Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  26 January. Almost unaware of the endless days that stretched out with dates becoming meaningless, this was the one that Abraham could remember: his mother’s birthday. He tried to focus on his family for a moment; a foreign place. It would be winter in Rusfield too, but hopefully all were safe there. He thought of the letters received just after Christmas, now safe in his tunic pocket. All had seemed to be well. Grace had just finished at Wensfield for the Christmas holiday and her letter was warm, loving and had given him a huge lift. His parents were fine, although his mother’s anxiety crept between the lines.

  ‘You finished now then, Richards? You lucky bugger. Off to paradise for a bit.’ Sergeant Frisk gave him a friendly push. The final one of the twelve-day stretch in the trench, but Abraham felt almost too numb to think about the four-mile move behind the lines. They had at least held the Germans up in their westward assault; now there was talk of an allied offensive. His mind turned back to the disaster a month earlier. He still could not believe that attempts had not been made to destroy the heavily barbed wired barriers before their advance. Wire-cutters and mattresses as a way of cutting through or scaling the German defences had been a total failure. Scarred deep into his mind was how he had been one to attempt an advance which had been easily held up by machine guns. All had been made worse by the unbelievably muddy fields which had reduced the fastest advance to a slow walk. The men were cut down as falling skittles. The fields of dead and horrendously wounded men would always be with him. How he had survived and got back, he would never know.

  For the past twelve days, enemy bombardment had been spasmodic, though news had been carried along the lines that fifty men in a not too distant trench had received a direct hit and all had been killed or dreadfully wounded. The job for Abraham and the rest had been to stay put, to prevent any German advance and wait for the reinforcements. How often they had been told of new forces arriving; where did they get to?

  Now to collect his few belongings, wait for the command and move back quickly, hoping the snow would keep falling to cover their movements. They had been told of a part-surviving barn a couple of hundred yards back where the men from the scattered trenches would assemble and then move back the four miles to a village. He had to move slowly along the ditch as there were men all the way; those replacing the ones about to leave had increased the numbers. All were trying to keep out of the yellow slime. Some had cut little shelves into the side where they could sit, though uncomfortably, at least keeping their feet a little drier. Abraham had smiled when it had been suggested to him by Evans that he should make an “arse-hole”.

  A few other men were already on the move. Jones, the voice from Rhondda, Wilson the joke teller, and Smithers who seemed unable to control his shaking limbs, yet had proved among the bravest when he stopped, stooped down and gathered up a wounded man. Abraham seemed to have known them all his life. The sergeant barked at them, yet at a strangely quietened level: ‘Remember, keep your heads down, weave from side to side and run like hell to the barn. Richards, you lead the way, you’re supposed to be able to move fast.’ Up the few steps, out of the trench, strange clambering out from this side, wait a moment for the men behind and move, move. Even as they started out, the snow lessened: encouragement enough to hurry. A light covering made running easy, a snow-filled hole and they were into the white wilderness above their knees. Abraham hoped he was moving in the right direction. He had taken a bearing before leaving the trench and believed he was keeping a straight line, but the uneven terrain made calculations difficult.

  He grimaced with relief as the outline of their targeted barn showed up. He could see two other lines of men coming in from the left. Into the black barn where men were packed, most cramming together under the part where the beamed roof strangely remained intact.

  ‘We’ll give it two minutes,’ commanded the officer Abraham knew as Lieutenant Brownsmith, as he had often inspected the trench. Fresh faced and fair haired, he looked no more than twenty. Yet, thought Abraham, he seemed capable. ‘If any group is not here in that time, they’ll have to find their own way. We’re a sitting target for any stray shell.’

  They lined up ready to move off. Rifles, ammunition, grenades and a bevy of other necessary items were heavy, but the incentive was greater. Abraham found himself alongside Smithers, whose shaking seemed to have stopped. How he wished he was with his village mates. They had started in France together, but had then been placed with different groups. He had seen Willy just before the fiasco near Wytschaete, or Whitesheets as the men called it, and Jack and Fred shortly before that, but their hopes of remaining together had long been snatched away. After the first mile, the movement became a little slower as not all men were in great physical shape. Indeed, Abraham had been shocked when he first joined them to see how pale, thin and pinch-faced some looked.

