A Whispered Name

by William Brodrick

  ‘I’m Major Robert Glanville. On my right is Captain Herbert Moore. On my left is Lieutenant Graham Oakley. Do you have any objection to being tried by any one among our number?’

  Flanagan made no response. Glanville repeated his question.

  ‘None, Sir,’ said Flanagan. The Irish accent was very strong, the intonation musical. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Private,’ said Glanville, ‘it’s not your fault, but you are wearing a belt. That is against King’s Regulations during a court martial. I let the matter pass, but it is the only irregularity I will countenance.’

  His authority on procedure thus stamped, Glanville thumbed through the red book till he found the relevant passage. He placed his right hand on the black book and, in a low monotone, eyes on the red book, he swore to try the accused according to the evidence, without partiality, favour or affection, to never divulge the sentence until it was confirmed, and to never disclose the vote or opinion of another member, unless required in due course by the law, ‘So help me, God.’

  Glanville passed the books to his right and Herbert made the same oath, hardening his voice to hide the fear. His heart was beating out of step. He felt queasy again. The books moved left and Oakley, like a man on the touchline, almost bellowed his promise. He, too, was afraid.

  Glanville then stared at Flanagan, rumpling his nose and upper lip as if his moustache were itching a nostril. The pause gave density to the three yards between the accused and his tribunal. Peering down at a small sheet of paper torn from an exercise book, Glanville read out, ‘Four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph Flanagan, eighth Service Battalion, Northumberland Light Infantry … you’re charged with … when on active service, deserting His Majesty’s Service in that you, on the twenty-sixth of August nineteen seventeen, absented yourself from the said eighth Battalion until apprehended at Elverdinghe on the twenty-seventh of August nineteen seventeen.’ He crumpled his moustache again. ‘Do you understand what I’ve just said?’

  ‘I do.’

  While the charge was being read out, Flanagan had looked slightly over Herbert’s right shoulder. His gaze had become fixed. Gradually the expression of dread had been replaced by a striking image of resignation, immobility and attentiveness, as one might find on an ancient icon. His skin had acquired the same subdued patina.

  ‘Please record a plea of “Not Guilty” on the schedule to Army Form A three,’ said Glanville.

  He then squared off the pile of paper in front of him. The top sheet already carried the date, names and regimental details of everyone present (in Chamberlayne’s hand). After a glance at his pocket watch, Glanville licked the point of his pencil and added at the top of the page: 10.04 a.m.

  ‘When you’re ready, Mr Chamberlayne,’ he said.

  Chapter Nine

  According to a scrap of paper hanging from a frayed piece of string, 6890 Private Doyle’s papers were to be lodged with those of 4888 Private Flanagan, ‘pending resolution of the latter’. A resolution that had never taken place. The Doyle file contained an uncoordinated assortment of memos, telegrams and letters between different administrative and active units within the army. Doyle’s inglorious life was pretty much covered from enlistment onwards. Anselm began by isolating material relevant to Flanagan’s trial.

  In short order, Owen Doyle was a Private in the 1/29 (City of London) Battalion, London Regiment (Lambeth Rifles). On the 26th August his regiment was waiting to join the attack on the Passchendaele Ridge. At or about 1.00 a.m. Doyle’s section leader reported his absence. Shortly afterwards, at 3.49 a.m., Doyle was registered as injured at another regiment’s Aid Post – the regiment to which Flanagan and Herbert belonged, the Northumberland Light Infantry. It seemed that Doyle had simply drifted across an inter-battalion boundary. That assumption was short-lived, because thirteen hours later two soldiers were stopped by the military police at Étaples on the French coast. One was Joseph Flanagan, the other was Owen Doyle. Both men escaped ‘after a brief altercation’.

