A Whispered Name

by William Brodrick

  Chamberlayne banked his papers and books and left without saying anything to Herbert, though they shook hands – part of the ritual that had begun with the other members of the court. Silence lay in the room where the two greatcoats lay upon the low benches beneath the rows of hooks. Glanville and Oakley stood at different windows, each straining to see nothing in particular. Herbert was between them, feeling helpless and adrift. Oakley was the next to leave. He gripped the collar of his coat and threw it over his shoulder. Another shake of hands all round, and then Glanville was left facing Herbert.

  ‘You didn’t waver, old man,’ he said, placing a huge hand upon Herbert’s shoulder.

  Herbert thought he might sob, that tears of protest and remorse might fall, but he kept his lips hard across his teeth. Father Maguire had done much the same; his hand had touched Herbert’s neck with a scalding pity.

  ‘I didn’t warn you that it’s always worst for the number two,’ said Glanville. ‘You were the pig in the middle, in this animal business of keeping the pack in order.’

  Herbert nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Glanville, checking that his chest buttons were seated properly, with the regimental emblem upright. ‘Those liberal reformers left in place the one penalty that really mattered, and promoted its significance and use. But, you know, there really is no other way. Not until this bloody awful war is over.’

  The big man blocked the doorway, shrugging his greatcoat into a comfortable position. When he turned to accept Herbert’s salute, the bulge of the book in his inner pocket was barely noticeable. Military Law Made Easy. Herbert’s father was on familiar terms with the author: Lieutenant Colonel S.T. Banning. They’d been at Sandhurst together in balmier days.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anselm rose at 8.00 a.m., a full two hours later than his brothers at Larkwood. He found a high-street café and ordered eggs and bacon, relishing the temporary abandonment of monastic routine. He read a tabloid and listened to a radio blaring from the kitchen. It was just wonderful, if ultimately unsatisfying. After two cups of boiled coffee he walked briskly to Kew Gardens. Within fifteen minutes of his arrival the Flanagan file was back on the desk that overlooked a lake and a weeping tree.

  The court deliberated for forty-two minutes, almost twice as long as they’d spent listening to the evidence, concluding that Flanagan was ‘GUILTY’. The subsequent sentencing procedure occupied a similar period: thirty-nine minutes. In all the trial had lasted one hour and forty-five minutes. The hand with the brown crayon had drawn a magisterial line through the entire evidence of Lieutenant Alan Caldwell, the officer who’d given evidence on Flanagan’s character. In the margin it was noted: ‘This is hearsay upon hearsay and should never have been admitted before the court!!!’ He was right: Alan Caldwell had never met Flanagan; he couldn’t know, for himself, about Flanagan’s nerve problems in April and June. Despite the angry brown line the red crayon had underlined the word ‘nerves’ twice and corrected two errors, one of orthography, the other of punctuation. The red had ignored the brown, thought Anselm, dwelling upon their respective functions, fearing the power of that last hand.

  Turning to the final page of Major Glanville’s notes, Anselm paused. There, under the heading ‘Sentence’, was the all important phrase: ‘DEATH – with a recommendation to mercy’.

  Herbert had said the decisive word, along with Major Glanville and Lieutenant Oakley. Anselm read it several times, as he’d once read Herbert’s signature on the flyleaf of the Manual of Military Law: almost in a daze, feeling now that something he valued had slipped away from him: the simplicity of his memory of Herbert. Anselm quickly averted his mind from the painful thought, not wanting to acknowledge it, hoping it might disappear if he looked elsewhere. He opened the manual at the sentencing section. It actually began with ‘death’ before descending to penalties for the living. This was a severe code for a severe time, he assured himself. Herbert and his companions had been trapped by an arcane law and a war that hadn’t ended by Christmas three years earlier.

  But Herbert had said the Word, and the Word had an effect.

  That much was clear from the remaining documents in the file: there was a sequence of memoranda from the commanders at Brigade, Division, Corps and Army, each commenting on whether ‘the extreme penalty’ might be carried out. But, as Martin had observed, it seemed that any document that might reveal the outcome of the trial, explicitly or by implication, had been deftly removed.