  Coming round a small wood, they were suddenly on a road: a crossroads and a large group of people; not military, but civilians. As Abraham passed this pitiful group of men, women and children, some with small carts either carrying babies or piled high with unknown goods, he realised they were refugees. Escaping from the ever-changing battle line, their worst fears had been realised as either German or British army had come in to their peaceful village. The innocents caught in a war of which they had no part. Army vehicles going eastwards drove round the refugees who were too weary to leave the road.

  Ten more minutes and two farms were passed, then a growing number of cottages and a small market square. They had reached their “paradise”, as Sergeant Frisk had called it. Hardly that, thought Abraham, but seemingly peaceful, even the guns which had started up again were less threatening. They may not be out of all danger, but the days here, five they were promised, would be something of an idyll.

  The village, its name unknown by the exhausted men, was virtually deserted. Its inhabitants, almost all employed on the land, had found their peace disturbed by the retreating German army in one of the few allied successes. Most had been forced out, but the few villagers who remained were pleased to see the British. In ones and twos, men were lodged with them, greater numbers in the few large buildings. The two administrative buildings, proud ones from affluent times, were taken over by much larger numbers; Abraham was one of these.

  In the high, late nineteenth-century hall, clearly the place for public meetings, he found himself one of around a hundred men. Abraham, who was appalled to realise how filthy he was, queued patiently for one of the few washbasins; the water becoming immediately blackened. A partial quick strip was possible, but Abraham would have given much for a few minutes under his home-made shower back in Rusfield. Feeling a little better, he moved in to the adjacent room to eat. The food was most welcome, splendidly cooked meat for the first time for days, dry and hot. It was good. He was just getting up from his resting place when a familiar voice caused him to look up with startled joy. ‘Why, it’s Abraham, isn’t it?’

  And there stood his good friend, James, whom he had last seen in the summer of 1913 when Abraham had been running in London, but much better remembered as his host in Ealing the year earlier. For a few minutes rank was forgotten. ‘James, my dear friend, how wonderful to see you. I won’t ask you what you’re doing here as it’s probably much the same as me. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied James. ‘Well, what a place to meet. I’ve only just arrived; indeed I only came over from England five days ago. It seems my platoon is being sent ahead to bolster those already there to hold up any German advance. But what about you?’

  Abraham told his story, modestly making his last few months on French soil sound easy ones. He said nothing of the terrible dangers he had faced and little of the awful losses that had occurred. James would learn of that all too quickly. From talk of the present, they inevitably turned to past times shared. They had time to talk, clearly they would be in this temporary sanctuary until both were ordered to the front.

  ‘So, how different to that time you came and stayed with us in
Ealing. I’ve told so many people about that amazing weekend when you won at Stamford Bridge. Who could forget it?’

  Abraham took on his usual embarrassed look and turned the conversation. ‘Your parents were so kind in looking after Jack and me. You wouldn’t know, but Jack was injured. After a while in hospital he was sent home to Rusfield and later returned to France. I don’t know where he is now.’

  ‘Surprise for you, Abraham. But I did know. Indeed I probably know more than you.’

  ‘But how’s that?’ asked the puzzled Abraham. ‘I know about his injuries and recovery, because both Grace and mother told me about that in letters. But you?’

  ‘Ah,’ smiled his friend. ‘Put it all down to my sister. I don’t know if you realised that after your visit to us in Ealing, Patricia and Jack corresponded about their shared interest in Blondin, the trapeze artist, but letters became more frequent and Patricia was often mooning over Jack. Several times they had hoped to meet up, but father thought she was rather young for that and, in any case, Ealing and Rusfield aren’t exactly next to each other.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘Well, Jack’s mother knew all about the fondness that had developed between them, and when Jack was injured, she wrote to Patricia albeit that she waited until she knew Jack would recover. She must be a special kind of lady.’

