Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  He folded the letter, struggled to extract his old tobacco tin and carefully placed it next to other letters. The bitterly cold weather had brought one other change for Willy, one probably denied to the other men in the trench. From the trench there was one direction Willy could always look, upwards. Seeing the sky, his thoughts turned back to his schooldays when Meadowman had trooped them out into the school yard and got them all to look up. ‘Is that cumulus, stratus or alto-cumulus?’ Peter Meadows would ask them; then back to the classroom to draw the correct formation. Now the endless grey stratus had given way to cirro-cumulus, the icy companion of cold weather. He thought Meadowman would be pleased he had remembered. The clouds were his sole enjoyment of the natural world; nothing grew and he had not seen a bird for weeks. He wondered how the buzzards around Rusfield were managing; wonderful that Ruby still watched their special tree on her way to work.

  But then, in late February, something quite unexpected occurred: a voice he heard from along the trench. At first he recognised its familiarity, but could not put a name to its owner. Then he knew: Lionel de Maine. There, just along the trench, was this lieutenant, little older than himself. It was, as Ruby would have said, the tone of “posh people”. Under the officer’s peaked cap he recognised the saturnine features of the man he most loathed; the creature who had so abused his sister. If it had been possible to move rapidly along the trench he might well have struck him; but lack of space and Willy’s own good sense prevailed. To be severely sanctioned, even shot, for striking an officer would be the ultimate foolishness. He would bide his time.

  In fact, Willy decided to leave any acknowledgement of recognition to come from Lieutenant Lionel de Maine. After all, thought Willy, well over two years had passed since they last set eyes on each other and even then they only occasionally crossed paths. If he was not recognised then he would wait for an opportune moment for confrontation. During the next three days Willy saw Lionel several times, although the lieutenant spent much of his time in the officers’ dugout which provided a modicum of protection from the cold and, at night, room enough to stretch out. On the fourth day Willy thought the lieutenant’s eye had roved in his direction, then stopped for a moment, but, perhaps, this was his imagination. Half an hour later he was sure, as the man sought him out and spoke: ‘Soldier, I may be wrong but I think we should know each other. It’s Willy, isn’t it?’

  Willy saluted, although he wanted to spit, as he sprang to as accurate an impression of attention as his frozen body would allow. ‘Yes sir. I am and I think we know each other through the time I worked for your father.’

  Willy was surprised when the young officer stepped forward and, placing his hand on Willy’s left shoulder, said: ‘God, it’s good to see a face from Rusfield in this awful hole. What a place to meet.’ He moved his hand from Willy’s shoulder, thrust it forward, urging a handshake. Willy had no alternative but to respond. ‘I’ve only been near the front line for a few weeks and this is a bit of a shock. It’s pretty grim; how long have you been here?’

  Willy was bemused at the apparent friendliness of Lionel; was he totally unaware of what Willy knew? ‘Four months, although it seems forever,’ responded Willy. He found it hard to intersperse the conversation with “sir” but, he thought the newcomer to the trench did not seem to worry. They went on to talk about Rusfield although Lionel appeared to know few people from the village. The conversation ended with Lionel indicating that the present lull in activity would shortly end.

  The next day saw the change. Sergeant Grant, who had arrived at the same time as Lionel, told Willy and the rest of the men in his stretch of the trench that they were all moving to the east where a breakthrough of the German line was planned. Led by Lieutenant de Maine, they were to join a large force. Under cover of darkness they left their unwelcome home of the past weeks and Willy judged they covered around ten miles before stopping under the cover of a dilapidated barn. He felt warmer, or at least less cold, than he had for many weeks; marching was welcome. As dawn broke, the same barren landscape could be seen, but passing through a small, totally destroyed village they were aware of much activity; preparation, thought Willy, although he could only guess at preparation for an attack. It was two hours later that the men reached their destination: a trench which to most looked much the same as the one they had recently left.

