Having resigned from the VAD earlier in the month and handed in the keys to their ambulance, Cath Kenny and Mary Broxup are in digs in London, waiting for Henry Hyndman to return from a speaking tour of Wales and the West Country. Cath has been examined at the London Hospital and been told that her baby seems to be developing well and is strong and healthy.
After going to an inspiring speech by pacifist Chrystal Macmillan, they have already made contact with several peace and women’s groups in London, and Cath in particular is determined to campaign to bring Britain’s soldiers home and to win the vote for women and working-class men.
Their rifle training at Larkhill Camp on Salisbury Plain finished, the Accrington Pals left Devonport on 18 December and are now aboard SS Ionic, a steam-powered ocean liner. The battalion’s thirty-one officers are enjoying the luxury of Ionic’s first- and second-class passenger accommodation, including private cabins, a tea lounge, a well-stocked library and a smoking room furnished with burgundy leather sofas. They also are relishing the ship’s bar, which they have commandeered as their mess. The NCOs have claimed the ship’s dining room as their mess, while the men have had to make do with the stark, empty space of the ballroom. The men, all 1,003 of them, sleep in hammocks below decks, but soon move on to the open decks when Ionic sails beyond Malta towards the warm waters of the North African coast.
Ionic is due to dock at Alexandria tomorrow morning, New Year’s Day, 1916. It is a relief to all concerned. Many of the men, including Tommy and John-Tommy, have never been at sea before, and almost everyone has been seasick. The constant threat of submarine attack and a near-run thing off the coast of Crete, when a torpedo missed by a hundred feet, has spoiled a pleasant ‘cruise in the sun’, as the Accrington newspapers report the journey. There has also been one tragedy. James Wixted, an iron-moulder from Accrington, got sunstroke on the 29th and died from dehydration that night. He was buried at sea the next day.
The Pals have just been told by Colonel Rickman that when they reach Alexandria they will have three days’ leave before embarking for Port Said to guard the Suez Canal against a Turkish attack.
None of the Pals has any idea where Port Said is or what it is like, until some of Ionic’s crew, two West Ham boys who work in the kitchens, inform them that, ‘It’s a right fuckin’ khazi, full of thievin’ gypos who’d sell their grannies for a bob an’ slit yer throat for two!’
In Alexandria, Kitty and Bardie Stewart-Murray are getting dressed to go to a ball at the British Consulate. Bardie, who has been personally commended by General Birdwood for his actions on Gallipoli, feels he is entitled to some rest and relaxation and, as it is New Year’s Eve, intends to make the most of it. It also gives them the opportunity to see if they can restore some warmth to their marriage.
Now that the trauma of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force is over, Christmas and New Year are being celebrated in a mood of immense relief on the Greek island of Lemnos. In vast numbers, wounded men are being transferred to Egypt, Malta and Gibraltar and fit men are being loaded on to troop ships bound for Alexandria, Marseilles and Southampton.
Bronwyn and Margaret have said goodbye to Essequibo. She is taking her wounded to Alexandria and the two QAIMNS sisters are waiting to be transferred to Marseilles for a train north to the Western Front. Fortunately for Bronwyn’s peace of mind, there has been no sign of Tom Crisp since their fateful encounter on Imbros a month ago. It took Bronwyn almost a week to recover from seeing him. She spent many hours crying in Margaret’s arms. All her worst nightmares from the previous year came flooding back. She has had enough problems coming to terms with what happened between her and Philip Davies, but seeing Tom has reminded her that there was another victim of her torrid affair, a childhood sweetheart she has rarely thought about since. That thoughtlessness has only made her guilt worse.
Margaret and Bronwyn are strolling along the harbour of the small town of Myrina on Mudros Bay. It is late and there is a fierce north-westerly wind blowing, making both women shiver. They have been drinking to celebrate being awarded the Red Cross Medal, which was given to them in a ceremony presided over by Essequibo’s captain. Bronwyn needs some air.
‘What am I going to do about Tom, Mags?’ she asks.
‘Well, if you don’t see him, nothing. If you do, you’ll have to talk to him and explain to him that the past is the past. You were a country girl; he was a country boy; now it’s very different. The world has changed; we’ve all changed.’
