This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘He’s just a boy,’ said one. Webb sent one of the men to fetch the captain while he stayed with the stranger. A few minutes later, the gaunt-looking Captain Ellis appeared. Webb told him his story of how the stranger had emerged from nowhere. Ellis listened intently and then sent someone off to find the first aider. With the help of the others, Captain Ellis propped the man up on the bed and removed his boots and rotting socks. His tunic gave no clue as to what regiment he belonged to – the buttons having been replaced by pins. He searched his pockets for the man’s papers, but all he found was a half-full pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and a photograph of a young girl. Pretty thing, he thought, young, probably late teens, nice eyes. While no one was looking, he slipped the photo into his pocket.

  The first aider appeared and made Webb repeat his story while he checked the man over, checking his feet for trench foot and carefully inspecting the wound in the shoulder. ‘He’s all right,’ he declared while rubbing the circulation back into the feet. ‘Looks like he got caught by a piece of shrapnel, painful, but he’ll live. Better get him to a CCS tomorrow and meanwhile I’ll disinfect it.’

  Webb addressed the captain: ‘Do you reckon he’s a deserter, sir?’

  Captain Ellis rubbed his chin and watched as the first aider did his work. ‘Yes, first thing I thought of, Webb, but no, thinking about it, I don’t think so. Firstly, he wouldn’t have come here, would he, and he would have been more on his guard. And secondly, or is that thirdly, you say he said he wanted to get back somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So, presumably he got sent out on some errand, got lost, wandered round a bit and ended up here, hence his need to get back. I’ll question him first thing tomorrow, find out where he’s meant to be and get him sent up to the CCS.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Webb. ‘Do you think someone oughta go with him, in case he gets lost again?’

  ‘What, and have one of you fools get lost as well?’

  ‘Well, sir, we could vouch for him, in case they think he deserted.’

  ‘Hmm, I’d thought of that, Webb.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He looks young, doesn’t he? I found no identity papers, which seems strange.’

  ‘What about a photo? His sweetheart perhaps.’

  ‘No, no photo.’

  ‘But he’s no deserter, is he, sir?’ said Webb.

  ‘No, not this chap.’

  The first aider had done his work quickly, cleaning the boy up and applying a dressing to the wound. ‘That should do him,’ he said.

  The captain looked around at the little congregation of men. ‘Well, nothing more we can do for him now, might as well leave him to it.’

  ‘Sir, do you think we oughta put a guard on him, you know – just in case.’

  ‘Yes, I thought of that too, but no, probably no need to – look at him, he’s out for the count. He won’t be going anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The men turned to leave. Private Webb took a final look at the mysterious wanderer. Somehow, he knew this boy had a story to tell, but they would have to wait until morning to find out what it was.

  Chapter 16: Provisions – 4 November 1917

  Jack woke up. The dull pain in his shoulder ached but the thought occurred to him that, for the first time in weeks, he had slept soundly and in a proper bed, without the routine scourge of a nightmare. He had no idea where he was or what time it was. It was dark, although a dim light shone through a slightly ajar door next to his bed. Around him, he could hear the comfortable snoring of men and smell sweat and dirty feet. He guessed he was in a dormitory, probably in a billet behind the lines. Slowly, it all came back to him. He remembered the bombardment on the ridge the previous night, the terrifying feeling of exposure, squirming in the shallow ditch at the side of the road. Jack trembled at the thought. He vaguely remembered the blast that sent him flying and knocked him for six, and then waking with the pulsating pain in his shoulder. He’d staggered for what seemed like hours in a sort of daze. No one stopped him or asked him where he was going. He remembered at some point asking for the nearest aid post, and trying to follow the confusing directions and getting hopelessly lost. And then of course, bumping into the soldier outside the battered-looking house. Jack had said something to him but he couldn’t remember what.

