This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  Suddenly he felt as if he had had enough; he couldn’t face another conversation. It was gone eleven o’clock, far later than he was now accustomed to, and he needed to go to bed. Not that he’d yet slept in his bed – it was too soft and the two nights since his return, having tossed around, he’d given up and with a blanket slept on the floor. He wondered whether to tell his parents that he was leaving but he could see them, surrounded by friends. They’d understand.

  The band had just finished another tune, and people were clapping as Guy made his way through the party, smiling and acknowledging people’s hellos. He was almost at the exit, relieved to be leaving, when he heard his name being called. It was Jack again. ‘Where you going?’ asked his brother.

  ‘Home,’ said Guy, pushing open the exit.

  ‘Already?

  ‘I’ve had enough.’ Guy breathed in the night air. The stars shone bright.

  ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘Cold out,’ said Jack.

  ‘Is it? This isn’t cold. Jack, you don’t realise what you’re letting yourself in for. All these people here talking about bashing the Hun and onward Christian soldiers – they’ve no idea what it’s like over there. It’s fucking awful and you’re about to find out.’

  ‘Steady on, Guy, it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘No. You’re probably right, it’s not that bad.’

  ‘Well, is it?’

  Guy lit a cigarette. The smoke danced in the night air. ‘You’ll be gone a long time. Like me. How will Mary cope? How do you know she won’t do to you what she did to me?’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  ‘How about cousin Lawrence, eh? There’s still him, isn’t there?’

  ‘Fuck off, Guy, she wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Well, she has once already, as you and I well know.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe you were a mistake. You’re old before your time, you know that? You’re so much like father, all stiff shirt and doing the right thing. You even sound like father. Upholder of the family reputation. That may be your way but it’s not mine. You may want to live your life with a straitjacket on but I want to live for me,’ he said jabbing his thumb into his chest.

  ‘And what about you, then? Now that you’ve taken her from me are you going to remain the faithful boyfriend to Mary?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Not tempted by Josephine then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You liar – I saw you, over there, earlier on.’

  ‘What? Were you spying on me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I just came out for a breath of fresh air, and I saw you pawing at her.’

  Jack grappled for an answer, his eyes scanning the sky. ‘You’re right.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what I want. All I know is I can’t stay here any more, living up to his expectations, bloody Father. I need to get out. Take me with you, Guy.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

  Guy’s words seemed to sting. ‘Fuck you then,’ he said pushing his brother in the chest. ‘You know, I’m right, you are old. That was it – Mary needed someone younger, someone with a bit of fun in them. You hadn’t thought of that, had you, wallowing in your self pity.’

  Guy glared at him, clenching his fist. Nothing more he would like than to punch that pretty boy face, but no, he wouldn’t stoop. He buttoned his coat, drew heavily on his cigarette and walked away.

  ‘What’s the matter, Guy, why are you running away?’ Guy walked on. ‘Scared of the truth, is that it?’

  Ignore him, Guy said to himself, ignore him. But Jack wasn’t finished yet. ‘Running scared, are we, brave soldier boy?’

  That was it. Guy spun round and marched back up to him.

  ‘Whoa,’ screamed Jack, ‘what are you going to do? Fucking hit me?’

  ‘Nothing I would like better.’

  ‘Go on, then, I fucking dare you.’

  Breathing through his nostrils like a bull, Guy threw away his cigarette. ‘Listen, in a few weeks you’re going to be out in France shivering in a muddy hole in the ground experiencing the like of which you never thought possible in your worse nightmares. Remember as a kid that you didn’t like thunderstorms?’

  ‘I was a bloody kid.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ve seen men reduced to the state of kids. I just hope to God it doesn’t bring it all back because God in all His anger,’ he said shouting at the sky, ‘cannot match what those big guns can do. And when you are running scared, as you call it, don’t come running to me to protect you, ’cause there’ll be nothing I can do. You’ll be on your own. Oh, you hear all about soldiery camaraderie but when a man is scared shitless he is scared shitless by himself. So don’t you ever talk about me being scared again. You got that?’

