Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  No sound from the Germans tonight. They had found the same the two previous nights. ‘Do you think,’ Boney had asked his friend, ‘that the Germans know we’re out here and what we’re doing? That just the other side of the wire they are doing the same?’ Could there be such a regard for the enemy burying the dead when there was no hesitation in killing them the next day?

  The crawl back to their trench seemed twice the distance as their outward one. Maybe it was, maybe they had strayed further, maybe they were just exhausted. Jammy never believed the story that one man had so lost his sense of direction that when he had finally made it back to his trench he found it was full of Germans. Jammy often wondered at the many extraordinary stories that wove their way along the trenches until he found himself in such vile conditions that it was only by listening to and telling such stories that sanity could be retained.

  As they neared their trench it was as if the Germans knew that the men’s gruesome, yet caring mission had been accomplished, or was it that they were preparing to make an attack? Neither Jammy, nor Boney were ever to know. The noise was tremendous; for once, the men setting the range of Big Bertha, their heavy howitzer, had got it right: but terribly wrong for Boney who had just regained the trench and for Jammy, Taffy and Sergeant Crosbie who were about to follow. The shell landed only yards away throwing a mighty cascade of earth and rocks into the dawn sky. Men were tossed into the air, limbs torn asunder, bodies buried. Men killed, others severely injured.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  November 1915 - February 1916

  As winter first stepped on and then crushed the mild autumn, two features were revealed in Rusfield: fear for absent loved ones and attempts to carry on normally. ‘We have to keep things normal for the children’s sake,’ Rita Small said to her colleagues after school on the last Friday in November. ‘They don’t understand all the worries their parents have and we don’t want them to think about them.’ David Watts and Mary Jackson nodded. ‘Our Christmas nativity performance and carol service must go ahead.’

  ‘I’ll take the costumes home next weekend and see that they are still all right,’ added young Mary.

  ‘And I’ll look the music out and make sure the instruments are in working order. I seem to remember young David Johnson treating the big drum last Christmas like a wood-chopping exercise,’ smiled Rita.

  The teachers would have found many supporters. Arthur was determined the traditional Christmas services should go ahead, including carol singing round the village. Violet Rushton and Harry Groves had ordered in Christmas cards, Rachel Fielding planned to put up decorations in The Queens Head and her brother, Samuel, would follow suit at The Ark.

  In the vicarage a similar conversation was taking place. ‘We must carry on,’ Arthur offered to Eleanor, ‘especially for the children’s sake.’

  ‘And not only for them,’ she replied. ‘We know it’s dreadful for so many, but somehow we must all keep going.’

  ‘Indeed, my dearest. Poor Eliza looks sadder each day she comes in. She told me this morning that Susannah Jones went round to see her yesterday. They know Albert and James were together in early August and neither has received any letter since.’

  ‘I wonder if Sir Lancelot has got anywhere. After Eliza told us about James, it was a good idea of yours to speak with the de Maines and ask them to raise it with Isabella’s brother,’ said Eleanor referring to Sir Lancelot Prestwish for whom James Carey had been working when he joined up. Arthur had thought that the great landowner with his contacts in high office might be able to obtain news and he knew Sir Lancelot had spoken with the local Member of Parliament, Sir Humphrey Watkinson.

  ‘Eleanor, let me ask you something, please? Along with other clergy in the diocese, I am getting more and more directives from the bishop’s palace, many of them emanating from the dean.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Eleanor could not help interjecting with a smile, ‘my great admirer, the Very Reverend Edgar Hartley Williamson. I wonder if he’s still busy trying to stop women’s rights? But sorry, my love, I shouldn’t interrupt.’

  ‘This latest directive causes me much thought. Let me read the beginning to you: As the war continues, we must pray more earnestly for victory. Eleanor, I fully understand why we should pray for those who suffer, but for the war? Can we be sure God is on our side? I imagine there are many Germans also praying for victory. I just wonder that as war is such an evil event, brought about by men, that God will have no part of it.’