  Willy had found that in any group of soldiers, someone always emerged in the role of joker; now it was Private Wally Walters. ‘Well, the food is certainly much better,’ he freely admitted, finishing the bully beef and biscuits. ‘Much better than that bloody pea soup with bits of old horse, but I wonder what they are feeding us up for.’ He went on to tell the story of the fat German officer which most had heard many times.

  The next day the plan was revealed. The trench was a quarter of a mile from the enemy front line which had been constructed to keep at bay allied advances on a railway yard, a major centre for transporting supplies to the Germans. Now, the allied decision had been made that this railway centre must be put out of action, which would only be possible after the forward defence line of the Germans had been overcome. The enemy line was strongly held and so a major assault was necessary. The usual plan was in place: major bombardment to negate the huge barbed-wire defence and to bring havoc to the enemy in their trenches, then a full-scale attack by the British through the destroyed barbed-wire line. The bombardment by the heaviest British guns would start the next day.

  Three days later, massive fire from over 300 guns was trained on the German defences, followed by smoke to cover the British advance. All was ready for the attack by almost 8,000 men along a mile front.

  The attack was launched at 06.20 hours. It was not easy for Willy to hear orders as two days before, he like all the others, had been ordered to stuff cotton wool in his ears rather than be deafened by the allied guns behind them. The signal to attack was again a whistle. The officers, armed with revolvers, were the first over the top: Willy saw Lionel lead the way without a moment’s hesitation; he and the rest of the nearby men followed. The enemy fire increased; despite all efforts to keep the attack unknown to the Germans, it had been anticipated by them and their guns were ready. After what seemed an endless dash, Willy could just make out through the smoke, a gap; for all the British shelling, most of the barbed-wire barricade remained. He sensed the line of men narrowing to get through the gap, but was also aware of men falling as the machine guns sprayed their deadly metal. Men were falling, screaming and there was no way they could go on. Willy felt a sudden pain in his shoulder; it was now hard to hold his gun which was, in any case, useless against the German firepower. Even through his plugged ears, Willy heard the cry of, ‘Retreat.’ He turned. His hearing impaired and now the smoke reduced his vision, the pain in his shoulder increased. He staggered a further twenty yards before pitching into a shell-hole. Two other men were already there, one who had lost his nerve on the way forward and had gained fortuitous protection, the other screaming as he pitched forward. Through the increasing cloud of pain, Willy wondered whether to immediately attempt to get back to his own trench or to wait. At least the smoke gave minimum cover; to wait in this forlorn hole until darkness with his wound bleeding so profusely was a more dangerous option. Even as his beleaguered mind was attempting to assess the situation, the screaming man looked at him: it was Lieutenant Lionel de Maine, his right leg hanging by a bloody, exposed bone. Willy’s mind immediately recalled the order which Lionel himself had given before the attack: ‘Don’t stop for the wounded as you’ll be a sitting target for enemy machine guns.’ The thought of Ruby flashed through his mind, yet he could not abandon a fellow soldier.

  Go now, he thought. Keeping low, just under the rim of the shell-hole, he gathered up Lionel in his arms, the pain in his shoulder almost unbearable. Nearly 100 yards to go; he staggered, but somehow kept going, unaware of other men trying to get back, of the bodies of those who would never make that trench. Thirty, twenty, ten yards in time that seemed suspe
nded. Just a few yards and a cutting swathe of machine-gun fire hit them both; Lionel’s head, exposed in Willy’s hold, exploded and Willy felt the agony in his back. He fell, dropping the dead Lionel de Maine.

  It was an hour later that a courageous Sergeant Grant who had miraculously got back to the trench unscathed, crawled to the two men. He could see that nothing could help the one, but the other he carried back. Two stretcher bearers took Willy to the emergency dressing station in a hurriedly erected tent.

  On an early March morning with the slight promise of spring in the air, Peter Woods cycled past the pond; he could not help succumbing to tears. How many times, he wondered, had he carried telegrams and letters that he knew would shatter lives when opened? The most recent had been a telegram delivered to Major and Mrs de Maine; Peter knew it could only say one thing. Now he carried a letter and a telegram for the Johnsons. He had got to know the family so well, he had grown to love Ruby whom he saw as a wonderfully honest and caring young woman; now he carried this letter which would bring such pain. He knew it concerned Ruby’s beloved older brother; if it had been about Frank, its Egyptian origin would have shown.

