This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  *

  As Jack re-entered the Nissan hut, everyone was already in place. Major Hopkins and his two lieutenant colonels either side of him, sitting behind the upturned boxes with the blanket thrown over; the scribes nearby; Captain MacDonald to his left, Major Ainsworth to his right – exactly as it was before. Ainsworth nodded at him.

  ‘Stand to attention,’ barked the court sergeant. ‘Eight one one two, Private Jack Searight, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Major Hopkins.

  He picked up his papers and adjusted his glasses. ‘The Field General Court Martial presiding over the case of Private Searight is now reconvened and ready to declare its verdict.’ He picked up a fountain pen and tapped it on his pad of papers. Jack tried to focus on the major but his face blurred, his glasses dancing on his face. ‘Firstly, I would like to thank Captain Ainsworth and Captain MacDonald and their respective witnesses for their contributions. My colleagues and I have listened to both sides of the case and taken into account your recommendations. We have taken everything into consideration and having discussed the case we have reached a conclusion.’

  The major’s face had merged in with his fellow officers behind the boxes; Jack could feel his head swaying, his eyelids getting heavier.

  ‘The court martial hereby finds Private Searight guilty.’

  Jack thought he could hear laughing, somewhere faraway, a familiar laugh. Was it his father? Was it Guy, Sergeant Wilkins? No, it was his own, his own laughter. Then as abruptly as it’d started, it stopped and everything went black.

  Chapter 22: Days of Old

  Brigadier-General Julian Sykes had had a busy day of meetings and paperwork. There seemed no end of it: dispatches to read or write, memoranda, letters, orders, reports and so on. Even now, at eight o’clock in the evening, he still had a small pile of paperwork to get through. He was tired and was tempted to leave it all, but he knew it would only increase the workload for the following day. He sat at his desk in his office, which used to be a drawing-room in this rather fine house that the army had commandeered as the regimental headquarters. He poured himself a small whisky from his flask, diluted it with a splash of water, and sat back down at the desk with a sigh. He opened the first memo; it was an update on the latest planned offensive, which was due to kick off within a week or two. It was all still very hush-hush, but from what little he knew, it was going to be another joint affair with the French with the British thrust based around the area of Cambrai. He was also privy to the fact that the Allies were planning to use tanks in mass for the first time. He wondered whether they might employ gas again, not that they were allowed to refer to it as gas, but by its euphemistic name, the ‘accessory’. The Germans had been the first to use gas, at the battle of Ypres in April ’15, and what a hullabaloo we made of it, accusing the Hun of using devilish, ungentlemanly means; but just five months later, we were resorting to the same despicable tactics.

  Almost an hour later, Brigadier-General Sykes was coming to the end of his evening’s work; he had just the one envelope to deal with. His heart sank as he noticed the wording on the thin blue envelope; it read Papers from the Field General Court Martial of 8112 Pte.J.Searight, 8/11/17. He opened the envelope, hoping it wasn’t going to be another death penalty case. He skimmed his eyes over the paper and, to his disappointment, found it was exactly that. He had a case like this just six months ago, and he’d hoped not to have to deal with another so soon; it reflected badly on the regiment. There were the various reports pertaining to the case: conduct sheet, medical reports and a summary of the offence. According to the conduct sheet, the man had barely been in the army five minutes, but somehow that didn’t surprise the brigadier. It was all very well applauding the huge numbers of civilians joining-up but frankly the calibre of these volunteers left much to be desired. It seemed like the accused had already tried to play the shattered nerves routine, said he’d got the wind-up. Well, the brigadier had little sympathy for such fun and games. If all the other men could stand it, why should he be allowed special dispensation; what if they all tried it on? There’d be no one left to fight. A deserter in the ranks has a dangerous influence on the others, leads to all sorts of panic. The officer in charge of the court martial, Major Hopkins, had written, ‘The Court has found Pte Searight guilty of desertion but we would recommend clemency.’ Typical, thought Sykes, condemn the man then plea for clemency – always the easiest way – satisfy your superiors and ease your conscience. What did the Medical Officer say? ‘I hereby certify that I examined No.8112 Pte. J. Searight, 1st Essex on 1st Nov 1917 and that in my opinion his general physical and mental condition was satisfactory, Captain Butler.’ And what about his Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Lafferty – what does he recommend? ‘Despite a sharp tongue, this man has shown bravery in the field in rescuing his wounded brother from the scene of battle. On account of his youth and lack of experience, I would recommend mercy.’ But nowhere did it say how old Searight was. But this was interesting: ‘sharp tongue’, and then this ‘bravery in the field’, but somehow, the fact it involved rescuing his brother rather diminished the validity of the action.