  It was at this point that Anselm was obliged to shuffle the papers and check the dates and times, because a most peculiar resolution of the affair took place. Flanagan was eventually arrested at a village named Elverdinghe. A lawyer of some kind at Division HQ subsequently provided the following advice:

  The two military policemen who apprehended 6890 Pte Doyle and/or 4888 Pte Flanagan have provided unreliable evidence as to identity. Proceed therefore with Pte Flanagan’s court martial without reliance on the Étaples material. The charge should simply cover the period of absence from 26.8.17 until his arrest at Elverdinghe on 27.8.17. We understand, in any event, that Flanagan denies being in Étaples at the alleged time. It is recognised that the exclusion of the incident from the trial is a boon for this soldier, but there is no way around the matter.

  So much for Flanagan. He’d run, he’d been caught and he’d been tried. Not so for Doyle. According to a letter from Brigade HQ, Doyle was killed in action on the 15th September northwest of Glencorse Wood. In other words, Doyle had somehow rejoined his unit, escaping the legal process that had crashed into Flanagan. He would die within weeks, in the very manner he’d sought to avoid.

  How did you get hold of Doyle’s tags, Herbert? thought Anselm, climbing back into the battered Cortina. Dead leaves fell like feathers in his mind. Why did you wear them?

  There were so many names and places and ranks in the file that Anselm couldn’t impose any order on the material. Abruptly, he picked up the telephone and dialled 48.

  ‘Martin, I need some tools.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First, a map covering Étaples to Ypres showing the position of each man’s unit on the night of the twenty-sixth August nineteen seventeen.’

  ‘That won’t take long.’

  ‘Second, it would help if I could see how the key players and their regiments were related to one another in the army … a sort of family tree.’

  ‘That is to hand.’

  Prepared for Kate Seymour, thought Anselm, but he said, ‘Finally, I’d like to explore Joseph Flanagan’s war experience prior to his desertion … something that would give me a handle on to why he might commit a capital offence?’

  ‘The best place to look would be his battalion War Diary. This records the day-to-day activities of the unit. I’d also check the War Diary of the Adjutant and Quartermaster General for his Division. It covers disciplinary matters. I’ll get them for you now.’

  Anselm put the telephone down, asking himself whether Martin had made those last suggestions once before. He wasn’t sure. And he didn’t have time to dwell on the matter because the door opened and Martin stepped inside, holding out a sheet of paper. As Anselm tried to take it, Martin held on to his end, causing a slight tug between them.

  ‘This is simply a bare diagram,’ he said, with a note of warning. ‘It shows where each man stood in the army of August nineteen seventeen. You wouldn’t know that Major Glanville’s brother had been killed in the battle Flanagan tried to avoid. Or that Father Moore’s regiment had all but ceased to exist. Or that the average age in the court was twenty-six. Or that no one was a lawyer. In fact, that’s about all we do know. The full picture is out of reach, now, and has been since the war: with the exception of Moore and Chamberlayne, none of the men involved in the trial survived longer than six weeks. Neither witnesses nor members. They were all dead by mid October.’ He let go of the paper. ‘It probably wasn’t the most impartial tribunal. But this was war and everyone was a bit too busy. I’ll get to work on that map.’

  Anselm could have easily argued about the basic requirements for justice, either in a field or a temple built for the purpose. Instead his mind went numb and he felt a surge of melancholy in his stomach. He experienced it sometimes at the funerals of people he did not know, or when examining a photograph of someone he’d never met, wondering at the familiar pain in the face. He stared at the papers spread across the table. They were like messages from a graveyard.

  Look for s
omething that even now might bring life to Joseph Flanagan, the Prior had urged. Read warily.

  Anselm studied Martin’s diagram, prepared in all probability for Kate Seymour. He’d asked for it because he’d hoped – no doubt like Kate – that it might add some detail to the context of the trial. And it did, as Martin well knew. Every member of the court martial was in the same division as Flanagan. Not one of the officers was an outsider. The honour of the family was to be judged by three men who were already guardians of its reputation. They’d seen monumental casualties only the week before; and they were each of them wounded in so many ways, ways beyond the skill of any Medical Officer. On 1st September 1917 Joseph Flanagan’s chances of acquittal were almost non-existent.

