They rejoined Brampton’s platoon and Jack marched the men in fours back to the line which had been their destination when the whiz-bangs came over; they were still coming. Jack skidded on the frosted cobbles. Tommy’s parents would be told he suffered no pain, but what else could Brampton tell them? The truth? He screamed his life away while the lice crawled all over him? Perhaps not.
They were reinforcing the line at Givenchy, casualties were streaming back along the road towards the aid station and Newton, the new captain, was ahead with Brampton.
‘Williams was a good bloke,’ Jack said to Simon, who had grown quieter by the day and merely nodded. It was hard for the lad, he wasn’t used to death like the pitmen, he wasn’t used as they were to the darkness of the trenches, which were now being dug deeper and had the look of permanence. What a way to fight a bloody war. It was supposed to be cut and thrust by a proper army and get the hell out of it. Now it was cut and thrust and then entrench, attack, counter-attack, count your dead, bring in more lads who were more at home with a plough . . .
It was shift more sandbags overnight, stand up to your knees in mud, slip on your dead mates, freeze your ruddy bollocks off, itch with lice, the latrine a bucket rammed into a trench wall, food that might be, sometimes, brought up from the rear. Static it was, this war, and lucky if you moved forward or back even a few yards. Lucky if you lived. Lucky if the few yards didn’t cost hundreds of lives, and thousands of limbs.
Jack looked at Simon. Aye, the lad was a gardener, used to creating life, to planting seeds, cutting vegetables and flowers, used to being in daylight, to loving Evie. Jack was marching alongside him now. He liked to do that with the weaker ones, but everyone was weak sometimes and he had to get Simon back home. He must. Evie. Lovely Evie and her friend Veronica. Would it have to be Lady Veronica now Williams was back?
The pace was lifting. They were closer, the noise was greater, the frost had been drowned by the mud and if he couldn’t feel them twisting his ankles he’d not know the cobbles were there. Beside him Simon was laughing, just laughing and laughing, his unshaven face drawn and exhausted like everyone else’s. ‘What’s up, Si?’
‘It’s just such a bloody joke, Jack. We plug up the lines. We hide in the trenches, we shoot them, they shoot us. What’s it all about?’
The laughter stopped. Johnny from Derbyshire flung over his shoulder, ‘Didn’t you know, Si, We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here. Ours is not to reason why.’ He waited, and then sang, with the whole platoon joining in, ‘Ours is just to do or die.’
Jack grinned at Simon, who was laughing a proper laugh now. ‘Answer enough for you, lad?’
‘Aye, but I’d rather be like the captain, at home tucked up with the wife.’ Simon hitched his rifle. ‘On the other hand, it’d be a mite better to be home with all your bits attached. Evie said in her last letter that Lady Veronica came out for him, said Grace saw him at Le Touquet.’ He patted his tunic pocket. Jack drew a deep breath. Grace. Lovely Grace, but then they heard the sound of more incoming shells and the platoon slid into the roadside ditch. Jack tasted mud, foul, evil-tasting, germ-laden mud. The water was icy.
‘Damn it to hell,’ Doug ground out. He was a recent recruit, a pitman who’d joined with his marra, Chris. He was a steady lad who’d helped them shift Tommy without being told. ‘You get on to the front of the column, find Chris when this silly beggar’s stopped wasting his ruddy shells,’ Jack ordered him. ‘A man needs to be with his marras.’
The shelling was subsiding. Men scrambled up the muddy sides and out of the ditch, the memory of the hot showers from last night washed away by the brackish icy water. They formed up and headed towards the crashing and screaming guns and the flashing lights, and towards the stench of blood, guts and mud.
Jack slid on the cobbles again. His rifle clanged against his water bottle. Ahead he saw Brampton doubling towards him, shouting, ‘Sergeant, take over this ammunition.’ He pointed to where it had been discarded in the road. The two ammunition carriers were being stretchered back, their mules dead. ‘Yes, sir,’ Jack yelled.
Doug and Simon lugged 1,000 rounds of machine-gun ammunition between them, while Jack, Johnny and the rest of the platoon carried their rifles for them, and distributed the remaining ammunition. ‘Nice evening’s walk, lads,’ panted Corporal Steven Mace, his rifle slung round his neck.
