by Ben Elton
‘Every bullet has its billet,’ the boys would say.
You simply had to trust to luck.
Nothing could have been more alien to Kingsley’s character.
Struggling to contain his rising nausea and master his churning bowels, he turned away from the dreadful scene and moved on in the direction he had been heading, in search of the last communications trench that would deliver him into the front line. It was there, as night fell on the waterlogged army, that Kingsley finally found Captain Edmonds. He was sitting in a small dugout along with two lieutenants, eating bully beef which a servant was warming for them over a spirit stove.
‘Good lord,’ Captain,’ Edmonds said, looking at Kingsley’s bloodstained greatcoat, ‘what happened to you?’
‘A shell burst in the support trench I’d just passed through.’
‘Yes, we heard that go off. Whiz-bang, eh? Rotten business. Normally Fritz can’t shoot for toffee.’
The three officers munched in silence for a moment, considering the tragedy that had occurred not more than fifty yards from where they sat. But clearly they considered it only briefly before returning to the immediate present. Kingsley had noticed that nobody dwelt on death for long in that place.
‘Do you know,’ Edmonds said, ‘when this war’s over I shan’t mind if I never see a tin of bully beef ever again. We had quite a decent stew yesterday but can’t get it at all today. Fruit cake to follow though, and cheese,’ he added cheerily. ‘Got a parcel. God bless Auntie Joanna, say I. She does better by me than my own mater. So now, what brings a captain of the Military Police up so close to the Boche? No offence, Captain, but we don’t normally see many red tabs hereabouts.’
‘I am investigating the death of Viscount Abercrombie.’
‘Good lord. Poor old Alan Abercrombie — killed in action, they said, didn’t they? Mighty rum, that. We all thought he was safe back at Beaurivage.’
‘May I come in?’
Edmonds was most pleasant and hospitable and bid the younger of the subalterns give up his place on the little bench that had been built inside the dugout.
‘Cup of tea? Tastes of onions, I’m afraid, we’ve only got the one pan at present. Damnable business when an Englishman no longer has a pot to brew up in, eh? Ha ha! Eh, Cotton?’
Cotton was clearly Edmond’s batman, a small, wiry fellow who was making himself busy cutting the cake.
‘We has one pan, sir, and we also has one old petrol can. ‘Cotton sounded rather hurt, as if the captain was somehow implying that the lack of a decent kettle was his fault. ‘So you can have your tea tasting of onions out of the pan or you can have it tasting o’ petrol out of the can. It’s all the same to me, of course, but I thought as how you’d prefer onions.’
‘Quite right, Cotton. Well done. Carry on. And let’s have a spot of Auntie Jo’s tinned fish paste on a biscuit too, go down well with the cheese. Nothing like a savoury after pud.’
Kingsley accepted a cup of tea but declined a slice of cake or any fish paste. He did not intend to remain long in the trench and felt it churlish to take any part of what small luxuries they had there.
‘I shan’t keep you, Captain,’ he said.
‘No rush. Always happy to entertain company, aren’t we, lads?’
The two subalterns agreed enthusiastically.
Kingsley could see that the two young men, neither of whom could have been more than nineteen, were somewhat in awe of Captain Edmonds, who was a tough, weather-beaten soldier of at least twenty-five.
‘Did you know the viscount at all?’ Kingsley asked.
‘Well, not really. I mean I spoke to him, you know, just over a snorter in the officers’ mess when we were back at rest, but he wasn’t with us long. Of course we were all rather excited when we heard he was joining us,’ what with him being famous and all,’ but to be frank he was a bit of a disappointment. Very quiet, withdrawn, not what you’d expect from his poems at all. I’d heard he was an awfully effusive bloke, quite the bon viveur. But not with us, didn’t seem interested in very much at all really. Well, of course he was on the verge of shell shock, wasn’t he? That’s got to change a fellow. Beyond that I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sure there’s fellows who knew him far better than me.’
‘Well, actually, Captain, what I really want from you is his revolver.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You have been issued with a replacement sidearm. It previously belonged to him.’
