A Different Kind of Love

by A Different Kind of Love (retail) (epub)

  Before he could answer the charge however, a belligerent Unthank got to his feet and pushed back his chair. ‘He can drink with who he likes.’

  ‘Right, I’ll have your—’ Pencil at the ready, the MP dropped like a stone under a blow from Unthank.

  Whereupon, Madame was to lose her entire clientele, everyone crowding for the exit as if someone had shouted ‘Fire!’ Probyn and Mick too put the diversion to good use, striding over the recumbent form of the MP. But whilst others seemed keen to leave, Unthank remained to take vicious pleasure in kicking his victim and would have gone on to kill him had he not been dragged off and bundled outside.

  Apologizing for his part in the matter, little Corporal Bebby promised his officers and the RSM that he would get Unthank safely back to billets, and hence rushed the troublemaker away before the MP regained consciousness.

  Everyone else too made to depart the scene, Probyn laying accusations at Mick’s door: ‘I always get involved in something when I’m with you!’

  Mick roared with laughter. ‘Sure, ’tis almost like old times! Go on then, I can see you’re haring to be off.’

  ‘I want to be well away before yon fella wakes up,’ grinned Probyn.

  This same thing in mind, the young officers were moving again towards their landaulet, Louis hailing the RSM. ‘Are you heading back to Fleurbaix, Mr Kilmaster?’

  Calling back that he was, Probyn took hurried leave of the Irishman, telling Mick he hoped they would meet again soon. ‘It was good to see you, chum.’

  ‘Oh, and you too, old marrow!’ Mick shook Probyn’s hand, calling after him as the space between them widened, ‘All the best to ye, Pa!’

  Regarding the young officers as too drunk to drive, Probyn took it upon himself to navigate the car through the darkness whilst they draped themselves happily across the leather upholstery, singing their heads off.

  Bumping along the cratered road, he came across Unthank and Corporal Bebby, arm in arm, and made to steer around them.

  ‘Let’s stop!’ cried Louis, and made as if to invite the pair into the car.

  But Probyn said firmly, ‘I think Corporal Bebby can cope, sir.’ And he drove on.

  ‘Back to fairyland,’ slurred Gaylard, observing the line of Very lights soaring, hovering, falling upon the glowing orange horizon whilst the rumble of distant thunder punctuated his speech.

  ‘Pa?’

  Probyn stiffened at Hugh Faljambe’s address from the back seat.

  ‘Why did that fellow call you Pa, Mr Kilmaster?’

  Concentrating on the steering wheel, the driver’s answer was thrown over his shoulder. ‘An old nickname, Mr Faljambe, short for Padre because of my tender, fatherly nature.’

  There came a honk and stifled sniggering from behind him. Inwardly smiling, Probyn allowed it to pass, saying only, ‘Though I should be obliged if you didn’t use it.’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t dream of it, Mr Kilmaster!’ came Louis’s merry reply, but for him there was a grain of truth in the nickname and, swamped as he was in champagne, he put voice to it. ‘Though I consider it most fitting – a blessed marvel that you’re able to look after hundreds of men when I have a hard enough time just keeping my platoon safe.’

  ‘You do well enough, sir,’ Probyn told him.

  ‘That’s most gracious of you, most gracious,’ yawned Louis, then despite the jolting passage, fell asleep with his head on Gaylard’s shoulder.

  Back amongst the ruins of Fleurbaix, Probyn steered the car outside the door of the officers’ billets and alighted to assist the merry group who came tumbling out.

  Faljambe narrowed his eyes and pointed to a group of soldiers. ‘Am I seeing things?’ Without caution, he headed straight across the road, the rest of the group following him, Probyn trying to keep them from harm.

  ‘Pork, what the deuce are you doing back here?’ Faljambe’s grubby blond moustache was awry with incredulity, giving a brief glimpse of yellow teeth. ‘Weren’t you a Blighty case?’

  A rueful Pork explained. ‘Well, when I got to the ship, sir, the order was no more stretcher cases so I thought we were expected to get up and walk on board. The OC said, “If your feet can carry you up the gangway they can carry you back to your regiment.” So here I am.’

