by Edwards, Eve
Cook climbed the few steps to the entrance and stuck his head outside. Sebastian heard fragments of a conversation with the men on guard then Cook returned and sat on the bottom stair. ‘No sign, sir. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to say goodbye-ee to our latest digs.’
Sebastian smiled grimly at the joke. What had happened to the wave upon wave of following troops they had been promised?
‘But Jerry knows ’ow to make a decent place, doesn’t ’e? Better than the one we were in this morning.’ Cook approved of the neatly constructed den, patting the walls with admiration. ‘This’ll last unless one of them whizz-bangs lands a bullseye.’
Sebastian was uninterested in German carpentry skills. He pulled his notebook out from his leg wrappings and leafed through the pages. He wanted to draw Cook, capture the cockney’s resilience even on this most hellish of days. Taking a stub of pencil from his top pocket, he made a quick sketch.
‘Can I ’ave a butchers?’ Cook asked, after a few minutes had passed.
Sebastian turned the page to face him.
‘Stone the crows, that’s amazin’!’ Cook scratched his chin. ‘I need a shave.’
‘Don’t we all.’ Like the rest of the men, Sebastian dreamed of a bath, shave, fresh clothes with no lice or fleas. To take his mind off his discomfort, he leafed through the other faces in his notebook. Helen – there she was, her features filling at least half the pages. He paused at a copy of the one he had done that first time in his studio, then again on the riverbank and at a table somewhere. The Ritz? No, he hadn’t had a pad with him then. It must have been later. He peered at the little note he had made, hard to read in the poor light. Bramley. Oh God, yes. That ghastly time at Des’s memorial service. No wonder Helen looked so sad in that picture. He turned back to the one of her smiling sleepily at him as she lay in the spring sunshine – that was his favourite.
Flipping a few more pages, he came across ones of his family. All done before the ship went down. Neil, hale and hearty in his cricket whites, prominent ears, bold face, eyes sparkling as he made some off-colour joke to Des and him; Steven, the family scholar, frowning as he read some thick tome, twiddling his hair as he did so; his mother, smiling coolly as she posed for his attention (she refused to be drawn unawares, insisted on choosing her own stance and wearing her pearl choker); his father, genial smile, thick greying tawny hair brushed back from his forehead, arms folded comfortably across his broad chest, amused by his wife and her airs. Sebastian gazed longest at Steven’s picture. He wished he could stop the clock on his little brother’s growing. Rising sixteen, it wouldn’t be long before he would be facing the same pressure to join up as Sebastian had. Pray God he had the sense to delay it as long as possible. It would break their parents to lose another son and Sebastian knew his own chances of surviving the battle were touch and go.
The next thing Sebastian recalled was being flat on his back, unable to see anything, earth in his mouth and nose. Panic hit him like the bombshell he had not even heard. He was buried alive. Christ, he was going to die here by inches, the worst possible death.
Time stretched endlessly on the rack. He shifted his head to one side, finding a pocket of air by his left cheek. The earth on top of him was loosely packed; the ceiling planks had caved in, but done some of the job of keeping him from being completely crushed. Then, miraculously, he felt a hand on his ankle. He kicked vigorously to show he was alive. The answering squeeze told him help was on its way. Trying to calm his racing heart, he took an inventory of his body. His left hand still held something – yes, the notebook. His right was wrapped round a pencil. He was bowed back in an awkward shape, head and feet lower than his middle, like St Peter being crucified upside down. The stool he had been sitting on must still be under him somewhere. No screaming pain, no numbness, he began to hope he had not been too badly injured. As long as he kept his head, he should survive. He began to count slowly to a hundred. He reached it and carried on going.
Rescue came at two thousand and arrived from overhead. Planks shifted, sprinkling yet more dirt in his eyes. He closed them so missed the moment when the afternoon sky appeared above. He was hauled by his jacket, thrown over a man’s shoulder and carried clear of the remains of the dugout. Bentley checked him over briskly while Norton offered him a flask. Gasping, Sebastian took a swig and spat the earth from his mouth.
