The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  Kitty shakes her head. ‘One hears so many similar stories of men of great promise – athletes, poets, scientists – being snuffed like candles in the wind. It’s tragic. At Blair, our losses are not of great men, but they are good men, salts of the earth, the country’s backbone. Of the staff and servants, almost all the men are fighting; the women are either tilling the land or working in Lloyd George’s munitions factories. There’s no one left, just the old people and the children.’

  ‘What a topsy-turvy world – and the Kenny woman calls you Kitty!’

  ‘Exactly, but perhaps she and her husband are earning the right to call me what they like.’

  ‘And her husband will get the vote – as well she might – after the war. Then we will be ruled by the socialists and you aristocrats will go to the guillotine!’

  ‘Don’t, Katherine, not even in jest!’

  ‘Sorry, Kitty.’

  Kitty gets up and walks over to the window. She can see the medieval gate of St John’s. ‘Given our conversation, it’s amazing to think St John’s goes all the way back to the Crusades.’

  ‘Yes, our world has been nine hundred years in the making, and now it’s changing overnight.’

  Katherine watches Kitty staring across to the sunlit arch of St John’s Gate and realizes that something is troubling her. ‘What’s bothering you, Kitty? Can I help?’

  Kitty turns from the window and sits back down. There are tears in her eyes. ‘Do you mind if I confide in you on a personal matter?’

  ‘Of course not – although my life experiences are somewhat limited.’

  ‘I’m afraid one doesn’t need much of life’s experience to help with my issue; it is not an unusual one.’

  Katherine pours more tea as Kitty explains her dilemma. ‘You see, Bardie and I have an “open” marriage; it is inscribed in a formal agreement between us. He has at least two illegitimate children, whom he supports. We don’t have any children and, as I’ve now turned forty, there doesn’t seem to be any prospect of us ever having any. I think Bardie still has lovers. He’s like his father; he can’t resist a pretty face.’

  She hesitates and takes a gulp of tea. ‘I’ve had a letter from him. He says that it’s impossible for me to travel to the Dardanelles – which is a hellhole – or even to Lemnos, the Greek island which is where they have their HQ. But he wants me to go to Alexandria, where he can see me when he’s on leave and where he thinks his regiment will go after the Gallipoli campaign ends.’

  ‘There are worse places, Kitty, and you can do vital things for us there: we have hundreds of girls in the hospitals in Egypt.’

  ‘I know, and I would relish such a chance and, of course, I would be happy to spend time with Bardie; he’s kind and can be very good company. But that’s not the problem.’

  ‘You have a lover, here in London?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Come, come, Kitty. I said I had little experience of the world, not that I had none!’

  ‘Do you remember that tall, fair Grenadier who came to a reception here last year: George Grey, invalided out, a patch over one eye?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Lucky girl; he’s a fine figure of a man.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been seeing him ever since.’

  ‘Do you want me to be blunt?’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to tell him what’s happened and then do as Bardie asks and go out to Alexandria. I can put you in charge of all our operations east of Gibraltar – keep you busy.’

  ‘That’s kind, Katherine, but I fear I’ll lose George. He’s only thirty, a major with a good pension after the war; handsome, a hero with an MC on his chest. Some pretty little twenty-year-old with a rich daddy will snap him up.’

  ‘Do you want me to be blunt again?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘That’s going to happen anyway, sooner or later. He knows there can never be anything permanent between you, and you’re often not in London. Someone will tip their bustle in his direction and you will be in the way.’

  ‘Hell, Katherine, that is blunt.’

  ‘Sorry, but it is the way of things.’

  The next day, Kitty writes to Bardie to tell him that she has been to the P&O office in London and booked a passage to Egypt for her and her maid, and will sail for Alexandria on SS Mooltan on 26 October. That evening she goes to see her lover in Pimlico. It is a passionate tryst, but one tinged with bitter regret, because both know it will be their last.

  South Camp, Ripon, North Yorkshire

  Tommy Broxup and John-Tommy Crabtree have been doing a lot of marching over the last two months. Eleventh Battalion East Lancs left Rugeley Camp on Cannock Chase on 31 July to begin a recruitment drive for yet more volunteers in their East Lancashire towns.