  Read warily.

  Anselm picked up the transcript of the evidence. Closing his eyes he tried to picture 4888 Private Joseph Flanagan before a court in Flanders but no face would grace his imagination.

  Chapter Ten

  The Case for the Prosecution

  Captain Chamberlayne stood behind his small table, hands behind his back. For some reason he addressed himself to Herbert. ‘The case, I submit, is straightforward. The accused, four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph Flanagan of the eighth Service Battalion, Northumberland Light Infantry, absconded on the twenty-sixth of August. He was arrested the next day. Between times his unit was engaged in a special or dangerous duty. I will argue that the accused deserted His Majesty’s Service contrary to Section twelve-one-a of the Army Act eighteen eighty-one, as amended.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Chamberlayne,’ said Glanville with a slow nod of the eyelids. ‘Call your evidence.’

  Bile touched Herbert’s throat as a sentry by the door marched outside, his boots ringing on the flags. He came back moments later followed by a short, square-faced Regimental Sergeant Major. Stamping his way forward, the witness came to a louder halt, facing the prosecutor, midway between Flanagan and the three members of the court. Chamberlayne retrieved the black book from Glanville and held it before the witness. The RSM duly swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, ‘So help me God.’

  ‘Your name?’ asked Chamberlayne, returning to his place.

  ‘Three-four-three-four Regimental Sergeant Major Francis Joyce, Sir.’ He rattled off his unit details. His voice was unnaturally subdued, as though he were alert to a drastic change in his ordinary circumstances, such that he couldn’t shout and curse.

  ‘Where were you on the twenty-sixth of August?’

  ‘The battalion was in action near Black Eye Corner.’ He stood to attention, his face expressionless, his battledress limp and stained. ‘I was with a section that included Private Flanagan. We’d settled into a captured German bunker for the night, Sir.’

  ‘Did you have reason to speak to the accused?’

  ‘I did, Sir.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Major Dunne, the Company Commander, had been seriously injured, Sir. He’d lost his nose and eyes in the same shell blast that’d killed Mr Agnew, the leader of Flanagan’s platoon. I’d put a couple of field dressings on the Major’s face and told Private Flanagan to take him back to the Regimental Aid Post … I know it wasn’t the done thing, Sir, but no stretcher-bearers had been seen for hours and what with the major’s eyes all gone, I was worried he might lose too much blood, and anyway we’d have to leave him if the fighting heated up—’

  ‘No one’s questioning that decision,’ said Glanville.

  Listening to the narrative had calmed Herbert, though he seemed to be floating apart from his own heavy guts. Blood throbbed in his veins but he was detached from the pulse.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Joyce. ‘Well, it was dark and the guns had quietened down a bit, so I thought Flanagan had a fair chance of making it and getting back before dawn, Sir.’

  ‘What exactly did you say?’

  ‘Something like, “Take Mr Dunne to the RAP.” I confess, I swore a bit, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. And then?’

  ‘Flanagan piled his kit in a corner and put his arm under the Major’s’ – he demonstrated, suddenly hunching himself to take an imagined weight – ‘and off they went, Sir.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Shortly after midnight, Sir.’

  ‘Which would be the morning of the twenty-sixth?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘How long would you expect the journey to take?’

  ‘Well, Sir, the weather was grim, but in our sector a track had just been laid by the engineers … so I’d have said about an hour or two, because Major Dunne could walk.’

  With a nod of thanks Chamberlayne sat down.

  Neither Herbert nor Oakley could think of a question. Mr Glanville, however, glanced over his transcript and said, ‘Please repeat the exact order you gave to the accused, along with the verbs and adjectives you have so kindly suppressed.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir?’

  ‘The swear words.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The RSM obliged and the president checked each word he’d written with an ostentatious tap of the pencil. ‘Quite novel, and remarkably clear if I may say so. He was to come back immediately. That was the gist?’ Quietly, he added, ‘Please remember your oath.’