  There were sounds of disgust from the officers, Faljambe making all sorts of threats against the ignorant offender. ‘How dare he send one of my men back?’

  Probyn asked with genuine concern, ‘Are you able to carry on, lad?’

  There was not a trace of bitterness in Pork’s reply. ‘Yes, sir, I’d rather be here with my pals than at home, anyway.’ Receiving commendation, he limped away.

  ‘What an absolutely disgraceful way to treat a man,’ objected Louis to Probyn.

  But Faljambe already seemed to have forgotten him, turning away and calling over his shoulder. ‘Good night, Pa!’

  ‘Thank you, Michael Melody,’ growled Probyn under his breath. ‘Just wait till I see you again.’

  * * *

  But he was not to see Mick again, nor were there to be any more jaunts to Estaires. Someone from Divisional Staff had noticed the spruced-up landaulet and after a bunch of correspondence was exchanged it was requisitioned. Not that it mattered to those back in the line and under bombardment. Besides which towards the end of the month a heavy snowfall was to make the roads impassable.

  Ironically, at this same time the order came to prepare to move. After derisive laughter came excitement.

  ‘Does this mean we’re heading for the show down south?’ a shivering Louis asked Probyn.

  ‘That’s what it looks like, sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a bit warmer down there,’ opined Lieutenant Geake.

  ‘Oh, I think I can promise you that, sir,’ smiled their RSM. ‘At least you won’t feel the cold, what with all that training I’ve got lined up for you.’

  Parading at one thirty in the freezing cold morning, the battalion marched to the station at Merville and boarded a southbound locomotive, detraining at three in the afternoon to be swallowed up in the massive ocean of khaki that was gathering on the Somme.

  Marching to billets at Vignacourt, they were to halt in Amiens, and such were its attractions that many wanted to extend their stay. Presided over by a Gothic cathedral, the city boasted smart cafés, bars and restaurants, the stench of war momentarily obliterated by the aromatic draughts that wafted from perfumiers, delicious scents at every turn. Virtually untouched by hostilities, it was nevertheless a city under military rule, a city of refugees, of impoverished locals with sorrowful expressions, of red-hatted staff officers and journalists.

  During the halt, tantalized by the smell of eau-de-Cologne, Probyn thought of his wife and, suddenly remembering that Grace’s birthday was coming up, he bought a card decorated with lace and embroidery and scribbled an affectionate note in it before dispatching it along with a postal order.

  It was good that he had done so for there was little on offer in the village where they were billeted, apart from real beds for the lucky few – besides which, they were to move again within days, merging with the vast masses of troops that converged on the Somme valley.

  The sun had come out, there were catkins dangling in the breeze, crimson anemones beneath the trees – some of the latter had even begun to blossom. All at once winter had turned to spring, but it was a mixed blessing to those compelled to march. The frozen fields had reverted to bogs, further churned by heavy-calibre weapons. What had once been a village street was now an obstacle course of watery holes around which they must weave a path whilst trying to avoid the flying debris that came whistling overhead. The air alive with devils, the ground throbbing and bouncing them around like peas on a drumskin, the soldiers spent more time throwing themselves flat than walking. It took four and a half hours to cover ten miles and all along the way there were men being shot or blown to bits, those who accrued only a layer of filth considering themselves to be the fortunate ones.

  Though
snuggled in a valley and protected by a ridge from the battlefront, Albert was almost completely wrecked. Thus it was nigh impossible to find a billet where the bitter wind did not howl through shattered windows and doors. Yet standing poignantly defiant amongst the wreckage was a golden statue of the Virgin, balanced precariously upon a half-demolished column and holding her Child in outstretched arms.