They slid and scrambled through the mud, passed the support trench and headed without stopping for the front line. The flashes lighting up the sky were brighter, the screams and explosions pounding around them louder, and ahead was the outline of the trench. ‘Well, about bloody time,’ Jack thought, gesturing his men in and then slipping into it himself. Now the icy mud was up above their knees, and there were no duckboards. They struggled along, the mud dragging at their feet, threatening to suck off their boots. The parapet had been rebuilt with sandbags full of clay. They passed a lookout.
‘Huns are counter-attacking with a bit more punch,’ the lookout yelled as Jack passed. ‘Happy times, eh Sarge?’ They slid into the enfilade, the long corridor trench, and tried to hurry towards those they were reinforcing.
Enfilades made Jack feel exposed. If the enemy surged and broke into the trench there was no zigzag to help defend against their advance.
Captain Newton was doubling along the trench towards them, with Brampton at the rear, and behind him Roger whose face was as white as the moon. So far no bullet had found the batman, but to do that one would have had to wind its way into one of his numerous hidey-holes. Jack watched the man with hatred. Hatred seemed to be his constant companion now. If he stopped hating one person he moved it on to someone else, just couldn’t do without it.
Newton shouted, ‘Sergeant Forbes, the hand bombs are useless, nothing to set off the safety fuses. Lieutenant Brampton says you’re a pitman. Know anything about setting charges?’ Jack nodded, shouting back over the barrage, ‘I was a hewer, sir. Me da’s a deputy. I learned from him, sir.’
‘Excellent. Override them then. Carry on.’ He continued down the trench.
Bang. They ducked, earth and burst sandbags showering over them all. Jack yelled to Brampton, ‘Where are they?’
Brampton led him along to Doug. Simon followed but Jack shouted, ‘Not you Si, you won’t understand.’ They were slipping and sliding through the stinking mud in Brampton’s wake to the bombers’ trench. It was empty. All gone. Dead or wounded? Who the hell knew?
Brampton yelled, ‘We’re in a bit of a salient here, much like Froggett’s houses, eh Jack.’ Perhaps he was smiling, but his face was so drawn and filthy that it was hard to tell. ‘Germans are within throwing range. I was a good bowler in my day but I need a bloody ball. Can you strike the fuse?’
Once Jack would have shouted, ‘It’s not a bloody game.’ He knew better now, it was one way of staying sane. He and Doug hunted through their pockets for matches. He had some, he knew he had. He patted his tunic pocket again. Yes, here.
Bang. They ducked. Doug had matches too. Brampton was crouching on the fire step, holding a hand bomb. He said, ‘A corporal has fashioned these. I think they’re reliable and we need to get it right, Jack. Newton’s just told me we’re on leave for five days over Christmas. We can get out of this for a few days. We can . . .’
Bang. Crash. Earth showered, Doug grunted, shrapnel slicing his arm. He dropped his matches and stooped to save them as they sank in the mud. ‘No,’ Brampton and Jack roared together. Doug stopped dead. Jack said as he propped his rifle against the wall of the trench and took a match from his box, ‘Don’t get mud in it, lad. Whatever you do, don’t get mud in a wound. You don’t want gas gangrene. Where’re your field dressings?’ His fingers were so damn muddy. He wiped them dry on his tunic.
Doug shook his head, dragging out a white handkerchief. ‘I gave them to that other poor bugger we took to the aid station, Sarge.’
‘Get rid of that handkerchief too unless you’re about to surrender, or you’ll get yourself
shot. Get yourself a khaki one when you’re next shopping in bloody Paris. I’m out of dressings too, what about you, sir?’ Lieutenant Brampton was already shaking his head. ‘Used them up earlier.’
Jack shouted above the racket, ‘Get a clean bandage from Si. He carries extra. I’ve none left. Go now.’
Jack didn’t watch as Doug doubled back, but stooped over the bomb fuse. Brampton said, ‘You light ’em, I’ll throw them.’