  ‘She is, indeed,’ agreed Abraham, rejoicing in news of his great friend.

  ‘Well, mother and Patricia made the journey to Rusfield. They stayed with your vicar, the Reverend and Mrs Windle, is that right?’ Abraham nodded. ‘They stayed there for three days and, of course, Jack and Patricia spent a lot of time together. When I was home on leave from training in Yorkshire, mother told me how everyone in Rusfield had been so kind. She wrote recently that Patricia was hugely upset when she recently learnt that Jack has been sent back here. But I suppose everyone back home is the same when that happens?’

  They talked deep into the night. Two young men moved from the peace of England into this embattled France, but for a short while transported to more peaceful times. But both knew that this was something of a fantasy; that soon they would be at war again.

  THIRTY-TWO

  January-April 1915

  It was a cold January in Rusfield too, but the icy dagger that cut deepest into the villagers was not of the weather, but news of a death in Flanders.

  Sparky Carey sometimes drank at The Queens Head, as his credit at The George occasionally ran short. He had stomped through the ankle-deep snow along Pond Street to the best managed of the three drinking houses in the village and was not surprised to find George Edwards to be the sole drinker. Served with his favourite ale, Sparky sat next to his fellow villager who was sensibly close to the fire. ‘Spose you’ve heard the bad news?’ began George, putting his drink down on the adjacent table.

  ‘What’s that then?’ asked Sparky, anxious to sip his first pint.

  ‘Well, Rachel was just telling me that young Charlie Chambers has been killed.’ He saw that Sparky looked momentarily puzzled. ‘You remember, he was always known as Copper. The Chambers lived in Sandy Lane; always a bad couple.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. The parents knocked their children about; young Copper and his sister, Louise. A nice lad was Copper, a friend of our son; a good footballer though it looked as if a breath of wind could blow ‘im over. So what happened?’

  ‘Well, I’d forgotten that Rachel here,’ the landlady had joined the two drinkers, ‘is a cousin of Susannah Chambers.’

  ‘A cousin, but not a friend,’ interrupted the mildly flirtatious Rachel Fielding. ‘Couldn’t abide her, she was so unkind to her kids and her husband was even worse. I was glad when they left the village and only heard a bit about them from time to time.’

  George seemed mildly disgruntled that the telling of the news had been taken out of his hands; chipping in as soon as he could. ‘Well, Rachel was saying that the kids moved to London.’ With the inside of her angled arm the landlady had a way of gently easing up her ample bosom; it was one of several attractions to The Queens Head.

  ‘And,’ interrupted Rachel, ‘I heard from Louise from time to time. This morning I got a letter from her telling me that Charlie was dead. Seems he was in that place called Flanders; terrible thing this war.’

  The two drinkers nodded sagely. So the first person from the village was dead. Sparky knew James would be upset, indeed, so was he for he remembered this lad who went through life protecting his young sister. ‘And, I’m afraid,’ said George breaking the long pause in conversation, ‘he won’t be the last. We know that Jack Atkins came close to losing his life, so who next?’

  They only had a week until further bad news reached the village.

  Peter Woods was thrilled. In the emergency that gripped the postal services there was an immediate shortage of deliverers to outlying parts around Steepleton. The telegraph office was next to the post office where Peter reported each morning, but he was as surprised, as he was pleased, when asked to deliver telegrams as well as the post. He readily agreed to the two conditions: that telegrams be given priority and that these along with urgent letters might well need delivering at times other than during his normal round. A friend asked him why he was doing this and Peter found it hard to explain; he just felt he owed it to the people in Rusfield.

