This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  He paused again as the memory returned, the screams punctuated by short, panicky gasps. The reporter could see this was becoming difficult for the old man but having come so far, he had to finish. ‘Would you like to stop for a bit?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll just nip to the loo. If you’ll excuse me.’ He pulled himself up from the armchair and tottered uneasily towards the living-room door.

  The reporter stopped the tape and congratulated herself on finding such an extraordinary tale. She’d done four interviews already and had heard all about the mud, the lice, the bodies, and she’d expected this to be a variation on the same theme, but no, this was different. This was going to make fantastic copy. What a shame it had to be wasted on the people of Essex, such a limited readership. Maybe she could try and sell it to one of the nationals and make a name for herself.

  Mr Greene returned from the toilet and sat down with a heavy sigh. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Erm, the prisoner screaming.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, the red caps had quite a struggle to get him to the chair and tie his arms and legs down, I can tell you. They had no choice but to be rough on him. For such a weedy looking boy, he seemed to have superhuman strength so it took them ages to tie him to the chair, prolonging our agony. One had to hold his head still while another put the blindfold on. Then the sergeant-major went over and stuck the white handkerchief over his heart. It was a triangle shape. Finally, everything was ready, but he kept struggling and shaking furiously. He started calling out for his mother. Pathetic it was, truly pathetic. And I mean that in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Then, Captain Handley took out his red handkerchief and raised it in the air. We lifted our rifles and took aim, focusing on that piece of triangular cloth, each of us praying that ours contained the blank. I really couldn’t see myself hitting him anyway; I was shaking so much. I saw the red handkerchief fall and I erm...’ He paused. ‘I, well, you know, I pulled the trigger.’ He paused as the sound of the eight rifles echoed through his mind.

  ‘You’d think that’d be it, wouldn’t you, but no. He slumped forwards in his chair but he was still moving. He sort of fell frontward taking the chair with him and staggered towards us groaning. He must’ve come about five, six yards before collapsing in a heap, shaking from the convulsions. I can’t tell you how appalling that was, I felt so sorry for him, but there was nothing we could do.

  ‘The medical officer went up to him and felt for a pulse and I remember praying “please let him be dead”. But no, the MO shook his head. Captain Handley had to go up and deliver the coup de grace. He looked white as a sheet. He drew his revolver and pressed the nozzle against the prisoner’s temple and his hand was shaking like anything. God, it was like seeing a horse put down, the poor man. He pulled the trigger and finally that was it.’

  ‘My word, how awful,’ she said.

  ‘It took us a while to take it in, we just stood there. Then this chap next to me bent over and was sick. I’m afraid my legs went. I fell to my knees and dropped my rifle. I remember looking to the sky and begged for His forgiveness.’

  ‘But like your captain said, there was nothing you could do.’

  ‘The padre started reading from his bible again and the MO confirmed the prisoner was dead. The captain took the dead man’s boots off.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to waste a good pair of boots, now, do you? Apparently he’d stolen them anyway. And then the burial party put him on the stretcher, covered him in an old blanket and took him off.’

  ‘Good God. So was he guilty; had he deserted?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so, otherwise they wouldn’t have found him guilty, would they? But it scared us, I must say. Probably all of us had to fight the urge to run off and hide at some time. I know there were times I felt so frightened, the thought entered my head. But something holds you back, I don’t know what. But I knew that there, but for the grace of God, that boy could’ve been me or any one of us. It feels funny telling a woman how frightened I was, it was something I hardly admitted to myself for years, but now I think, so what? What I have got to hide any more?’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine anyone I know having to go through what your generation did.’

  ‘Ah well, if you have to, you have to. You have a sense of duty and not doing it seemed worse than doing it. I was wounded soon after that, nothing serious, but it got me out of the line. I’d done more than my bit – I’d been there a whole three and a half years. But after that Sunday, I felt different from then on. I was fighting only for myself and me mates, just wanting to survive. Somehow, I’d lost faith in the King and Country bit.’

  Mr Greene stopped and his eyes seemed to drift back to November 1917. The reporter knew the old man had nothing else to add. She switched off the tape recorder and placed it carefully back into her handbag. ‘Well, Mr Greene, I can’t thank you enough, it’s been an education.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, no.’

  She stood up and gathered her coat. ‘Will you be attending a Remembrance service?’

  ‘No. I don’t go out if I can help it. I’ll do what I do every year – I’ll have a glass of sherry and toast my mates, that’s enough for me.’

  As she made to leave, she asked, ‘What was the prisoner’s name again?’

  He puffed his cheeks again. ‘Searight, Jack Searight. Strange to think he too would be in his nineties now; what a waste, eh?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ She smiled. She thanked the old man again and left.

  *

  An hour later, she was back in her office, almost skipping with glee at having found such a damning testimony of British military justice during the First World War. She was sure she’d be able to sell the article on to a national, and from there, doors would open and the road to journalistic fame beckoned. She was sick of covering diamond anniversaries, cats stuck in trees and local muggings, there was more to life than this provincial treadmill. This sort of thing only happened once in a blue moon, and she was going to milk it for all its worth. Originally, her heart sank when she’d been assigned the First World War project, but surely this was an aspect of the war that, seventy years on, was not widely known to the public. It would make a great top line to pitch. Of course, she’d told Mr Greene that it was only for the local rag; she could ask his permission later before going further with it. Surely, he’d be pleased at helping uncover this murkier side in the history of the British Army. Anyway, he was ninety-three, so he wouldn’t be around for much longer; what would he care?