‘It’s easy for you to say that, Mags, but you don’t have to look him in the eye. We were so much in love until … well, you know.’
‘I know, but that’s what happens sometimes. I’m sure Tom has met other girls. He will have grown up as well. He’ll understand.’
A voice suddenly calls to them. ‘Bron?’
For a moment Bronwyn thinks the Shropshire Borders accent belongs to Tom but, mercifully, it is not Tom, it is her brother, Hywel. Margaret shrieks. ‘Hywel, look at you – all those shiny buttons! You’re an officer!’
Bronwyn rushes to embrace her brother.
‘Lieutenant Hywel Thomas, Scottish Horse, at your service.’
‘How did you find us?’
‘My colonel is very well connected. He said he would find out where I could find you, and he did.’
‘So how did you get those pips, big brother?’
‘I got them from him, Colonel Stewart-Murray, CO of the Scottish Horse. He asked me to train a company of snipers for him.’
Margaret begins to blush. ‘Bardie Stewart-Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl?’
‘Yes, a nice man and a good soldier. He was the last man off Suvla Bay.’
Margaret smiles meekly. Bronwyn supplies an explanation. ‘Margaret had a little fling with his brother, Hamish, didn’t you, Mags?’
Margaret nods sheepishly.
‘The colonel told me that his brother is a prisoner of war in Germany,’ says Hywel.
Margaret is pleased to hear that he is safe.
‘Strange coincidence: Philip used to sell his saucy prints to Hamish and Bardie’s father. Small world,’ says Bronwyn.
Margaret and Bronwyn tell Hywel about the encounter with Tom on Imbros. Hywel has not seen his boyhood friend since he walked out of their village eighteen months ago.
‘So, he’s a sailor?’ he asks.
Bronwyn looks sombre. ‘Looks like it. He’s got the bell-bottom pants and the full beard. I didn’t recognize him at first.’
‘How did he get from Presteigne to the Royal Navy?’
‘Don’t know, but you could ask the same of all of us. How did we all get where we are?’
‘Fate, Bron.’
Bronwyn looks bereft. ‘Fate is a terrible thing. I hate it! I wish it would leave me alone.’
Hywel grasps both women by the hand. ‘Come on, I know a little bar round the back of the town where the ouzo is cheap.’
‘Bron and I have had some beer and wine already.’
‘Good, then you need an ouzo to finish off the evening. Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve. Only an hour to go.’
‘We were thinking of going to bed; we were told we might sail tomorrow.’
‘Then all the more reason to have a last drink in Greece and see in 1916 properly.’
Bronwyn, thinking that she may as well drown her sorrows, persuades Margaret to see in the New Year, but when the trio reach the Astron Taverna it is so crowded Margaret and Bronwyn have to wait outside while Hywel goes to get the drinks. It is a full ten minutes before he returns, with a tray loaded with three large bottles of beer, a jug of ouzo, one of water and three small glasses. Margaret finds some chairs and a table.
‘Here we are – enough to keep us warm and see us through till midnight. I don’t fancy facing that crush again. The place is full of sailors from the Lord Nelson, de Robeck’s flagship. Most of them are three sheets to the wind!’
When midnight strikes there are kisses and embraces between everyone, friend and stranger ali
ke. ‘Auld Lang Syne’ breaks out and the sailors from the Lord Nelson pour out of the Astron and start singing and dancing in the narrow streets.
Tom Crisp is among them. He is as drunk as the other tars he is with. Without seeing who they are, but because they are female and everyone else is kissing them, he turns to kiss Margaret and Bronwyn. When they recognize one another, they freeze, as if time has suddenly stopped. Hywel breaks the silence.
‘Good God, Tom! I heard you were a sailor. Look at you – a full set of whiskers.’
‘Yes, I’m ship’s carpenter on the Grafton. I’m a sailor boy now. And you’re a bloody officer?’
‘I am. You’re supposed to salute!’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Agreed. Come on, let’s have a drink.’
Hywel looks at Bronwyn and realizes that a drink might not be what she has in mind. She turns to leave, but Margaret grabs her arm and sits her down.
‘Bron, Hywel and I are going for a walk to the harbour. We’ll be back in twenty minutes. You and Tom can have a chat.’