  The review process would have begun at battalion level with Flanagan’s Commanding Officer, Lt. Colonel D. Hammond. That first recommendation was missing. Anselm therefore moved to the next level, Brigade, and the opinion of Brigadier General Anthony Pemberton who, on the 3rd of September concluded:

  I am doubtful if the evidence is sufficient for a conviction on desertion, but an example is required to show that no soldier in the British Army can abandon his comrades when they are in action.

  The heavy red crayon had got to work again. Decisive factors were being isolated in the mind of this ultimate judge: so far, he’d marked out ‘alcohol’, ‘wine’, ‘drunk’ and (inadmissible) ‘nerves’. Now he’d underlined ‘example is required’. He didn’t seem troubled by the Brigadier’s opening doubts on sufficiency. Anselm tried to visualise the moral undergrowth that needed to be cleared before one could move from inadequate proof to exemplary justice. For the Brigadier – and the judge – it was manifestly wide open. Couldn’t see a blade of grass, never mind a tree.

  The next day, on the 4th September, Major General Boyle at Division had expressed a similarly unencumbered view: ‘I do not know this man but I think he should be shot.’ Anselm almost laughed with horror.

  The papers, with their gathered weight, then landed on the desk of Lieutenant General Cooke at Corps HQ. An underling of sorts had typed up a chit: ‘I recommend that the sentence of Death in the case of No 4888 Private J. Flanagan, 8th Batt. N.L.I….’ and the commander had added, with admirable economy, ‘… be carried out.’ No reasons, no head scratching. Just decisive leadership.

  Anselm was beginning to sense the life behind the structure. He pictured a rider or driver taking the bundle to the next echelon of authority, General Osborne, commander of the Ninth Army. Perhaps it was the altitude of his importance, but the general was not a man to be influenced by the unanimous judgement of his subordinates. On a large sheet of paper he’d written, neatly and in the centre of the page, ‘The sentence of death can reasonably be commuted to five years imprisonment, to be suspended. This man has a clean record. The plea of mercy has merit.’

  And at this point, on the 10th of September 1917, the trail went cold … or coldish: for while there was no text recording the actual decision of the Commander-in-Chief, no order from Division to Brigade requiring a firing party, no certificate from Dr Tindall, RMO, confirming death upon execution, there remained a single but monumental clue.

  The final document in the Flanagan file was dated the 11th September 1917. After checking the denotation of the acronym, Anselm realised that it was an internal request from one lawyer to another at GHQ … in the department where the file had come to rest, complete with five recommendations. It read:

  Please assess and provide an argued response to Lt. Col. Hammond’s comments. If you concur with the point on intention, the court should be reassembled to consider de novo the charge of desertion and, if necessary, the question of sentence.

  It took Anselm a few minutes to penetrate the implications of this text. Lt. Colonel Hammond had raised a technical objection. He’d been concerned about Flanagan’s state of mind. That point had been tacitly acknowledged by the Brigade commander who nonetheless wanted ‘an example’. But the argument had found a lawyer’s ear … perhaps the angry man with the brown crayon.

  A sudden turn, then, had come to pass in the fortunes of Joseph Flanagan. And while the papers were ultimately ambiguous on the upshot, a tantalising possibility remained: it was just possible that the court had re
convened and had either acquitted Flanagan or reduced his sentence.

  Anselm closed the file.

  How did you survive? he thought, dreamily, his eyes on the great weeping tree.

  He’d been a bent figure, treading slowly away from the aspens on a path that led to the monastery. It was an abiding image for Anselm; and after lunch it sent him on to the path of Kate Seymour’s research. They’d probably moved in step, so far. But she’d ended up in a place where Anselm was yet to venture: the War Diary of the Adjutant and Quartermaster General for Flanagan’s Division. She’d left behind a yellow ticket by accident. Like a bookmark.

  Anselm quickly found the entry dated 17th September 1917. The hole was beneath a title: Courts Martial – Desertion. Turning the page Anselm found a reference to the event that had been suppressed:

  AS OTHER CASES SIMILAR TO THE ABOVE HAVE OCCURRED, MEN ARE TO BE WARNED THAT DRUNKENNESS IS NO EXCUSE FOR CRIME, AND IF A MAN GETS DRUNK AND DELIBERATELY ABSENTS HIMSELF FROM AN IMPORTANT DUTY HE RENDERS HIMSELF LIABLE ON CONVICTION TO THE FULL PENALTY FOR DESERTION.

