Stay alive, Charlie, he heard in Nurse Ellen’s voice.
I can’t die, he wanted to tell his men, especially the major, who would be convulsing with rage at his disobedience. I’ve got to get Adolph, he pleaded silently.
Charlie watched as the German side sent up its rocket. As it lit the immediate surrounds, he knew the enemy would be looking for any movement at all so they could pick off soldiers still alive in no-man’s-land. He played dead, waiting for the light to burn out. Frustratingly, a second was sent up and, again watching through a slitted gaze, he didn’t shift a muscle, knowing Topperwein would be scrutinising the fallen through his rifle’s sight. He heard a bullet whizz and hit something soft and blunt nearby. He reckoned it must have landed in Godfrey and was pleased the poor sod had died hours ago, moaning gently, calling a woman’s name until he fell silent. Despite the intimidation of the single bullet, shot by Topperwein, no doubt, Charlie still refused to twitch, trusting his invincibility.
The second shell lost its illumination and it seemed everyone relaxed on both sides. The Germans were done for the the day. But one more person would die this night and it would be at the end of his bullet, Charlie promised himself. He felt cooler air drift across his face, drying the mud he’d slathered over it as camouflage. Now he wanted to believe himself invisible as well. Even so, he knew Hartley would have reported him, and the major, cornered by Charlie’s decision, might yet consider a decoy to help him. He certainly hoped so. Charlie bided his time, not concentrating on minutes passing but simply making his mind blank, flexing his fingers to prevent them from becoming too cold. He would give it a little longer just in case his side could help. He would use that time to get into shooting position. As slowly as a cat might creep up on an unwary bird, Charlie began to roll over in tiny movements. It felt like eternity until he found himself on his belly, up on his elbows, his rifle sitting comfortably in its familiar shoulder. Bless you, Major, he thought as he heard a song being whistled. It was their company’s code. When this particular song erupted, it meant a decoy was about to take place. Over the whistling came a burst of laughter and then men’s voices joining in with ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in one part of the trench. But he waited still . . . knew the major would have something in store. Someone lit a flare nearby to where a small group of men were singing.
Charlie smiled grimly. Even he had cast a glance at them, so he imagined it would have drawn Fritzy’s attention and potentially Topperwein’s. Holding his rifle as tenderly as he might a lover, he crawled away from the British trench. Slow and steady, working with tiny movements and with gaining confidence, he used his knees and the obliging mud to propel himself forwards as many inches as he dared.
Clouds covered the moon like Nurse Ellen’s thin sphagnum-moss field dressing. He liked its sweet-smelling earthiness of Britain’s peat bogs. In this pause, before he pulled the trigger, Charlie made a promise to himself as he lay there beneath the dull, ghostly moonlight that leaked around Belgium’s autumn clouds. If he did outlive all that the war threw at him, he would commit his life’s work to something that made lives brighter, easier. Trapped between two trenches in the land where no man ever wanted to walk, he made a solemn oath in the loneliness of his grim surrounds, which he shared only with corpses – some fresh, some ripe – that he would return to his chemistry background. Set up a distillery to make exquisite whisky or gin . . . or help to develop new medicines from nature’s wealth of knowledge, like the humble moss stuck on his head.
Another deliberate burst of laughter: that was the cue.
He heard a cough from the German trench and that whip-cracked his focus. Charlie took a slow, shallow breath and turned his head in a motion as slow as the thickest of honey falling off a grooved honey dipper. It was as though he had all the time in the world; to Charlie it felt like the world was stilling anyway. Time no longer existed. There was just him and there was Topperwein; even if his enemy didn’t know it, Charlie was coming for him. And there he was – ghostly in the thin moonlight. Whether it was the sniper’s match or someone else’s that flared briefly, a cigarette had been lit, a man had straightened and tonight he wore no helmet so his badly cut orange hair was on display. There was Topperwein, arrogant enough to believe no one would see him, even arching his back slightly to stretch. Yes, he likely was the smoker. Charlie could just see the glow brighten over the top of the trench position that he was staring at. It would be impossible for him to have such a clear view from a trench.