  Joyce blinked, his chiselled face livid and suffused with emotion. The temerity and respect had been swamped. Flanagan’s life hung on the reply. All Joyce had to do was lie, but his sunken eyes sought out the black book on Chamberlayne’s table. ‘I think so, Sir. Yes. But there was still some noise … shells …’

  ‘Thank you.’ For everything, Glanville seemed to say: for your loyalty to your regiment and your vagueness to the court. Appraising the accused, he added, ‘Private Flanagan, do you wish to question the witness?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Be very careful,’ said Glanville. He spoke with suppressed tension, with the same false calm used to encourage the boys before the whistles blew. ‘You heard Joyce. If you disagree with anything he said, now is your time to tell us.’

  ‘He’s a good man, is the RSM, Sir.’

  Flanagan kept his eyes fixed on the spot somewhere over Herbert’s right shoulder. He remained mysteriously calm and detached from the proceedings, as if he were watching another drama of greater significance. The more Herbert examined his simple, clean features, the more he was sure that they’d met … maybe just once.

  The next witness was 3939 Private Frederick Elliot. His face had burns across one cheek. Out of deference to the court, he’d shaved the other side. After being sworn he explained that he was in the same platoon as Flanagan, but not the same section. He’d been injured and was waiting for treatment at the RAP. In this way he saw the accused with a mug of Oxo while talking to one of the chaplains, Father Maguire. This would have been about 1.45 a.m. on the 26th. ‘After the MO, Mr Tindall, had bandaged up the Major, he told the accused to guide him back to the stretcher-bearers, and then get back to his unit. He gave Joe a couple of field dressings, and off they went, Sir.’

  ‘Who, might I ask, is Joe?’ asked Glanville, his lips thinned and white. He was a big man and became threatening simply through the intake of a breath.

  ‘Sorry … Sir, I mean the accused.’

  Quickly, Chamberlayne tossed the witness a closing question. He, too, had felt the heat. ‘What time was it when you saw him leave?’

  ‘About two o’clock in the morning, Sir.’

  Glanville wrote the words down, his head lowered. He stared at them as if they were of immense importance, but his eyes didn’t move, because he wasn’t reading. Various emotions played with his mouth and eyes, the minute movements revealing a struggle between rage – presumably towards Flanagan – and … Herbert thought it might be a very private anguish. Gradually Glanville’s features became still. He breathed out slowly and said, apologetically, ‘Thank you very much, Private. You’ve been a great help.’

  Chamberlayne sat down and Flanagan shook his head, indicating that he had
nothing to say. At Glanville’s invitation, Herbert then spoke. ‘How were you injured, Private?’

  ‘With a flare, Sir.’

  ‘One of ours or one of theirs?’

  ‘Ours, Sir.’

  ‘That was unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘How did one of our flares strike your cheek?’

  ‘Mr Hoskins fired it, Sir. I was crouched in front, Sir, and I stood up, Sir, and … it grazed me, Sir.’ Sweat above the burns made Elliot’s skin shine.

  ‘That was unwise, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was an accident, Sir.’

  ‘Did the medical officer discuss with you the mechanism of this accident? The how and why?’

  Herbert already knew the answer. Tindall had recounted the incident while dealing with Herbert’s arm. The MO had been most unhappy about the affair because it didn’t appear to be the usual kind of self-inflicted injury: ‘Sounds more like he was trying to finish himself off. What a way to try, though.’ Duggie decided to let the matter drop.

  ‘I told him what happened, Sir,’ said Elliot.

  ‘Private, has anyone suggested that you injured yourself on purpose?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Elliot seemed to sink beneath some waves in his mind.

  ‘Well, let me. Did you?’

  After a pause Elliot whispered, his face suddenly dark, ‘No, Sir, I did not.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘As sure of a Medical Officer’s order sending this man back to the front?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Glanville’s pencil scratched on the paper as he mouthed Elliot’s reply. Looking up, he observed, ‘Dismiss, Private.’ The dismissal was wholly polite, as might announce an exile.