  Parading before the church at seven o’clock on that last day of March, Probyn looked up at the Holy Babe and thought of his own children, pictured his wife at Mass as she would be at this hour, perhaps lighting candles for her husband and his men. Would that a candle was all it took to save them. This month had seen the grim toll doubled, with seven killed and twenty-one wounded, most of them within the last few days. Finding little time for God in the trenches, Probyn nevertheless offered a silent invocation to the statue now, praying not for himself but for his young officers upon whom had been heaped such great responsibility. Over months of eavesdropping on their intimate conversations, watching them twitch in their nightmarish sleep, he knew each of them almost as well as his own sons. And he prayed for the young Postgates now, for Faljambe and Gaylard and the rest, asking that they be imbued with even more courage and ability than they already possessed, so that they might protect their men from harm during what he sincerely hoped would be the final push.

  * * *

  ‘Have you heard?’ An excited Hamm broke the news to his chums the following morning. ‘We’re all going home!’

  So convincing was his joy, that they leaped eagerly to the bait. ‘When?’

  ‘When hell freezes over – April Fool!’

  ‘You bastard!’ Each dealt out personal punishment, wrestling the offender to the ground, but ending up laughing despite their terrible disappointment.

  ‘Bet you can’t pull one on Pa,’ Pork challenged him.

  Omnipresent, their RSM stiffened at the sound of his old nickname that had rapidly been disseminated throughout the battalion. Half flattered at the celebrity, half annoyed at their lack of respect, he burst amongst the men, transforming the light mood. ‘Enjoy a little April Fool joke, do you, Pork? Well, here’s one for you: we’re going to the circus.’ He pointed to the line of observation balloons strung along the horizon.

  Hence, on that first day of April, amongst considerable risk of shrapnel and rifle grenade, the battalion took over its first Somme trenches in front of Albert, the defences stretching downwards from the Tara Ridge and giving a clear view right across the enemy position, lending plenty of opportunity to observe and to the snipers. Finding himself a comfortable little nook, well apart from the rest, Unthank was in his element as he picked off Germans like crows.

  After forty-eight hours of being shelled and strafed by enemy machine guns, and rifle grenades fired at them even at night, the third day was quiet, though there was much aerial activity, squadrons of aeroplanes passing over, escorted by large observation craft, the fighter planes occasionally looping the loop as if cocking a snook at those on the ground. ‘Ruddy show-offs,’ Faljambe called them.

  And so the month was to proceed, one day uneventful with no one hurt, the next erupting in mayhem with shrapnel and whizz-bangs injuring half a dozen. Some days saw no hostility from either side, men grabbing the opportunity for a mass washing and shaving operation, otherwise darning socks, forming working parties, mending the wire, digging trenches or shooting rats.

  Today being such a day, Probyn held a pair of field glasses to his grubby face, watching the considerable movement along the Ovillers—La Boisselle road, the drone of aeroplanes overhead. The sky was lifeless; neither grey nor blue it just stretched for miles like a dirty, limp rag.

  Protected by a wall of sandbags, Colonel Addison moved beside him to take up a similar position. ‘Seen anything of interest?’

  His RSM continued to inspect the enemy lines, the glint of German field glasses directed back at him bringing a smile to his lips. ‘Not really, sir, just them watching us watching them watching us.’ He lowered his binoculars.

  ‘I have.’ Colonel Addison held out his hand, upon which was a tiny frog.

  Probyn chuckled at the minuscule creature, he and the colonel spending some moments in contemplation, each remembering boyhood summers, until the frog sprang away into the mud.

  Probyn became serious again. ‘I’d like to try and do something about those machine guns, sir.’ Whilst the shelling was bad enough, it was these that were most lethal, the Germans using them to devilish effect.

  ‘Quite.’ Colonel Addison brushed his palms. ‘However, I’m afraid any remedy will have to wait until we return. We’re being pulled back to Divisional Reserve.’

  Thus, after a march to Hennencourt Wood camp, commenced another bout of training in the wet and the mud.

  * * *

  Back at Albert, towards the end of the month there was heavy shelling in the afternoon but by evening things had quietened down and Padre Farrington thought it safe to prepare the special dinner that he had originally planned to celebrate St George’s Day. With asparagus and potatoes dug from a garden by the resourceful Arrowsmith, plus a chicken that had been foolish enough to wander from its home, the officers and their RSM were looking forward to it immensely. But at seven thirty, as they were sitting down to eat, sharp heavy enemy gunfire started along the whole front. Whilst this might have been ignored, the use of tear gas could not.