  Eleanor realised how troubled her beloved Arthur was. She had always seen his faith as strong and she did not see that in any way different now. ‘Arthur, I not only understand what you say, but I agree. Perhaps, we all have our own picture of God and as you know my view is a simple one. It’s the Jesus who delivered the Sermon on the Mount; that tells me about God. To me, war is so far removed from God that I cannot include him in what is happening on the battlefields. Let’s pray for those who suffer and our own strength to support and show love, but I can’t expect God to aid our guns more than the German ones.’ She lightly kissed him; Arthur felt a shade less troubled.

  But, in spite of deep fears and anxieties many positive things were happening in the village. The third batch of parcels for the troops had been despatched. The response had not only continued, but additions had been made. It was one of the large Reynolds family that first thought of sending hard-boiled eggs; led by Lily and Alfred, each of Grace’s siblings proudly bore a large brown egg from home. ‘Our chickens have been very kind,’ announced six-year-old Alfred dashing up to Mary Jackson in the school play yard. ‘We’ve made them hard so they will be all right.’

  ‘Not if you drop them, it won’t,’ Lily, his pretty twelve-year-old sister, added.

  How much she reminds me of Grace, thought her teacher: she’s going to be another beauty. The boys will run after her just like they did Grace when she was with us.

  The hard-boiled egg addition was taken a stage further when Florrie Edwards wrote her name and a message on her egg. ‘Is that a good idea, Florrie?’ her teacher asked.

  ‘Well Miss, no one’s going to eat the shell so I think it’s nice.’ Many copied her idea, with the sender’s address included; maybe, thought Florrie, she would get a reply.

  It was Mary Jackson, as supportive of the Methodist chapel as she was to the school, who had led another venture which soon became known as the “Methodist Jam Mission”. On a walk across Bramrose Hill, Mary had noticed how well the blackberries were ripening. After chapel the next Sunday she suggested to fellow Methodists, Eliza Carey, Betty Hazlett and Rachel Fielding, that if they collected enough blackberries they could make a nice preserve to send to their men. By September the abundant crop was ripe and the following Saturday morning, nine stalwart Methodist ladies set out from the village and spent three hours filling up bags, pots and other containers with berries. The afternoon found the ladies in the kitchen at The Queens Head where the fruits were prepared, cooked and made into jam.

  ‘So that’s fifty-one jars,’ announced Rachel. ‘I did check in the church porch and there are seventy-three men. I’m sure we can make some more, so there’s a jar for everyone. How about next Saturday?’ All the ladies agreed to meet again and complete their labours.

  When Violet Rushton and Robert Berry heard about these latest efforts they were thrilled. ‘That’s wonderful. We will just need to pack everything more thoroughly.’

  However, none of this changed the agonies for the loved ones. Peter Woods knew well that Albert Jones and James Carey’s parents were desperate for letters and each day willed that he would have one to deliver. As the end of the year grew near, news from the war continued to be mixed. Sebastian de Maine explained to his wife: ‘The government will be trying to make things appear better than they really are. As you know, I was with Jack Mansfield yesterday and when we looked at The Telegraph we just couldn’t believe the number of casualties.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Isabella. ‘It’s been a terrible blow now that p
oor Robert Bacon has been killed. He was so young and it’s such a short while ago that he started working for Jack Mansfield. I don’t think poor old Joe at the smithy will ever recover. Since he lost his wife a few years ago, young Robert has meant everything to him. Then there’s Richard Wincombe coming back home having lost his leg and poor Ruby, so worried about her brother Willy. If anything happens to him it would be terrible for her. But I do know how hard Lancelot is working to find out about young James Carey.’

  ‘We can only hope your brother can find out something to help the family,’ her husband replied.

  It was from an unexpected source that news came. After Christmas and the New Year had passed, the sharp frost covered the hedgerows and trees for days on end and it was on one of the coldest mornings that Peter Woods, as ever without a heavy coat, pedalled his familiar route. He had noticed a neatly addressed letter to Mr and Mrs S. Jones of Wood Lane, but it was likely they would be at their shop; he would make that his first stop. As he opened the butchers shop door he was pleased there were no customers; just Susannah and Sidney Jones making up some packets of sausages. They looked up as the bell sounded.

