was briefly besieged during the Civil War. Now, bombs are dropping from the heavens. There are at least three red glows low in the sky, two to the west and one much closer to the north, near King’s Lynn’s old dock area.
Kitty begins to tremble. Like many around her, she is terrified. She has heard gunfire before, having been on many grouse shoots and even on a firing range when Bardie’s Scottish Horse was training. But bombs falling from the sky in the middle of a small Norfolk town is an utterly horrifyi
ng experience. Breathless and tearful, she grasps Katherine tightly.
‘I need to get back to Bardie. If they’re invading, he’ll be in the fighting straightaway.’
‘Kitty, it’s too late for the trains. Besides, if it’s an invasion, the army will commandeer the railways.’
‘Then I’ll get a car. I must get to Blagdon.’
‘No, not along the east coast. It will be crawling with Germans. Come with me to London in the morning. That’s much safer.’
‘I don’t care. I have to go north.’
‘Kitty, calm yourself. It’s like this every day in France, but much worse.’
Almost hysterical, Kitty shouts, ‘We’re not in France! This is England. They wouldn’t dare invade us!’
Katherine pushes Kitty away and holds her at arm’s length.
‘Come on, Kitty, get a hold of yourself. There are people around. You’re the wife of the colonel of a regiment and a leader of the women of the VAD. Get a bloody grip!’
Katherine’s forthright words make an impression. Kitty begins to take deep breaths and fight back the tears.
‘Sorry, so sorry; you’re right. No way to behave.’
The immediate panic in the town dies down a little. The drone of the airship engines has passed, and the noise of sirens and emergency vehicles has stopped. There are no more explosions and, on a still night, there is no sound of distant gunfire or artillery. Even so, thirty minutes later, a large and anxious crowd is still gathered in the centre of King’s Lynn. Policemen begin to circulate among it, telling everyone to disperse to their homes. A large, moustachioed serjeant bellows the loudest.
‘Come on, everyone! Off to bed. They’re gone now; the raid is over. It was a German Zeppelin, but it’s on its way home now, just like you should be. Come on! On yer way!’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 7