Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s a bit of a rest for us at any rate,’ Heath said as he lay back in the grass and took out a Woodbine. ‘Jesus, I hate this country!’ He closed his eyes and thought of Sweyn’s Eye – the funny cobbled streets, the little shops that thronged the pavement, jostling with each other for business, the baker’s vans smelling of doughy bread hot from the oven… and he was homesick.

  Then a knife of pain twisted in his gut as he remembered there was no one waiting for him there. Rhian, his woman, the one he had loved all his life, had betrayed him. She had married this upstart from the North, a self-made man who had stolen her away and married her on the sly. Hate poured through his veins like hot, sweet wine as he crushed the Woodbine between his fingers, uncaring of the fact that the lighted end of the cigarette burned his palm. If ever he met this Mansel Jack, he was a dead man!

  ‘Heath Jenkins, wake up!’ Someone was shaking him by the arm and Heath uncoiled, snake-like, grasping the man by the throat as a snarl of rage left his lips.

  ‘Christ, back down, boyo!’ Morgan was sharp, he had a knife to Heath’s belly and the cold steel had a calming effect.

  Heath sighed heavily. ‘Sorry, kid, I must have been dreaming.’ He took a deep breath; he must get a grip on himself, for he was behaving irrationally and sometimes was frighteningly aware of his own state of mind. But then a cloud would come down to blot out light and reason and he would be possessed by some monster of dark anger that wanted to reach out and crush.

  ‘Well, don’t come it again by here, boyo,’ Morgan said levelly, the cold light in his eyes assuring Heath he meant what he said. Not that Heath was frightened of the boy – young and strong he might be, but he would be no match for him. But he was likeable enough, a good Welsh boy, clean and honest and with guts too. Heath rested his hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry and I mean it – now, let’s forget it shall we?’

  The climb up the hill towards the woods was fraught with danger. Heath felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck, he almost felt the eyes of the Germans upon him – it was as though they had marked him out because he had killed without compunction.

  Morgan was breathing heavily at his side and the boy’s booted feet slipped on the uneven ground. Heath caught him by his sleeve and held on with almost superhuman strength until Morgan found his footing.

  ‘Duw, we’re like sitting ducks climbing up by here,’ Morgan said heavily. ‘I keep expecting the Jerries to lean over the bank up there and shoot us to pieces.’

  Heath frowned. ‘I suppose we all feel like that, boyo. It’s instinct in us – the fight for survival, I mean.’

  It was a pity he had not met Morgan sooner, Heath thought; he had had a bit of bad luck in his young life, by the sound of it. Lost his father, then his girl was blown up in the munitions factory. Duw, it was a terrible world.

  They were almost at the top of the ridge when one of the gunners called out for help. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need!’ Heath said fiercely. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t send a postcard to the Jerries telling them what time we’re arriving!’

  ‘Looks like we’ve all got to give a hand to pull up the guns,’ Morgan replied easily. ‘I suppose the brass hats know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’ Heath softened his words with a wry smile: ‘Give me a good sergeant, a man who knows what’s what, and you can keep the bloody officers. All they know about is playing soldiers on a bit of paper. “We’ll take Mametz Wood today chaps, looks like a good spot.”’ He mimicked the precise tones of the officer in charge and Morgan could not help but laugh.

  ‘You’re a strange man, Heath Jenkins,’ he said, ‘and I’d rather have you with me than against me.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get back down this swine of a ridge.’ Heath appeared unconcerned. ‘I suppose we’re never going to get in position if we don’t sort out the gunners.’ By three a.m. on the tenth of July the troops were in position. The leading platoons of the 13th and 14th Welch were lying just behind a small bank at the top of the rise, the 10th Welch having been scattered behind the spearhead of the attack with orders to advance up the edge of the ridge and await developments there.

  ‘Guess what?’ Heath spoke in a low voice, having just reappeared through the bushes at Morgan’s side. ‘We’ve had a special message of encouragement sent us from the commander-in-chief – isn’t that big of him?’

  He saw Morgan frown at the sarcasm in his voice but then, Heath thought, Morgan was new to the game of war – he thought it was death or glory and didn’t know of the private hells that lingered in between.

