‘Rum sort – not sure what H sees in him.’
‘Good sculptor, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps he’s got a big chisel!’
‘Don’t know, and I’m not about to ask H! But I do know Father wasn’t delighted when he pitched up to ask for her hand. Maud said he chased him down the Glen, waving his Purdey at him and shouting that he’ll give him both barrels if he touches his daughter.’
‘Oh dear. It was a no then.’
‘It was, but H came up and squared it.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, she can wrap him round her little finger if she wants to. I’m sure she pointed out that his chisel had already made its mark. Besides, Father knows full well that she will do just as she pleases in any case.’
‘She’s quite a girl, your sister.’
‘She is – absolutely spiffing sort. You and Dertha seem happy.’
‘We are. I think I’ll be back in harness soon. I’ve been told that, when I’m fit, I’ll get the 40th Division, part of Kitchener’s New Army.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. That’ll make me a full general. But the 40th are the bantams, under regulation height – odd little chaps. Fit enough, strong enough, but under five foot three.’
‘S’pose they make smaller targets when they go over!’
Both men laugh loudly, attracting the attention of the others. Lady Helen gestures to everyone to be quiet.
‘Shush, everyone. I just wanted to say, on behalf of all of us, that we really appreciate Maud’s hospitality today and her marvellous Blair lunch – very fitting. But, much more importantly, I wanted to express our gratitude to her for all that she is doing for Father, who relies on her so much.’
Helen goes over to Maud and kisses her warmly on the cheek. ‘Maud, thank you so much for all the love and kindness you show him.’
‘He’s worth it, Helen, he’s a lovely gentleman. A bit old-fashioned, but nice with it.’
‘Well, we’re all very grateful.’
‘I’m pleased to meet your intended. He’s a very nice man, so he is.’
‘I’m glad you like him. Father doesn’t approve.’
‘I know. As I said, he’s old-fashioned. He knows the world’s changing, and he doesn’t care for it. But, as I keep telling him, you can’t stop progress.’
‘Is it progress, Maud?’
‘Aye, ’course it is. When I were a wee girl, when Iain’s father was Duke, we were told never to look him in the eye; it wasn’t done. Now I do more than look Iain in the eye!’ She giggles. ‘We’ll have the vote soon. That will change things.’
‘Really, you’re a suffragette?’
‘Of course, aren’t you? But don’t tell your father.’
Sunday 11 July
Vlamertinge, West Flanders, Belgium
‘Sure you can fettle it, Cath?’
‘Aye, just needs t’spark plugs tekin’ out an’ cleanin’.’
‘Well, ’urry up; am freezin’ me bits off.’
‘Am goin’ as quick as a can, lass.’
Cath Kenny closes the ambulance’s bonnet with a flourish. ‘Right, turn her over.’
As soon as Mary Broxup turns the ignition, the Ford Model T Army Field Ambulance springs to life with a satisfying clatter of pistons and exhaust.
‘Next job is t’find us way back t’Pop.’
‘I told yer not t’pull off t’main road.’
Mary and Cath have been carrying wounded men backwards and forwards between Poperinghe and Ypres for two months without a break. They are exhausted, but enjoying enormously the challenges they face and relishing the freedom of being their own boss.
Their eight-mile route is not easy; the road is heavily rutted when it is dry and a quagmire when wet. Shells fall frequently, making the road even worse, quite apart from the threat to life and limb.
This is their last run of the day. They have four Somerset Light Infantrymen in the back, one of whom is in a bad way.
‘Come on. This is t’way.’
Mary drives off towards the west, knowing that the setting sun points the way home to Poperinghe. After only a few yards they pass a group of Welch Fusiliers, who have clearly been drinking. They are singing the rude, soldier’s version of ‘Inky Pinky Parlez-vous’ at the tops of their voices. One of them, a heavily built lance corporal, staggers in front of the ambulance, forcing them to stop with a screech of its brakes. He has a bottle of Belgian brandy in his hand.
‘Hey, boyos, a pair of posh FANYs to join our party … Come on, girls, we’ve been given leave in Paris. You can drive us there.’
Cath pulls to one side the canvas that acts as a door to the ambulance’s passenger seat. ‘Fuck off, Taffy, we’ve got work to do!’