  The attention of all ranks is to be drawn to this order.

  Anselm returned to the hole. A man had got drunk. He’d been executed. His name had been cut out. Even as an ‘example’ he’d ceased to exist. ‘The matter is sensitive.’ Anselm could hear the censor’s confiding tone, he could feel the pity-come-lately. ‘Fellow has a family, damn it.’

  Whatever happened as a result of Lt. Colonel Hammond’s intervention, death had brushed Flanagan by: he’d been one of the ‘other cases’. But what had happened to him next? Once more Anselm turned to the Attorney General for guidance. Immediately beneath the warning on drunkenness he found this notice:

  It may be of use to Officers to know that ‘Burberrys’ have established a Depot at: L. Chavatte, 10, Grande Place, Armentières.

  This, then, was where the trail into Joseph Flanagan’s secret history came to a halt: with the appearance of the quintessential English raincoat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Jaunt to Margate

  1

  Herbert walked away from the school knowing, with a punishing certainty, that he would never forget the steps up to the main door, the white shutters on the chipped brick walls, the black and white tiles, the parquet flooring, the rose wallpaper, the cracked mirror between the columns, and the waxy yellow light a foot or so above the ground.

  Ahead, marching on the lane from the encampment, was a column of troops. Three mounted officers led the way. Flanks of chestnut, black and grey glistened in the sunlight. Occasionally, the horses shook or tossed their heads, and light flashed from the dripping bits. Straps jingled. Behind, like a monstrous khaki centipede, came the men. They were heading up the line towards the artillery. Steam shot from their nostrils.

  Herbert stumbled to the verge. He let them pass, not looking at their faces. But there, at his feet, he saw Quarters above the mule. Closing his eyes he listened to the stamp of feet knowing that, further on, the road would break down, that they would reach the track of sinking sleepers, and then the duck-boards, and finally the marketplace that would claim the greater part of them – without reference to the quality of their lives, to the allocation of what had been decent and what had been foul. The want of discrimination was almost a release for Herbert: the dying would continue; blood would drop like water through Glanville’s ceiling; maybe Flanagan was just another splash; maybe Herbert would join him, with Glanville and his pocket watch. Merit had no place in this mêlée.

  The carpenter wasn’t in singing mood. Herbert glanced inside the barn. Head bent low, the craftsman carefully joined the mortise and tenon and then hammered together another cross. A pile of sallow timber lay stacked against one wall. Turning aside, Herbert’s eye caught on the wooden plaque of ‘Notre Dame des Ramiers’. He slowed, remembering the unutterable beauty of the chant. After a moment’s hesitation, Herbert pushed open the gate and walked towards the white door.

  The abbey was cool and deeply silent. Beeswax filled the air. Despite the long clear windows, the light was dim. A tiny red flame flickered like a beacon on a distant headland. Way ahead, like guardians of the sanctuary, stood two large wooden statues: on the left a man, to the right a woman, each with joined hands. Stopping between them, Herbert thought of his parents. They’d mocked Colonel Maude rather than show their disappointment. Within the monastery a door banged and shuffling feet made a soft echo. And from a direction utterly tangential to Herbert’s frame of mind – like the breaking of a window in an adjoining property – came an intuitive certainty: what had happened that morning at the Oostbeke school was gravely wrong.

  2

  When Herbert reached Duggie’s billet he paused at the window. The CO was sitting at a small card table, furiously writing, watched by his dog, Angus. To one side lay the Manual of Military Law, propped open with a stone. Spread out on the floor were the trial papers. After knocking, Herbert entered and hovered by the empty hearth. He chewed his lip while the ink pen scratched and scraped. When he’d finished, Duggie held up the paper and blew upon it as though to revive a dying flame.

  ‘Why did you call me back from Boulogne?’ said Herbert, his voice dead and low. Both hands gripped the sides of his trousers. He felt like he was back before that sanctuary, flanked by his parents.

