The Moon Field

by Judith Allnatt

  He paused to let Rooke catch up a bit and peered through the lifting mist, looking for a barn, a windmill, anything that might suggest higher ground. There was no sign of a building but he saw a straight line of trees in the distance. He thought that its thickness could mean that it was a double line and that, in turn, might mean that it was bordering either side of a road. He turned and signed to Rooke where they should go. As George made for the drowned road, something large and unwieldy lay in his way: a five-bar gate, flat in the water with a sodden mess of debris at the other side. As he paused, the gate drifted towards him and bumped gently against him. On the other side of it, the sodden object that lay heavy in the water washed up against the gate and, its progress impeded, rolled a little. The grey-brown cloth, which he had thought sacking, George now saw covered the shape of a man’s back and shoulder. As the body rolled, he glimpsed a man’s face, horrible in its bruised pallor. It grazed the side of the gate, insensible as the wood it touched. George could feel his boots sinking down into the mud yet he could make no move. In the split second before the body rolled back, face down, he had seen the hair matted like weed over the forehead, the flesh puffy and swollen around its vacant eyes and open mouth. As it settled in the water, George saw that the back of the head was strangely flattened and hairless: a grey the colour of old rubber. He gave the gate a push and it nudged the body further away; it floated stiff and solid as a log. The uniform was German. George felt only a deep revulsion that left room for neither hate nor pity. He glanced round quickly to make sure that Rooke hadn’t seen. He forced himself to grasp the slimy wood of the gate and steadied himself against it, as he pulled first one foot and then the other free of the sucking mud. Hands shaking, he pushed the gate as hard as he could so that it and the body were cleared from his path; the gate seesawed wildly on the swell as it was swallowed once more by the mist. He moved away so that Rooke, following him, would not go near. He told himself that if Rooke didn’t see it, if they didn’t have to speak of it, somehow he could tell himself that he hadn’t seen it, that it didn’t exist. ‘Come on, Percy,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  At last, they approached the line of trees and George pushed Rooke up a shallow bank where he stumbled, exhausted, to the top and slumped down at the foot of a tree. George in turn scrambled over the hard ridges of tree roots, water streaming from him as he emerged, first thigh-deep, then knee-deep, then finally free of the water as he attained the hard flat surface of a metalled road. He sank, panting, shoulder to shoulder with Rooke, his whole body shivering. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the watery sun on his eyelids and seeing its light glow red through the veins of their thin skin. He tried to shut out the image of the dead man, the body swollen, its face the colour of the underbelly of a dead fish. He pressed his head back against the tree, and spread his fingers against its bark, feeling its roughness, the small crumbs of algae that came off against his palm. Don’t let that happen to me. Let that not be me, he prayed.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he heard Rooke say. ‘Don’t say you’re getting the same thing I’ve got. My legs are like two sticks of jelly.’

  ‘Nothing, just feeling a bit done up.’ He opened his eyes and began wringing out the cloth of his uniform. He felt inside his top pocket; the wad of letters and the special card for Kitty were a solid mass of soggy pulp. He wanted to put his head in his hands and weep.

  The last shreds of mist were fading away and the sunlight glinted on the floodwater that spread over the land: the nearer fields were completely covered; then there were some with standing pools and stretches of higher ground where grass showed through like paddy fields. The road on its raised banks ran above it all and led towards the Front. Rooke was making a hopeless attempt to warm himself by wrapping his arms tight around his body. His hands were mottled with cold and his lips had a blue-grey tinge. ‘Right,’ George said, alarmed. ‘Better keep moving.’ He put his arm around him and hoisted him on to his feet; then he pulled Rooke’s arm over his shoulder so that he could support him. ‘We’re going to have to risk the road; it’s the only way we can get along.’ Together they set off along the long straight road towards the guns.

  9

  STUDIO PORTRAIT

  Sergeant Tate surveyed the two soldiers before him: Farrell and Rooke. They had been brought in on an ASC lorry, the driver having found them wandering about some miles behind the lines. Muddy and dishevelled, they had obviously been sleeping rough. He had seen this kind of thing before, boys who got in a blue funk as they approached the line, backsliders who tried to get the cushy jobs and side-steppers who hung back hoping to stay out of trouble. It had to be nipped in the bud before it spread and caused more serious breaches of discipline.