‘Hold one for me, sir.’ Jack held a match head on the end of the fuse and struck the matchbox across it, shielding the flash with his body. It lit. Brampton stood on the fire step and lobbed the bomb towards the trench. Machine guns rattled as he ducked back, his hand out for the next. ‘Too slow. He’d never bowl me out.’ His face was set and pale.
Jack said, ‘You’re right there, sir. He’ll never get us, we’re going home. I know we are, we all are.’ He lit another fuse. Brampton threw the bomb, ducked down, machine guns rattled, kicking up mud, spattering it over them.
The barrage was thickening overhead and in front, and to the sides. Jack cursed salients, they were too bloody vulnerable to flanking attacks.
They moved along a few yards to another fire step. The machine-gunners would be targeting the former. ‘Quick as you can, Jack,’ Brampton yelled over the barrage. They were panting as though they had run a thousand miles. Bang. Another shell. Hot shrapnel tore through Jack’s water bottle and mud showered.
Jack lit another fuse, Brampton lobbed the bomb. More machine guns rattled. Shells exploded. Had he ever had a different life, Jack wondered as the ground shuddered. Would they ever really get out of it?
‘Sergeant, another please.’ They were moving back fifteen yards to another fire step, varying the pattern. Suddenly there was a break in the shelling, just like that. As Jack bent over the fuse he heard Simon’s clear beautiful tenor sing ‘Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove. Far away would I rove. In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest.’
Neither Jack nor Brampton moved, then shells pounded again. Jack looked up. Brampton had tears in his eyes. ‘We’re a long way from home, and I’m glad I’m with people who know it. I’ve dreamed of coming to France, I seem to keep repeating myself but I want to travel to the tranquillity of the Somme.’
Jack swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. ‘We might get there yet, sir. After the war, we can go before we head back. Do a bit of fishing. Take home a catch to Evie.’
Brampton smiled. ‘Why not? I’d like that, Jack. Now, another ball please. We haven’t quite finished this over, and we need to win the match.’
Evie and Veronica sat in the hall in front of the Christmas tree after dinner, running over the requirements that had been decided at the daily meeting this afternoon. ‘On top of all that, Richard would like an egg custard,’ Veronica said.
Evie grinned, knitting another row of the khaki scarf. Knit one, purl one. ‘Then he will have one and you can make it. Yours are a great success.’ The huge tree had been decorated by the servants, nurses and walking wounded, and parcels were heaping up beneath it, sent by relatives or bought with the proceeds of the tea room. Knit one, purl one.
Veronica sighed, writing something on her notepad. ‘I must sort out some gifts for the servants.’
‘Not material, please.’ It just came out.
Veronica stared. ‘I beg your pardon?’ There was an edge to her voice.
‘We don’t want material for uniforms, we want something nice, like any sensible person would, because we are people.’ Evie could hear the edge in her own voice. Veronica looked so tired, but so was she. Since Captain Williams had been home Veronica had been working round the clock, during the day at the hospital and at night with her husband. His recovery was proving to be rapid. Knit one purl one, start a new row.
Veronica half rose, then slumped back into the spacious armchair. ‘Of course you are, you all are, we all are. Leave it to me. I wonder what time they’ll be here on Christmas Eve? Is Margaret behaving all right?’
The moment was over, feathers were smoothed and all was well. Evie had thought that Captain Williams might alter things between them, but he had merely smiled and accepted their friendship. The poor man was barely alive when he arrived, so why would he care?
‘Yes, Lady Margaret is recovering and the nurses are keeping an eye on her.’
Veronica said, ‘I’m so sorry, Evie, that the servants’ bedrooms were without coal, and always have been. It’s unforgivable and will not happen again.’
Evie said, ‘That’s in the past, and I need to think more deeply about Lady Margaret, because you have enough to concern yourself with Captain Williams. I think she’d benefit from having a purpose, it might help her find a way out of this darkness that’s overcome her. She doesn’t want to return to her family for whatever reason, though I feel it’s because they disapprove of her activities.’ They laughed. ‘And we don’t?’ they said in unison.
Evie waved her knitting at Veronica to bring her to order, grinning. ‘Anyway I thought I’d put her to work. Do I have your agreement?’