  Brigadier-General Sykes laid the papers on the table and got up to stretch his legs. This was difficult: on the face of it, he was quite happy to recommend punishment but this plea for mercy from the CO threw a spanner in the works. He poured himself another whisky – just a small one, no water this time. His thoughts wandered back to the Sudan in ’98 and the proudest moment in his military career: the battle of Omdurman. What a morning that was – some 25,000 British and Egyptian troops led by Kitchener himself, facing an army of Dervishes, twice their number. There were no shirkers in those days, and the sight of those savages bearing down on one was a site to behold. Not that the plucky fellows stood much chance, armed with just their spears and the odd rifle. Poor buggers: thousands of them slaughtered and in return, we suffered a mere handful of casualties. Our Maxim guns just mowed them down in waves, all over in a matter of hours.

  With the warmth of the whisky still flowing inside his veins, the Brigadier sat back down at his desk. He was certainly tempted by the CO’s plea, but the other case, six months ago, nagged at him. It was an identical case: man got the wind up and deserted, found guilty by court martial but recommended to mercy. That time, the Brigadier had gone along with it. He sent the papers up to the Divisional Commander who, on paper at least, had agreed with his view. The sentence was commuted and the chap was let off the hook. But then a few days later, the Divisional Commander came down to see the brigadier and questioned his judgment. He’d gone along with it, because he hadn’t wanted to show him up, but his own view was that the man should have been shot. Well, the brigadier wasn’t prepared to risk that embarrassment again. He picked up his pen and quickly wrote:

  ‘I consider this is a case where, for the sake of example, the sentence be carried out.’

  Seventeen words. How simple it was to condemn a man. But no, he wasn’t condemning him, he was merely expressing an opinion, offering his recommendation. And hell, he meant it: if other men saw chaps running off and getting away with it, what would they think? No, this was more than simply a sop to his Divisional Commander; sometimes we have to face up to these things head-on, if only for the sake of example. He signed the papers and quickly folded and stuffed them back into the thin, blue envelope and wrote his Divisional Commander’s name on it and then placed it in his ‘out’ tray. From the Divisional Commander, it would work its way up the chain of command to the Corps and Army commanders for their recommendation, and finally, to the Commander-in-Chief himself for the ultimate decision. How long would it hold his attention? wondered Sykes. A matter of seconds probably and it was very unlikely he would change anything. He would simply glance at it and write something like ‘Sentence confirmed’. Then, from the rarefied heights of power, the blue envelope would boomerang back down the system to hit the condemned man squarely between the eyes. The whole process would take but a couple of da
ys. Well, frankly, he deserved what was coming to him.

  The brigadier yawned, it’d been a long day and he was beat. He looked at his watch and decided to avoid the mess and have an early night. Ah yes, Omdurman 1898, now that was what you call a proper war.

  Chapter 23: The Ghost – 10 November 1917

  Guy was in the common room sitting in his bath chair and idly gazing out over the pastures and the woodland beyond at the back of the hospital. It was a dull day and there was little to hold Guy’s attention. Behind him, men were finishing their lunches, cutlery against crockery, the flow of conversation, the occasional hearty laugh. God, he felt lonely. Since Robert’s visit two days previously, his every waking moment was dominated by the thought of Jack. He’d hardly eaten nor slept and he felt drained with anxiety. The day before, the day of the court martial, had been such an ordeal.

  Guy didn’t hear Robert’s approach and jumped when his friend appeared at his side. He was now managing with just the one crutch. ‘Robert?’ He saw the grave look on his friend’s face. ‘Oh Lord, you know, don’t you?’

  Robert nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Guy...’