  Its first visit was to Chorley, where the men paraded on Coronation Recreation Ground. Chorley’s mayor, Alderman Ralph Hindle, was effusive in his praise, and so proud that the town was able to see the entire battalion parade through its streets. However, he was more than frank about how the people of Chorley should respond to the new recruitment drive. He addressed his words directly to the battalion’s colonel, Arthur Rickman: ‘There are a number of men without any ties who could and should enlist, and I should be glad if you would take those young shirkers with you. We don’t want them. We can do without them.’

  Hindle’s caustic comments produce cries of derision from the crowd and a very polite decline from Colonel Rickman: ‘Sir, Chorley has given us one company already, and we would happily take another, but perhaps as reservists, until they are rid of their “shirking”!’

  The Accrington Pals then paraded through Blackburn and were inspected in the cattle market before appearing at the Lancashire Agricultural Show. There, a crowd of more than seven thousand applauded its energetic display of Swedish Drill.

  The battalion was then given a couple of days’ leave before it reassembled in Burnley for a civic reception, at which the Mayor of Burnley, Alderman James Sellers-Kay, presented Lance Corporal Harry Watson, a regular with 2nd Battalion East Lancs, with a gallantry medal. He was given a Distinguished Conduct Medal for his bravery at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle, where he rescued a man trapped in barbed wire while under heavy fire from the German trenches. Unfortunately, Watson was so badly wounded in the battle that he had to remain seated during the entire ceremony.

  In Accrington preparations are underway to provide the War Office with the information it needs to proceed to national conscription. The work is undertaken by local teachers, who find 29,001 inhabitants eligible for National Registration. All men aged between eighteen and forty-one are listed on pink forms, while the forms of those involved in essential war industries are marked with a black star before being sent to London. Few realize what the outcome of the National Registration will be.

  The Pals arrive at Ripon on the evening of the 15th. They are the last of 94th Brigade to reach Ripon to begin rifle training on the nearby Bishop Monkton Range. Ninety-fourth Brigade – Accrington, Sheffield and Barnsley Pals – joins 92nd Brigade (four battalions of Hull Pals: Commercials, Tradesmen, Sportsmen and T’Others) and 93rd Brigade (Leeds Pals, Bradford Pals, Durham Pals and 12th King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry – Leeds Miners/Pioneers). Together, they form the army’s new 31st Division, 12,000 men in all, northern volunteers to Kitchener’s New Army. The vast majority are Yorkshiremen and Durhamites, but the numerical superiority does not inhibit the Accrington Pals from issuing challenges on the rifle range, and in every sport available.

  Tommy and John-Tommy have decided to issue a challenge to the entire Yorkshire and Durham contingent to pick a ‘select eleven’ to face just one company of the Accrington Pals, Z Company, the Burnley lads. They will be an eleven from a pool of 2,250, to face a select team from over 10,000. The battalion’s illicit bookmakers sense a killing and issue high odds against Burnley. Tommy and John-Tommy bet heavily on themselves. As far as he knows, John-Tommy is t
he only former professional in the whole of the 31st Division and is certain he can edge it for the Lancastrians.

  As all the newly arrived battalions have been given the day off, the game will be played the next morning, stumps at 11 a.m.

  ‘So, Tommy, you open wi’ Bert Clough; Harold Birkenshaw an’ Cliff Wood three an’ four, and I’ll come in at five. Then Sutcliffe, Lieutenant Tough, Captain Ross, an’ then Harry T., Bert Croft an’ Billy Blenkinsop, nine, ten, jack. I’ll open t’bowlin’ wi’ Billy B. Tommy, you’re the only one who can keep wicket, so you’re behind t’stumps. Any questions?’

  There are none.

  ‘Reet, let’s show t’Tykes ’ow to laik at cricket.’

  By lunch, the Lancastrians, who have won the toss and decided to bat, are 87 for 3. Tommy scores a hearty 28, including three 4s, before he is clean-bowled. Fellow-opener Bert Clough knocks 21. Harold Birkenshaw makes 19 in a partnership with Wood before he is caught behind, bringing John-Tommy to the crease for one nervy over before lunch.

  In the impromptu pavilion, an army field tent, the Lancastrians guess at how many they need: ‘A hundred and fifty, that should be enough t’bowl at.’

  Tommy is concerned about the pace of one of their bowlers. ‘That big bugger can bowl.’

  John-Tommy scowls. ‘Aye, he can play a bit. He’s an officer in t’Hull pals, an’, by his accent, a public schoolboy.’