  ‘Well, all I want to do now is get on with it,’ Morgan said harshly. His colour was high and Heath knew how he felt. There would be a mingling of fear and pride, a willingness to die for home and country, but it wasn’t quite like that out here. Once a man had fought in a few battles he came to see the futility of it all, the ghastly dance to and fro over blood-strewn land, but now was not the time to discourage him.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ His words were drowned by a sudden and furious bombardment that tore at the eardrums and shattered the nerves.

  ‘Some of our artillery are firing their shells,’ Heath hissed. ‘Let’s hope they find their target or we’ll get shredded into tiny pieces.’

  ‘Christ!’ Morgan was doubled up, his hands over his belly. ‘I don’t think I can hold myself.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Heath shouted reassuringly. ‘Just get behind the bushes there, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, we all feel like that from time to time.’

  Morgan was all right, Heath thought. He would have plenty of guts when it came to the battle, he was the fighting kind.

  The 13th Welch were advancing in waves. Shots were fired and men were screaming, falling, twitching in the mud. Some soldiers lay on their backs, sightless eyes staring up at the leaden skies.

  ‘Come on, Morgan!’ Heath yelled. ‘We can’t let the 13th take all the glory. Come on, we’re going over the top!’ He held the boy by his sleeve, dragging him forward, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades.

  Morgan’s eyes were alight as he shook himself free. ‘We’ll show the Jerries, just let me get at them!’

  A band of Germans was suddenly facing them, peering with staring eyes over the top of a gaping-mouthed gun. Heath kicked Morgan’s feet from under him and the boy fell on to his face, then Heath took careful aim with one of the Mills bombs and blackened smoke muffled the cries of the German wounded.

  ‘Keep down now,’ Heath hissed in Morgan’s ear. ‘The next wave of our men should be no more than a hundred yards behind us. If everyone moves steadily we may yet take this piece of land, though much good it will do us.’ And yet Heath could not help the feeling of exhilaration that ran through him – they were slowly but surely gaining ground and the Jerries lay dying at their feet.

  He heard Morgan gasp and saw the boy staring with wide eyes at a German soldier who was looking up at him, one sleeve flapping emptily and blood pouring from a wound in his head.

  ‘Kill the bastard!’ Heath said urgently, but Morgan was bending forward as though to help the fallen soldier who suddenly had a blade pointing at Morgan’s throat. Heath fired at once and the German shuddered as though a chill wind had drifted over him, then he lay still. When his hand fell open, the gleaming knife lay bright against the grass.

  ‘Never trust the enemy, boyo,’ Heath said harshly. ‘That’s one lesson you have to learn quick, for you won’t have any second chance. Come on, don’t just stand there, let’s get on with it.’

  A burly German moved out of the trees and Heath drew Morgan into the shelter of the branches. ‘Look at Lieutenant Wilson, that’s one officer I can respect.’

  The lieutenant was just withdrawing his bayonet from the belly of the big German soldier. Then almost in the same movement, he lifted his arm and with a single shot dislodged a sniper from one of the trees.

  ‘I’d serve behind a man like him any time. Now keep y
our head low, you don’t want it shot off, do you?’ Heath pushed Morgan through the undergrowth, staring around him cautiously; so far, some sixth sense that alerted him to danger had kept him alive, but he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

  Lieutenant Wilson was instructing his men to dig in and Heath smiled at Morgan triumphantly. ‘Well, we’ve won our little battle,’ he said jubilantly. ‘The 14th Welch have captured our section of the woods, now it’s up to the rest of them to do the same. Come on, Morgan, we’ll soon be enjoying a cup of Oxo and a Woodbine.’

  The look of exhilaration mingled with disbelief on Morgan’s face made Heath laugh and he tapped Morgan on the shoulder. ‘Know something? I like you, Morgan boyo.’ He sighed and stretched himself out in the grass, uncaring that beads of dampness carpeted the ground. He closed his eyes and within a few minutes was sound asleep.

  * * *

  On the other side of the wood, to the right, the 13th Welch were encountering severe opposition.