  He began to panic. What should he do next? Should he stay put and rejoin his section the following day? But what if someone had seen him walking away and reported him. He felt hot, suffocating under the blanket, breaking out in a sweat. He thought of Sergeant Wilkins, if that bastard didn’t have him up for desertion, then he’d have him for every raid and patrol going. His hands started shaking, the sound of the shells pounded in his head. Visions of men torn apart, of blood flowing in torrents swamped his mind. And in the midst of it, came Wilkins’s face, contorted with venom: ‘I’m going to break you.’ He couldn’t face it, he wanted to go home, he wanted to see Guy, to see Mary and her sister. Jack sat bolt upright, his heart pounding with panic; his breath coming in short bursts. He wasn’t going back.

  He crept out of bed, wincing with the pain in his shoulder, and followed the dim light, half expecting there to be a soldier standing at the doorway. To his surprise there wasn’t. He went into the hallway and peered up and down. The corridor stretched out to the left, but to his right, just a few feet away, was a glass-fronted door. The hallway light shone through the glass and, stepping up to it, Jack saw that this was the door to the kitchen. He realised how hungry and thirsty he was. Quietly, he turned the doorknob and thanked his luck that it wasn’t locked. He sneaked in and noticed the large stove, the generous sink and the backdoor with the pantomime-sized key still in the lock. Carefully, he opened a few cupboards; there was just enough light from the hallway to make out the shape of tins, bottles and containers. He found some bread and hurriedly broke off a chunk and ate it. He found a beaker and drunk a cup of water. How pure this water tasted, he thought. He’d become accustomed to the taste of water tinged with the repugnant hint of fuel having been carried to the front in petrol cans. Jack then returned to the dormitory. The man sleeping in the bed next to him stirred. Had he opened his eyes, Jack would still have been OK. He could have simply told the truth – he was hungry and had gone off in search for food. The sleeping soldier stirred again, and in doing so, he’d repositioned himself in an odd position, his head resting to one side, missing the pillow entirely. It was then that Jack had the idea. He crept over to the man’s bed and carefully removed the warm pillow. As he stepped back, Jack kicked something soft at the end of the bed. Jack knelt down to feel it, perhaps it was a spare blanket he could use in his deception, but no, it was an empty canvas haversack; equally, if not more, useful.

  Jack returned quietly to the kitchen and stuffed the bag full of bread and various tins, including a half-full tin of Golden Syrup. He opened a few drawers, hoping to find a tin opener. In one of the drawers, he found a heap of entangled kitchen utensils, but Jack was too worried about the noise to rummage through them. Instead, he opted for a sturdy-looking butcher’s knife, and, for good measure, a spoon. Next to the sink, he saw a half-full bottle of red wine, its cork pushed part of the way back in. Pulling out the cork, Jack took a few sips of wine and drained the rest away into the sink. He refilled the bottle with water, gently running the tap, and finally pushed the cork back into the bottle.

  By now, Jack was almost ready and itching to make his exit. Leaving the haversack on the kitchen floor, he crept back into the dormitory, pushing the door slightly further ajar to allow more light in. He found his trousers and greatcoat draped over the end of his bed and his tunic hanging on the bedpost. He slipped on his trousers and then his tunic, noticing the large bloodstained rip in the right shoulder. He couldn’t, however, find his boots, despite groping around in the darkness under the bed, but in the shadows, he saw the outline of a pair of boots next to his neighbour’s bed. He moved over, picked them up, and noticed that a sturdy pair of
socks had been stuffed inside. He put on his greatcoat, which was still wet and heavy. He thought about finding another one, but that seemed too low; he felt bad enough taking a valued pair of boots, without adding further to the crime. Then, carrying the boots, Jack returned again to the kitchen and picked up the haversack, swinging it over his shoulder. He gently turned the chunky key in the backdoor anti-clockwise and carefully pushed open the heavy wooden door, cursing the creaking noise of the hinges. Not wanting to open the door more than necessary, he squeezed through holding his breath, and stepped out into the night, gently closing the door behind him.