‘Ooh, a FANY that swears – naughty girl. I’ll have to put you over my knee and slap your fanny, FANY.’
‘You and whose army? Fuck off, you big git.’
Cath’s venom changes the mood among the men.
‘Come on, boys. Pull ’er out. She needs ’er dirty mouth washing out, and I know what with!’ says the lance corporal.
Several of the men rush forward, grab both women and pull them on to the road. Mary’s uniform is ripped in the process, revealing her petticoat.
‘Look, boyos! Haven’t seen a pair of drawers in a month o’ Sundays!’
Cath takes a huge swing with her right hand, a blow that travels directly towards the lance corporal’s chin, but he puts his hand up and, with nonchalant ease, grabs her clenched fist.
‘A scrapper,’ he says. ‘I like it when they fight back.’
He grabs Cath’s arms roughly and twists them up her back, making her scream, then throws her over his shoulder. She can smell the drink on his breath and the odour of a body that has not been washed in many days.
‘Mary, kick the bugger! Do summat!’
Mary tries to come to Cath’s aid, but is hemmed in by two men, who, despite her punches and kicks, force her into the same position as Cath.
‘Over there, boys! That barn’ll do nicely for our little lesson in manners.’
Cath tries to think of a way out of their dilemma. ‘Listen, lads, this is a court-martial offence. But let us go, an’ we’ll forget all abaht it.’
‘Not a chance, darlin’. No one calls me a git an’ gets away with it.’
The two women are thrown on to the floor of the barn.
‘Gareth, go and move that ambulance into the yard. Tell the men in the back that we’re getting some fuel.’ The lance corporal leers at the two women, slavering like an animal. ‘Now then, girls, let’s get your kit off. Either you do it, or we do it for you.’
Cath looks at Mary. Tears are running down her face and she is trembling with fear. Cath tries to save her friend.
‘Look, lads, I’m the one with t’big mouth. I’ll tek care of all on yer, but leave her be … please.’
‘Very noble of you – Cath, is it? But I like the look of Mary too. But you can go first. Come on, get those drawers off.’
Cath does not respond.
The sneering Fusilier pulls out his bayonet and sticks its point under her chin. ‘Do as you’re fuckin’ told, or I’ll stick this up your arse!’
Cath knows from the look on the man’s face that he means what he says. Resigned to her fate, she starts to remove her clothes as the Fusilier fumbles with the buttons of his flies.
‘Come on – everything; it’s a warm evening. I don’t want you sweating all over me.’
Cath looks around, desperate for an escape route, as she removes her last piece of clothing.
‘Well, you’re a fine figure of a woman, I’ll give you that. Hope your hubby does right by you.’
‘He does. He’s got a lot more than that little bit of gristle in your hand.’
The lance corporal brings his free hand across Cath’s face with a fearsome crack, knocking her to the ground. ‘Now, get up, you little cow. I thought of making you suck my dick,
but I reckon you’d bite it off, you little vixen. Instead, I’m gonna fuck the fight right out of you. You won’t walk for a week!’
Mary tries to intervene but is held firmly by her assailants. Cath is dragged across the barn floor by her hair and thrown over some bales of hay. A heavy hand is laid across her back and she can feel the man trying to enter her from behind. She lets out a cry of despair.
‘No! Please, no! Mick!’
A male voice seems to answer. Not Mick’s, but a gentle Welsh voice.
‘Mae hynny’n ddigon, yr wyf yn meddwl.’
The Welch Fusilier turns, giving Cath the chance to pull away and run to her pile of clothes.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ snarls the lance corporal.
‘Private Morgan Thomas, 1st Battalion Royal Welch Fusiliers.’
‘But you’re in civvies, lad, and that’s a farmer’s shotgun …’ He pauses, puzzled, before continuing. ‘Of course – you’re a deserter. Now, you’d better hand over that gun and scarper, or the Red Caps’ll get yer.’
‘Not until the ladies are dressed and back in their ambulance.’
The lance corporal laughs wickedly. ‘Look, there’s five of us. You might get two, but then we’ll ’ave you and, believe me, we’ll make you pay. Then we’ll finish our business with these little ladies. So think about it. What’s to be gained? You can give ’em one as well if you want.’