  ‘All right, Guy, all right. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  *

  The following day, Guy found himself back at Charing Cross station, surrounded again by soldiers returning to the trenches, girlfriends and families in tears bidding their loved ones goodbye. Many of the families would never see their men again. The last time he embarked for France, fifteen months ago, Guy had never considered this option, why should he have done? It would never have occurred to him. But a man in combat learns quickly. How many within his battalion, his company, his regiment had already been killed, or wounded and shattered for life? Too many to remember, too many to count. He queued at the exchange kiosk and swapped a few pennies for French francs and thought back to the last time he left for France, from Victoria. Mary had come to see him off, his parents and his brother. Today, no one, he was alone. It’s how he wanted it. He’d made it perfectly clear that he wanted no send off, no emotional farewells on the concourse. His mother protested, his father demurred and Jack appeared shifty but relieved. Either way, Guy had made his goodbyes quickly, then, with his haversack slung over his shoulder, walked briskly to the tube station, the sun on his back. Most of the men now, around him, kissing their girlfriends, were new to the fray. How eager they seemed, how old he felt. How experience wearies a man; one both pities and envies the innocent. With his wallet full of francs, it was time to board. At the gate, he turned, wondered what they’d all be doing at home, then boarded the train.

  Part Two

  Chapter 6: Last Day of Innocence – 2 August 1917

  Guy had ensconced himself in the warmth of the barn where, under the gloomy light and amidst the jovial banter, sixty or more soldiers were relishing every moment of respite, relieved to be temporarily away from the racket and mayhem of the trenches. Some of them sat round small trestle tables chatting and laughing, playing cards or dominoes, smoking and drinking copious amounts of tea. Some sat by themselves writing letters home, while others were content to lie back on the straw and contemplate. Guy had found a table of card-playing friends and joined in. He wasn’t keen but at least, he thought, it would take his mind off things, for today he was expecting his brother.

  Guy had been back at the front for almost a year since his return to France the previous summer. Letters from home had kept him informed of Jack’s progress – his training on Salisbury Plain, then further training in France at the camp they called the Bullring at Étaples and his subsequent transfer to the rear lines and to this billet Guy was now in. He’d been told to expect him mid-afternoon, and it was now nearing five. It was early August, the war was exactly three years old, but the weather was far from warm and the steady drizzle outside added to Guy’s downbeat mood.

  Eventually, his friend, Robert Chadwick, came in from outside, bringing gusts of cold wind in with him. ‘They’re coming,’ he said to the men. Guy’s heartbeat quickened slightly but otherwise no one noticed or cared. Robert knew of Guy’s apprehension at his brother’s imminent arrival. ‘You OK, chap?’ he asked, patting Guy’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, guess so.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go out and meet him?’

 
‘No, he’ll find me soon enough.’

  ‘Go on, Guy, go meet him. Bury the hatchet and all that.’

  He remembered his promise to his mother that he’d look after Jack. ‘Might as well,’ he said, throwing away his cigarette end. ‘I’m losing anyway. This rate I won’t have any fags left.’

  Guy followed Robert through the huge doors of the barn and into the rain. In the far distance, they could hear the faint rumble of shellfire.

  Standing at the doors, he saw the rattling two-stroke making its way down the muddy track. Nearby, a French farmer and his inbred sons were bringing in a small herd of cattle, disturbing the hens en route. Guy muttered a bonjour but received a disdainful look in return. Barking instructions at his sons, the farmer prodded the cows into the direction of the archway at the far side of the courtyard. Ignoring them, Guy watched intently as the van drew into the yard and clattered its way over the wet cobblestones, coming to a juddering halt about twenty yards away. The back doors swung open and a small stocky sergeant with a ruddy complexion leapt out, landed in a puddle, and ordered his fellow passengers to jump down. A small group of ten soldiers appeared from the back of the van, each one lugging a large, cumbersome pack. Guy searched their faces, hoping his brother wasn’t there, hoping that he’d be spared the ordeals awaiting him, but, more pertinently, not wanting to see him. But yes, there he was: the last one to appear from the back of the van. It’d been a year since Guy last saw him and the boy was now a fresh-faced soldier in a clean but slightly ill-fitting uniform. The sergeant ordered them to wait in line while he went off to find the platoon’s commanding officer. Robert pointed him in the right direction before winking at Guy and returning to the barn.