  ‘You went absent without leave,’ he said.

  George stood up very straight. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  He nudged Rooke who mumbled an apology. He looked pretty ropey, George thought. Although he had slept for hours in the lorry, he had woken complaining of a crushing headache and that chills were running up and down his back. He was standing to attention but George saw that every now and then he was swaying forwards on his toes and then righting himself again.

  The sergeant eyed them suspiciously, wondering whether drink was involved. ‘You’ll have to explain yourselves to the lieutenant,’ he said decisively and led them from the farm buildings that served as billets, stores and guardroom and out into a cobbled yard. An old seed drill stood beside the door and Rooke staggered against it, catching on to its rusty tines and then sinking down on to the cobbles as his knees gave way.

  ‘Rooke’s sick, sir,’ George said.

  Rooke’s face had turned a putty colour and he was sweating. He put his head down between his knees. The sergeant put his square hand on Rooke’s forehead and lifted up his head to look at his face, and then let it fall again. He made an irritated noise, clicking his tongue against his teeth, and called two men over who were shovelling horse manure into a cart.

  ‘Take this man to the M.O.,’ he ordered abruptly and they lifted Rooke and put one arm over each shoulder. ‘You! Follow me!’ he said to George and walked briskly away.

  George followed him out of the yard and along a short path towards a stone farmhouse missing half its roof. The timbers sagged from one gable end; the covering of terracotta pantiles was patchy, as if a moth-eaten quilt had been thrown across. The other gable stood bare: a steep triangle of stones, unconnected to anything. They climbed over rubble through a gap in the garden wall, and picked their way through a plot of potatoes and leeks strewn with stones, shards of broken chimneypots and bits of tile and mortar.

  ‘Wait here.’ The sergeant knocked at the door and went in. George took the opportunity to lean his back against the wall. Every bone ached and his clothes, un-dried, stuck to his skin in a cold and clammy embrace; he hugged his elbows to conserve as much warmth as possible at his core. Hearing the sound of several animated voices in discussion inside, he wished that Rooke were with him to corroborate his story. Shivering all over, he could feel his skin quivering like a dog’s.

  Sergeant Tate opened the door and motioned him in. A crude wooden stair went up from the hallway and above it chinks of light showed through gaps in the roof. Tate knocked on a door to the right and a voice called, ‘Enter.’

  Several officers were sitting around an old deal table spread with maps and papers. George recognised Lyne, Carey and Hunton but didn’t know the other two men. He and Tate saluted smartly and Lyne told them to stand at ease before returning to discussion with the others as they pored over one of the maps.

  The farmhouse kitchen was dim; the back window was covered in brick dust and the front had been blown out and was hung with sacking to keep out the wind. The smell of burning wood came from a stove where a pot of water was set to heat. It warmed the room and George longed to get nearer and thaw out his icy hands and feet. Makeshift beds stood along the walls: crude wooden frames supporting wire
mesh on which were spread out bedding rolls and blankets, and under which were a jumble of belongings: boots, field glasses, balled-up sweaters, tins and packages from home.

  Hunton was saying, ‘It’s the Belgians’ weapon of last resort: to return the land to its natural state; that’s what Flanders means, of course – “flooded lands”.’ He pointed to the coast on the map. ‘They’ve opened up the sluice gates at Nieuport, and let in the sea.’

  Lyne said, ‘What intelligence do we have about the extent of the flooding and the German units deployed?’

  ‘We’re still waiting to hear,’ Hunton said. ‘But as a result of the inundations the Germans are bound to move south and bring their main force to bear on the Brown Wood Line to try to break through, with Ypres as their objective.’ He tapped the map with his forefinger. ‘We’re going to be right in the thick of it, however you look at it.’

  ‘What’s the state of the artillery?’ Carey asked.

  ‘Plenty of guns but hardly any shells. Orders are, two per gun per day until further notice.’