Thomas begins to panic, not sure whether there are any cartridges in the shotgun. Then one of the men holding Mary speaks to the lance corporal.
‘Come on, Johnny, let’s get off to Paris. This has gone too far.’
Thomas looks at the man talking to the lance corporal, which gives the big Welshman a chance to rush him. Morgan Thomas sees the lunge too late and the barrel of the shotgun is knocked up in the air. He manages to pull the trigger, sending a volley of shot through the barn roof, but the gun is then pulled from his hands.
With a self-satisfied smirk on his face, the lance corporal then turns the shotgun and uses its butt to bludgeon Morgan to the ground. He manages to deflect one blow, but a second catches him on the shoulder; a third lands at the nape of his neck, knocking him to the ground.
‘Get up, you bastard, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Get over there with those two tarts. You can watch me fuck them like the bitches they –’
Corporal Johnny is unable to finish his sentence, because Cath has driven a pitchfork through his back. He screams. ‘You fucking bitch!’
One point has gone in just under his left ribcage; the other has struck bone and barely broken the surface. He turns and staggers towards Cath, the pitchfork dragging along the ground behind him. But he is stopped in his tracks by Mary, who has picked up the shotgun and blasted him in the chest and face with the second barrel. Both women scream while the other Fusiliers run towards the barn doors.
Their way is barred by a company serjeant major from the Somersets. He has his Lee Enfield in his hands.
‘Not so fast, boys. I think you’d better go and sit over there.’
He beckons to the side of the barn with the muzzle of his rifle, then shouts to Thomas. ‘You got more cartridges for that shotgun?’
‘Yes, over there.’
‘Then get it loaded and keep it pointed at these boys.’
He looks down at the stricken corporal on the floor, his face and tunic a mass of bloody flesh.
‘He’s a goner. Don’t have to worry about him. You all right, ladies?’
Cath is getting dressed, she and Mary are both sobbing, but they nod to the CSM and Cath mutters tearfully, ‘Yes, thank you, Serjeant.’
‘I wondered what was going on, especially when I smelled the breath of the lad who came over to tell us about the fuel. Anyway, you ladies did well, you gave him what he deserved, the pig!’
Mary goes over to the CSM and takes him by the arm. ‘Come an’ sit down. You’ve had a bullet through that leg, an’ it’s bleedin’ agin.’
‘Oh, it’s not too bad, it didn’t hit anything important. You’re a north country girl – whereabouts?’
‘Burnley, Lancashire.’
‘My goodness! My father were born in a place called Barnoldswick.’
‘ ’Eck, that’s not far. We call it Barlick – it’s nearly in Yorkshire. Funny folk, Barlickers. But I’m sure your dad’s alreet.’
‘He was – he’s been dead ten year; killed by a baling machine.’
‘I’m reet sorry.’
‘Aye, well. Let’s get these buggers to the Red Caps.’ He turns to Thomas. ‘What about you – what’s your name?’
‘Morgan Thomas, 1st Welch Fusiliers.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a story to tell. Do you want to tell it in Pop over a beer?’
Thomas looks around uneasily.
‘Don’t worry. What you did today for these ladies was very brave, so you’re safe with us.’
‘All right, over a beer it is.’
‘Right, keep that shotgun on them. I’m going out on to the road to stop some transport and find an officer who can take this lot into custody.’
Two hours later, with the Fusiliers in Pop’s Military Detention Centre, the other wounded Somerset boys in Pop-Hop and with the serjeant’s wound re-dressed and heavily strapped, the quartet are enjoying a beer in the Maison de Ville in Poperinghe’s Grande Place.
‘So, I’m Vic Chubb, from Winsham in Somerset.’
‘Cheers, Vic. I’m Mary Broxup, and this is Cath Kenny. We’re Burnley lasses.’
Cath smiles mischievously. ‘So now you know me name. Funny, in’it, first time I skenned yer both I wer bollock naked wi’ me arse in t’air!’
Vic smiles. ‘And, if I may say so, a fine posterior it is too. Me dad always said northern girls were tough and said exactly what they thought.’
‘Aye, wi do. We call a spade a spade an’ a fuckin’ shovel a fuckin’ shovel.’