‘No, Mags, please. I want to go.’
‘Bron, remember what I said. Now’s the time. You owe it to Tom.’
Bron looks as white as a ghost and is visibly shaking but does not move as Margaret and Hywel walk away.
‘Was that a good idea?’
‘I hope so, Hywel. How amazing that they should bump into one another in the middle of nowhere, but it’s for the best. Bron will have to deal with it sooner or later.’
‘I suppose you’re right. I hope they sort it out, for both their sakes.’
When the two of them reach the water’s edge Margaret sits against an upturned fishing boat and looks out to the armada of Allied ships, their lights glinting and bobbing in the bay.
‘Hywel, there is something I need to tell you, but I’m scared. But, like Bron and Tom, it will have to be said sooner or later.’
Hywel sits down close to her and speaks gently. ‘When we first met, you said some things to me that helped me turn my life around. I’ll always remember that. So you can say whatever you want.’
‘That’s nice of you, but I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say.’
‘You mean that you and Bron are lovers?’
Margaret stands up in shock. ‘My God, Hywel, how do you know?’
‘I’ve got a good pair of eyes, but you don’t have to be a sniper to see how the two of you are together. You both seem very happy, so that makes me happy.’
‘Aren’t you shocked that two women can love one another?’
‘I might have been once, but I’ve learned a lot since I left home. I know that there are men who like men – I’ve met some of them, and they seem normal enough to me – so why can’t women like women?’
‘Hywel, that’s such a relief. There aren’t many people, men or women, who would react like that. I’m so glad you understand. Bron will be thrilled.’ She plants a big kiss on Hywel’s cheek and throws her arms around him.
‘Come on, let’s get back and see how Bron’s got on with Tom.’
With the gaiety of the New Year celebration swirling around her table, Bronwyn is sitting staring into a void when Margaret and Hywel return. They sit down next to her. There is silence for a while, until Bronwyn, her eyes bloodshot, turns to Margaret, who stretches out her hand to comfort her.
‘How did it go?’ she asks.
‘All right, I think. It felt very odd. I don’t know him any more. He was like a stranger. I know this sounds callous, but I felt nothing for him.’
‘That’s not surprising, Bron. A lot’s happened.’
‘I told him what you said to say, and he said he understood. Then I told him about …’ She stops herself and looks at Hywel.
‘It’s all right: he knows. I was going to tell him, but he’d already guessed. He’s shrewd, your brother … and he doesn’t think we’re wicked or obscene.’
Bronwyn reaches out to Hywel. He takes her hand and caresses it. ‘Hywel, thanks for being such a great big brother to me. I’m so happy with Margaret.’
‘That’s what big brothers are for. So how did you leave it with Tom?’
‘He asked me if there was any chance we could start again. So I told him about me and Mags.’ Bronwyn pauses and takes a swig of her ouzo, which makes her grimace and shake her head.
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t, he just stared at me for a while. He had a strange look on his face, as if he was wondering what sort of hideous creature he’d got himself mixed up with.’ She takes another swig of the ouzo. ‘Then he got up, pushed back his chair and walked off … He just looked sad. As he left, he said to tell you that he hoped to see you one day back in Presteigne.’
There is a pause as everyone thinks about Tom and how he must feel. Then Margaret gets to her feet. ‘Come on, Hywel, let’s get Bron to bed. We’re staying in camp at the far end of the harbour. Will you walk us back?’
‘ ’Course I will.’
The next morning at 11:00 hours, Margaret, Bronwyn and Hywel are aboard SS Huanchaco, bound for Marseilles. There are several troopships leaving at the same time, packed to the gunwales with men in khaki. They sail past HMS Grafton, which is about to raise anchor. As they pass her bows they see Tom Crisp leaning against the ship’s rail. Even though he is over a hundred yards away, they can see the sagging shoulders and tilted head of a broken man. Bronwyn walks away; she cannot bear to look.
From the thousands of men returning home there are cheers of delight, and loud singing rings around the bay. This time last year the men were singing cheerful songs like ‘A Long Way to Tipperary’. Now the mood is much more sombre and across the calm blue waters of the Aegean Sea drift the lyrics of the latest soldiers’ favourite:
Overseas there came a pleading,
‘Help a nation in distress.’
