Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the early months of 1916 General Joffre chose the Somme area of France for the joint offensive by the British and French. The actual date was more difficult to arrange, however, for this depended on the Russians and Italians launching a simultaneous attack.
General Brusilov of Russia felt personally that some time after the first of June would be most favourable to his administration. But such preparations took a great deal of time and the war seemed endless for the British soldiers at the Front.
By the spring, the air was much milder and the trenches ceased to be the frozen ice-holes which winter had made them. Now the ground was damp and the walls of the trenches crumbled a little more every day.
Above the silent battalion of soldiers just awakening from sleep, the sky was grey streaked with gold as the dawn speared the clouds with penetrating fingers of light.
Morgan Lloyd attempted to ease his cramped toes within the confines of the hard boots and stared around him at the shadowed woods. It was like playing at war, he thought heavily, except that when the guns spat forth in venom there was real blood and the cries of men dying.
He had heard the talk about the battle that was to take place on the Somme. It was all supposed to be kept a deadly secret, but no army could move food, forage, water and ammunition for 400,000 men and 100,000 horses without a soldier in his position making an educated guess as to what was afoot.
Morgan had kept his own counsel as the troops plodded wearily through agricultural lands – skirting small villages, noting plans being made for constructing roads and putting in pumping machinery for water. And all through the increased activity, he made a point of keeping his lip buttoned and his ears open. Indeed all his senses were finely tuned, which perhaps was one reason why he was still alive and a great many of his fellow soldiers were dead.
It was strange really, for he thought daily of Honey O’Connor and the way her young life had been taken by the explosion at the munitions factory. But now those same shells were a means of defeating the Germans – or at least driving them back through unfamiliar foreign territory.
Morgan had reconnoitred on his own and had discovered that the German dugouts were exposed and that the folds of ground close behind the British trenches provided an ideal way of concealing the large numbers of troops and guns which were daily being brought forward.
‘Could you use a packet of Woodbines, Private Lloyd?’ The voice was strangely familiar and Morgan rose to his feet, putting up his hand in a smart salute, before he recognised Mr Sterling Richardson – copper boss and now Captain in the 14th Welch.
‘Not for me, thank you, sir.’ He spoke formally, for there had always been a division between the boss and his men even though Sterling Richardson had been known and liked for his sense of chwarae teg – fair play, as the copper men called it. Now with the firm strictures imposed by the Army, any communication between officers and other ranks was almost unheard of.
‘Relax, Morgan, I shan’t bite you.’ Sterling leaned against the crumbling wall of the trench, his eyes shrewd as they rested on the younger man.
‘I’ve been watching you, Morgan. You always had guts – any man who works the copper needs to be hard. I’ve seen how you behave under stress – you are cool and determined – and I propose to recommend you for promotion to lance corporal.’
Morgan felt a flash of pleasure. ‘That’s very good of you, sir, I appreciate it.’
Sterling stared out over the top of the trench, his booted foot resting on the muddy ladder. ‘God-awful place to be, a far cry from Sweyn’s Eye, wouldn’t you say?’
His voice was wistful and Morgan warmed to him. ‘Yes indeed, sir, but the sooner the big push forward comes, the better I’ll be pleased.’
Sterling looked at him warningly. ‘I know you’re a bright one and you’ve doubtless picked up what’s going on here, but don’t speak of it to anyone.’
Morgan nodded his head slowly. ‘You don’t have to tell me that – with respect, sir.’ He stared at the Captain, feeling it ironic that they might die here together in the mud of a foreign land – and then what good would Richardson’s money do him? But he dismissed the thought quickly as unworthy, Sterling Richardson had toiled hard and long to make his profits, had paid his men fair and square and deserved all he had achieved.
Sterling was eyeing him ruefully as if sensing something of his thoughts. ‘Death and the muddy fields of France are great levellers,’ he smiled. ‘Sure there’s nothing I can get you – no smokes or woollen socks, nothing at all?’