Given what they have been through together, Vic’s risqué comment and the ribald conversation is cathartic. Statements have been taken and the Military Police, who seem happy that justice has been done, have reassured them that the surviving miscreants will be dealt with in due course by a court martial. The Red Caps did not ask Thomas anything other than his rank and regiment, largely because Cath and Mary had found him a discarded uniform to wear at Pop-Hop, making him look like any other soldier. But they did commend him for his bravery.
Cath leans across and gives him a kiss on his cheek. ‘That’s fer savin’ a girl fra a fate worse than death today.’
‘I nearly messed it up, though.’
‘No, what you did took some doin’; I wer terrified.’
Vic brings some beers and hands them around. ‘So, Thomas, tell us your story.’
Thomas looks apprehensive. ‘Well, it’s a long one.’ He takes a mouthful of his beer before starting. ‘I came over with my brothers, Geraint and Hywel, at the end of October last year. We were farm boys, from a little place called Presteigne, in Radnorshire. We did well after we joined up and got picked out to come over before the other volunteers, largely because of Hywel; he was a crack marksman on the range, the best they’d seen in years.’
‘Of course – I’ve heard the name: Hywel Thomas, Welch Fusilier, the Black-handed Assassin. He’s a legend in Pop.’
‘Really, you must tell me more.’
‘I will, and about his gorgeous sister, Bronwyn. They called her the Welsh Angel at Pop-Hop.’
‘Bron! I thought … Well, it doesn’t matter. Are they both at the hospital?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think they both went to Gallipoli. Carry on with your story.’
Thomas, distracted by the dramatic news about Hywel and Bronwyn, pauses for a while before continuing.
‘Not long after we arrived, we attacked the German line near here at Zwarteleen. I’ll never forget, it was a Sunday, early November. Most of us copped it in the open fields – it was a slaughter. I kept my eyes closed most of the way, and just prayed. I could hear b
ullets all around me and felt a few wing past my head. Only a few of us made it to their trenches. Then it really started – hand-to-hand stuff, vicious, dog-eat-dog. There were all sorts of weapons: timber with nails in, stevedore’s hooks, knuckledusters – everything. Our captain, Orme, was a sight to behold, going at them hammer and tongs. I think he got out, but I didn’t. Geraint got a bayonet in the guts. Blood spewed everywhere. I tried to stop it with my hands, but it was useless.’
He takes another mouthful of beer to compose himself.
‘He died in front of me. I could tell, because the blood stopped pumping and he went very still. I was so angry. I tried to get up, I was going to kill every German in sight. Then I got my skull cracked by a big Fritz. I can see him now: I turned my head as he raised his arm. He had a cudgel in his hand, like the root of a tree, and a madness in his eyes, like a mad beast. I’ve seen it on the farm when an animal is cornered, or when you get between a cow and her calf. The lights went out.’
Cath puts her hand on his thigh. ‘You poor thing.’
‘Not really – he saved my life. When I came to, I was in a Fritz hospital. I had been unconscious for a week and had bayonet wounds in my legs, back and shoulder. I must have been bayoneted while I was on the ground. Apparently, they only realized I was alive when they threw me into a pit to bury me and my hand moved. I had been lying in the bottom of the trench for several days and it was very cold and wet, so I was in a bad way. I was in a Belgian hospital in Ghent, commandeered by the Germans. They were wonderful and got me better, but it took a long time.’
Vic does his calculations. ‘So, this is July. You must have been assumed dead by your regiment months ago.’
‘I know. Anyway, I got close to this Belgian nurse. I became fond of her, and she seemed to like me.’
Cath smiles. ‘Oh, aye! A bit of ’ow’s yer father durin’ t’bed-baths!’
‘Something like that. Anyway, when I was fit enough, they wanted to send me back to a POW camp in Germany, but Riet – that was her name – she didn’t like the Germans much; she got me some civilian clothes and packed me some food and gave me directions to her room in Ghent. I stayed there for a couple of months, but I couldn’t work or bring in any money. It wasn’t right that she paid for everything, so when the summer came she arranged for me to work on her dad’s farm, where I could earn my keep and she could come to see me when she had days off.’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 28