  She sat down and placed the tape recorder on her desk in front of her, plugged it in and pressed rewind. While the tape rewound she found a pair of earphones in her drawer. This truly was going to make a riveting read; she couldn’t wait to get going. As she grappled around looking for a pen, the tape recorder started making odd gurgling noises. She peered at it and wondered if something was wrong. She quickly pressed the stop and eject buttons and pulled the cassette out. To her horror, there was a stream of tangled tape spewing out of the cassette and into the mechanics of the machine. She tugged at it, but the more she pulled, the more the tape poured from the cassette, twisting in an unending coil of brown, stretched plastic. Flushed with panic, she pressed play in the hope that the machine would allow her to extricate the tape. But, within moments, the spools sucked in more tape into the dark abyss of the recorder. She hit the stop button and looked at the mesh of snarled tape. She tugged at it but it made no difference. In frustration, she pulled at it again with greater determination. The tape snapped. She swore and smacked her palm against her forehead. She tried to think. Surely, she could remember what the old chap had said. Immediately, she started writing, but somehow it wasn’t working, she simply couldn’t recreate the scene he had so vividly described in his understated manner. She’d lost that urgency and her words seemed so lifeless in comparison. She still had the essence, b
ut the telling detail had gone and, more worrying, the spirit had gone too.

  Chapter 25: Farewell – 14 November 1917

  ‘I’ve got good news for you, Private Searight.’ Major Cartwright’s voice took Guy by surprise. He was lying on his bed trying to finish the Dickens novel and feeling annoyed with himself that he had gleaned such little pleasure from it.

  ‘Sir?’ Guy wasn’t at all convinced that what the major deemed good news would entirely coincide with his own interpretation.

  Major Cartwright grinned with the expectation of one who was looking forward to receiving gratitude on imparting good news. ‘We’re transferring you to a base hospital just outside Le Havre. Short notice, I’m afraid, but there’re rumours of a big push soon, so we’ll probably need every bed we can get. You leave this afternoon.’

  As feared, Guy was right and he didn’t know what to say. He’d half expected it, but not so soon nor with such little notice. The major seemed nonplussed by Guy’s lack of enthusiasm; this was the sort of news that was usually greeted with huge relief and heartfelt thanks. The least he expected was some acknowledgement of pleasure, but no, Private Searight remained silent as if the news wasn’t entirely welcome. ‘Well, aren’t you pleased to be going home, Searight?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’m sorry; it took a while to sink in, thank you, sir.’

  That was better, thought the major. ‘Good lad. Report to the courtyard for two o’clock. Transport will be waiting. You’ll be taken to the station and from there a train to Le Havre and a base hospital. Once there, they’ll decide how long you should stay but I don’t imagine it’ll be long before you’re shipped back to London, probably somewhere like the Prince of Wales hospital. Once in London you’ll have time to recuperate and get your strength up. And while you’re there, they’ll fix you up with a new leg. That’ll make things easier for you.’ The major could see that Guy wasn’t really listening. He leant down and said in a softer, reassuring voice, ‘You’ll be all right when you get back to England, son. You’ve had nothing but good reports while you’ve been out here. I heard how you paid a pivotal role in that raid; they got some useful intelligence out of it, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get yourself a recommendation for a medal. Wear it with pride, son; you’ve been a brave lad and you should be proud of yourself. I’ve seen too many shirkers around here, but you’re not one of them. Go home and hold your head high, you’ve done more than your bit and the country owes its gratitude to boys like you.’

  Guy listened to the major’s earnest speech, which he knew was well meant. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, trying to look suitably humbled. Major Cartwright placed his hand on Guy’s shoulder and then left to continue his tour of the wards. He watched him approach Browne. ‘I’ve got good news for you, Private Browne.’

  Guy closed his book and leant back on his pillow. The major had said he’d seen ‘too many shirkers’. Is that what Jack had been: a shirker? A deserter? Guy promised himself he would never use the word. A boy scared witless; a boy who was never meant to be a soldier; a boy with his life ahead of him, who, unable to cope, was made to pay for it with his life? And what about himself? According to the major, Guy was up for a medal, a hero. What had made him a hero? The answer was simple: fear. Fear for his life, fear of fear. What a thin line separated hero and shirker. Both of them had been driven by fear; it was pure luck that Guy had managed to channel his fear in the right direction. But the result was one got a medal, and the other got the firing squad.

  Browne was up on his feet, unable to contain his relief that he was heading north. He hugged Lampton who’d also been given the good news. Browne went off to have a shave.