With excruciating slowness Charlie began, inch by careful inch, firmly tucking his rifle into place at his shoulder. It was primed and ready.
His legs felt numb from lying on the chilled mud but he was ready. ‘Come on, Topperwein,’ he whispered. ‘Show yourself again.’
Raised voices came from his trench, pulling attention away from him. This was the only chance he’d get. Maybe Topperwein needed to stretch out his limbs for the coming day’s carnage but Charlie could suddenly see his nemesis. A depression in the sandbags gave him a clean enough view of the redhead he loathed. Charlie held his breath, opened his eyes wider before narrowing his gaze once more into the rifle sight as he slowly pulled on the trigger, waiting for the buck of its explosion back into his shoulder.
‘Farewell,’ he breathed to the stranger. As the head of flame hair snapped back, Charlie didn’t pause to wonder but immediately began scrambling backwards. He hoped with all of his heart that someone back in the trench was looking out for him because his numb legs felt as though they were working at one-third their normal speed and he dared not cry out for help for fear of showing his position. The other trench was still in shock; he could hear the yell go up.
‘Grab me!’ he risked calling out, shocked by his desire to live.
Strong hands gripped his boots and he felt himself being unceremoniously wrenched from behind and he slipped and slid into the trench like a huge fish being landed onto a boat. He flopped in a pile into the watery mud, still holding his rifle high and away from the slops, to wild congratulations from his fellow soldiers. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was sure he was doing both.
Men were slapping his back.
‘Keep your heads down, men!’ It was the major coming through. ‘Captain Nash! You’re a bloody disobedient bastard but you’re also a hero,’ he whispered.
‘Who pulled me back?’ He glanced around. ‘Was it Hartley? He was worried that —’
The major blinked. ‘Hartley’s dead, son. After you left, your part of the trench took a big one.’
Charlie stared at him weakly, all the excitement leaking from him. ‘Are you sure?’
His major nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Nash.’
Sorry didn’t begin to touch it. The major squeezed his limp shoulder as Charlie stared sightlessly into the mud.
‘We’ve got new orders.’
He noticed now that those still alive in his company had begun to move. The bombardment of this trench would soon be some other poor unit’s problem.
Charlie frowned. ‘To where, sir?’
‘Some well-needed rest. The Leicesters are being sent east of Paris – the Marne region. It’s gone a bit quiet down there as Fritz is all bunkered down in some forts and it’s become a stalemate, as the French have got Reims held. We can get haircuts . . . maybe even drink some French plonk.’
‘Reims and Épernay, that’s champagne country, sir.’
‘Well, you know more than I, Nash.’
‘Why us?’
‘Take a look around, will you? We’ve been smashed for weeks. I don’t want to know the head count for the last days of this rotation, let alone provide the information already in my possession up the line so another wife, another mother gets that dreaded letter back home. But I have to. If someone offers this company an out from Flanders to a sleepy region in France, I will not say nay. Get your men organised.’
Charlie nodded, promising himself that when he got to this quiet area of France they were headed for, he would write t
o Mrs Hartley of Queen’s Road in Burnley, to let her know her son died a hero.
4
REIMS
April 1918
Sophie, whom all bar herself considered to be a widow, stood in the great nave of the cathedral as the city burned once again. She recalled the deliberate attack on the sacred building at the start of war, in September 1914. While most had been scared, Sophie felt only fury, especially when the mayor of Reims sent out a missive for them to stay calm. The great city was to be an ‘Open Town’, he’d announced, which effectively meant letting the German army march through without resistance. It had galled her that while her husband was off fighting to keep France safe – to keep Paris French, no less – the Reims mayor was demanding they give the enemy a cheering squad on the way to the capital. She’d argued with him, saying that if Paris fell, they were lost, but he’d pleaded with her as a prominent citizen to help him keep everyone alive by not resisting.