  Guy groaned and put his head in his hands; this was too much to bear. The whole world seemed to go quiet, the intrusive lunchtime commotion obliterated by the sound of his own panicked breathing while somewhere, in the background, Robert carried on talking, something about a rejected recommendation to mercy. Guy thought he’d succumb to tears, he wanted to, but none came. The agony of waiting with its forlorn sense of inevitability had been a strain. But at least when he tried hard enough, Guy could isolate a degree of hope, the last vestige of a desperate man. Like a drowning man in the dark clinging onto a rope, there was always a possibility, however slim. But now with Robert’s confirmation, the rope had slipped from his grasp, the last lifeline disappearing into the blackness. He remembered lying out there in that ditch, waiting for death to come and take him. The sound of his brother calling his name. The Very light lighting up the world, the sight of Jack, the dimple in his cheeks still visible under the smearing of mud. He clenched his eyes and wished Robert would shut up.

  ‘I know it stinks, I’m sorry,’ concluded Robert.

  He owed his life to Jack. He owed his life to Sergeant Wilkins. But what could he give his brother in return now? He wished he’d been left to die out there and been spared this ordeal of inadequacy. British military justice had built a wall between them, and nothing Guy could do could breach it. He was powerless. He wanted to be sick. He tried to control his breathing. Through his breathlessness, he asked, ‘Do you know how he is?’

  ‘Apparently, he’s bearing up, considering. One of the guards reckons he’s showing more courage than anyone can appreciate. I mean, if that was me, I would’ve totally cracked up by now, I don’t know how he does it.’

  Guy had a thought, a slant of light above the wall. ‘Can’t we appeal?’ he asked expectantly.

  Robert shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. They may allow the commonest criminal the right to appeal, but a man who has voluntarily given his services to his King and Country is denied such a right. That’s military law for you.’ The wall just got higher.

  ‘I wish I could go to him,’ Guy muttered more to himself than to Robert.

  ‘You can. I took the liberty of applying on your behalf. Normally they wouldn’t allow him visitors but as a sibling your request, so to speak, was considered exceptional. It’s all arranged. He’s being kept at the second battalion’s HQ, which is at Arques, southeast from here. I even managed to cadge a lift for you with an ambulance that’s detailed to pass that way later this afternoon. Are you up to it, old man?’

  No, he wasn’t up to it. Would anyone be? The thought of seeing his brother seemed terrifying; he’d rather walk naked across no-man’s-land. Robert, in his presumptuousness, had meant well, so how could he refuse, what earthly excuse could he come up with? What would he say, what does one say, what words of condolence could he offer? A bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat. He looked down, avoiding Robert’s eyes, and shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said quietly.

  He didn’t see Robert’s puzzled expression. His friend took his hand. ‘You must. You must or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The ambulance will be waiting for you in the courtyard at three.’ He patted Guy’s hand. ‘Go to him, Guy, say your goodbye.’

  Guy nodded and watched Robert take his leave, hoping his friend would turn around in order to catch a look of encouragement in his eyes but Robert, with his head down, walked out of the common room.

  Guy looked round at his fellow comrades. His loss of calf seemed bearable amongst these wounded freaks. He found himself staring at a man sitting alone sipping a mug of coffee. The whole right side of his face was blackened and mottled by burns, his eye obscured by the folds of charred skin, the hairline unnaturally receded in an instant by the flame. His left hand gripped the coffee mug but the right hand lay limply on the table, his fingers glued together by the web of translucent skin. But at this moment, Guy almost envied him, would have gladly swapped places. The man, conscious of Guy’s prying eyes, looked up. The two men held each other’s gaze for a few moments. He noticed him placing his good hand over the other. Guy wondered whether he was hiding the brutal evidence of his misfortune or trying to accustom himself to the tender texture of his charred skin.

  *

  The ambulance dropped Guy off outside the Nissan huts that made up the headquarters of the Second Battalion just outside the small town of Arques, the next town on from Saint Omer. He saw a hut with the sign ‘Office’ over the door. He knocked and entered. Once inside, he approached the young corporal sitting behind a table scattered with papers and saluted. Mumbling, Guy introduced himself and the purpose of his visit.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the corporal narrowing his eyes, ‘didn’t catch that.’