And we gave our glorious laddies
Honour bade us do no less,
For no gallant son of freedom
To a tyrant’s yoke should bend,
And a noble heart must answer
To the sacred call of ‘Friend.’
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away …
Epilogue
At the end of 1915 the strategic situation in the Great War for Civilization does not seem to be all that different than it was at the end of 1914. Many more are dead, of course; morale is even lower than it was at the end of the trauma of the first year of the war; and what glimmer of hope that still existed at the beginning of the year is now only a memory. Other than a couple of forlorn gestures between a handful of peacemongers, there has been no Christmas truce.
However, although it has been a static year on the Western Front, elsewhere it has been a year of change. Kitchener’s New Army is nearly ready, women are pouring into the factories to work, a new coalition government has been formed and a new front has been tried – and failed – in the Eastern Mediterranean.
The war has spread to the Balkans, and Italy has joined the Allies. There are hints of new military technologies that may offer solutions to the appalling stalemate of trench warfare. War from the skies – aeroplanes and Zeppelins; war from the bowels of the earth – high explosives underground; war by new devices – gas and flamethrowers; war from beneath the sea – mines and submarines; and talk of war by armoured vehicles – machines capable of withstanding gunfire and able to breach obstacles. Perhaps victory will come to whomever first grasps the potential of technology.
However, at the end of the year, the truth is that no one has any idea how to end the military impasse, other than by yet more slaughter, on a scale even more horrific than before.
The year 1916 will be one of utter wretchedness, one that will make the previous two pale by comparison. The battle that history will record as one of the deadliest, the bravest and most futile ever fought will begin at the citadel of Verdun. The Easter Rising in Dublin will th
row Anglo–Irish politics into bitter turmoil once more. The German High Seas Fleet will eventually challenge the dominance of the Royal Navy off the Danish coast of Jutland. The war in the Middle East will take a dramatic turn as a young archaeologist and soldier, Thomas Edward Lawrence, leads an Arab Revolt against Ottoman rule.
The high summer will bring the great proving ground for Kitchener’s New Army, the Battle of the Somme. It will be a massacre of the innocents on an unparalleled scale, but the great field marshal will not see it, having died when a ship he was travelling on is sunk by a German submarine.
The war on the Eastern Front will continue in its unrelenting barbarity. Conscription to the British Army will become a reality and, finally, after two years of grim survival, the Asquith government will fall in December, leaving a small chink of light that might illuminate Winston Churchill’s return to national politics.
Dramatis Personae
(In approximate order of first appearance in the novel.)
The Community: Presteigne
Philip Davies, 41, born in Hereford: auctioneer, Urban District Councillor for Presteigne and Captain, 1st Battalion Royal Welch Fusiliers.
Hywel Thomas, 20, born in Presteigne: farmer, eldest son of the Thomas family of Pentry Farm.
Morgan Thomas, 19, born in Presteigne: farmer, second eldest son of the Thomas family of Pentry Farm.
Bronwyn Thomas, 19, born in Presteigne: farmer and domestic, only daughter of the Thomas family of Pentry Farm; twin sister of Morgan.
Geraint Thomas, 18, born in Presteigne: farmer, third son of the Thomas family of Pentry Farm.
Tom Crisp, 20, born in Presteigne: local carpenter.
Noel Chavasse, 30, from Oxford: Surgeon Captain, 10th Battalion King’s (Liverpool Regiment, Liverpool Scottish). He graduated with a First Class degree from Oxford in 1907 and ran in the 400 metres for Great Britain in the 1908 Olympic Games in London.
Dame Emma McCarthy, 56, born in Paddington, New South Wales, Australia: highly decorated war-time nurse. She left Australia in 1891 to study nursing in England. After qualifying, she was appointed as a sister at the London Hospital and served as Sister-in-Charge at the Sophia Women’s Ward during the South African War. This was followed by seven years’ service with the Army Nursing Service Reserve. When the Great War broke out McCarthy was posted to the British Expeditionary Force and served in France and Flanders. As Matron-in-Chief, she was in charge of all British and Allied nurses working in the extended region (around 6,000 nurses at its peak).
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