  He had pedalled furiously out of Steepleton and made fast time to Rusfield. Small patches of snow remained in the protection of hedges, but the road was clear as he bicycled toward the village for the second time on this Wednesday in early February. He had picked up four letters that had come in too late for his morning delivery, but it was the buff envelope, heavily marked “Immediate delivery”, that was his main mission. He knew that military deaths and injuries were sometimes conveyed in letters, sometimes by telegram. The one addressed to Mrs R. Rowe was an urgent letter.

  By now he knew most of the villagers. Old Mrs Rowe, whose husband Peter had never known, lived in Sandy Lane. He knew that her two sons, Ernest and Aubrey, had joined up a few months earlier; this letter was to Ernest’s wife, Ruby, in Meadow Way. Turning into Bury Way, he was spotted by Arthur Windle who knew there could only be one reason for Peter passing through the village in the early afternoon. Into Meadow Way, Peter passed Miss Rushton’s shop and then pulled up at the second cottage. The orders from the post and telegram office were clear: in the case of an urgent communication, he must knock.

  Knock he did. This was the part of his work he hated, yet he had a strong feeling that it was something in the war effort which he could do. He was relieved that it was Mrs Florence Rowe who answered the door. As soon as she saw Peter, she paled.

  ‘Yes, Peter?’ she asked with trembling voice.

  ‘I have a letter for the other Mrs Rowe.’ He handed it over. Her look and weak voice only partly disguised her response; Peter could only guess. She quickly shut the door. He remounted his bicycle and rode back round the green; his thoughts dwelling on the scene inside the house. What news, what sadness?

  As he turned into Pond Street he saw the Reverend Arthur Windle standing in front of the vicarage and he pulled to a halt. ‘Peter, I imagine you were delivering a letter of the kind that no one wants to receive. I don’t know whether you feel able to tell me to whom it was addressed?’

  Peter considered for a moment, but he could not imagine any reason why not. The Reverend Windle was a fine man, a kind man whose reason for wanting to know could only be a good one.

  ‘Sir, it was for Mrs Rowe, the Mrs Rowe who lives in Meadow Way.’ Arthur nodded.

  ‘Peter, I have a high regard for you and what you do. I know it’s not an easy job and you clearly care about people. We are all in the midst of very sad times and there’s not much any of us can do, but sometimes it may help if I know who needs support: from me, from my wife, relatives or friends in the village. None of us wants to interfere, just to help in these bad times. Do you understand what I’m saying, Peter?’

  Peter did. ‘Yes sir. I
want to help as much as I can.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Arthur, ‘if you have any of these terrible letters or telegrams to deliver in the village, it may help if I know as soon as possible. I leave it with you to think about.’

  As Arthur went back into the warmth of his house, he wondered if he was right. Was he guilty of prying into matters that were not his concern? He had thought long before speaking to Peter Woods; Eleanor had voiced her gentle support for what her husband intended. ‘You may be able to help Arthur. I know you are only doing it for the right reasons.’

  By the next day, the news of Private Ernest Rowe’s death in Flanders was known throughout the village. He, like Copper Chambers, had grown up in the village and been to the school. That the most recent death was of a man whose home was still in the village, brought an added thrust; leaving a widow and a month-old son a still deeper grief.

  Arthur Windle knew he had been largely responsible for supporting the war effort by organising the meeting addressed by Sir Humphrey; if that had not happened, would poor Ruby Rowe now be grieving and her young son fatherless?

  As the winter was gently transformed into an early spring, more bad news followed: three men wounded. When Tommy Bruce returned home to recover from a fractured ankle, his parents and friends were surprised that he was loathe to tell them about his time in France, dismissing questions with the words: ‘Not much. You just get on with things.’ His parents were further surprised that he appeared anxious to get back to the war, whilst Tommy just pondered on his feeling of guilt at leaving his mates to carry on while he was back home.

  ‘The trouble,’ Arthur Windle commented to Eleanor over the breakfast table, ‘is that amid all the bad news everyone wants to support the young men and the whole war effort, but there doesn’t seem anything we can do to help.’