‘I’m all right, sir,’ Morgan replied. ‘Mrs O’Connor, whom I used to room with, sends me parcels.’ But really there was no one back home who cared if he lived or died, he thought bitterly. The only ones close to him were gone: Honey and his father. He disciplined his thoughts sharply, it did no good to wallow in self-pity.
Sterling Richardson was moving silently away and Morgan studied his tall, sinewy frame. This was a man whom he trusted to lead them; he had character and a big share of guts himself. It was lighter now and the savoury smell of hot Oxo filling the air made him realise suddenly that he was hungry and that it was time for breakfast – a small vacuum of time before whatever skirmish was planned for the day took place. He squared his shoulders, adjusted his cap and made his way to the field kitchen.
* * *
Meanwhile Sterling Richardson strode easily through the trenches, talking to some of the soldiers on the way. He spoke cheerfully enough, but he could not help thinking that all this pushing forward towards the Somme was a waste of time. Even if they were to win the offensive, what would they actually gain except a strip of land that might well be lost again the next day? But it did not do for a soldier to think that way – a man must blindly obey, be honourable at all costs and to hell with doubts and uncertainties.
He pulled back through the lines, watching for a moment as a young fresh-faced boy bent his head over a piece of grubby paper, a stub of pencil in his hand. Sterling felt anger gnaw at him; the lad had been given no time to grow up before being thrust into battle. He moved on – his belly was growling, it was time to eat.
He sighed as he imagined breakfast at home with Mali and their children; he could picture his wife now, her long dark hair hanging over her shoulders, her eyes looking at him as though he was no ordinary mortal. Her letter crackled in his pocket against his heart and although it was foolish, its presence there comforted him. He could see again every word she had written; she was cheerful yet he read her longing for him behind the bits and pieces of light-hearted gossip.
She had told him how her friend Rhian had married Mansel Jack, to the dismay of all the proud mammas in the town who had wanted him for their own daughters. It seemed that Mansel Jack had enlisted and might even now be at the Front. A good man to have around, Sterling thought – he was strong and forceful enough to inspire even the most reluctant of soldiers and there was something about him that gave a man complete confidence.
In the makeshift canteen set up in an old outbuilding, his fellow officers were enjoying breakfast. One of them lifted a hand to him and Sterling sat at the wooden trestle table. ‘Have a Woodbine, Smithson. I need one to get the stink of the trenches out of my nostrils.’
Smithson was a young newly commissioned officer and had seen little of the battle so far; yet he was game enough, Sterling decided, watching him strike a lucifer and puff on the cigarette.
‘I’ve just seen one of the men from Sweyn’s Eye out there – Morgan Lloyd, good lad he is too.’ Sterling took the large cup of tea the mess orderly handed him. ‘Used to work for me in the foundry, a strong boy and courageous as well.’
Smithson grimaced ruefully and rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Aye, they’re all good lads, more’s the pity.’
Sterling shook his head. ‘You’re right, of course. Heath Jenkins is another local boy reported missing, related by marriage to Captain Sutton. Terrible shock for Mary, both her husband and brother go
ing like that. She’s been informed officially of course, but I wrote to her straight away. I hope she got my letter first, it might help break the news more gently – these War Office communications can be so bald.’
Sterling sat back in his chair, listening to the rise and fall of voices. There was even some laughter from the men, a release of the tension which gripped any officer who led his troops into battle from which many of them never returned.
‘I wonder what Sweyn’s Eye will be like when I get back,’ Sterling said musingly. ‘Already so much has changed. The women are doing men’s jobs and doing them successfully – we’ll never hear the end of it, I’ll wager!’
He wondered if young Smithson like himself was putting up a façade, and supposed so. Men at the Front longed for the comfort of their womenfolk’s arms: human contact with someone who cared, a reassurance that the world was not all blood and death and the sound of shells bursting.