  ‘Good morning,’ Peter spoke cheerfully. ‘I have a letter, so I thought it best to bring it to you here.’ Packets were put down, almost dropped, hands wiped on aprons. Susannah visibly paled, her husband hardly less so.

  ‘I hope it’s good news.’ He always felt this was a mindless comment, yet felt he had to say something. He longed to know the content but, as always, gave a polite goodbye and left to continue his round.

  ‘Oh Sidney, what is it? I don’t know the writing. You open it.’ Sidney had a slender knife to hand, slit open the envelope and drew out a single sheet of paper; it revealed a precise hand. Under an address showing a Sheffield Hospital, they read:

  Dear Mr and Mrs Jones,

  I am writing to you as your son Albert has asked me to. He hopes this letter finds you well. Albert is all right but he can not write as his hand is heavily bandaged. He was wounded, but cannot remember what happened. We are not sure when that was. He came here three weeks ago from a hospital in France, but we did not know his name as he did not have any identification with him. Five days ago he started to remember things and since then is really getting better. He remembered his name and two days ago his address and all about you, so I said I would write.

  He is much better now and will be all right and I expect he will soon come home. He is having the bandages off his hand tomorrow and will write to you himself. He sends his love to you.

  Yours sincerely, Marjorie Robinson

  ‘Oh Sidney, he will be all right, won’t he?’

  ‘Of course he will, my love. I know how worried you were that the news would be really bad, I felt just the same. What a kind lady to write.’

  ‘We must write back to her quickly, Sidney. We can give the letter to Peter tomorrow. Oh, isn’t it wonderful to think that Albert is going to write. He must be getting better if he can do that, mustn’t he? And this lady says he will be home soon.’

  Albert’s letter arrived three days later. He did not know how he had ended up in Sheffield, but he was proud of a scar on his forehead which added to his good looks. The doctor had ordered one more week in hospital, but he was up and walking. He would probably then have a further month’s leave. ‘It’s quite a way for getting a month at home,’ he ended. It was in the first week of February that he came home, slimmer although he had never been overweight, his forehead scar apparent, but fading; altogether looking better than his parents had imagined possible. They soon realised Albert did not want to talk about his time in France.

  It was two evenings later when Doris Groves was with them that Albert opened out a little. ‘You asked me about how I had been injured. Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t looking what I was doing and got too near an exploding German shell,’ he said rather lightly. Unfortunately, they could not give any answers to Albert’s pleas for news about his mate.

  ‘Jammy and I were together,’ he explained to them. ‘I know we were on our way back to our trench.’ He paused and a distant gaze appeared for some moments. ‘The next thing I knew was that I was in that hospital. I couldn’t believe that nearly four months had gone by. It’s really odd. They told me I had made things difficult as I must have disobeyed orders and taken off my identification disc. I don’t remember doing that.’

  Albert’s story of the little he could remember took quite a time to tell. He was hesitant, unlike the direct and no-nonsense son whom they had known. Susannah was surprised, though delighted, to find him holding her hand. She was pleased that Doris and he had quickly shown how close they still were to each other. Susannah had always thought Doris to be a little brazen, but she was a happy, open girl and clearly she and Albert were fond of each other.

  ‘Albert, I think it would be nice if you went round to see Mr and Mrs Carey. Eliza Carey came in to the shop as soon as she knew we had received that lovely letter from your nurse, but I know it simply made it worse for her, not knowing anything about Jammy.’ Albert’s heart sank, this was something he knew he should do, but had fought shy of doing. His mother was right.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  February – March 1916

  When Arthur had spoken with Isabella and Sebastian de Maine about Jammy Carey in late November, he had no idea of the chain of command he would set in progress. It happened that a week later, the de Maines went to dinner at Isabella’s brother’s grand house just outside Steepleton. Sir Lancelot Prestwish was, in fact, little better off than the de Maines, but having inherited the fine Georgian house and its surrounding three hundred acres, he gave a grand pretence of wealth. He also had the caring nature of the past three generations and when his sister raised the matter of Jammy, he immediately knew to whom she referred. His brow became more and more lined as he paid attention to Isabella telling him what she knew of the young Rusfield man.