  And now, Guy had to go home without his brother to face his parents. How he’d looked forward to going home, but now the prospect chilled him and the vast empty expanse of his future frightened him. The thought of slotting back into his old life seemed incomprehensible. War had changed him as it changed every man and two years older, he was no longer a young man. He knew, back in England, he ‘d resent those too old to fight and spend the rest of his life envying those too young or not yet born. And he hated the thought that his leg would mark him forever more as a victim, an object of pity, that people would see the leg first, not the man who lost it. He didn’t want to go home, but equally, he had no desire to stay. The realisation of what he really wanted to do made him shudder – he wanted to return to the front where he still had friends. Guy wanted to join them again, to hear the sound of the shells, to feel the cloying mud, to smell the stench of battle and decay, to live hourly in the company of death. The prospect of the trenches filled him with less dread than the prospect of returning home and having to face the questioning eyes of his parents, of trying to explain the inexplicable. He would rather live through the nightmare all over again, rather than try and describe it in words palatable for those who could never comprehend. At least the events of the past had taken him unawares, like falling suddenly down a well – it was horrible but it happens quickly, leaving you no time to fear it. But the contemplation of the slow, exhausting climb out seemed all the more frightening.

  Guy also realised he would have to face Mary. He remembered with unease Jack’s inept attempt to woo Josephine at his parents’ party.

  Nevertheless, Guy felt pleased by the prospect of leaving the CCS. He’d noticed how the men were already subtly distancing themselves from him. These men, who were so accustomed to commiserating each other over the loss of friends and comrades, were not sure of what etiquette of sympathy applied to Guy’s situation. Jack’s crime was taboo and, by association, Guy’s company was, if possible, to be avoided. He was a freak amongst freaks. His mother would, of course, grieve for Jack, but only in terms of her loss. Guy needed someone who could help him grieve for his loss. He felt a sudden desire to seek out the men who had been guarding Jack when he went to visit his brother. They’d understand. They had, after all, witnessed for themselves the courage of a condemned man, a man who knew all too well what fate awaited him and bore it with such fortitude and dignity. A courage that far outstripped Guy’s own instinctive bravery on the battlefield.

  Time was getting on. Guy decided to get ready. He got up and, taking his crutches, went off to the communal bathrooms where, bumping into Browne, he had a wash and a shave. He had been growing a moustache, but decided to shave it off. He wanted to return to England the way he left it, albeit minus a leg. When he returned from the bathrooms, he found Robert waiting for him. His friend looked glum and so Guy took him to the common room.

  ‘This time tomorrow, I’ll be back at the front,’ he said. ‘Just in time for the new offensive.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘You know there’re rumours they’re planning on using masses of tanks?’

  ‘As long as we don’t resort to gas.’

  ‘The accessory, you mean. It’s all bloody awful, if you ask me,’ said Robert leaning back in his chair.

  Guy gazed around the room. He noticed the burnt man sitting at the same place he was the afternoon Guy had gone to see Jack for the last time. The man nodded, a faint hint of a smile, the sudden glare of white teeth, accentuated by the blackness of his face. Guy nodded back and turned to face Robert. ‘They’re sending me to base hospital,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘You don’t sound too pleased about it.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to cope.’ He didn’t dare tell Robert he’d gladly swap places.

  ‘Do you remember the raid, Guy? The Hun who charged at you with the bayonet?’

  Guy noticed the twinkle in his friend’s eye. ‘Was it you... who killed him?’

  Robert winked.

  Guy smiled. Of course he remembered it; he remembered it every night he closed his eyes. The frightful scream; the German bearing down on him, bayonet fixed. Guy rooted to the spot. The shot, the single shot that came from somewhere above and behind him. The German falling in a heap at his feet. He remembered thrusting his bayonet into the man’s back and the ugly squelching noise
as the blade did its brutal work. He remembered turning around but his saviour had vanished.

  Robert accompanied Guy back to his ward and sat on the bed while he gathered his few belongings. Browne and Lampton had already packed and gone to wait for the transport half an hour early. Robert talked about the things he’d do when, and if ever, he got home. The home in the country, the horse he would buy, the young country girls he would date. Guy envied him his dream. Then Guy joined him perched on the edge of the bed and the two of them reminisced about people they knew and missing friends. After a while, Robert declared he had to go. They bid each other farewell with a hug. ‘I hope to see you soon then, Guy. I’ll invite you out to my country estate and we’ll drink to dawn.’ Guy watched his friend leave, his hitherto unknown saviour.

  Guy had less than half an hour before he was due to leave. It didn’t take him long to pack his meagre possessions into a haversack given to him by the hospital: his soap, razor, and the book. He gathered his crutches and made to leave. As he passed each bed, he wished his fellow wounded friends farewell and received, in turn, their wishes and utterances of good luck. At the door, he turned around to take a final look at the ward that had been home for the previous week. He tried to imagine it as a classroom – the rows of desks, the young French boys listening attentively, the sun shining through the windows. He imagined the teacher rattling out the milestones of French history – the Revolution, Waterloo, the Crimea, the Franco-Prussian war, and now this. The Germans on French soil again, a thirty-man British raid on a small strip of German trench; nine killed, eleven wounded, a thirty-three per cent survival rate. His own insignificant contribution in a forgotten incident in a gigantic war.