  ‘Because I thought there was a chance you might see things differently,’ said Duggie, without turning around. With rapid finger movements he screwed the lid on to his pen and placed it on the green baize, perfectly parallel to the table’s edge.

  Herbert had only spoken to Duggie on one occasion about his departure from the 22nd Lancers. Since then, the CO had never referred to it once. Sweat broke on Herbert’s upper lip: that sensitivity was about to be compromised. Barely audible, he said, ‘What do you mean, see things differently?’

  Duggie swivelled round on his stool. ‘I thought with your experience of … let me use the word kindly … failure … you might have been circumspect about the demands we place on our men. But you showed great courage. You faced up squarely to the demands of duty.’

  There was no sarcasm in Duggie’s compliment. Only a certain sadness that one he thought was weak had turned out to be strong. He’d taken a chance and lost. Herbert was stunned. Duggie had warned the battalion almost every month that the ‘full penalty’ of the law would be exacted for desertion, but now it transpired he’d tried to circumvent the machinery of a court martial by placing Herbert in a crucial position of responsibility.

  ‘I don’t blame you, Herbert,’ he continued, ‘because you’ve done nothing wrong – any more than I have. No one’s to blame for anything. That’s what I find so disheartening. As I’ve got older –’ the phrase showed how a sense of life span was reduced, for Duggie was in his mid-thirties – ‘I’ve come to notice that with the great wrongs there’s rarely a scalp to hand. There’s never a sinner when you want one.’

  Duggie was a typical and well-loved CO. Tough but fair. He’d much prefer to wash regimental linen in private, but in this case Division had found out; and they’d told Brigade. And thus a trial on a capital charge had become inevitable. Still, while Duggie would, if possible, support one of his boys, the attempt to save a deserter was almost incredible. Herbert didn’t have to wait long to find out why.

  ‘You won’t know this,’ said Duggie, ‘but after Flanagan left Mr Tindall he went to Étaples.’

  It sounded as though he’d gone to Margate for an ice cream. Herbert dropped on to the edge of Duggie’s bed, his mouth open.

  ‘He denies it,’ protested Duggie, ‘and it wouldn’t have done him any favours if he’d owned up … but it looks very likely that he got to the coast and back again in pretty sharp order.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems he teamed up with a Paddy from another brigade, buggered off and then changed his mind.’

  Herbert studied the frown among the speckled sores. ‘You don’t believe that.’

&nbs
p; ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the whole story doesn’t hang together,’ he admitted. ‘Prior to this fling, Flanagan had never touched a drop of booze in his life. He’s a Pioneer … some Catholic thing. Maguire, the chaplain, is one of ’em too. They pledge to stay dry for life. Can’t imagine it, frankly. Not my sort of God. The point is, this lad sees action at Aubers Ridge, the Somme and Arras and it’s only now he needs a stiff drink with another son of Erin. Doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You mean he lied?’

  ‘I mean he hid the truth.’

  Herbert let his chin sink to his chest. He wanted to shout, as he’d done in the abbey. A jaunt to Margate? This parallel narrative, if genuine, would have removed the slim defence implied by Flanagan’s statement – that he’d got lost. And yet, ironically, this was Duggie’s reason for attempting to upset the court martial.

  ‘If we’re going to shoot him before breakfast,’ explained Duggie, ‘we ought to do it for the right reason.’

  With a low groan Herbert covered his face. Through spread fingers he watched Duggie on all fours, grunting as he gathered the trial papers. He couldn’t bring himself to help, to get down there on the boards. When Duggie was upright he tied the bundle securely with a length of white cotton tape. Later in the day Chamberlayne would collect it, and off the case would go, first stop Brigade. It was as though some great, unknown truth would shortly slip away, never to be understood. Duggie made a tilt with his head and they went outside into the courtyard, followed by Angus.

  The sun was high and warmed their necks. It was crazy: after all that rain, they were heading for a drought. For a while they talked of football and the Lambton Cup. The regiment had struggled through the early stages of the competition but had managed to secure a place in the final against the Lancashire Fusiliers. While the team had always suffered ‘injuries,’ this time none of the team had survived August.