Sterling had begun to feel that he had only dreamed Mali, that she must be a figment of his imagination – a beautiful, wondrous image haunting his dreams. She seemed so far removed from him now and yet his love for her was not diminished by one iota.
He felt her letter crackle in his pocket and raised his hand to touch it, for it was a tenuous link with all that was good and clean in life. In some ways it was a reason for him being in this hellhole. In the worst of the chaos, when all around him seemed to be death and very little glory, he told himself that it was to keep Mali and his children free from tyranny.
‘The only one I have to worry about is my mother,’ Smithson said quietly. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry – the way things have turned out, it must be hell having a wife and little ones back home.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Though I hear that the womenfolk are coping extremely well and it seems that the mill at Spinners’ Wharf is turning out red, white and blue shawls which are selling like hot cakes. God, I wish I was back in Sweyn’s Eye at this very moment.’
The two men stared at each other for a moment in silent understanding. So much of the time they hid their fears behind bluster, pretending that everything was under control. It was only occasionally that any of them allowed their real feelings to show.
Smithson rose to his feet. ‘Well, I can’t sit here all day, I suppose I’d better rejoin my men in the trenches. Poor sods haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks!’ He gave Sterling a quick glance. ‘I’ve no confidence in this great push the bigwigs are talking about – all it will gain us is a few hundred yards of worthless woodland.’ He shrugged. ‘But then, we’re not here to think, are we?’
Sterling watched the tall rangy young man walk away and knew that he was right. But it didn’t do to dwell on the futility of it all, that only made a man lose heart. He looked round for some place where he could find privacy to write his letter home to Mali.
There was a rough table in the far corner and he moved towards it, feeling in his pocket for his pencil. He stared down at the clean sheet of paper, wondering what on earth he was going to say when all he felt was that he missed her so badly it was as if a part of him had been left behind in Sweyn’s Eye.
He knew he must be cheerful and not speak of the horrors of war, but be reassuring. Mali must be allowed to think that he was in no real danger, but was having quite a good time with his fellow officers. He might begin by saying that he had just been drinking tea with young Smithson – it would make her feel better to know he was in the company of men from his home town.
He took her letter from his pocket and surreptitiously pressed it to his lips before replacing it carefully against his heart. Then he began to write with a slow determined script. He would tell her he loved her and needed her, but he wouldn’t say that life here was a living hell and he would give anything to be home again.
And what of Heath Jenkins? Should he tell her that the boy was missing? Doubtless she would learn the truth anyway. And how could he phrase the words so that her sweet lips would not tremble in fear that he might be the next? He threw down the pencil and leaned back in his chair, the salt of tears like grit in his eyes.
* * *
The sun was warming the small whitewashed bedroom and a cracked ceiling sloped downwards on heavy black beams. Heath opened his eyes a little wider – there was a haze over his mind and he couldn’t think clearly. He wondered where he could be and for some unaccountable reason he was frightened.
As he lifted his head a pain shot through his temples so that he sank back against the pillows, lifting a hand tentatively to touch the bandages that covered his brow.
He heard the door creak open, there was the rustle of skirts and a woman was leaning over him, speaking to him softly. ‘There you are, you’ll be fine now.’ She drew the sheets up around his shoulders, her hands gentle and her eyes warm; then she sat at the side of the bed and leaned forward and Heath noticed the way her large breasts strained the material of her cotton frock.
‘Who are you?’ he asked and as she leaned closer in an effort to hear his words he realised that he was very weak, his voice thin and reedy.
‘I’m Margaret,’ she smiled reassuringly and her teeth were fine and white. ‘I found you in the fields and brought you here in my horse and cart. I thought at first you were past saving, but then I realised you were a strong young buck and would live.’
He tried to think; he was in France, wasn’t he, so why was this women speaking English to him, ‘Aren’t you a foreigner?’ he asked and she shook her head. ‘No, I’m from London, but I came here many years ago and married a Frenchman.’ Her face became shadowed. ‘He’s gone now, God rest his soul.’