  ‘Tha’s reet J-T, one o’ theer lads said ’e’s an Oxford Blue.’

  ‘Bugger me! Let’s hope the bugger can’t bat as well as ’e can bowl.’

  The afternoon session does not begin well for Z Company, which has adopted the name ‘The King’s Red Roses’ for the match. John-Tommy scores 45 not out, but the rest of the batting collapses around him, leaving a total of 137 to defend.

  The Yorkshiremen/Durhamites start well. The Hull Pals’ officer, Cedric Willoughby, an alumnus of Hymers College in Hull, is unbeaten on 36 as the Yorkshiremen reach 52 for 1 at a canter. John-Tommy has decided not to open the bowling but has held himself back so that he can study Willoughby’s batting. He calls Billy Blenkinsop over.

  ‘Reet, our Billy, I’m puttin’ thee at t’far end. Keep them leg breaks pitched up. I don’t want ’im clippin’ yer o’er top fer 4 every time. I’m gonna soften I’m up wi’ a few rib ticklers. Let’s see if wi can paint a bit o’ Oxford Blue on to his ribcage. Don’t reckon thi do too much o’ that at Oxford – not cricket tha’ knows!’

  At the end of John-Tommy’s first over, a maiden, he’s managed to hit Willoughby on the shoulder, arm and thigh with successive deliveries. Although Willoughby is a well-educated and well-mannered young man, he is the son of a mining engineer and is not afraid of picking up John-Tommy’s gauntlet.

  ‘Why don’t you try another of those, and I’ll show you how far I can thump it?’

  ‘An’ how far will that be, young un?’

  ‘ ’Alfway to York if you can bowl it with enough pace.’

  ‘Don’t yer moither abaht t’pace on it, lad; just mek sure tha gets tha heed owt at t’road, or I might just part thi ’air on t’other side fer thi.’

  Having made it is as obvious as he possibly can that his next ball will be a bouncer on middle and leg, John-Tommy thunders in and launches a toe-pinching yorker at the last second. Willoughby is already halfway into a hook shot before he reads it. He has no time to get his bat down again and is bowled at the bottom of the middle stump, sending it cartwheeling towards Burnley’s wicketkeeper, Tommy Broxup.

  As his victim trundles past him, John-Tommy cannot resist a final taunt. ‘Not quite to York, then; although tha middle stump nearly med it.’

  Willoughby gives John-Tommy a withering look as he passes. ‘You’re fortunate you’re not in my platoon. I’d make your life a misery.’

  ‘Aye, yer might at that, but am not, so yer can bugger off, can’t yer?’

  The East of the Pennines Select loses wickets quickly after Willoughby departs, and John-Tommy gets 7 for 33 as the King’s Red Roses win by 29 runs.

  The trophy, a cup donated by Colonel Rickman, is awarded to John-Tommy and his team by Major General Sir Archibald Murray, Deputy Chief of the Imperial General Staff, who is in Ripon to inspect the 31st Division.

  ‘Fine batting and ferocious bowling, Crabtree. Do you play for Lancashire?’

  ‘No, sir, I used to laik fer Burnley, Lancashire League, I were a pro at Oldham fer two yer, earned a bob or two, but not good enough fer Old Trafford.’

  There’s a shout from the men watching. ‘Aye, an’ he’s earned a bob or two ’ere today!’ Peals of laughter ring around the gathering.

  ‘Anyway, Crabtree and the rest of your Red Roses, very well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  John-Tommy raises the trophy aloft to loud cheers, before taking it over to Colonel Rickman. ‘There you are, sir. Fo’ t’trophy cabinet back ’ome.’

  ‘Thank you, Crabtree.’

  The colonel then leans forward to whisper in his cricket captain’s ear. ‘If I hear there’s been a book running on the outcome of this game and that you’re a recipient of the spoils, I’ll have your guts for garters. Is that clear?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, absolutely clear. No book, sir, not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Good, then off with you to celebrate. You and the lads did the 11th proud today. There’ll be money behind the bar of the Lamb and Flag at Bishop Monkton from me and the other officers.’

  ‘Very kind, sir. Wilt tha join us fer one?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I have to entertain the general in Ripon tonight.’