  He turned into Meadow Way and knocked on the cottage door; it was opened by Judith Johnson with Ruby at her shoulder. The immediate smile of happiness on Ruby’s face as she saw Peter, changed in an instant when she saw what he was holding.

  Later, Ruby showed Peter the letter that had brought instant and terrible grief to her lovely household. It was from Annette Jackson, sister in charge of No 65 Casualty Clearing Station; part of it read: Your brave son knew that he was dying and retained some consciousness until his last moments. He asked me to say: “Tell mother that all is well as I am passing away peacefully. Give Ruby a special kiss from me.” The official letter which arrived the next day was stark, but carried the same dreadful news.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  March – August 1917

  Robert Berry mopped his brow, grimaced a little as he stood upright and rested with both hands on his hoe. ‘God, Sammy, it just gets worse. It beggars belief that dear old Mrs Rowe has lost her second son. Poor soul. I thought South Africa was bad enough, but this – it’s awful.’

  Sammy Hatfield looked up from where he was weeding between the rows of peas. ‘You’re right. First Ernest, now Aubrey. I called in on Mrs Rowe yesterday; she was absolutely broken, bursting into tears as she spoke about both of her lovely daughters-in-law being widowed so young. She kept saying it was all wrong for parents to see their children die; there was just nothing I could say. My heart bled for her.’

  ‘Ay,’ agreed his friend, ‘it’s all right us doing what we can with vegetables, but that doesn’t help those who are suffering so much. The deaths just go on. I look up at my flag there,’ pointing to the Union Jack fluttering in the gentle breeze, ‘and I think of all those boys dying for their country. Last week I saw Eliza Carey chatting with Judith Johnson and Charlotte Groves outside Violet’s shop and I realised all three had already lost a son in this bloody war. Well, the Americans have come in and I suppose that’s good news. I just wish the news we get from France would give everyone something to cheer about.’

  There were certainly no cheers in Rusfield. Each village death was a further hammer blow; everyone knew another family where a loved one had died. The news in early March that Willy Johnson had been killed touched so many people; generations of the family had lived in Rusfield. This strong-featured young man was remembered as the captain of the all-conquering football team and a popular lad; an unlikely person to die on the battlefields of northern Europe. Ruby was in ruins for weeks, first Fred Smith and then her beloved brother to whom she had always looked in awe; now both gone. Her mother thought it was Peter Woods that saved her from total breakdown. They had been fond of each other for several months and on her brother’s death, Peter had been wonderfully understanding and supportive. Ruby’s regard for Peter was revealed when she showed him the buzzard on its nest; her parents knew he must be very close to her when she let him into the secret of Willy’s tree. All too soon followed other deaths, until by the end of May, twenty-five men from the village and other parts of the parish had died; all but two had been through the school. The villagers not only shared in the shock and sorrow of those killed, but trembled at a similar fate for their immediate loved ones.

  It was after the service on the second Sunday in June that Grace Reynolds and Doris Groves agreed to an afternoon walk on Bramrose Hill. They had always been neighbours and their friendship had flourished at the village school and for the years they shared work at Spinney Farm. Doris had often been grateful for her friend’s steadying influence; Grace envying Doris her greater flamboyance; they remained very close. As they joined the track just beyond Hezekiah Freeman’s cottage, they listened to each other’s stories of work. However, it was not long before their conversation turned to the cloud hanging over the village.

  ‘When did you last hear from Abraham?’ Doris asked.

  ‘Just three weeks ago. He never says much about how he’s getting on, but seems well enough. I’m sure that from all we read and hear, it must be terrible, but I don’t think he’s allowed to say anything about where he is or what he’s doing. Anyway, Abraham’s never been one for saying much about himself. But what about Albert?’

  Grace noticed the slight pause, suggesting her friend needed to gather her thoughts before replying. ‘I worry about him. I don’t hear from him very often, it’s nearly two months since I last heard and then his letters seem odd.’