  Guy sighed; he didn’t want to have to repeat himself. He realised he felt ashamed. The corporal told him to take a seat and sent a message to a Sergeant Dunn who would come to see to him. As he waited, Guy tried to concentrate on what he could say. Words like courage and faith kept coming to his mind. He wished he had an ability to pray as he’d prayed in the trench before the raid, as he’d prayed as a boy in church standing between his parents. Guy had barely taken in his surroundings when the sergeant appeared. Guy stood up, saluted, and introduced himself again. Sergeant Dunn eyed him suspiciously, and beckoned Guy to follow him. The sergeant strode ahead, making no concessions for a man on crutches. Struggling to keep up, Guy was led past the row of Nissan huts, across a muddy patch of grass that could almost have been called a lawn, and finally to an isolated hut erected behind a large, looming oak tree. Guy recognised it as a red oak; they had one in the local park at home. Sergeant Dunn approached a corporal standing guard outside the hut. The corporal saluted.

  ‘This is the prisoner’s brother,’ said Sergeant Dunn. Then, turning to Guy, said, ‘You’ve got five minutes, right?’ Guy nodded. The sergeant marched off without another word. The corporal repeated the sergeant’s instruction and knocked gently on the corrugated iron door of the hut. From within, Guy heard the door being unlocked and a face appeared at the gap. His heartbeat quickened.

  ‘A visitor,’ said the corporal. The soldier within nodded and opened the door just wide enough for Guy to push through. The poorly ventilated hut smelt of burning coal from the roaring brazier in the darkened corner. Guy blinked. In the half-light of the dimly illuminated room was Jack sitting at a table smoking, poised with pen and paper. Another private, reading a newspaper, sat with him. The table was laden with bottles, overflowing ashtrays, books, paper, cards, and a half-eaten dinner. At Guy’s entrance, Jack looked up.

  ‘Guy, is that really you?’ Jack staggered to his feet.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ said Guy quietly, hardly able to hold onto his crutches for trembling.

  Jack made his way towards his brother, his mouth set in a half-smile, his forehead furrowed. Stopping two feet away f
rom Guy, he whispered, ‘I knew you’d come.’ Then he stepped forward and flung his arms around Guy with such force, Guy staggered back. Recovering his balance, Guy put his arm around his brother and was surprised by how thin he felt. Jack was shivering, yet felt so hot, so sticky. He muttered, ‘Oh, my little brother, my poor brother, what’s happened to you.’ Eventually, Guy loosened his grip.

  Jack stepped back, his eyes red. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. ‘I couldn’t help it. Lord knows I couldn’t help it.’

  Guy swallowed. ‘I know, I know.’

  For a moment, Jack’s legs gave way and he lost balance. Guy reached out his hand and, dropping a crutch, almost lost his own balance. Jack took Guy’s arm and supporting each other, they tottered back to the table and sat down. The private, who had been reading the newspaper, smiled apologetically and stood up and joined his colleague at the brazier at the far end of the hut.

  The two brothers sat in silence, each unable to speak for fear of where their words might take them. The few words Guy had prepared failed him, refused to be spoken, too inadequate for the occasion. Eventually, Jack pushed a bottle of rum towards Guy. Guy shook his head. ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Jack. ‘They keep plying me with the stuff, but the more I drink, the less effect it seems to have.’ He looked at Guy. ‘It’s been confirmed, you know, they rejected the court martial’s recommendation. I’ve had it.’

  If only he had the means to contradict him, to offer him a ray of light, the faintest possibility.

  Jack took a cigarette from the packet of Gold Flakes and twirled it in his fingers. ‘You’ve always looked out for me, Guy, but not even you can help me this time. By this time tomorrow...’ His voice trailed away as he snapped the cigarette in two.

  Guy stared at Jack, unable to take in the frightening reality of Jack’s words. ‘By this time tomorrow’. Here he was, his own flesh and blood sitting before him and by this time tomorrow, he’d be no more. Never again would he hear Jack’s voice, see that dimpled smile, be able to touch him. It was as if he was already sitting next to a ghost. He clenched his fist at the senseless absurdity of it, his own inability to alter the course of events. If it hadn’t been for his leg, he would have considered doing something rash and stupid, just for the sake of doing something, anything, and blow the consequences, he no longer cared.