‘All right, sir?’ Norton asked anxiously.
Wiping his eyes, Sebastian saw quickly that he was fortunate among the casualties. Several men who had been just beyond the dugout had been obliterated, a crater left where they had stood on sentry duty. ‘Not injured. Bruised only.’ He stuffed the notebook in his jacket pocket then gingerly felt his ribs. ‘How many men?’
‘Five, sir. Three in a direct hit; two beating back a German squad who rushed us, trying to get this bit of prime estate back. Privates Jones, Dalworth, Sugden in the blast; Hoxton and Lance-Corporal Taylor in the counter-attack.’
‘The enemy?’
‘All accounted for. They won’t come calling again in a hurry.’
‘Cook?’
‘Bit worse off than you.’ Bentley helped Sebastian regain his feet. ‘Took a piece of shrapnel to the head and is swearing like a fishwife now he’s regained his senses. We think his arm is broken.’
It was unlikely stretcher-bearers would come this far forward, not while the shelling carried on without pause. They would have to evacuate Cook themselves when their relief arrived. ‘Make him comfortable. See if Fritz has left us a stretcher.’
‘Already seen to, sir. Couple of planks and a bit of canvas – we’ve made him an A1 stretcher.’ Bentley grinned. ‘Not that the stubborn bugger appreciates it.’
Sebastian hobbled down the remains of the trench, having to climb over mounds of earth where the shell had destroyed the embankment. He still had enough men to guard the little stretch of territory they had claimed, but they were all shaken and tired. Now they knew the Germans had found the range of their trench, there was the ever-present threat of sudden annihilation from the skies. It was enough to wear even the bravest man’s nerves thin. He reached the man at the end of their line, a mill-worker from Manchester called Joe Hadley. He looked spooked, his lips moving continually in some silent prayer or monologue as he guarded the bomb stop of barbed wire and timber frame that marked the end of their little kingdom.
‘You’re doing well, soldier,’ Sebastian said firmly. ‘Our reinforcements will be here soon.’ Or so he hoped.
Hadley stood up straighter. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He then caught a good look at his commanding officer. ‘Sir, what happened to you?’
Sebastian tugged at the collar of his shirt and felt the soil trickle down his back. ‘I was in the dugout, but they pulled me out.’
‘You look like a collier, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.’ Hadley smiled faintly.
‘Better dirty than dead.’
‘True enough, sir.’ Sebastian was relieved to see that the man could still find humour in the situation. It meant he wouldn’t crack up – not yet anyway. Those who could not take their mind off the shells were the ones to worry about.
He made his way back, finding his men were already clearing the trench of the debris. Cook lay a little further on in the middle of the narrow way, swearing a blue streak when anyone brushed against his arm, which they could not help if they wanted to get past.
Sebastian knelt at his head. ‘How are you, Cook?’ The man smelt strongly of spirits which suggested he had been doing his own doctoring.
The answer was vivid, but as it ended with a ‘sir’ Sebastian felt no need to reprimand him. ‘Not long now. Think about those pretty nurses who’ll be see
ing to you tomorrow.’
‘You’re not going to be able to carry me back across that, sir.’ Cook gestured to the pockmarked no man’s land. ‘I told Bentley not to bother with the stretcher. I’ll walk out of ’ere. It’s just my ’ead and arm. My legs are fine. Eyesight’s a bit wonky, but if someone can prop me up, I’ll make it.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Sebastian didn’t like the look of the deep wound across Cook’s left ear. He would have to check on him regularly to make sure he did not drift off into unconsciousness. ‘Gather your strength for now.’