She’d mourned to watch the cathedral aflame. Vast pillars of fuming black vapours had belched from it, as the scaffolding that had been hastily erected to protect the façade and the great rose window caught fire. Two forests had donated their trees for the roof, and she grieved for those forests, burning dry and bright. The lead lining had melted, leaving a few bare rafters and daylight beyond. Two kings of centuries past had gifted funds to provide the roof, which had now gone the way of its benefactors. As it melted and leaked away through the gutters and gargoyles, it created new destruction, including the Bishop’s Palace. The kings – the two who’d had the vision to help build the cathedral, and those who had made the pilgrimage to the holy place since – had been anointed and crowned at the top of the nave, beneath the intense colours of the stained glass that shone its rainbow light upon them. A church had stood on these foundations for fifteen centuries, and yet it had taken a malicious act of a twentieth-century army to reduce one of the proudest of its churches to a shell. Sophie secretly believed the enemy had targeted the cathedral as a way of letting France know none of its pomp and royalty could help it now. It hit right at the heart of the proud history of France.
The fighting was strangely quietened today. Even so, from what she was hearing there was going to be a massive spring offensive in the region, which was terrifying simply in its threat. The reality would be one hundred times worse if the last few years were anything to judge by. She looked around at the once proud walls of their magnificent cathedral, hating the crunchy sound of ruins beneath her boots.
‘I can’t believe it’s happening again.’ The priest was standing nearby.
‘It’s deliberate, Father.’
‘No, the Germans have denied that,’ he countered – far too trusting, in her opinion.
She looked at him with the expression of an indulgent mother gazing at a child who was wondering about the little mouse who exchanged baby teeth under the pillow for gifts. ‘They are using the spires of the cathedral as target practice to adjust their sights in order to lay waste to the town. They are lying to us and still we repair their men.’
‘Don’t lose faith in yourself or us, Madame Delancré.’
Since Jerome had disappeared, no one – not even Sophie – bothered to call her by her married name. They’d not been married long enough for the name to become habit, and everyone, even she, found it easier to use the name by which she’d always been known.
‘Well, Father, for now we can no longer count on this space as a clearing site for the wounded, be they French, German, British or Australian.’
‘There’s always more room below,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, but the wounded need fresh air to heal. The tunnels are saving the lives of our people, but they are becoming ill from the atmosphere. It is unhealthy.’ She sighed. ‘We need to make room for more wounded, not keep a hospice going for those in recovery.’
‘I know you are doing all you can, Sophie.’ He was one of the few citizens who referred to her by her Christian name when he was of a mind. ‘The women look to you, although yours are such young shoulders.’
She gave a sad smile and nodded. ‘They’re broad enough. I’m on my way down there now.’
‘How long can you stay?’
Sophie gave a soft shrug. ‘Today, at least . . . I must visit my vineyards around Reims. It is, after all, our most important time of birth among the vines.’
‘There is little left, surely?’ he remarked, sounding dismayed by her plan.
‘Even so, I must protect those baby buds with as much tenderness as I would a newborn in the tunnels.’
‘But it’s freezing.’
He was right, of course. ‘And they could still die. This is the circle of life in the vineyards. But the vines look after us, Father, have done for centuries. It is our turn to look after them. You more than anyone should know that our attachment to our land is near religious in its intensity.’ Her voice was light, not meant to sound accusatory. But the priest looked burdened when he sighed his understanding. Sophie continued. ‘As the guns are quieter today, I might return to Épernay under cover of dusk. I’ll check in on the school and the hospital first.’
‘Stocks of disinfectant and dressings are low. Can you speak with your military contacts? Saint Just is around.’ She cut him a frustrated glance. ‘I know, I know, Sophie. I don’t enjoy relying so much on the goodwill you have with important people, but —’ he turned both palms towards her in appeal — ‘we are trying to save the lives of their soldiers.’