  As the sergeant disappeared towards the farmhouse, the young thin recruit approached Guy, his hand outstretched. ‘Hello, Guy, you old bugger, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, I suppose. You all right then?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Mother and Father send their best.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Fine. Well, fine as they can be with both of us out here. This pack here is half full with chocolate and cake and goodness knows what else. Typical Mother, of course.’

  Guy smiled at the thought of his mother fretting. He remembered the last letter he received from her, full of concern over Jack. ‘And how was training?’

  ‘Bloody eleven months of it. And that last bit, the Bullring – bloody awful. Bunch of semi-retarded sadists. And that sergeant you saw who’s come up with us, he was the worst of the lot. Wilkins is his name.’

  ‘Nothing changes at the Bullring then.’

  ‘Frankly, it’s a relief to be out here.’

  ‘I think that’s the idea.’

  The stocky Sergeant Wilkins returned with Lieutenant Lafferty, the platoon’s commanding officer, who seemed unnaturally tall next to the sergeant. The sergeant called his new recruits to order, and then the lieutenant, smoothing his thin moustache, introduced himself. He informed his new men that they had only the evening to relax and get to know the other men before joining the platoon in its move back to the front at first light the following morning. With that, the lieutenant bade the men good night and returned to the comfort of his quarters, leaving the sergeant to take over.

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Wilkins, ‘you ’eard the lieutenant, no hanging round for you lot, straight into the fray, aren’t we the lucky bastards. Any questions?’

  Never one to resist having the final word, Jack put his hand up. ‘Is there a pub nearby, Sarge?’

  The sergeant’s eye twitched with indignation; he clearly hated the cocky ones. ‘Shut the fuck up, you little shit. You think this is all a game, don’t you? Well, one more peep out of you, Private, and I’ll give you some fun ’n games. Got it?’

  Guy could tell Jack was biting his tongue, curbing his urge to grin. Once the sergeant had dismissed the men, Guy took Jack into the barn. ‘You’re an idiot; you shouldn’t talk to him like that.’

  ‘All right, Guy, I’m sorry.’

  Guy introduced him to some of his immediate friends and comrades. After much handshaking and sibling comparison, the men quizzed Jack about the news from home. He told them about the important stuff – the politics and the headlines, then amused a gathering crowd with humorous gossip, nuggets of scandal and the latest jokes from Blighty. He even entertained them with tales of his eccentric Aunt Winnie and her stuffed shirt of a son, Lawrence. Jack had always been a natural performer, always happy to play the piano, sing, make people laugh. Guy shook his head. Five minutes and his brother had already made more friends than he had in the whole year. Typical Jack.

  With Jack’s introductory performance completed to the enjoyment of the whole platoon, Guy sat him down and made him a cup of tea. ‘You don’t listen, do you? Don’t make yourself too obvious too quickly. Otherwise, the NCOs will have your number. And once they know you, especially if they think you’re too uppity, you’ll be up for everything.’

  ‘Listen, Guy, I might as well get this over and done with.’

  ‘Go on – what?’

  ‘Don’t be angry but Mary and me – we’ve got engaged.’

  Guy had been expecting it but nonetheless his heart tumbled at the thought of it. ‘What do you want me to say – congratulations?’

  ‘No, but... I’m sorry. For everything.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘I proposed the day before I joined up. As soon as I get back, we’re going to get married. I got her a ring as well.’

  ‘All right, Jack, spare me the details.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I got a bit carried away there.’