He needed a distraction. His body was shaking now that the shock of escaping death had caught up with him. Walking away to the nearest fire step, Sebastian took over from the man on sentry duty, telling him to get something to eat and drink. Where was the relief? They had been going since dawn and they surely deserved replacements by now? The strain of keeping ever alert and combat ready was making him feel like an over-wound clock. He could imagine his inner workings springing out of his gut with a clunk and zing, rivets popping. Keep calm. Carry on. Duty. Survey the enemy.
He ducked under the steel helmet hood constructed to camouflage the loophole at the top of the trench work. A little slot gave the barrel coverage of about two hundred yards of broken ground for about sixty degrees left to right. You had to be careful peering through these holes because the really crack shooters on the other side would sometimes take potshots just in case someone had their head in the way.
The view was lively, reminding him that their little pocket becalmed in the battle was not the whole story. The whizz-roar of falling shells and spewed earth plumes from the resulting explosion bizarrely recalled the fountain display at Versailles that he had once gone to admire on holiday before all this madness. His brain tried to find a pattern in it, identify which guns behind him were responsible for particular elevations of dirt. The answering German fire seemed to be lessening, their appetite for revenge satiated for the day. Once the allies’ bombardment ended, perhaps there would be time enough to collect the dead and wounded, though some of the bodies stuck like washing on the barbed wire appeared to have been there for some weeks. Sebastian didn’t want to look too closely in case he saw a comrade.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He ducked out of the helmet sniper vantage point, giving it back to the man on duty. ‘All quiet; no sign of the enemy,’ he said to the soldier as he held out his hand for the message waiting for his attention. Signals had not got a wire this far so HQ were sending runners up the line.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen movement to the extreme right by that bit of gun carriage. Nothing else.’
‘Might be another sniper team. Keep it under observation. Take a shot if you get a chance. Still quite a few more hours of light.’
‘Sir.’
Sebastian opened the scrawled note from Captain Williams. ‘Relief due under cover of dark. Hold your position.’
He stuffed the message in his pocket with his book. Was this day never going to end?
11
BRAMLEY, SURREY, 28 MARCH 1915
The little country church with its spring flowers nodding over the quiet graves was everything that Helen had imagined: achingly beautiful, England encapsulated. The ground was bare under the yew trees by the lychgate, the scent of fallen needles released as their feet disturbed the thick yellowing drift gathered at the edge of the path. Further on, the grass sprang with lush growth, dotted with primroses and daffodils, nature carrying on oblivious to the death that brought everyone here today.
Flora stopped suddenly, her fingers clawing at Helen’s sleeve. ‘I can’t do this. Let’s go home.’
Helen took a couple of deep breaths. Flora had been like this since she had broken the news of Des’s loss to her, distraught, unfixed, spinning like a seaside windmill on the top of a sagging sandcastle as the tide came in. ‘We’ll go if you want to. Just take a moment.’
Even Flora’s beauty seemed to have been dimmed by grief, her complexion taken on a greyish cast. She looked so frail in her severe black dress and hat, her blonde hair scraped back. The realization had dawned that her big sister, the one Helen had looked to for answers, was young too. Helen had taken Flora so much for granted. Whom did Flora have to lean on now if not her?
Flora bit her lip. ‘No, you’re right, I can do this.’
Helen had not said this, but that was hardly worth arguing. ‘I know you can.’
‘It’s what Des would have wanted. He must have mentioned me in his letters by now. They’ll be pleased that something of him has been left behind.’
A rook flapped by, heading for a nearby colony of nests at the top of a clump of elms. Harsh caws echoed like mocking shouts.
‘Perhaps you’d best wait to see how the land lies,’ Helen suggested tentatively.
The hollow clip-clop of heavy horses forewarned them of the arrival of the funeral cortège. With no body to bury, they were bringing only floral tributes and mourners to the church, but Helen did not want to get caught up in the close family group and have to explain their presence with Flora in this state.
‘We’d best go in.’ Helen tugged her sister’s arm gently.