Veronica opened her eyes and laughed so heartily that the orderly swung round from his desk, smiling. ‘My full permission and good luck.’
Evie was still grinning as she laid down her needles and made a note.
‘Anything else?’ Lady Veronica asked.
Evie felt the orderly’s eyes upon her, and nodded to him. They’d been chatting as they hung some of the baubles on the tree and had noticed how the patients were cheerful and focused as they helped. She took up her knitting again. Knit one, purl one.
Veronica shook her head. ‘Come on, my girl, spit it out. I always know when you’re on a crusade.’
‘It’s the men. They have nothing to do as they start to improve. They need something, something useful just as Lady Margaret does. There will be the gardens in the summer but there are the glasshouses now, and we’re so short-staffed. The walking wounded could help there. We need artificial limbs too, and they can be made in the workshops. We need crutches. Da and the pit blacksmith said they’d come up and sort that out. It’s much quicker than waiting for some quartermaster to send them.’
Veronica was sucking her pencil, looking doubtful. ‘A wonderful idea, but I don’t like taking advantage. Should we pay them? I mean, I’m sure the officers are all right for money, but the men . . .?’
Evie looked at the young woman and could have hugged her. She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Perhaps we should discuss it with Dr Nicholls and we could make it unofficial, so that we give them the money and no one is any the wiser. Now, let’s get the egg-custard maker down into the depths.’ She pushed her needles through the ball of wool.
They both walked to the green baize door and down the steps. Mrs Moore was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to chicken broth for the new arrivals who had been brought up from Southampton, the dirt still on them.
The laundry was going full blast, with women from the village operating it. Millie swanned into the kitchen, her hair soaked from the steam. ‘We are being sent more sheets tomorrow. We’ll have to work through the night. Did you know Jeb, the union rep, is off to war now?’
Somehow Millie had created a minor supervisory role for herself in the laundry, but nothing surprised Evie any more about anything, because she tried not to think outside the moment. Simon and Jack were coming home for Christmas, just for a few days, but they were coming home, if nothing happened. No, she had insisted to herself that she did not think of it. She concentrated on Millie. ‘I didn’t know but it’s inevitable, isn’t it? It could take a while yet to finish the whole damn thing.’
Veronica was making egg custard. Annie was in the servants’ hall writing to her parents. Evie settled in the armchair, pulling a blanket around her. She had two hours to get some sleep before the late suppers, which were important to the men. Cocoa or tea, and cake. Prices were rising but panic buying had calmed down and supplies were adequate. Perhaps the war
would be over in the new year and normality would return. What would Bastard Brampton think of that? He’d have to shut the armaments factories before he could make more money. She slept, to be woken by Mrs Moore who was untying her own apron, and yawning.
‘I’m off for some sleep now, Evie. Call me if there’s a rush.’ It seemed that Mrs Moore’s rheumatics were continuing to behave reasonably well but even so, Evie would not call on her. She, Annie and two new women who gave up their evenings when their bairns were in bed would prepare tonight’s cocoa and tea. The cakes had been made earlier. They would take up the trays and leave them in the care of the VADs in the hall.
Before the rush began Evie slipped up the attic stairs to check on Lady Margaret. The attic felt warmer than it had ever felt before, and the bedrooms were toasty, just toasty. Lady Margaret was sitting in the chair that had been imported from Mr Auberon’s bedroom, now given over to a Lieutenant Colonel who had dreadful head and face wounds. The tin mask that had been suggested was appalling. Perhaps her father and the blacksmith could come up with something better?
Lady Margaret was struggling with khaki wool, producing something that could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a scarf. Her hair was unbrushed, as usual.
As Evie stood there she flung the knitting down, tears starting yet again. ‘I thought I’d help you, but I’ve made a terrible mess. I’m good for nothing except keeping everyone awake. I’m tired but too scared of the dreams to go to sleep.’ Her voice was limp, as limp as everything about her. Evie felt the heat from the fire. So, if it took a war to bring coal up the mountain just listen to what she was about to say to this woman. She walked across and picked up the knitting, tossing it on to the bed, and sitting down next to it. She started to pull it out, looking at that, not at Lady Margaret.
Easterleigh Hall Page 36