  Later that evening the Lamb and Flag is packed to the door, with many men standing outside. Although it is mid-September, the evening is warm; autumn is yet to bite. The Burnley boys, with the exception of their two officers, who have had to go to the general’s dinner, are crowded around the bar, carousing to their hearts’ content. The handsome silver cricket trophy sits on the bar in front of them and, although they have long since spent Colonel Rickman’s tab, there is still plenty of money sitting in the trophy, which they are using as a drinks kitty.

  ‘How much did we win today, J-T?’

  ‘Not so loud, Billy. Mum’s the word.’

  Billy Blenkinsop is drunk, as are most of the Burnley boys. ‘I’ll share it out in t’mornin’, but we’re drinkin’ most on it.’

  There is a commotion by the door: ‘Come on, out o’ the way, where’s them Burnley fuckers?’

  About fifteen men – Barnsley, Leeds and Hull Pals –force their way to the bar and the knot of Burnley lads. None of them played during the day, but they clearly want to continue the War of the Roses from the afternoon. In their vanguard is a big man, a Barnsley miner, whose face looks like it has been hewn from the coalface itself.

  John-Tommy straightens himself. ‘T’Burnley fuckers are ’ere. Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do. Jack Hobson, 2nd Battalion, Barnsley Pals.’

  ‘Wilt tha ’ave a beer wi’ us, Jack?’

  It looks like Jack has had a skinful already.

  ‘No, a fuckin’ won’t, not from winnin’s from that book yer ran. Th’s summat not right abaht it. You’re a professional; that’s not right.’

  ‘I wer a pro seven year ago fer two seasons. Ave bin retired three year.’

  ‘It’s still not right, and you made a tit outta our Lieutenant Willoughby.’

  ‘It’s called tactics, Jack.’

  ‘A don’t care wot yer call it, we’re callin’ yer outside, to settle it.’

  ‘Can’t oblige yer, Jack, we’re in uniform. Brawlin’s a field punishment offence.’

  ‘Well, tek that fuckin’ jacket off.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, a serjeant from Hobson’s battalion comes over. ‘Come on, Jack, the Lanky lad’s right, you’ll be fer the high jump if you carry on.’

  Hobson towers over the serjeant menacingly. ‘Tell yer wot, Sarge, why don’t you go an’ sit down like a good boy?’

  At that point,
the Lamb and Flag’s landlord sends one of his bar staff to get the Military Police, who have a van at the Mason’s Arms nearby. John-Tommy, realizing that the Yorkshireman is not going to back off, looks at Tommy, who nods back.

  John-Tommy turns his back on Hobson, puts his elbows on the bar and takes a drink from his pot of ale.

  ‘Hey, Lanky, don’t turn yer fuckin’ back on me.’

  John-Tommy doesn’t move, so Hobson grabs his shoulder and pulls him around. As he does, John-Tommy hits him with a haymaker of a right-hand. The big Yorkshireman hardly flinches, so Tommy hits him as hard as he can. Again, there’s little response – until, that is, the Yorkshireman’s accomplices launch into anyone near them. All hell breaks out. Fists and boots fly; men careen over tables; pots, chairs and beer go in all directions. Hobson catches John-Tommy with a vicious jab to his left eye, splitting his eyebrow across its entire length. He sees another coming and has no choice but to smash his pot into the side of Hobson’s head. Blood splatters everywhere and the burly miner falls over, holding the side of his face.

  Before any more blows can be exchanged, shrill whistles mark the arrival of the MPs, who stream into the pub and grab the main protagonists in the brawl.

  The next morning, at eight o’clock sharp, John-Tommy, Tommy and four members of Z Company’s victorious team are lined up in front of Colonel Rickman, Battalion Adjutant Captain George Slinger and Battalion Serjeant Major Jimmy Shorrock.

  Rickman is in a foul mood.

  ‘In accordance with Military Regulations, 1914, I am issuing a Field Punishment Number 2 to all you brawlers. After three days of punishment at Catterick Camp, in shackles, you will return here for three weeks of hard labour, during which you will lose all pay and allowances. As for you, Crabtree, to hit a man with a beer pot is a cowardly disgrace. After yesterday’s cricket, I had considered you for corporal’s stripes, but I can tell you now that that will never happen while I command this battalion. You will receive a Number 1 Field Punishment. It will not be carried out at Catterick but here by the entrance to the camp, in full view of all in 31st Division and any locals who are passing. Reparations to the Lamb and Flag will come out of your pocket and so you will not receive any pay until the debt is paid.