She looked around to the clump of injured enemy men, clustered in an untidy heap around one of the cathedral’s soaring columns. ‘It’s becoming more difficult to convince them when we increasingly look after Germany’s soldiers too.’
‘Under God’s roof, all are equal.’
‘I’m sure Gaston de Saint Just will understand that sentiment.’ Again, she kept her tone deliberately wry, as the priest was one of the world’s good men. ‘Goodbye, Father. I’ll speak with him when I next see him.’
She left him as he turned, hands on hips, to regard the desecrated holy space with a despair she could feel like a swirling entity. A rain shower had begun, and it felt like that spiritual entity was crying within the hallowed walls. She couldn’t think any further on it. The war had taught her the keenest form of pragmatism; she couldn’t fix the cathedral, but she could help with the physical and pastoral care of her people.
Sophie emerged onto the cobbles and watched a woman – one of the schoolteachers – leading a quartet of children, none older than five years. They held hands and moved like a dragnet. The youngsters looked up towards the clouds, excited to be above ground. They appeared understandably pale from living beneath the city for too long in its crayères, which had been built to house champagne, not people. The only boy in the gang grinned at her, and the moment of happiness that she sensed he was feeling touched Sophie’s heart. She knew his name as Gilbert. The simplest of pleasures were all they had left; even she, with more money than most, had to find her joy in small events . . . like his smile.
She wished Jerome had given her a baby before he left to fight. A child to raise and protect would give her more reason to do what she did. There hadn’t been time to become pregnant, and it was a constant ache.
‘Bonjour, Madame Delancré,’ the woman called. She urged her charges to follow suit.
‘Good morning, madame,’ they said in unison.
‘Hello, children.’ Sophie beamed at them. ‘Are you well, Madame Rondeau?’
‘We manage,’ the schoolteacher replied, nodding. ‘I thought as the guns are silent a brisk walk around the town would aid the children’s breathing. They are struggling with their lungs.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ She frowned.
‘Stop the guns permanently?’ the teacher offered before giving a rueful smile.
‘Give me a gun, I’ll stop them,’ the boy said.
‘Oh, Gilbert, hush now.’
Sophie crouched to be level with Gilbert. ‘But we need you dow
n in the tunnels. You have to be strong and protect all in your class.’
‘Everyone is scared but I am not,’ he asserted, and then dissolved into a series of wet coughs.
Sophie frowned, not trusting the sound of his ailment. ‘I’ll send some herbs. Gilbert would benefit from an inhalation,’ she said to his schoolteacher.
‘Thank you. I don’t know how you do it, madame.’
‘I’m a good negotiator.’ Sophie grinned. ‘Tonight, tell his mother she shall have the herbs. Where in the tunnels?’
The woman gave her directions and Sophie nodded. ‘Goodbye, children. Listen to Madame Rondeau. Stay safe.’
They chorused a farewell and continued on, two skipping and laughing through their coughs, as though they’d never known a happier day. Their boots made slapping sounds on the smooth stones, which were turning shiny beneath the shower. Sophie was reminded of how resilient a child could be. She must learn from that, she told herself. The children were living in the moment; she could find some solace in that approach.
She cut away from the square to walk down one of the narrow connecting streets, whose destruction made them seem unrecognisable. On either side had once been homes, some above shops, but now she gingerly picked her way through smashed bricks and broken glass. Shutters hung forlornly from gaping windows clinging to the sides of structures that could be toppled with a strong wind. She risked a glance behind, forcing herself to confront the charred skeleton of the cathedral watching her leave. Its irreplaceable stained glass had been blown out, and from her vantage it now appeared to have a flat roof. It held itself like a black, ghostly testament to humanity at its worst, while inside and beneath it was humanity at its best, where nationality didn’t matter, and life was precious.
Only the lampposts she passed in this street stood erect; they seemed to salute her – another survivor – as she passed on her way to the family’s Reims mansion, beneath which the city now lived. It was another ten minutes of solid walking, much of it uphill, but relatively enjoyable given the relief of silent guns.
The Champagne War Page 6