  Mansel Jack, crawling along on his belly, saw that the sun had come up and that it was now almost daylight. He paused, resting his head on the damp earth, closing his eyes against the noise of the battle and allowing himself a few minutes to gather his wits.

  In his memory he was back in Sweyn’s Eye, holding Rhian close to him, kissing her sweet mouth and looking into her young vivid face. It had been hell to leave her behind, knowing he might never see her again, yet if he died tomorrow he would have known real happiness if only for a brief time.

  A shell crashing overhead galvanised him into action. He was back in the thick of the war, in charge of a company of men, promoted to Captain by the very force of his personality and leadership. And his soldiers followed him with confidence. He lifted his head and edged forward, waving to his men to keep low behind the shrub.

  As he moved towards the front lines and behind the ridge, he saw Major Edwards gesturing to him. ‘I’m going to try to take out that machine-gun. It’s right at the centre of the hammer-head, and if we break through there the men will have a chance.’

  Mansel Jack viewed the terrain doubtfully. There would be little cover for anyone venturing over the ridge, yet Edwards was right: the gun had to go.

  ‘Let me tackle it, sir,’ he said quickly, but the Major was already gathering his soldiers for the attack.

  Mansel Jack shouted the order for his own men to cover Edwards and the sound of exploding shells rang in in his ears.

  For a moment everything was chaotic, the haze of smoke covering the soldiers who had made the first rush forward. There seemed to be a lull then, a vacuum in time when nothing happened… but slowly a few of the soldiers staggered into sight through the acrid smoke. As they tumbled behind the ridge, groans of agony from one man could be heard clearly. Of Edwards there was no sign…

  Mansel Jack moved quickly over the ridge. The ground ahead of him seemed stark, without cover of any sort. He breathed deeply, trying to still the beating of his heart, expecting to feel the biting sting of bullets in his gut at any moment.

  Hearing a sound, he edged forward on his belly. The smoke was clearing and he saw that the enemy gun was out of action – Edwards had achieved his goal. He moved cautiously around the gaping hole where the gun had stood; several enemy soldiers lay still, cast like rag dolls over the shattered earth. At last he caught sight of Edwards, lying face down with a gaping wound in his back.

  Carefully, Mansel Jack manoeuvred him away from the enemy lines. The man was heavy and he felt sweat run into his eyes as he eased Edwards on to his shoulder. Then he rose to his feet and ran, twisting and turning like a hunted fox, covering the ground in what appeared to him to be slow motion, as though his booted feet were being sucked into the mud and held there.

  Panting, he fell back over the ridge, where willing hands relieved him of his burden. The Major opened his eyes and Mansel Jack read the question there.

  ‘You did it, sir,’ he spoke jubilantly. ‘You knocked the machine-gun right out of commission! I don’t doubt you’ll get a medal for this day’s work.’

  Edwards sighed softly and the life went out of his face. Mansel Jack crouched in the mud beside him, feeling sick to his stomach.

  ‘Major Bond is taking command, sir.’ One of the soldiers spoke quietly in Mansel Jack’s ear. ‘Looks like we’re pushing on again through the woods.’

  Mansel Jack saw that some of the 13th Welch were already moving forward. But it was clear they were being gunned down mercilessly and it was little short of suicide to continue the thrust. Major Bond was hit almost at once and fell groaning to the ground.

  ‘Wait here.’ Mansel Jack gave the order and his men obeyed instinctively. ‘Keep down, while I see what’s going on up there.’

  Something was badly wrong, the Germans couldn’t possibly be so close. As far as Mansel Jack was concerned, someone in authority had made a right cock-up of the attack.

  ‘Captain, what’s the situation back there at the woods?’ Lieutenant-Colonel Ricketts was in command of the 10th Welch, a brave soldier who wanted action. He had been instructed to use his own discretion about bringing up reinforcements, but had no clear idea what was taking place.

  ‘It’s a shambles, sir,’ Mansel Jack said hoarsely. ‘The men are brave enough, but the 13th is rapidly being wiped out. I’m trying to skirt the woods and find out where the Jerries have dug themselves in – they seem incredibly near to me.’

  ‘I shall bring up my men,’ Ricketts spoke decisively.