‘I say, are you pulling my leg?’
‘Not at all. The circumstances of Abercrombie’s death ‘in action’ remain puzzling to the authorities. We have reason to believe that his own gun may have been used against him. However, the gun was returned to service and you got it.’
‘Good lord, what a lark. Are you really telling me that’s Viscount Abercrombie’s own gun? And that he might have been killed with it?’ Edmonds was pointing to where his servant Cotton had been laying out Edmonds’s kit. The batman was oiling the pistol, using the rag, oil bottle and pull-through that were a part of every soldier’s kit.
‘Well, we think it is possible and it is most important to us that we find out. That is why I need your gun.’
Edmonds looked thoughtful.
‘You want my gun?’
‘Yes. I have brought you a replacement.’
‘A replacement?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Good. All right, Captain Marlowe, I shall send Cotton back with the pistol in the morning.’
‘I’d rather take it now if that’s all right with you.’
There was a slightly uncomfortable pause.
‘Well, no, actually it isn’t. Sorry and all that, but no can do. I shall send it back tomorrow morning.’
‘Why do you not wish me to take it now?’
‘Because I don’t want you to.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a considerably better reason than that, Captain, because I must have that gun.’
‘Well now,’ Captain,’ Edmonds replied, his manner still polite but no longer jovial, ‘I rather think you should remember that this is my trench and that I am in charge, hence I do not need to explain my decisions to you, nor are you in a position to make demands. However, as a courtesy, because you are my guest and since you are probably the first copper who’s ever been in a frontline trench, I shall tell you that tonight I have been ordered to lead a raiding party across no-man’s-land.’
Kingsley tried to interrupt but Edmonds pressed on, languid but firm.
‘We appear to be in something of a lull in the main battle and our colonel does not like to see men idle. He thinks that since we’re sitting about the place we might as well have a biff at the Boche. Harry the fellow, prod him, keep him on his toes. I have therefore been briefed to take a party over, under cover of darkness, and give him a bloody good kick in the arse. Good fun, say I, and we’re all jolly keyed up and raring to go. Isn’t that right, Chamberlain? ‘
‘Absolutely, sir!’ one of the young subalterns piped up with genuine enthusiasm.
‘Bad luck, Jenkins,’ Edmonds said to the other, who was looking rather downcast. ‘You’ll get your chance. Can’t have two greenhorns out there in the dark on the same fox hunt. Got to blood you one at a time,’ eh?’
‘Of course, sir. I do understand, it’s just I am awfully keen to have a go.’
‘Stout fellow. Well done you. It’ll be your turn soon enough so don’t fret about that. Plenty of war left for all of us, I think. Anyway, Captain,’ said Edmonds, turning his attention once more to Kingsley, ‘the thing is I’ve been soldiering in France since the off. Don’t wish to swank but I was a subaltern with the BEF at Mons, don’t y’know, and I’ve been in it ever since. That’s three years, Captain, in almost every show. Dardanelles even. I only missed out on the Somme because of trench foot, when my tootsies were the size of barrage balloons. Now the only reason I’m boring you with this is because when a fellow’s had as many near misses
as I’ve had, you come rather to trust your luck. Silly little things become important, routine and all that. I hate to call it superstitions — I read chemistry at Balliol and I can’t abide mumbo-jumbo of any sort — but nonetheless, until they find a better word for it, superstitions it is. I like to go over the top my way, d’ye see?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘I smoke a fag, I take a good long look at my kit, check it, check it again and then hand it over to my fellow. Then he checks it,’ polishes it, oils it,’ pampers it and treats it with a damn sight more respect than he ever gives me, ain’t that right,’ Cotton?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Ha ha. Then he checks it one more time and hands it back to me. I check it. I smoke another fag, finish my tea and then go and kill as many Germans as I can. As of this moment, we’re nearly through our routine. I’ve smoked my gasper, checked it all, hatchet, knobkerrie, pistol, checked it again, given it to Cotton,’ he’s checked it, oiled it, polished it, pampered it. In a minute he’ll check it again, give it back to me, I’ll check it, have another fag, finish my tea and we’ll be ready to go.’