  There was a pause as everyone digested this.

  George, whilst feeling agitated by what he’d overheard, was also glad that, for the moment, he had been forgotten. He hoped that no one would ask him what he knew about the floods as he had very little idea exactly where he and Rooke had been, and he had even omitted to ask the lorry driver what road they’d been on when he picked them up. He thought of the expanse of water he’d seen reflecting the drifting clouds and tried to imagine it reaching all the way to the coast: scenes of half-drowned trees and windmills and farms repeating over miles, the people forced to leave their homes and everything they’d built, the land ruined, maybe for generations. He stood very still, kept quiet and tried to keep the image of the drowned man from his mind, afraid that if he pictured it something would show in his face. It struck him that he should probably have looked for his pocketbook or orders, to find out which unit he was from. Yet again he had let the side down. The thought of touching the corpse, of searching through the slime-streaked material of his uniform, made him feel bilious. He kept his head down, staring at the cracks in the grey flagstones.

  ‘When do we get a look at the trenches?’ Carey asked.

  ‘My opposite number, Captain Dalgleish, should be along any minute to take us down,’ Hunton said. ‘Get the lie of the land. You and Mallory can come with me.’ He nodded at the young subaltern who was hanging on his every word. ‘Parks, you’d better stay and inspect the men; I don’t know if I shall be back in time, and Lyne, you get the stores return done and deal with this miscreant.’ As if he had been fully aware of George all along, he fixed his eyes upon him. George jerked up straight.

  Hunton kept up his steady stare. ‘Do you know the punishment available to the courts martial for an absconder?’

  ‘No, sir.’ George held himself erect, though he could feel his fiery blood rising to his face.

  Lyne broke in, ‘Oh come on, surely not … They got lost, that’s all.’

  Hunton continued talking over Lyne. ‘Hard labour, loss of pay and privileges,’ he intoned, ‘or field punishment number one: shackled to the wheel for a period determined by the court, or, if guilty with no extenuating circumstances, execution.’

  Unable to believe his ears, George stared at Hunton’s florid face, at his watery blue eyes and his sandy moustache where a fleck of spit had lodged. Beside him, he sensed the sergeant stiffen and heard him clear his throat.

  Lyne said, ‘They got a lift back as soon as they could find one, for goodness’ sake.’

  Hunton glanced sharply at him.

  Lyne said, ‘I mean they made every effort to return to the company, sir.’

  Hunton leant back in his chair and began to inspect his nails. ‘This is, of course, a disciplinary matter for you, Lyne,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘I shall be interested to see how you deal with it.’

  ‘I know this soldier, sir,’ Lyne said doggedly. ‘I feel confident that he wouldn’t have decamped. He’s not the type.’

  Hunton looked at George from under his eyebrows. These new recruits, he thought, their faces have a naked look, like something newly peeled: like soft-boiled eggs. This one was a stronger specimen than most; he’d watched them, stripped for baths or delousing, their thin chests, ribs sticking out, mere boys. If only he could be in charge of regular soldiers, the men who’d served under him in Africa: disciplined, battle-hardened men.

  A rap at the door announced the arrival of Dalgleish and Hunton stood up and gathered up his gloves and hat, Carey and Mallory following suit and the others rising as a mark of respect. Other than Carey, whose uncle had served with him in Natal, he had little time for these young officers who had seen nothing but thought they knew it all. Look at Lyne with his chin up, thinking he’s doing something rather brave, he thought. I despise them, with their talk of decency and honour. War isn’t decent. It’s the give of a man beneath a bayonet; it’s flesh and bone and blood. It’s quickness and precision and a cold efficient eye. He eased his back straighter, holding his breath through the familiar pain in his shoulder from his old wound. Settling his belt more comfortably on his waist, his hand automatically checked his pistol.

  ‘As I said, Lyne, I shall be interested to see how you deal with the case.’ He folded the map and handed it to Carey, signalling the end of all discussion, and then followed Dalgleish outside.

  The door closed behind them and Lyne sat down again. Frowning, he sorted through the papers that remained on the table. ‘Well, Tate, what evidence can you bring to bear on all of this?’ he said.