  ‘We shall attack the hammer-head of the German defence, see if we can give your lads of the 13th some cover.’

  Mansel Jack watched for a moment as the senior officer gave the order to advance; he was hit almost immediately but didn’t falter and his troops were behind him as one man.

  By now Mansel Jack had covered a fair stretch of ground; his uniform was caked with mud and his face splattered – though whether with dirt or drying blood he could not tell.

  He glanced to the left of the woods and stared in horrified disbelief. ‘Good God Almighty!’ In his surprise he stood up, staring at the scene before him. The 13th were pressing forward, falling in scores – killed not by the enemy, but from the barrage of shells being fired by the 14th Welch. Mansel Jack moved forward, his one thought to stop the needless destruction of his men.

  Meanwhile Heath Jenkins was breathing heavily, around him the men and officers of his battalion. Beside him crouched Morgan Lloyd and in the forefront, ready to lead the attack, was Sterling Richardson.

  In Heath’s hand was clutched his one remaining Mills bomb, the grenade which would wipe out a man without difficulty.

  He rose to his feet, his gaze riveted on the officer coming through the undergrowth. He was waving his hands, ordering a ceasefire, and even through the mud that splattered him Heath recognised Mansel Jack. It was time for the bastard who had taken Rhian from him to pay for his actions!

  Heath gritted his teeth and moved forward, the Mills bomb ready in his hand. Mansel Jack would not survive the battle of Mametz Wood and if that meant taking a few innocent soldiers’ lives – that was just too bad.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what are you doing?’ Morgan was clinging to his arm. ‘That’s one of our officers out there – stop it, you madman!’

  Heath took no notice; he shook Morgan away, hardly felt the weight of him. Carefully he took aim, but just as he was about to throw the bomb he caught sight of Billy Gray, Rhian’s brother, alongside Mansel Jack.

  Suddenly the world was a kaleidoscope of colour and smoke, then gradually the colours dimmed and a soft darkness encompassed Heath’s mind.

  Chapter Thirty

  The summer sun was low in the sky, the red glow washing the mill house and the swiftly flowing stream with brazen red lights. The gas lamp on the wharf glimmered faintly, a poor substitute for the sunshine so newly faded.

  Rhian closed up the mill with a sigh of relief. She had worked long and hard over the past few days, but with good results: her shawls and bl
ankets with their distinctive red, white and blue fringes were beginning to sell well again even in the heat of July, for the housewives of the town were anticipating the coming of winter.

  The business, though small, was successful and she felt she was more than proving her worth, making more than a good living for herself and for the people who depended on her.

  Gina was waiting for her at the door of the mill house, her face sombre. ‘It’s about time you packed in work, you’ll be killing yourself, mind,’ she said, but her tone was gentle.

  ‘You’re not looking too bright yourself, girl, there’s big shadows under your eyes that tell me you’re as tired as I am. Go on upstairs and rest for a while – I’ll call you when the food is on the table.’

  From the kitchen came the succulent smell of meat roasting and as Rhian went inside, Carrie looked over her shoulder.

  ‘There’s good timing for you, the dinner’s just about ready. Doris, get the plates from the hob, there’s a good girl.’

  Rhian moved to the sink and washed the clinging strands of wool from her hands. As she was drying them, Carrie gave a little cry of annoyance: ‘Duw, there’s silly I am, I haven’t made the gravy yet, what can I be thinking about? Put the plates back for a minute or two, will you, Doris?’

  Rhian moved to the table. ‘You’re here late tonight, Doris,’ she said mildly. ‘Won’t your mam be worried about you?’

  Doris shook her head. ‘I’ve been helping Carrie and she says I can stop and have a bite to eat. Brought her a paper from town, made her sit down and rest I did, she was looking that pale and funny.’

  Rhian felt a twinge of guilt. ‘That’s all right, you’re welcome to eat with us.’ She seated herself at the table and looked anxiously at Carrie, who was standing with her hands on her back to ease the ache.

  ‘I’m working you all too hard,’ she said remorsefully and Carrie frowned.

  ‘Now don’t go all melancholy, you’re slaving like ten men yourself. Where would we all be if it wasn’t for you?’