‘Yes, I understand that — ’ Kingsley tried to interject.
‘And what I am saying to you, Captain, is this.’ Edmonds’s voice was now very firm and steady. ‘I’m not going to arse about with my routine. That is the pistol I was issued to take with me on this raid and it is the pistol which I intend to take. It’s the gun God gave me, do you understand? I’ve checked it, it’s ready. Call me an old woman if you will but I do not change my routine, is that clear? I shouldn’t do it for General Haig himself and I certainly won’t do it for the Military Police.’
‘Captain Edmonds. I want that gun. I have brought you a perfectly good gun to replace it. You may imagine that fate has sent me if it makes you feel any better but I must ask you to hand over the pistol I seek and let God give you another one. ‘I have told you, Captain Marlowe. You may have it in the morning.’
‘Sir, if you take that pistol with you, you know very well that there is every chance neither you nor it will return.’
‘Well, thank you for the cheery thought, Captain.’ Edmonds had risen to his feet,’ stooping of course since the dugout was no more than five feet high. ‘Do give our regards to all the boys behind the line, all the other coppers and staff wallahs having it cushy. Tell them they’re welcome to join us up here at the front any time. For the moment, though, I shall have to ask you to leave as we real soldiers of the Poor Bloody Infantry have fighting to do.’
Captain Edmonds walked out into the trench and strapped on his Sam Browne belt, on which hung the holster containing Abercrombie’s gun. He took the weapon out and studied it. The subaltern who was to accompany Edmonds also began to don his equipment.
‘Give me the gun, Captain,’ Kingsley snapped.
‘Sergeant!’ Edmonds called out, having looked at his watch. He was completely ignoring Kingsley.
A sergeant appeared, his face blackened.
‘Sah!’
‘Is the raiding party assembled?’
‘They are, sah. Raring to go!’
Edmonds began to apply blacking to his face.
‘Sergeant. This is Captain Marlowe of the Royal Military Police. He has asked that when I return from the raid I give him my pistol. I have agreed. Is that clear, Sergeant?’
Kingsley emerged from the dugout.
‘I want that pistol now and I am ordering you to hand it over!’
‘Is that clear, Sergeant?’ Edmonds repeated.
‘Captain Marlowe requires you to give him your pistol when you return from the raid, sah!’
Kingsley could see how the land lay. It was useless to protest further. He was in Edmonds’s trench amongst Edmonds’s men.
They clearly loved and respected their commander; they were a band of brothers, of whom Kingsley was not remotely a part. They would close ranks around their captain be the enemy German soldiers or British military policemen. Kingsley was in no doubt that, if Captain Edmonds were to suggest to his sergeant that Kingsley should fall victim to the arbitrary killing that could be the fate of any one of them at any time in such a trench, the sergeant would arrange things accordingly.
‘I see that I am outflanked,’ Captain Edmonds.’
‘I am very much afraid that you are, Captain Marlowe,’ Edmonds replied before turning to address the group of twenty men drawn up behind the sergeant.
‘Now then, you men,’ he said. ‘You have all been fully briefed and know what we are about this evening. British army policy on no-man’s-land is very clear: there is no such thing as no-man’s-land. It’s ours, we own it and we wander about in it as we please. What is the German wire?’
‘The British front line, sir,’ the men replied.
‘Exactly, the German wire is the British front line. Not theirs. Ours. Now then, if the artillery have done their job there should be some decent holes in the sausage-eaters’ wire. If there aren’t, cut yourself a path and be bloody quick about it.’
Kingsley peered through the darkness, reviewing the shadowy group of men whom Edmonds was addressing. They looked a wild, violent bunch, with blacked faces and bludgeons, axes and knives on their belts, all tied with rags so as not to clink together. Some were also hung with Mills bombs and grenades. They carried no rifles; clearly the combat would be entirely at close quarters.
A Very light exploded overhead, briefly illuminating the scene. Kingsley saw flashing eyes and teeth, the odd glint of uncovered metal. These soldiers looked as if they were about to invade hell.