  ‘Odd? How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to explain. I know life out there must be terrible, but he sounds so troubled. I know he and Abraham are always different, even for cousins, but Albert does go on a lot about himself and it always sounds as if everything is so bad. I’m sure it must be, but it’s not really like the wonderful Albert I used to know.’

  Grace stopped and placed her arm round her friend. ‘Oh, Doris, I’m sure it will be fine when this terrible war is over. I remember we talked about this, after Abraham and Albert were both home on leave together just over a year ago; Abraham was worried about him then. But, Doris, Albert had an awful injury and he shouldn’t really have had to return to France, but that’s what’s happening in this war. Once he gets back home I’m sure he will be the old happy-go-lucky Albert again.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so, but I’ve been thinking a lot. Somehow I think Albert doesn’t really want me to keep writing. Perhaps he has gone off me even though we were so very close when he was last home. I still like him a lot, but I think it may be best if I gave him the chance to feel we are a little freer of each other. I really think that would be best.’

  As they approached the sun-drenched hill where they had played so many times when young, they were silent for a while. ‘Let’s sit down for a few minutes,’ suggested Grace. They stopped in the shade of an oak tree which she and Abraham often sat under, before either of them thought their lives would be interrupted by war. She looked at her friend and saw tears trickling down her pretty face. ‘Doris, it’s obviously up to you what you do, but don’t you think that Albert might be really upset?’

  ‘I just don’t know. I’ll have to think about it some more; I just think Albert may feel happier if he doesn’t think I’m trying to cling to him.’ She withdrew a little lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her frock and wiped her tears away. ‘Come on, let’s race each other up to the top, like we used to!’

  They stood up together; Doris still with her confused thoughts, Grace wanting to help, but fearing what Doris might do and how that might affect Albert.

  The war clouds continued over the village as they did over the whole of Europe, but there was another tragedy in Rusfield that had nothing to do with the fighting. The vicarage had become a focal point of much sadness; the young and once vivacious Eleanor was severely ill and everyone was worrying about the much-loved wife of their vicar. As Sparky Carey, who had never been known to step inside the church ex
cept for baptisms and funerals, said to his old friend Bernie Thomas: ‘Whenever I go past the church, I pop in and say a prayer. She is such a lovely lady, the kindest and best I’ve ever known. I don’t know whether I believe in God or not, but surely he will save her. She’s so young.’ Bernie knew that even the most convinced non-believer in Rusfield would echo the same feelings.

  Arthur and Eleanor’s love for each other was clear to all. As the villagers agonised over her illness, they marvelled at the way Arthur continued to give so much of himself to others who suffered their own tragedies. His good friend, Frederick Richards, remarked to his wife, Pauline: ‘It’s as if Arthur’s own personal tragedy somehow makes him even more aware of other villagers’ suffering.’

  On this late July morning, Arthur sat by his beloved’s bedside, left hand gently resting on her pale wrist. To Arthur she was as beautiful as ever, but pale, much thinner-faced and, as she slept, he could hear the rasping of her laboured breathing. Arthur had wished a thousand times that he could absorb this dreadful illness; surely there was a cure, but then everything had been tried. He remembered it was in the height of the previous summer that she had returned from a church meeting and gone directly to bed. Her cough had persisted and Betty Hazlett had prescribed a simple medicinal liquid, but when this failed she asked Doctor Christopher to call. The doctor had spoken of his concern, for by this time Eleanor’s cough was producing phlegm that showed traces of blood. It had been Jack Mansfield who drove them to Canchester hospital. Stethoscope examination had revealed, all too clearly, a problem with Eleanor’s lungs and this was later confirmed by the recently installed x-ray, enabling Mr Wraith, the consultant, to diagnose and track the progression of the disease. Later, he spoke plainly but sensitively to Eleanor and Arthur of his diagnosis: ‘Whether you know it as consumption or tuberculosis, I’m afraid that is my convinced diagnosis. It means the lungs are affected, the left most severely.’