  ‘I remember him well; a strong lad who was working on some additional building here. He always seemed to be working harder than most. Sometimes I would see one or more of the others taking a few minutes off, probably smoking, but not him. But, perhaps, the time since his parents heard from him is not so strange for it must be hard to get letters home. Maybe it’s not bad news, but if I can help find out anything I certainly will.’

  He was as good as his word and a few weeks later met up with local Member of Parliament, Sir Humphrey Watkinson. They were old friends and whilst their meeting had nothing to do with the war, time was easily found by Sir Lancelot to speak about the young soldier. The well-whiskered and elderly parliamentary member listened in his attentive manner. He may well have been getting on in years, but his grasp of matters and speed with which he saw solutions or ways to move forward had not declined.

  ‘Well, it being the Suffolks helps, because I know quite a few of the senior officers of our local regiment. I believe Lieutenant Colonel Lewis is involved there and he’s a good friend. I’ll try to get to speak with Lewis although he’s almost certainly abroad; but leave it with me.’

  Sir Humphrey’s name carried much weight and a communication was rapidly passed down the line to reach Lieutenant Colonel Lewis. Enquiries were made, reports filed and even in the midst of the continuous battle at the front, some weeks later word came back to England.

  On reaching Sir Humphrey Watkinson, he spoke with Sir Lancelot who decided to telegraph his brother-in-law saying that he would drive out the following Friday to convey the news from France. Immediately Peter delivered the telegram to the manor on the Thursday, Sebastian discussed the meeting with Isabella.

  ‘Seb, since it was Arthur Windle who first raised the whole worry about young Carey, I think you should invite him along tomorrow. I also wonder whether you should invite the lad’s parents as well.’

  ‘I think that would be going a little too far at this stage. We don’t know what the news is, but I suspect it is not good. Let’s see what Arthur Windle thinks, he’s such a sensible and sensitive
man and I will respect his view.’

  At one o’clock the next day, a coach pulled by a splendid piebald drew up outside the de Maine’s home. Sebastian and Isabella were at the door to greet her brother. Brother and sister were close and after a fond kiss, she took his coat (the services of a butler had been dispensed with a year earlier) and led him into the attractive, if slightly faded lounge. Arthur Windle was standing near to the roaring fire.

  ‘Sir Lancelot,’ began Arthur, ‘it is extremely kind of you to come today.’

  A wave of the baronet’s hand accompanied by a generous smile at Arthur, brushed aside such an expression of gratitude. ‘These are terrible times for the men away fighting, but no less so for their loved ones back here. We must do what we can.’ Sebastian de Maine’s offer of drinks was also brushed aside and the three men drew their chairs closer to the fire.

  ‘Let me say straight away that it is bad news, very sad indeed. Two things are very clear. Lieutenant Colonel Lewis has gone to considerable pains to put together the report in spite of the terrible conflict raging and all the resulting chaos. Perhaps, I shouldn’t say so, but no one seems to know exactly where everybody is, nor what is happening, but I’m sure the report details are as accurate as makes no difference.

  ‘Young Carey and some twenty other members of the Suffolks were in the front line near Loos. Around 30 September, or at least within a week from that date, Private Carey was involved in some form of night activity. It seems that in a great blaze of gunfire the trench to which he and others were in was destroyed in a direct hit. In confidence, I read that whilst some casualties were taken to a nearby dressing station, some poor men were completely annihilated. No identification, no way of knowing which men were lost for ever is available. Sadly, the certainty with which loved ones can be given information is often out of the question. In Private Carey’s case the official language is “missing, presumed dead”. Sadly, I am assured that there is no doubt, no hope.’