‘Now then, you fellows,’ Edmonds said, ‘I know that each one of you will do your duty to King and Country and to the girls we left behind.’
‘If only I had one, sir,’ a trooper piped up cheerfully.
‘Well, do your duty to mine and I’ll show you a picture, ‘Edmonds replied, and everyone laughed. ‘Cotton! There is almost a whole fruit cake in my kit. If by any chance I am not with you tomorrow, you are to divide it amongst the men who do return to have with their morning rum.’
‘Quite right, sir. See you in the morning.’
‘Good. Well done. Sergeant, the ladders if you please.’
The sergeant issued his orders and ladders were leaned against the parapets. Then Kingsley watched as Captain Edmonds led his men silently up the ladders and into no-man’s-land. Kingsley’s blood was up: he knew exactly what he had to do. He had come to gather evidence and he intended to do just that. As the last man disappeared over the top and the men who remained were about to remove the ladders, he stepped forward.
‘One moment, Private.’
Despite the protests of the assembled soldiers, Kingsley ran up the ladder.
FOURTY-TWO
A raid on the enemy trenches
A few feet in front of him, Kingsley could make out the crouched figures of men as they made their way forward, creeping from shell hole to shell hole across the blasted landscape. The ground was sodden, for it had rained pretty continuously since the storm of the previous night, the night in which he had watched a show and lain on a soft bed of wet grass with Kitty Murray. On that occasion, Kingsley had felt fully the sensation of living a totally different life to the one he had lived before. Making love to a stranger on a lawn in front of a French château seemed as far away from the life of a happily married London policeman as he could possibly get. But now, crawling in Belgian mud towards German machine guns, he felt doubly dislocated from the life he had known. Every day now seemed to herald the beginning of another new life.
He remembered that he had not blacked up his face as the others had done. It was true that he was bearded but he felt that he should take all precautions; after all, it would be foolish to die and perhaps cause the death of others because of a bead of sweat on a pale cheek. He plunged his hand into the dirt to gather up some earth. The next moment he was gasping and swallowing, trying to retch as silently as possible, realizing that he had stuck his hand t
hrough the body of a maggot-ridden corpse. After a few seconds he regained control of himself and, wiping his stinking, maggoty hand on his already gory greatcoat, he continued to creep forward. Only for a moment, however, because almost immediately a flash in the sky signalled that another star shell had gone up. A split second later the whole area was bathed in a curiously flattening, silvery light. Ahead of Kingsley, the men of the raiding party froze. Kingsley froze too, understanding by instinct what most soldiers had to be taught: when the star shells burst, the way to save oneself was to become motionless. Instinct tempted a man to hurl himself to the ground but it was movement, above all, which alerted the observer to your presence. Edmonds’s well-drilled company understood this and every man became a statue, then as the light faded they were able to resume their progress undetected.
Captain Edmonds led at a goodish pace. He and his men clearly had some knowledge of the terrain because there were numerous holes and obstacles that Kingsley would have most certainly blundered into had he been finding his own way. It was obvious that this raid had been very well scouted; Kingsley was learning just how much time the British spent in no-man’s-land during the still watches of the night. The German wire was indeed their front line.
In scarcely twenty-five minutes they arrived at their destination and assembled before the German wire. Kingsley remained unnoticed at the back of the group. Captain Edmonds was signalling his silent orders: the shells had not done sufficient damage to the wire and they must needs cut more away in order to get through. This two or three of the men did, working in near-complete darkness and with the enemy now only yards away. The tiny pings that rang out as the cutters did their work were agony for the attackers; if they were detected at this point they would be the proverbial sitting ducks, and death a near-certainty. The German soldiers’ voices were clear and Kingsley, who spoke German like a native, had no problem understanding their conversation. For the most part, little of any interest was being said. The sentries were clearly too tired and numbed by the rain and the tedium to bother with much more than observations about the weather and requests for tobacco, but two fellows were engaged in animated talk, although they kept their voices low. It was not a dissimilar discussion to the one that Kingsley had taken part in while defecating at the side of the railway line.