  Sergeant Tate, who had been thinking along the lines of fatigues as an appropriate punishment, maybe taking rations down to the line or sandbag-filling, said quickly, ‘Although I didn’t see the wagon that brought them in, sir, there’s no doubt that they did return under their own steam.’

  ‘Quite. Is there anything else you can tell me that’s relevant to the case?’

  Tate thought for a moment. ‘The reason given for lagging behind was the illness of the other soldier, sir, and that soldier is now with the M.O. P’raps the M.O.’s report would be useful, sir?’

  Lyne turned to George. ‘Who were you with, Farrell?’

  ‘Rooke, sir.’

  Lyne nodded. Now the whole situation was perfectly clear. Rooke was one of several on whom he was keeping a watchful eye: small, undernourished and probably under-age. To be honest, they had done pretty well to get this far. ‘I’m of the opinion that we need every man we can get, sergeant, and that Farrell here is not a blind bit of use stuck in the guardroom. Perhaps you’d be so good as to bring me the M.O.’s report as soon as it’s available?’

  ‘Sir.’ Tate stood to attention.

  ‘Thank you. You can leave Private Farrell with me and return to the guardroom. I’ll speak to you later about making sure he’s gainfully employed.’

  Tate inclined his head, turned smartly on his heel and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Edmund looked at George’s pale face with its expression of puzzlement. The lad was filthy, shivering. He would have to discipline him, but not until he’d recovered his equilibrium. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Make yourself useful and brew up some tea, would you? I need to get on with these bloody reports.’ He went to the bed beneath the window at the back of the room, picked up his haversack, extracted pen and ink and then settled back down at the table to write.

  George went over to the stove where the water in the dixie was simmering. A few roughly chopped logs were piled beside it so he pulled his damp cuff down over his hand, squatted down to open the iron door and fed the fire, feeling the glorious warmth hit him, reddening his face and raising faint wisps of steam from his jacket. He held his hands close to the embers beneath the new wood. His fingers were so numb that he could hardly feel the heat at first and rubbed and chafed them until they began to sting back into life. The bark on the logs sizzled and spat as the flames began to take hold and he pushed th
e door shut and stood up close, the smell of wet wool mingling with the smell of wood smoke as he waited for the water to come to the boil.

  George thanked God that he was in B Company and not under Carey. He wondered what extra duties he would be given. He felt sure that he had been saved from being handed over to the military police, at any rate. He thought how strange it was to be here, alone with Lyne who was unaware of the link that existed between them. Edmund’s head was bent over his work, his forehead resting on his hand. Watching him writing, his broad shoulders and the way his hair, untrimmed, had already begun to curl over his collar, George felt a strange intimacy in observing him unnoticed.

  George tipped the mixture of dusty tea and sugar straight into the pot and stirred it round, allowing his eyes to wander over to Edmund’s belongings. On top of the lumpy bedding roll and folded army blankets lay an open book: a copy of The Longest Journey. A lanyard with a whistle hung from a nail in the wall, and underneath the bed were a bucket and some rolled-up puttees. George cast his eye over everything again, this time noticing that in the window embrasure above the bed, pushed well back beside a candle stub in a bottle and a pair of reading glasses, was a green tin box with a card or a slip of paper propped up against its side. As soon as he saw the box, he realised that he hadn’t only been indulging his morbid curiosity about Edmund Lyne, but had, all the time, been looking for the place in which Edmund kept his letters from Violet. He felt sure that the tin contained them. The pangs of jealousy and longing that shot through him were closely followed by a hot and bothered feeling that left him confused. It was more than a sense that in looking for something so private he had been disrespectful to his commanding officer. Lyne had gone out on a limb for him and he had every reason to be grateful. In fact, not only was he grateful, he had to admit that he felt an admiration for Lyne’s sense of fair play on his behalf, and for his openness in speaking to Captain Hunton, that made him see his own behaviour as underhand and a little shameful. He forced himself to stop looking, turned back to his task and poured the strong, scummy brew into one of the chipped, enamel mugs that he took from a shelf beside the stove.