  ‘Telling me. I don’t need to know, OK? I’m putting it behind me but I’m still sore about it, right? It’s not every day one’s girl dumps you for your brother.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. So,’ he said brightly, ‘go on, tell me, what’s it like out there? Met any Germans yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘I know, it seems strange but no, I haven’t. I’ve been in the front trenches and I’ve heard them but I’ve not gone over the top yet, not seen a German face-to-face.’

  ‘So is it really as bad as some are making out?’

  What should he say? Should he tell him the truth and warn him of the horror, of how shocking the first death is, and equally how quickly one becomes immune to death in its many indiscriminate guises, or the gut-wrenching fear, the agony of hopelessness, the tedious sound of men dying, or the frightening intensity of the noise and the periods of unrelenting boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ was all he could muster.

  The two brothers were only four years apart in age but after two years at war, Guy, aged twenty-three, felt so much older. He envied Jack’s naivety but pitied the inevitable disillusionment that was shortly to come, for this was surely Jack’s last day of innocence. He would have to learn to fend for himself; whatever he’d promised his mother, he couldn’t take responsibility for his brother’s safety. Every man had to work out his own way of surviving and keeping one’s sanity. Why did he have to join the same regiment and add to Guy’s strain?

  ‘Why did you join up; you didn’t have to, you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, but I did. You know I did.’ He looked at the contents of his tin mug. ‘You joined up and I felt... well, envious, I s’pose. It seemed like such a glamorous thing to do. Of course, mother tried to persuade me against it. It was all right for you, she reckoned, you could look after yourself, but not me, not little Jack.’ He paused. ‘And you know father needed me to help with the business; hats don’t make themselves, y’know. I was taking over where you left off. But dealing with all those bloody bills and invoices and accounts seemed so dull compared to what you were doing...’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe. Listen, you go and talk to one of your new friends. I need a kip.’

  As he lay down at the back of the barn on a bed of straw, he wondered whether he’d imagined it or whether Jac
k had looked put out by his sudden departure. He hoped so. He thought about what Jack had said and tried to remember why exactly he had joined up. It was true, from the start of the war Guy felt drawn by the temptation of adventure in a foreign place. The patriotic call became louder, the tempting prospect of glory grew stronger, and the sense of national duty all the more acute. After just four weeks, Guy bowed to the inevitable, and in September 1914 volunteered. Nine months later he was on duty. His father had wanted Guy to try for a commission, which, with his education, he was amply qualified for, but despite what his father felt were his natural skills of leadership, Guy refused, not wanting the responsibility of leading men into battle. Meanwhile, if Guy’s duty was to his country, then Jack’s had been to the business, but it was not, it seemed, a role Jack coveted.

  He saw in Jack his own recent but alien past and he shuddered to think that within a few hours, Jack too would have to suffer the same humiliations of fear that the new ones all experienced, and ‘old boys’ like himself, never forgot. How they all start off as keen as mustard and then shit their pants as they realised that this war was nothing like the adventurous wars their forefathers had told them about. But fuck it, Jack was a man always out for whatever he could get in life, even if that meant trampling over his own brother. Guy realised this now; he’d spent all his growing up looking out for Jack, being the protective older brother, as instructed by his mother, while Jack did his own merry thing and hang the consequences – after all, he had his big brother to throw his weight around on his behalf. Well, not any more, little brother, not any more.

  *

  It was six o’clock on a mild and, thankfully, dry August morning. The sixty men of the 1st Platoon, D Company, 4th Battalion, Essex Regiment, lined up in eight lines on the cobbled stones of the courtyard. Lieutenant Lafferty stroked his moustache and gave the men their orders. They were returning to the front. Ahead of them lay a fifteen-mile route march from the billet up to the rear trench. ‘There,’ said the lieutenant, ‘you’ll be allowed to rest and have dinner before embarking on an evening march down the communication trench to the front – another three miles or so.’ He ordered his men to put on their packs.