  Once outside, Jack noticed that dawn would soon be upon him, the stars were fading. It was already just about light enough to make out the outline of the shrubs and bushes in the garden, the wall at the end of it, and the tops of the trees beyond. He sat down and put the socks and boots on. They were a good size too big for him, but still preferable to his own knackered pair. Bracing his shoulder, he climbed over the six-foot-high wall, something he couldn’t have done before six months of training, and jumped over onto the other side, letting out a little groan of pain as his right leg landed heavily on the damp earth. Ahead of him lay the forest. He started walking, the dim dawn light disappearing as he entered the canopy of trees. His wounded shoulder ached, but the adrenaline of escape dulled the pain, his heart beating with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation. For the first hour he made slow progress, tripping over roots or fallen branches, stumbling into small holes and indentations in the soft ground. He stumbled onwards. But then daylight permeated through the trees and Jack kept going, his sense of urgency pushing him on.

  Finally, after two hours of solid walking, Jack stopped. Exactly where he was, and where he was heading, he had no idea, as long as he was a safe enough distance away from the billet. He circled his shoulder; the pain had dulled but its presence was still there.

  The soldiers would be up by now, he thought, and they would know he had done a runner. Jack reckoned that even if they did send a search party out, they’d have too much other work to do to worry about him for long. He decided to camp down and get some sleep. He opened the haversack and fumbled around inside and wondered why everything felt sticky. The stickiness seemed to have spread everywhere – onto the bread, the bottle of water and the tins. Jack smelt his fingers – it was the Golden Syrup. He removed the syrup tin, flung it to the ground, and sucked his fingers clean. From the haversack pocket he took the butcher’s knife and stabbed it into the top of a baked bean tin. After a few minutes of jabbing, the tin finally buckled and Jack poured small amounts of beans onto the syrup soaked bread. It made for an unusual mixture, but not altogether unpleasant. He found a small hollow in the ground lined with damp moss and laid his greatcoat on top of it. He gathered a few branches, snapping them into smaller pieces, and collected large handfuls of leaves and placed them on top of the coat. He then slid himself carefully under the coat, trying not to disturb his crude attempt at camouflage, and settled down. It took a while to get used to the dampness of the moss, but there were times, Jack thought, when he would have given anything for a bed as comfortable as this. Soon fatigue overcame the damp discomfort and Jack fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 17: Alarm

  The reveille sounded for six a.m. Private Reginald Scales woke up feeling cold and his right shoulder stiff from having slept in an awkward position. He stretched his arm up trying to relieve his aching muscles and turned his head to the right, facing towards the stranger’s bed. The evening before, the news of the lost boy, as he became known, had spread throughout the adjoining billets. The men speculated about where he’d come from and how he ended up here. Despite Captain Ellis and Webb’s denial, the consensus was that the boy was indeed a deserter. Some of them had urged the captain to phone the Military Police, but Ellis stuck to his guns, preferring to wait until the morning so he could at least hear the boy’s side of the story. Scales’s bed was next to the boy’s. Lights out was at ten, but Scales had had difficulty getting to sleep owing to the deep snoring emanating from the sleeping boy. Eventually, the toll of a day’s shovelling sent Scales to sleep.

  Scales yawned. The boy was still asleep, huddled underneath his blanket, oblivious to the sound of the reveille. As Scales stepped out of bed, he realised his blanket was missing. He looked under his bed, but no, it wasn’t there and he wondered where his boots were. The other men in the dormitory were up and about chattering to each other.

  ‘Our “lost boy” still asleep then, is he?’ asked one.

  ‘Looks like it,’ replied Scales. Then turning to the sleeping figure, he said, ‘Oi, c’mon, Sleeping Beauty, time to get up.’ But there was no response. Scales leant forward and shook the boy. From the softness of the touch, he knew immediately that the bed was empty. He threw the blanket back and there, on the bed, was his pillow and his blanket. ‘The little sod,’ he murmured.