Heath could see there were tears in her eyes and with an effort he reached out and took her hand. She warmed to him at once.
‘I shall bring you some good hearty soup.’ She rose and smiled down at him. ‘I don’t know where you’ve come from, but I’m going to make sure you’re fit and healthy before you leave my cottage.’
Heath was content to lie still, looking up at the patterns of sunlight on the ceiling and hearing the birds singing in the trees outside the windows. He sighed heavily – there were things he should remember, like when he was wounded and where his battalion had gone. There was something else tugging at the fringes of his mind… a letter from home… but the memory receded and he gave up the effort, knowing somehow that there would be pain in remembering.
Margaret returned and sat beside him, carefully spooning soup into his mouth. It tasted delicious and it was a good feeling to breathe in the clean fresh woman scent of her and have her so close to him in the wash of sunlight from the window.
He vaguely remembered battles – running up over the top of many trenches, feet slipping, heart racing, rifle at the ready. He smelled blood and heard cries, but then the picture faded and he was safe in the sunlit bedroom once more.
‘Where is this place?’ he asked and Margaret put down the empty bowl before answering.
‘It’s near Mametz Wood,’ she said. ‘Phillip and I lived a solitary life here, but we were content. It was hard at first without him, for my blood was young and flowed like wine but now…’ she shrugged, ‘now I’m older and the urges of the flesh no longer trouble me.’
Slowly Heath smiled and memories of his youth came to mind – the many girls he had taken up on Ram’s Tor or laid in the grass of Top Meadow. And Carrie, she had been an older women and more the sweet because of it,
‘Perhaps,’ he said softly, ‘I may be well enough soon to change your mind about that. You’re a handsome woman, Margaret.’
She touched his face gently. ‘And you are a very sick young man, for shame on you putting naughty thoughts into an old woman’s head!’ But her cheeks were flushed prettily, her eyes sparkled and she flounced a little as she walked to the door.
‘Sleep now, it’s the finest remedy for healing wounds that I know. Later I’ll come and wash you, change your bandage and make you feel better.’ She let herself out of the room and with a contented sigh Heath turned his face into the
fragrant pillow and allowed drowsiness to overtake him.
Gradually he grew stronger and the wound in his temple closed up well enough, though there would always be a scar – he could see that by the way the flesh rose in an angry line along his brow.
At last Margaret allowed him to come downstairs to the kitchen. It was good to shave away the coarse beard that had grown and flourished while he lay sick. Margaret watched him, leaning back in her chair, her fine breasts revealed by the low-necked cotton blouse she wore. Her hands were folded in her lap – fine big peasant hands, soothing and gentle hands.
‘Why, you’re a handsome rascal!’ She laughed like a young girl as his eyes met hers. ‘I could see you were a fine-built man, but with all that stubble on your chin I didn’t know the half of it, did I!’
‘And you still don’t, my lovely girl.’ Heath turned and, taking her hands, drew her to her feet. She made no attempt at resistance; it was clear she had expected him to make advances to her and had decided to welcome them.
Her body was lush against his, her hair soft as he drew out the pins… and if there was a tinge of grey among the dark curls, it only added to her attraction.
‘You’re a beautiful woman, cariad,’ he said softly, ‘so beautiful that I think the angels must have put you here just for me.’
Her mouth was warm under his and when his hand opened the buttons on her blouse she leaned back and stared up at him with sparkling eyes.
‘Let’s go up into the bedroom.’ As she took his hand and led him up the stairs, he felt suddenly as though this was his first time with a woman.
Margaret was possessed of great passion which had lain dormant since her husband had died. Heath took pains to move slowly, because he wanted her to enjoy him as he would enjoy her. She moaned as he touched the full, naked breasts and ran his tongue over the proud nipples. She clung to him, her eyes moist, her arms around him – caressing, passionate and most of all loving.
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