Flora nodded and followed her, eyes glassy like a sleepwalker. They joined a stream of locals who had all come to pay their respects, women in Sunday best, working men in ill-fitting jackets and ties, big hands awkwardly clutching the hymnals. A photograph of Des had been set before the altar, flanked by jonquils springing from a pair of blue vases.
‘Oh God, I can’t do this,’ Flora whispered again, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Yes, you can.’ Helen’s reply was fierce. Her sister would never forgive her if she let her give in at this point. ‘No turning tail. Des would want you here.’
They took a place on the left-hand side of the church – bride’s side, thought Helen miserably. They garnered a few interested looks from the locals, but soon their entry was superseded by that of the family. Heads in the congregation turned as Des’s parents and a clutch of youngsters came into the nave, the funeral directors following with the wreaths. Helen saw the young man she had met only a few times in the jutting jaw of the father, the colouring of the mother. The vicar rushed over to greet them, his consoling words spoken in a low tone. Helen caught a few stray phrases – ‘died a hero’, ‘great loss to the village’, ‘proud of his courage’. The parents took each sentence with stony public faces; two young women at their side wept. The sight of their tears was infectious; Helen felt an answering prickle in her own eyes. She dabbed it away with her handkerchief, reached over and squeezed Flora’s wrist.
The low rumble of a motorbike cut off outside. The church door opened again and a man came into the church, leather bike coat flapping about his legs. It was Sebastian. Helen longed to go to him, knowing how cut up he was about the loss of Neil, but now was not the moment to leave Flora. On seeing the group in front of him, Sebastian made directly for the family. He was the one who had informed Helen of the time and place of the service so she was not surprised to see him there. He shook hands with Des’s father and mother, their faces taking on more animation with a boy they clearly knew and liked, a fellow sufferer. Mr Packenham even put an arm round Sebastian’s shoulders and patted him on the back, inviting him to sit with the family.
With a nod to the organist, the vicar announced the first hymn, ‘Abide with me’. The congregation rose to their feet, singing as the family came down the aisle. Bending like a willow wand, Mrs Packenham placed a large anchor-shaped wreath by Des’s picture, then one of the girls placed another in the shape of a heart. Curious about the choice of tribute, Helen studied her carefully. Dark-haired, round-faced, pretty, the gir
l did not look like a Packenham; she seemed very close to a blonde, large-framed young lady whom Helen had pegged as a sister. Why had she, rather than the sister, placed the wreath? Helen’s eyes met Sebastian’s. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement then looked away. The life had gone from his face, stamped out by his own sorrow. She wished she could go over and give him what comfort she could, but she had Flora to tend.
Fortunately, Flora gave no sign that she had noticed the oddity in the wreath-laying. She stood unmoving while the congregation struggled with the hymns. Helen tried to sing, but had no voice, her throat choked with emotion, the words too poignant in this setting. She would get through a couple of lines, then a hitch would appear and she would have to stop and breathe through the moment, swallowing hard. It was a relief when the vicar invited them to sit.
The service passed in a blur until the vicar got up to speak. The heartfelt address from the pulpit left her with a sense that Des had been very much a boy beloved by the entire parish, noted for his sporting prowess and high spirits. That all chimed with the man she had met. The vicar went on to mention anecdotes about Des teaching his sister to skate, driving his mother for the first time and ending up in a ditch, beating his father in a round of golf on his last leave. Affectionate rumbles of laughter and sniffs were heard from all quarters. Des’s scruffiness was lightly celebrated, but then the vicar’s next words shook Helen to the core.
‘Desmond’s sartorial reformation in uniform had been noted by all, but we all held out hopes that Miss Garnet would make the improvement permanent. We all said that he only needed a woman’s touch to keep his wardrobe in check.’ He looked pointedly at the dark-haired girl sitting next to Mrs Packenham, his eyes warm with sympathy. ‘Alas, that was not to be. Another flower of our English manhood plucked from life before his time, but not in vain – let that be a comfort in this dark hour.’