  The other men joined Scales, all staring speechlessly at the empty bed. At that point, Captain Ellis appeared, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. ‘Is he up yet?’ he asked as he entered the dormitory to be confronted by the sight of six gormless soldiers. He followed their eyes and, for a few moments, was also struck dumb. Scales glanced at the captain and could see the look of panic coming to his eyes. Ellis cleared his throat. ‘Maybe he’s just popped out for a jimmy-riddle.’

  ‘’Fraid not, sir,’ said Scales. ‘He’s tricked us, that’s why all this stuff’s on the bed.’

  ‘Oh my word.’ The captain was clearly shaken. He looked at Scales and the others. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, go look for him,’ he bellowed.

  ‘In our pyjamas, sir?’

  ‘Now!’

  The men hopped barefoot into action, telling passers-by what had happened, while Captain Ellis returned to his makeshift office. Soon the word spread, and the whole billet and surrounding area was a hive of activity as semi-dressed soldiers searched frantically around the house and gardens. After fifteen minutes or more, Private Webb, fully dressed, reported back to the captain. ‘He’s definitely gone, sir.’ The captain bowed his head and cursed quietly to himself. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ added Webb. He knew the captain would have to face some awkward questions over this. Ellis may have been a fairly ineffectual officer, but he was generally a decent bloke and Webb liked him.

  Scales reappeared. ‘He’s taken a load of food from the kitchen, sir, and, what’s more, the blighter’s gone and nicked me boots and haversack.’

  Ellis stomped up and down his office. ‘Damn, damn, damn. Damn him, I knew he was a deserter.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Webb.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said the captain, ‘I’m going to have to inform the authorities. They’re not going to like this.’ He stormed out of the room muttering to himself. ‘They’re going to have my guts for garters for this. Damn him.’

  Chapter 18: The Forest

  Jack woke up. It took him a few seconds to register where he was and how he came to be lying under a blanket of his greatcoat and leaves. The realisation hit him and induced a sense of panic. He was now no more than a fugitive and he had no option but to carry on. He’d been missing too long to go back now, burdened as he was with a catalogue of theft, absconding and deception. He was amazed he’d evaded capture for so long, walking straight out of the lion’s den early that morning. Above him, the tall beech and fir trees loomed, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, the cool sun shining through the gaps leaving a mottled effect on the ground. He breathed in the smells of the forest – the pine, the moss, the damp leaves. How fresh everything smelt. It was only a few miles behind the lines, but here in the autumn forest Jack felt somehow reassured that nature cared nothing for man’s petty squabbles. He had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it was around midday.

  His shoulder ached. He reached back and felt it. Someone had applied a bandage; he wondered when that had happened.

  Eventually, having stirred and brushed off the bits o
f forest from his clothes, Jack decided to move on. He guessed that if a search party had been sent out to find him, he would have heard it by now. He knew the town of Saint Omer lay somewhere to the north of the forest, but where exactly he didn’t know. The forest itself wasn’t too big, but big enough to get lost in. This had both its advantages and disadvantages. He also knew that he if he walked long enough, he would eventually reach the edge of the forest, and then he would be able to follow its perimeter until he came to Saint Omer. He’d been there before and the place teemed with Allied soldiers of different nationalities, so despite his unkempt appearance, he hoped to be able to blend in with the crowd and make his way unnoticed. He had no money, so he would have to steal or scavenge to survive, and that was risky, for any soldier caught stealing would immediately be questioned. Then came the even trickier business of boarding a train heading back to the ports. He hoped, somehow, that Saint Omer would provide him with a solution. He reckoned he had enough provisions to keep him going for about two days. He had plenty of tins, but his supply of water worried him. He shook his greatcoat free of leaves and moss and heaved it on. They weren’t the most practical of things, these coats, they kept you warm but they absorbed water, dampness and mud. He’d be able to walk quicker without it, but equally he knew it would be foolish to ditch it. With the haversack swung over his good shoulder, Jack began walking. It was going to be a hard slog, but after five continuous weeks on the frontline, he didn’t care; anything was preferable to going through that again.