  The first warning came from the birds that started twittering and flying high into the air. From every dark corner rats and mice came scurrying in their hundreds, holding their heads aloft in a frantic effort to breathe fresh air, the occupants of HQ quickly joining this endeavour, pulling on their gas helmets, grabbing their weapons and rushing out to repel the enemy attack.

  For three hours they battled, returning the German fire with equal ferocity, many acts of gallantry being performed before the belligerency eventually ceased. Cold, worn out and ravenous, Probyn wandered back to the table, only to find it a seething colony of rats.

  * * *

  On the first of May the battalion took over from the 8th York and Lancasters at a spot known as the Glory Hole, where the lines were some sixty yards apart with nine large craters between them and the enemy, the whole terrain honeycombed with mining operations. Under continual assault from missiles they had nicknamed oil cans, each weighing forty pounds and packed with high explosive, it was to be a very demoralizing period, the overwhelming ambience one of blood. Blood of every hue: bright pillar-box red that gushed in life-sapping fountains to spatter the unwitting bystander; crimson as the Lancaster rose, worn by Yorkshiremen alike; black like tar and rife with maggots. Neither the artillery nor the aircraft, hampered by thick cloud, had made any effect on the spot from where the oil cans were observed to emerge, and the frightfulness continued unabated.

  Furthermore, at lunchtime that day, a direct hit was scored on Battalion HQ.

  Probyn had just settled down with a bowl of soup when, to the accompanying moan of a German trench mortar, the roof fell in and everything went black. Seeing the dugout caved in and its occupants completely buried, an alarmed Louis and several others dashed to help, scrabbling at the earth and pulling at the arms and legs that protruded. In the agitated scramble it was hard to gauge to whom the limbs belonged, the colonel receiving less respectful treatment from his underlings than he was wont to expect. But it did not appear to matter, for upon ridding his eyes of soil and straightening his metal helmet he dealt them cheerful thanks and joined the rescue.

  One after the other, most of the occupants were pulled out unharmed, if dazed and more than a little filthy, the worst casualty being Ralph Arrowsmith, who suffered a broken leg. But Louis remained anxious at the non-appearance of the RSM. ‘Mr Kilmaster’s still under there somewhere!’ And he began to scrabble again.

  Despite his own agony, the loyal Arrowsmith refused to be stretchered away and waited anxiously to see what fate had befallen Pa. Guy spoke encouragingly to him – ‘He’ll be all right, eve
ryone else is’ – but he was none too optimistic as he laboured beside his brother to move the debris.

  ‘He’s here!’ A foot was spotted jutting from under a leaning sheet of corrugated iron.

  Everyone converged on it, praying that the foot was attached to a man, vigorously hurling aside the sandbags that held the sheet in place and finally dragging it aside.

  His broad back coated with earth, the RSM was doubled over, his face between his knees, no one was sure if he was dead or alive. Then, slowly, to their great relief, he began to come gingerly upright and they saw that his eyes glittered with life, saw also to their amazement that a bowl of soup was balanced upon his wide thighs. In no rush to move, the face below the tin hat showing utter distaste, Probyn used finger and thumb to remove a lump of soil from his soup, telling the onlookers calmly, ‘I don’t mind fighting for France but I’d rather not eat it.’

  Having made everyone laugh both with relief and for his audacity, he called for water with which to rinse his mouth, hoping none would guess that behind his cool exterior he was trembling at such a close call. With no time to move before the explosion he had simply hunched over his precious dinner and hoped for the best.

  Only now did Arrowsmith allow himself to be taken away. Probyn hurried to wish the casualty a speedy recovery. ‘Good luck, Ralph, and enjoy your little rest in Blighty.’

  ‘I will, sir,’ grunted Arrowsmith, lifting his contorted face for a last glimpse as he was stretchered along the trench. ‘And you keep yourself safe.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Do try a little harder, Mr Kilmaster.’ Louis camouflaged his own huge relief by a quip. ‘We thought that minnie had your name on it.’